
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3724387.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Harry_Styles/Louis_Tomlinson, some_harry/ofc_and_harry/omc_it's_all
      pretty_minor, also_very_very_side_friends-with-benefits_zouis
  Character:
      Harry_Styles, Louis_Tomlinson, Anne_Cox, Gemma_Styles, Original_Character
      (s)_-_Character, niall_and_zayn_are_in_it_for_about_5_seconds, i_didn't
      know_where_to_fit_liam_in_i'm_SORRY
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Star_Louis, (star_as_in_actual_star), Growing_Up,
      Friends_to_Lovers, Coming_of_Age, First_Time, Magical_Realism
  Collections:
      One_Direction_Big_Bang:_Round_3
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-11 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 97594
****** nocturne in silver and blue ******
by tinyweirdloves
Summary
     There’s a boy sitting on the branch. Harry’s sure he’s a real, live
     boy, not a pretend one. Only– he doesn’t look like any boy Harry’s
     seen before. Because he glows. His skin looks like there’s a gentle
     light coming out of it, and if Harry squints– are those colours on
     the boy’s skin? Harry suddenly thinks, looking at him, that he looks
     just like the sky.
      
     [louis is a fallen star and harry brings him home. told over the
     course of fourteen years.]
Notes
     it's here! it's finished!
     this fic has essentially been my life since november, and even though
     it's evolved in ways i could never have predicted when i started
     writing it, this feels a lot like releasing my child into the world.
     i would appreciate it if you were nice to it.
     of course, this entire thing would never have been finished if not
     for the support of the following wonderful individuals: jess, who
     beta'd this and held my hand and encouraged me throughout the whole
     thing (that means SIX MONTHS, folks); artemis, my own personal
     cheerleader, who has been there every time i asked for encouragement
     because they are the best person in the entire universe; lucía, for
     being there with me right from the start and having an amazing amount
     of faith in this despite not yet having read a single word of it; and
     sol, for the praise and the feedback and the emotions invested in
     this and the quotes and the patience. i love you all.
     also thanks to cat for the amazing mix, which you can listen to here.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     okay. before we start, can i just say: i have no fucking clue how i
     managed to write an entire chapter of fic featuring small children. i
     don't even read fic with children. if you are like me, i can
     guarantee that it gets more interesting in the next chapters. i'm
     sorry.
     warning in this chapter for minor character death.
“Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you
that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap
because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one
day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three,
and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe
she’s feeling three. Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or
like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one
inside the other, each year inside the next one.”
– Sandra Cisneros, from Eleven
                                       *
The first time it happens, Harry is four.
See, Gemma’s been growing a little seed she found in an apple. She put it in a
pot and carefully put earth over it and watered it every day until there was a
tiny green thing coming out of the earth. And when it happened she squealed and
smiled and told everyone she’d plant it in the backyard when it was big enough
and eat its apples and maybe put a swing on it. Harry liked the little thing
just fine, even if he didn’t see much point to sitting and waiting around until
it got big. Lots more interesting things to do in the meantime.
But now– but now they’ve just come back from a weekend trip to his Aunt Lydia’s
and back in Holmes Chapel it’s properly cold, the kind of cold that’d made
Harry’s nose and the tips of his fingers pink when he stepped out of the car.
And now they’re in the kitchen and it’s much colder than Harry remembers it
being before and Gemma’s clutching at the pot that was on the windowsill and
crying.
Mum sees her and rushes to her. She looks into the pot and her face does
something quick and sad. “Oh, darling,” she says, and holds Gemma close,
letting her sniffle into her jumper and mumble things that Harry can’t make
out.
He walks up to them and tries to peer into the pot. “Can I see?” he says. Gemma
ignores him. Maybe she hasn’t heard. “What’s wrong?” he says, louder this time.
Gemma cries harder.
He meets his mum’s eyes instead. She looks more tired than she usually does.
“Gem’s plant died, baby,” she says, softly. Harry feels like his tummy’s
suddenly heavy.
He frowns. He doesn’t understand. “But, but she’s been giving it water every
day! And it had lots of light too, didn’t it?” He looks at Gemma and pats her
elbow. “Maybe if you give it more water it won’t be dead anymore.”
Gemma shakes her head from where it’s buried in Mum’s jumper. Harry opens his
mouth, wants to ask why, but Mum says, “It doesn’t work like that, Harry.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Can I see?” he asks again. He doesn’t remember
ever seeing a dead plant before. He reaches up and tugs the brown pot from
where it’s squished between Gemma and Mum and peers into it curiously. It
doesn’t look all that different, but Harry thinks he understands, because
before it was green but now it just looks slumped and… sad.
Harry looks up at Gemma and sees her still sniffling, grabbing at Mum’s jumper
with closed fists. He looks down at the plant again, and feels bad for not
caring about it before. It was pretty, and it made Gemma happy, even if it took
ages to grow. He wishes– he doesn’t know what he wishes, not really. He wants
to make it better. He wants to give back to the plant the thing it had to make
it not look dead. He prods it gently with a finger and wants.
And then suddenly the cold Harry was feeling is gone, and there’s a warmth that
feels soft and glowing, like watching a fire. He hears himself breathing but
it’s really loud, almost like he’s covering his ears, and then– and then, so
slowly, the plant begins to curl upwards and turn green again, only this time
it’s a green that’s dark and wonderful. Harry can hear his heart, boom boom
boom in his ears and his chest. The plant twists, and its stem grows taller and
taller, and suddenly, slowly, something at the tip of it changes and a flower
opens up, its petals spreading out in brilliant red. More flowers bloom along
the stem, opening into the light. Harry remembers what he’s been told at school
and wonders if by touching the plant he made spring happen.
Because he made this happen. He knows it.
His heart isn’t so loud anymore. The flowers have stopped appearing. He tugs on
Gemma’s sleeve. “Gem,” he says. “Gem, look.”
Gemma looks. Her mouth opens but she says nothing. Harry feels uneasy suddenly.
He looks at Mum, and she’s already looking at him. For a second, Harry gets the
distinct impression that he’s done something terribly, terribly wrong, and he
feels his eyes get itchy with sudden tears. But then his mum is letting go of
Gemma and picking him up like she only does sometimes now. “Harry,” she
whispers into his hair, “Harry, my wonderful, wonderful boy,” and that’s all he
needs to feel okay again, really.
                                       *
Things change, after.
Harry doesn’t make anything else happen, and his mum doesn’t say anything else
about it, so he thinks it’s okay, he hasn’t done anything wrong, and puts it
out of his mind soon enough. But one day she starts taking him to see a lady
that says she’s not a doctor but looks like one, and she does things that
doctors do too, at first. She measures his height and weight and foot size and
uses her instruments to look into his eyes and ears and mouth, and then she
tells him to do things like draw his mum and his sister and a family made up of
animals. Then she asks him a lot of questions. Some of them he knows from
school, but others he has to think about and even then he’s not sure he’s
answered right.
He goes two times every week after school, and eventually she starts asking him
to do different things. She gives him things to draw and to build and to dress
up in, and once she gives him Legos and walks out of the room and doesn’t come
back until it’s time for him to go. And she tells him to lie down and close his
eyes and think of things like a garden, or a river, or being underwater, only
she speaks like she’s telling a story, a story that he makes inside his head;
and every time he opens his eyes again he has a strange tingly feeling at the
tips of his fingers and toes. Until one day she tells him to imagine he’s
flying and he hears his heartbeat everywhere, just like when he did that thing
to Gemma’s plant. And when he opens his eyes he feels strange all over, and
after a second he realizes it’s because he’s floating two inches above the
carpet he was lying on.
The lady smiles the brightest smile Harry’s ever seen on her face.
His mum comes to his next visit after that. It’s nothing like the rest of them;
there’s no games, no Lego, no lying down, and the lady says hi to him very
nicely but talks to his mum the rest of the time. Harry sits on his chair and
listens for a bit, something about how he does really show an aptitude for it
and we’ve got some books and leaflets here if you’d like to take a look and
specific schools with special programmes if you’re interested. He gets bored
after a while, though, because even though he’s usually really good at sitting
in his seat or criss cross applesauce all through class there aren’t any funny
pictures to look at and the doctor isn’t even talking to him and it’s boring.
He starts to fidget, slides down out of his chair and hopes his mum’s too busy
talking to the lady to notice, and then starts to investigate the room. He
looks at his mum once or twice, keeping a wary eye, and one time she notices
what he’s doing and looks like she’s going to tell him off but the lady tells
her something quietly and she leaves it be. It’s strange, but Harry’s not going
to question his luck.
They don’t come back after that. Harry doesn’t ask why, but he misses it, sort
of. He has his own toys, but he liked the bit where he imagined things. He
especially liked it when he made himself fly. He’ll have to try that again.
                                       *
There’s a boy at school called Rick who always takes Harry’s pencils during
colouring time. Harry doesn’t mind sharing, but then he notices that when Rick
gives them back the tips are all broken and snapped. He sharpens them again,
but eventually the pencils start coming back snapped all the way through – and
when he looks over at Rick, he sees he’s not even colouring anymore, but
putting the pencils on the ground and stomping on them with his chair, breaking
them under the chair legs. For a moment, Harry gets angry, really angry, and he
feels something raging hot inside him, and the next thing he knows the chair
legs have somehow melted and Rick’s on the floor crying. He only feels a little
bit bad about it.
                                       *
“I made a boy’s chair disappear today,” he announces that evening at dinner,
because even if it was technically only the legs, it sounds more impressive
that way. His mum looks at him in a way that makes him wonder if he should have
said that or not, though. Gemma’s eyes widen, and she looks like she’s going to
say something, but his mum puts a hand on her shoulder and speaks first.
“Did you hurt him?” she says, tone a little strict.
Harry fidgets. This feels like a telling-off. “Only a little,” he says, and
watching his mum’s face grow stern, he adds defensively, “He was breaking my
pencils!”
“Harry,” his mum says seriously. “When is hurting people ever okay?”
Harry blinks, then hangs his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t do it on
purpose.” He sneaks a look up and his mum’s eyes are softer, like she’s
forgiven him. He breathes out, relieved.
Gemma, though, looks strangely excited. “Did you really do that? Can you show
me how?” Her eyes are bright.
Harry shrugs, something he’s seen her do, but feels pleased all the same. “It’s
easy. If someone’s annoying you you look at them and you just do it.” He sneaks
a guilty glance at his mum, and adds hastily, “But you shouldn’t because
hurting people is bad.”
Gemma, though, is frowning. Harry wonders why. He quite likes impressing her.
“Mum, can Harry do magic?” she asks. He feels a jolt at that, and looks at his
mum too, waiting for her to explain.
His mum hesitates. Strange. “It’s not like that, Gems,” she says eventually.
“He can just do things that we can’t. It’s how he was born.” Gemma looks like
she’s going to protest, and Harry has a burning need to ask questions, too,
because how does she know all this? But his mum looks at both of them and says,
“We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
Gemma frowns, but she mumbles, “Fine,” so Harry does too. They finish dinner,
though, and soon enough they’re getting ready for bed, and his mum might have
talked to Gemma while he wasn’t looking but later comes and she still hasn’t
explained anything at all.
                                       *
“Mum, can I do magic?”
Every night, Harry’s mum pulls up his blankets, tucks him in and then sits on
the edge of his bed and tells him a story. Gemma says she’s too old for stories
now and goes to her room and reads a book instead, but Harry loves it, never
wants the story to stop. But– as much as he loves the stories, he has to ask
his mum this first, because he’s been wondering about it ever since Gemma said
it and he can’t go any longer without knowing.
Magic. He’s never even thought about it like that. Magic would be the coolest
thing ever.
His mum sighs and strokes a hand through his hair. The yellow light from his
bedside table lights up her face and it feels nice, safe. “Ah, Hazza,” she
says. “I think I should have told you about this before. I'm going to explain
something to you, okay, baby?” Harry nods, the covers hitched up to his chin.
“Remember the lady I took you to see?”
“The doctor?” Harry asks.
His mum smiles. “She wasn’t a doctor, but yes. Remember the questions she asked
you, the things she told you to do?” Harry nods again, even though he wonders
how his mum knows about that if she wasn’t there. “Well, she wanted to find out
some things about you. She wanted to find out if you could do certain things,
things most people can’t. Turns out, you can.”
“Magic,” Harry whispers, hardly daring to believe it.
His mum’s smile grows. “Not magic, Hazza, not really. It works in a very
specific way.” Her hand keeps on stroking his hair, slow, reassuring. “It only
happens when you really want something. When you do, you can sometimes change
things, make them closer to how you want them to be. But you can’t control it,
not really – the only way to control it is to learn to control what you want.”
Harry snuggles further into the blankets and feels so warm, down to the tips of
his toes. “So it is like magic,” he says. His face is smiling even though he
can’t remember making himself smile.
His mum laughs. “Maybe it is, Harry, maybe it is.”
“And can– can a lot of other people do it too?” He squirms from the excitement.
Maybe he can get to be in some sort of club with these other magic people.
Maybe he gets to use his powers to become a real live superhero.
His mum’s smile falters a bit. “Not really– I don’t know how many people there
are, love. We can find out, if you want. See if there’s anyone your age around
here. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” he says honestly. He thinks for a bit, and then, “Does that mean there’s
no one who can do magic at school, then?”
“I talked to the school,” she says, “and I think there’s one girl in Year Five
who’s like you. You can talk to her if you like, you know that?” Harry fidgets,
because he’s never talked to anyone in Year Five in his entire life. They’re
even older than Gemma. “The school mentioned there are some special classes she
takes, too. Maybe try that out and see what it’s like.”
Harry nods in silence. He can’t– he can’t say anything right now, he’s so busy
thinking about it all. He has powers. He has actual powers. And all he has to
do is learn how to use them and he’ll be able to do anything he wants! A
thought occurs, then, and he says excitedly, “Can I tell everyone at school?”
He wasn’t expecting the smile to drop off his mum’s face like it does. “I don’t
think that’d be a good idea, love.” She takes one look at his face, and then
adds, “You can tell your friends, okay? But maybe– I don’t think it’s a good
idea to announce it, baby. Tell people you trust, and you’ll be fine.”
Harry feels disappointment swell inside him, cold and horrible, the thought of
impressing everyone with his magic dropping from his mind. “But why?”
His mum sighs, and her voice is softer when she speaks again. “People don’t
like things that are different, Hazza. They don’t like people who are
different. Especially when they might be afraid of those people, too.” His mum
looks straight at him now, and her face is serious. “And that’s why you should
never, ever do what you did today, Harry. You have something special. Never use
it to hurt people. Do you understand?”
Harry nods, although he doesn’t, not really, especially the part about people
being scared of him. But he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he hugs his mum
around the neck and lets her kiss him on the forehead and tuck him up snugly,
and when she turns the light off and leaves the room with a whispered,
“Goodnight, Hazza,” feels nothing but sleepy, and warm, and safe.
                                       *
He keeps quiet about it all through the next morning, even though it feels like
it’s a secret so big that it’s going to burst inside him like a balloon. After
lunchtime, though, he can’t keep quiet anymore. He sidles up to David who is a
friend of his and carefully tells him, “Do you want to know a secret?”
David looks at him. “What?”
“I can do magic.” He feels himself smile at that, big as anything.
He’s pleased to see David’s eyes widen. “Really?” Harry nods seriously. “Prove
it.”
Harry falters for a second. He wasn’t expecting David to ask that. But it’s
okay, really, because he can do magic to get the things he wants, right? So all
he has to do is concentrate on wanting something. He looks around and spots a
girl called Lucy who has very yellow hair. He frowns and concentrates on
turning it purple. Nothing happens.
David looks at him. He doesn’t look impressed. “I knew it wasn’t true,” he
says, and runs over to the football pitch without looking back at Harry. Harry
blinks, confused, and says nothing. Maybe he’ll keep quiet like his mum said
after all.
                                       *
Harry wants a lot of things. In fact, Harry probably wants something all the
time, so doing magic should not be a problem. He should be doing, then, too
much magic instead of too little. It doesn’t make sense.
Or it doesn’t at first. Harry eventually stops trying to impress people with
his magic, because it’s just not working. He can’t do it, and no one believes
him, and some people even laugh at him. He’s thinking of telling his mum that
maybe the doctor got it wrong when one morning he sees a dead squirrel by the
side of the road when his mum’s walking him and Gemma to school and before he
knows it he’s turned it into at least ten miniature squirrels who scamper off
and leave nothing behind. Gemma gasps, his mum smiles, and Harry thinks that he
maybe can do magic after all.
Weeks pass, and the air starts getting warmer, and Harry eventually figures it
out, the knowledge growing like it was part of him all along.
There are a lot of things he wants. When they pass an ice-cream cart and his
mum refuses to get him one, when he goes to his friend Sam’s and plays with her
dogs all afternoon and wants one of his own, when they go shopping for his
cousin’s birthday present and he wants a Nintendo game too – when all of this
happens, he squeezes his eyes shut and wishes. But when he opens them again
everything’s the same as it was. Still no ice cream. Still no game. Still no
dog.
He cries a bit the first few times. What good is magic if he can’t even use it?
It doesn’t seem fair. But even though he wants those things desperately, he
forgets about them soon enough, and when he wakes up the next morning he can’t
remember if there was anything he wanted at all.
The other kind of wanting is different.
It doesn’t happen all the time. It doesn’t even happen often, and when it does
it’s for seemingly unimportant reasons, reasons that a lot of the time he can’t
even explain himself. But when it does… when it does he knows instantly because
he gets so focused suddenly, and then he feels hot down to his toes, and then
he makes things change. And even when he can’t explain what he wished for, he
looks at what he’s done and feels happy, and calm, and good.
He has magic. He knows that now. He can do anything, even if he can’t choose
what he does with it, even if he can’t tell anyone, even if he’s the only one.
                                       *
People find out, anyway. After the third time he makes it snow inside the
classroom and Harry’s teacher has quietly taken him off to the side and told
him maybe he should have a word about this with his magic teacher (Miss Wheel
isn’t his magic teacher, not really, but he has separate classes with her and
she talks to him about his magic a lot so that’s what he calls her), David
edges up to him.
“Did you make it snow?” he asks.
“Yes,” Harry says immediately, because he actually feels quite proud of it.
David looks at him for a moment and blinks. “All those other times, too?”
“Yes,” Harry says again. He wonders excitedly if David will believe him this
time.
“That’s so cool!” David says. “Can you show me how?”
By the time Harry’s mum comes to pick him up, six different people have come up
to ask him if he really can do magic. Harry’s feeling very pleased with
himself. When he sees his mum, though, he remembers what she’d told him, what
she’d said about not telling people, and he feels guilty and scared for a
second before he remembers he’s done nothing to make people afraid of him.
He’ll be okay.
                                       *
Harry is seven when his grandmother gets ill.
His mum takes him and Gemma to visit her in the hospital. Harry hasn’t been to
many hospitals before: he wonders if they’re all so clean, if the light is this
white in all of them. He and Gemma kiss his grandmother’s cheek and she smiles
at them both and squeezes their hands tight. Harry smiles back even though he
feels uneasy and has decided he doesn’t want to be here at all.
When he gets home, he asks his mum, “Is Gran going to die?”
He’s old enough now to know from the look on his mum’s face that he maybe
shouldn’t have asked that question. But she sits next to him in one of the
kitchen chairs, dinner temporarily forgotten, and looks him in the eye. “Maybe.
We don’t know. The doctors don’t know yet.”
Harry keeps on asking, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “What’s wrong with
her? Is she ill because she’s old?”
“Her lungs aren’t working properly,” his mum says gently. “And yes, in a way
it’s because she’s old. It means she’s not as strong as someone who’s younger.
But young people get ill too, like you and Gemma do sometimes. Only you’re
strong, aren’t you? So you get better.”
“I know that already,” says Harry. He’s frustrated, like he isn’t saying what
he wants to say at all. “But you don’t have to be old to die. Do you?”
His mum looks at him. Harry thinks she looks sad, sort of. “No,” she says
quietly. “Life always ends at some point, love. So what matters is if it's a
good one.”
Harry thinks about that. “I’d like to live to be a hundred years old. Do you
think I can?”
His mum ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. “I don’t know. Do you think
I’ll live to be a hundred?”
“Definitely,” Harry proclaims. He grins at his mum, and she grins back, and
then goes back to making dinner.
Harry’s left thinking about what she said. He feels like he needs more, though,
so when he gets back to his room he stands on the bed and inspects his
bookshelves. He finds three or four books that talk about the human body, and
he looks through all of them, trying to find an answer for what he asked his
mum, do you have to be old to die? But there’s nothing. There’s bits about
getting old, but he finds nothing about dying at all. It’s like the people who
write the books don’t want you to know.
                                       *
Harry’s grandma dies three weeks before his eighth birthday. His mum’s eyes are
red for a long time, and Gemma cries and cries even when he hugs her or tries
to comfort her. Harry doesn’t go to the funeral; he watches his mum and sister
dress in black and then they drop him off at Sam’s house and he forgets about
it for a little while until they pick him up again.
It takes him a while to fall asleep that night. His head starts thinking
thoughts on its own and he can’t get it to stop. He wonders where Gran is now.
He’s heard people at school say their grandparents are in heaven, watching over
them. He looks up at the ceiling. It’s hard to imagine she’s up there. Maybe if
he’d gone to the funeral he’d have found out. He’d ask his mum, but she looked
so tired today, and he scared if he talks to Gemma he’ll make her cry again.
He wonders if he’s really never going to see Gran again at all. He wonders what
dying feels like, if it hurts.
He falls asleep eventually, but has strange dreams, and when he wakes up the
next morning he finds out he’s made the ceiling glow.
                                       *
Harry has two parties for his eighth birthday: one for his friends and one for
his family. Gemma helps him make decorations and make the guest list and his
mum hangs the decorations up and makes two separate cakes, one chocolate and
biscuit and one strawberry ice cream. The parties are both brilliant, and he
gets lots of hugs and presents ranging from Lego sets to a raincoat, and he
sings and dances and when he blows out the candles on one of the cakes he
accidentally makes the air around him bright pink and everyone laughs. Harry
goes to bed on both days feeling tired and happy, but just before he falls
asleep he realises that both of these days are gone, that there'll be more days
but he won't be able to live this one again. It makes his sleep restless.
                                       *
When school ends for the summer, Harry realizes that Gemma won’t be going to
school with him in September anymore.
She’s eleven now, two digits, and she’s always been taller than him but now
Harry feels like a tiny garden gnome when he stands next to her. Her hair
reaches halfway down her back, and she doesn’t put on her sparkly lipgloss
anymore. Instead, it’s something pinker, less shiny, and he notices her
eyelashes are longer and darker sometimes when she’s making an effort to look
pretty. She looks old now, like a proper secondary kid, and Harry thinks he
can’t remember when that happened exactly. It scares him, somehow.
                                       *
It’s a warm night in July when he realizes:
He never did any magic to help Gran when she was ill. He never did any magic to
save Gran when she died.
For the first time, he hopes Gran’s not in heaven, hopes with all he has that
she can’t see him now. Because she’d know. She’d know everything, she’d know
that it’s his fault, she’d know he saved the squirrel he found on the road back
when he was six but he couldn’t save her. He wonders what’ll happen when Mum
dies. Will she die because of him, too? Will she die because he didn’t do magic
to save her?
He didn’t go to Gran's funeral, but he’s seen funerals on TV, he knows what
they look like. He sees his mum lying in between bunches and bunches of
flowers, her eyes closed, her mouth not smiling. He screws his eyes shut and
buries his face into the pillow, but it’s no use; the flowers are still there,
only this time it’s his Aunt Lydia. Miss Wheel from school. Gemma.
Gemma’s going to die too, isn’t she?
She’s so much older than him now, and she’ll eventually die, too. She’ll be
gone forever and he won’t be able to see her or talk to her ever again, no one
will, because he couldn’t do magic and save her.
Everything will go away. Everything. Even him. Even this house. Even the little
babies that are being born right now somewhere in the world. Everything will go
away, will leave, and no one will remember it.
Every second that passes, now, is one second that he’ll never live again, one
second that takes him closer to the day his mum will die, Gemma will die, with
nothing he can do about it.
He realizes he’s crying when he touches the pillow and it feels wet where his
face was on it. He cries quietly, though, putting his hands over his mouth. If
his mum comes to see what’s wrong he won’t be able to stop seeing her dead.
The flowers won’t go away. They’re there every time he closes his eyes. Harry
falls asleep wishing he were anyone else in the world - someone who doesn’t
know like he does.
                                       *
Last summer, when school was over and his mum left him and Gemma home to go to
work, Gran came over and watched them during the day. But she’s dead now, so
this year Gemma and him are alone at home, and Gemma’s supposed to be taking
care of him.
She has breakfast with him every day and she microwaves him the lunch his mum
leaves for them in the fridge, but he has to catch her in a good mood to get
her to play with him. So he really doesn’t have much to do all day if he's not
at the town pool or at someone else’s house. He draws, he reads a book
sometimes, he sits on the sofa and watches CBeebies, he counts his sticker
collection, but eventually he does get bored and is reduced to taking naps or
lying on his bed and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck on the
ceiling when he was six.
Today, that’s what he does. He’s not bored. He just feels too terrible to do
anything else.
Gemma comes into his room mid-morning, sees him, and asks him what’s wrong. Her
voice sounds concerned, almost like a proper mum voice, and hearing it makes it
even worse. He tells her he’s feeling bad, because he technically is, and she
feels his forehead even though Harry’s pretty sure she doesn't know how to tell
if someone has a temperature or not. She kisses him on the cheek and tells him
she’ll call Mum and ask her what to do. Harry nods, looking at the stars on his
ceiling.
His mum comes home early, just before lunch, and feels his forehead too, more
expertly than Gemma had done. She proclaims him temperature-free, even though
he can see she looks concerned when she asks him what hurts. He just shrugs and
buries his face into the sheets.
Together, though, they manage to persuade him to get up and go downstairs for
lunch – it's macaroni cheese, so he can’t bring himself to pretend to have a
tummy-ache. Gemma tells jokes and his mum tells him about all the various odd
customers she had today at the till. Then his mum tells them she can help them
to bake something this afternoon if they want, which of course leads to
bickering, because Harry wants brownies but Gemma has a strange fascination
with bread and always refuses to make anything else. They make half a tray of
brownies and a small loaf of bread in the end, and eat the bread with dinner
and the brownies for dessert. Harry’s kept so busy he almost forgets all three
of them are going to die.
But at night, when his mum comes into his room to tell him a bedtime story and
even Gemma comes to listen, snuggling in next to him, he can barely pay
attention. His mind's too skittish to listen properly, always going back to the
truth he’s spent all day trying to avoid. They both kiss him goodnight and he
absently kisses back until the light is off, and they’ve gone, and he’s alone
again.
There’s something about the house at night, like this, that makes it seem so
big and so empty. In the dark, his room looks like cave walls, and when he
looks out to the corridor a while later, when his mum’s turned off the light
too, he sees the darkness at the end of it and feels like it could go on
forever. The stars on his ceiling glow, but they seem much too far away. He
curls up beneath the sheet even though the air is warm, careful to keep it
tucked in.
When he starts crying it almost feels like a relief, like he’s been holding his
breath all day and he’s only letting it out now. He turns his face into the
pillow and lets himself think it all, all the bad thoughts, until he feels so
so small, like he’s being crushed under them. He hugs his chest with his arms
and sobs as quietly as he can.
Every minute that passes is a minute closer to his death, to everyone’s death,
he knows that now. He knows that he shouldn’t waste them, but he can’t stop
crying, messy hiccupy crying that makes him feel like a little kid. He wouldn’t
mind being little now. Little kids don’t know anything, and they can play and
do normal things without feeling guilty and bad all the time.
He looks up at the stars on his ceiling and suddenly they’re not enough. He
hesitates for a moment, cheeks still wet, before tugging the sheet back and
stepping out onto the carpet one foot at a time. He pads over to the window
quietly and tugs the curtains out of the way; he struggles to open the window
but manages it in the end, letting a gentle breeze into the room.
He usually can’t see the stars very well from his bedroom window. On cloudy
nights you can see patches of the sky at most where there’s gaps in the clouds.
On clear nights, the lights in the street below make it hard to see anything
except for the really big ones, like the ones he knows make up the Big Dipper.
But the streetlights don’t seem to matter today, because he looks out at the
sky and there are so many of them. The whole sky, everything he can see, is
tiny sparkling dots of light, some of them so close together it looks like bits
of the sky are white instead of blue.
They’ve told him at school that stars die too. Not like people: people just…
die and that’s it, but stars explode and sometimes turn into black holes that
suck everything inside themselves. He’s never really understood why, but his
mum likes to explain, too, that some of the stars we see are dead already even
though they’re still in the sky – something to do with them being so far away.
He looks up at the stars, wiping at his eyes messily with the back of his hand,
and wonders which ones out of all of them are dead already. He wonders if any
of them will die before he does.
He focuses on one particular star that seems like it’s right in front of him.
It’s one of the smallest ones, just a tiny pinprick of light that you have to
look hard to see. He looks at it, really looks at it… and suddenly, like a
wave, he feels heat rushing through his body, the kind of heat that can only
mean magic. But it’s strong, stronger than it’s ever been, strong enough to
make him scared and to make him shut his eyes tight just in case. It gets
hotter and hotter until it almost burns, and Harry wonders what magic like this
could possibly do– but then, in a second, it’s gone completely, and he
stumbles, leaning against the windowsill, his eyes flying open again. Suddenly,
he feels tired, so tired, his eyes closing even though he doesn’t want them to,
his body slumping. He doesn’t feel like crying anymore. He just wants to sleep,
and forget about this, because even if it makes him feel a bit silly – it’s
scary.
He looks for the star before going back to bed, but he finds nothing.
                                       *
Things are different somehow when he wakes up. There’s still an uneasiness,
still a horrible dread lingering inside his head, but it’s not like it was
before. He doesn’t feel small anymore. It doesn’t crush him. It’s a Saturday,
so his mum’s home, and when she asks him if he’s feeling better today he smiles
and says yes and he feels he’s being honest.
He doesn’t think back to the feeling of magic last night at all.
                                       *
There’s a park down the road that Harry’s allowed to go to on his own now that
he’s eight, provided it doesn’t rain and he brings someone with him. Gemma
won’t come with him anymore, but friends of his from school knock on his door
sometimes and they’ll go together. Today is like that. It’s been a few days
since the bad thoughts, and he’s feeling better now, so when Sam and Tess and
Greg show up at his house and ask him to come with he says okay.
Still, once he gets there he finds he’s not really in the mood to play. No one
will go with him on the swings because they’re too busy hanging upside-down
from the monkey bars, and then some other kids show up with a football and of
course a game starts up. Harry knows he’s terrible at football, but he still
joins in on most days because it’s fun even when he ends up tripping and
falling into the mud. But he hangs back today, kicks himself higher and higher
on the swing until it starts to creak alarmingly and he lets himself swing
slowly to a stop. He looks at the game going on a little further, but he stays
where he is. It’s quiet here. It’s nice.
He hops off the swing, his shoes squishing into the muddy grass. He looks
around and decides to go exploring. The park has the road and the rows of
houses on one side, but on the other side, behind the park fence, the trees
start. He heads over to them, clambers over the fence, and it's only a few
steps until he’s in the trees properly. The earth is darker here, and damper,
and when he looks up there are branches blocking out the cloudy sky.
He can barely hear the sounds of the game anymore. It's like he’s in a whole
different world.
He steps quietly through the tall plants and pretends he’s in a proper forest.
He stops and listens. Yes, he can hear it now, the evil forest-dwelling wizard
that’s coming to get him. He doesn’t know what he's going up against, then.
Harry breaks into a run suddenly, not daring to look back in case it slows him
down, and ducks behind a tree. Slowly, he peeks his head out to see if he’s
still being chased– and then he sticks his hands out and throws magic at the
wizard, really powerful magic, thunder and lightning bolts. That’ll show him.
When the magic clears, the wizard is gone and there’s nothing there. He pushes
his sweaty hair out of his face and grins. He’s undefeatable.
But– wait! There’s something else coming! It’s bigger than the wizard, it’s a
full-out monster. Harry flees and it chases him. He needs somewhere to hide,
somewhere it can’t get him, so he can do magic and defeat it. He looks around,
but there’s nothing– and then he sees a tree with thick branches lying low,
perfect for climbing, and he thinks okay.
He jumps onto the branch and almost slips and falls, but he hangs onto the
trunk, clambering onto the next branch quickly because he needs to be fast or
it’ll get him. He edges along it sideways, carefully, and steps onto a higher
branch a little to the side– but then he looks up, looking for the next branch,
and stops abruptly. The monster falls away from his mind.
There’s a boy on the branch. Harry’s sure he’s a real, live boy, not a pretend
one. Only– he doesn’t look like any boy Harry’s seen before. Because he glows.
His skin looks like there’s a gentle light coming out of it, and if Harry
squints– are those colours on the boy’s skin? He can’t see them if he looks
directly, but he sees them out of the corner of his eye. They’re colours that
change, and Harry suddenly thinks, looking at the boy, that he looks just like
the sky.
(He also has no clothes on, but Harry doesn’t mind. He goes around naked at
home a lot of the time anyway, especially in summer, so he can respect it.)
Harry’s staring, even though he knows it’s rude. It’s just– he’s seen nothing
like this before, not even when he’s done magic. It’s so pretty.
His eyes meet the boy’s. They’re a lovely shade of blue, and it takes Harry a
moment to realize that they’re narrowed straight at him. The look on his face
blatantly says that he doesn’t trust Harry at all. Harry looks at the way he’s
holding his body and notices he’s tense all over, like he’s ready to run away.
“Hi,” Harry says carefully, trying to sound as friendly as he can. “Who are
you?”
“Who’re you?” the boy shoots back.
“My name’s Harry. You?”
The boy looks oddly taken aback at the question. He hesitates, and then
carefully says, “Louis.” It sounds strange, though, like he isn’t used to
saying it out loud. Harry wonders why.
“Louis,” Harry says. “Nice. What’re you doing up here?” Maybe he was playing
like Harry was. Maybe if he was they can play together. Harry inspects Louis –
he looks about as old as Gemma. He hopes that doesn’t mean he’s too old to play
like she is.
Louis blinks. “I was– I don’t know. It’s just, I– it’s better. Than down there,
I mean.” He frowns. “Nevermind.” He hesitates before speaking again, but then
says, “What’re you doing here?”
Harry grins. “I was playing. D’you want to join in?” Louis blinks, and then
shakes his head no. Harry can’t help but feel disappointed. He’d quite have
liked to play with someone who looks so strange, and so pretty.
“Why’s your skin like that?” he asks suddenly. It’s rude, he knows, but he
needs to know. Louis frowns and looks down at his bare arms. Then he shrugs.
(Harry also feels a little disappointed at that – he’d sort of been hoping
Louis could do magic too.) As an afterthought, Harry adds, “D’you want some
clothes? You can borrow my shirt if you want. I can go without it.” Louis
shakes his head again. Okay, then.
Harry hesitates for a moment before lowering himself down and sitting on the
branch. He leans his back against the tree trunk and adjusts his bum until he’s
sitting comfortably, and he’s pleased to see Louis does the same, even though
he sits as far away from Harry as he can and still looks tense. Neither of them
say anything for a while. Harry looks at Louis, at the lovely warm glow that
comes out of his skin, and he wants to touch it just to see if it feels as nice
as it looks. He doesn’t, though, because he wants Louis to trust him, and if he
does that Louis will probably run away.
Instead, he just watches, and he’s so caught up he doesn’t even notice when a
familiar warm feeling starts up inside him. In fact, he’s only aware he’s doing
magic at all when he hears a faint rustling sound and sees the smaller branches
on the trees around them growing, growing– and reaching out to Louis, trying to
touch him. Harry can’t help the way his face grows hot.
He looks to Louis quickly, hoping he hasn’t chased him away. But Louis doesn’t
looks alarmed at all. Instead, he’s looking at the branches in wonder, and he
actually hold his hand out and touches a nearby one gently. It squirms, like
Louis’s tickled it. Harry’s amazed to see the way Louis’s face slowly, slowly
grows into a smile– and then he looks at Harry, still smiling, and asks, “Did
you do this?”
Harry nods, face still hot. He thinks Louis will maybe ask him how, like
everyone else does, but instead he just says, “It’s really nice.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, and honestly means it. He’s relieved to see Louis doesn’t
look tense anymore, like somehow Harry’s magic has made Louis trust him more
than Harry being nice to him. That’s never happened before. Maybe that’s why it
feels so nice.
There’s a moment of quiet. The plants are still, now. Louis looks like he’s
going to say something. But before he does, Harry hears shouts: his name being
called, faintly, from somewhere that sounds far away. Louis tenses and doesn’t
say anything.
“I have to go,” Harry says. He doesn’t want Sam and Greg and Tess to come here
looking for him and he’s scared Louis will leave if they do. So he slides off
the branch quickly and hops onto the next one, wanting to get out of here fast–
but he can’t help himself, he stops and glances back up to look at Louis. He’s
looking down at Harry. Harry really doesn’t like the thought of leaving him
here all alone.
“Louis?” Louis blinks at him. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”
Louis nods and says nothing. Harry doesn’t like it. “I’ll come back tomorrow, I
promise. I’ll bring some clothes too.” Louis nods again. “Okay. Bye, Louis.” He
waits in case Louis wants to say something back, but he doesn’t, so he hops
down to the next branch and then off the tree.
He’s about to start running back when he hears a faint, “Bye, Harry!” He whirls
around and sees Louis’s face peeking out from between the leaves. Harry waves,
and Louis waves back, and when Harry gets back to the park he still has a grin
on his face.
                                       *
He doesn’t tell his mum or his sister about Louis. Instead, he dedicates the
afternoon to thinking about what he’s going to bring him tomorrow. He takes a
bag from the bag of plastic bags in the kitchen and sneakily goes around the
house taking everything he thinks Louis might need. His biggest T-shirt and
shorts and pants, neatly folded. A water bottle. A pear, and apple and two
chocolate bars. A pillow to sleep on, and one of his comic books in case he
gets bored. He hides it all under his bed and neither Gemma nor his mum suspect
anything, and he goes to bed that night feeling very pleased with himself
indeed.
                                       *
“Louis?”
He hasn’t really sneaked out of the house. He told Gemma he was going to the
park with his friends is all. Only the park is empty and he’s not really in the
park anyway but in the bit with the trees, dragging his plastic bag and calling
out to try to find Louis. He’s not having much luck so far.
“Louis? Are you there?”
Harry squints at the trees, trying to see if he can spot Louis anywhere among
them. Uneasiness starts to creep its way in. Perhaps Louis isn’t there at all.
Perhaps he’s gone already, or something’s happened to him because he spent the
night here all alone. Or perhaps... perhaps Louis wasn’t even there in the
first place. Who knows? Maybe Harry got so caught up in his game that he
imagined Louis and thought he was real.
“Louis?” he tries again. His voice sounds wobbly. He listens, and then–
“Harry?” a voice says from above. Harry’s so shocked he drops the bag.
He scrambles to pick it back up and then cranes his neck in every direction.
“Louis? Where are you?”
There’s a soft thud as Louis hops out of a tree and lands on the ground. Harry
is so relieved to see that he’s okay, that nothing hurt him when Harry wasn’t
there. “Louis,” he says breathlessly. “You’re here.”
Louis smiles at that, actually smiles at him. Harry feels dazed. It’s like
looking right into the sun. “You came.”
“Well, I promised,” Harry says, frowning slightly. Louis wasn’t sure he’d come
back? He looks down and remembers the bag in his hands. “Here,” he says,
fumbling with it, “I brought you some clothes like I said. You don’t have to
wear them if you don’t want to. They’re just in case.” He holds out the folded
clothes and Louis steps closer and takes them, looking at them curiously. He
unfolds them, though, and seems to like them okay, because a moment later he’s
pulling the shirt over his head and tugging on the pants and shorts. Harry’s
relieved to see the T-shirt only looks a little tight on him and the shorts fit
okay.
“Thanks,” Louis says. He looks at the bag curiously. “You brought more things?”
“Well– just in case,” says Harry. “I brought you food, and some water in case
you’re thirsty. And a pillow so you can sleep okay. And a comic book for if you
get bored.”
He pulls everything out of the bag and hands it over; he considers for a moment
and then hands him the bag too for good measure. Louis looks intently at all of
it. It’s almost like he’s never seen any of it before, which is odd, but Harry
doesn’t want to ask questions because he wants to make sure Louis stays. So he
tries to explain what everything is, and Louis nods seriously and follows all
of his instructions. Soon enough, they’re sitting on the ground, not quite
side-by-side but closer together than they were yesterday. Louis drinks the
water and eats everything, offering some to Harry every time. Then he tells him
he liked the chocolate best of all.
“Me too,” Harry says, and Louis smiles at him. He doesn’t know why, but Louis’s
smiling so much today, and it’s wonderful. He seems so much friendlier than
yesterday and barely tense at all. Harry wonders if he’d like to play with him
today, then promptly asks him, and this time Louis looks a little cautious but
nods all the same.
                                       *
Louis is brilliant.
It’s not only that he looks interesting, magic, almost. It’s also that he’s so
much fun. Harry’s sure that’s not just because he’s older (although he doesn’t
actually know how old Louis is), because none of the older kids he’s ever
played with are this good at it. This is the best day ever.
He’d explained the game to Louis and Louis had understood pretty fast, but had
suggested, what if we chase them instead of them chasing us? Of course. Harry
doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that before. Now it’s not a chase anymore –
it’s a battle. And he has Louis on his side. Fantastic.
Harry’s hair is sweaty and his clothes are muddy. He pays this no attention at
all, because right now he’s also running, crashing through the trees, hoping
Louis isn’t too far off. He needs to concentrate or he’ll get distracted from
the strategy. Up ahead, he sees the tree they’d agreed to meet at once they’d
thrown the monsters off. (This is Louis’s idea, too. A pack of monsters instead
of just one is much more exciting.) He runs up to it and ducks behind it,
panting. Louis is already there, glowing brighter than ever, Harry thinks.
“Hi,” Harry whispers breathlessly. “Are yours very far away?”
Louis shakes his head no. “I left them just there,” he whispers back, gesturing
at the trees. “We don’t have much time.”
Harry nods. “Okay. I was thinking I could distract them, make a lot of noise,
and you can run up behind them quietly and finish them off.”
Louis grins. “Brilliant.” He shuts his eyes, cocks his head and listens.
“They’re coming,” he says quietly. “Okay, when I say so…” His eyes open again
and he looks straight at Harry. “Go!”
Harry shoots out from behind the tree and deliberately stomps his feet as he
runs, crashing through as many bushes as he possibly can. “Hey!” he yells.
“Hey, over here, look at me!” He glances over his shoulder. They’re following
him. Good. He spots Louis as they get closer and closer and grins breathlessly.
They’re gonna show them.
He whirls around once the monsters get too close. They stop, looking confused.
Harry faces them defiantly, sticking his hands out to the side to get them
ready for magic. He sees Louis right behind the monsters. They haven’t noticed
him. Louis looks at Harry, and as Harry watches, he nods.
Now.
Harry shoots lightning bolts at the monsters, and Louis shoots his own magic at
them too, and in a second, that’s it, it’s over. The monsters are gone. They’ve
won.
“Yes!” shouts Harry, and Louis cheers back, and then Harry runs up to him and
hold his hand out for a high five. Louis just blinks at him, so Harry, feeling
giddy and brave, reaches out, takes Louis’s hand and smacks it against his own.
Then he realizes it’s the first time he’s actually touched Louis (he feels just
as warm and glowy as he looks) and quickly drops his hand, glancing over at
Louis’s face. He doesn’t look worried or scared or angry at all, so Harry grins
at him, still sweaty and excited from all that running.
He’s opening his mouth to tell Louis how great he is when his stomach growls.
Is he hungry already? It’s only– wait. Harry looks up at the sky between the
branches and realizes that the sun is bright and high up in the sky, which
means it’s later than he thought, but he can’t know for sure because he doesn’t
even own a watch, nevermind have one with him. He wonders how long he’s been
here. If he’s not home for lunch Gemma will probably come looking for him. And
she’ll definitely call Mum. That wouldn’t be good.
He doesn’t want to leave, though. He doesn’t want to leave at all.
“Louis?” he says tentatively. Louis looks at him, his eyes bright and blue. “I
think I have to go now.”
He thinks Louis looks disappointed for a teensy moment, but then he just
shrugs. “That’s okay,” he says. “Will you come back?”
“Of course,” Harry says immediately. Does Louis still think he won’t be coming
back after all they played today? Maybe he didn’t have as much fun as Harry
did. “Will you play with me again?” he asks a little shyly.
Louis’s face lights up at that. Harry is glad. “Yes! Also,” he adds as an
afterthought, “you should bring more chocolate. It was nice.”
“I will,” Harry says, nodding. He hesitates. “Bye, Louis. I liked playing with
you.”
“Me too.” Louis grins. Good. “Bye, Harry.”
Harry turns around and starts walking towards the park again. When he gets to
the fence, though, before he climbs it, he can’t resist looking back and
waving. Louis is right where he left him. He waves back. Harry looks at his
glow and feels nice, happy, like he’s bubbly inside.
                                       *
It takes about a week, but eventually Harry decides that he and Louis are
really, actually friends.
Louis is fantastic. Louis is loud and fun and fast, and he can climb trees
better than anyone Harry’s ever seen and he comes up with the best game ideas
ever. Harry struggles not to tell his mum or Gemma anything about him, because
he’s scared if his mum realizes he goes to the park alone with someone she
doesn’t know she won’t let him go anymore, but it’s hard, because Louis is
fantastic and does the best things sometimes and Harry wants everyone to know
about him.
He visits Louis every day except for Sunday, when his mum takes him and Gemma
up to Manchester to visit the zoo. Harry likes the zoo okay, because the
animals are nice and friendly and they look like they have enough space to play
in (he once read a leaflet about zoos who treat animals badly and it made him
cry). But the whole time he’s there, he can’t help but wonder what Louis’s
doing, if he expected Harry to come today too, if he’s disappointed. He brings
Louis more chocolate than usual the next day to make up for it.
He goes to the park all the other days, though. It’s easier when his mum’s not
at home because Gemma always lets him and is she asks about it it’s questions
that are easy to answer. It’s harder when his mum’s home, but he makes up a
different excuse every time and so far it’s going nicely.
And Harry loves it. He loves being with Louis and he loves playing with Louis.
The games have evolved now, and they have allies as well as enemies and they
aren’t just fighting for themselves now; they have a kingdom to protect.
Harry’s glad they always fight together. He likes having Louis on his side.
Besides, Louis never treats him like some of the older kids Harry knows,
Gemma’s friends or brothers and sisters of friends of his from school. He’s
always right by Harry’s side, never trying to boss him around or treat him like
he’s only a little kid. He likes playing as much as Harry does, and he always
seems to be having just as much fun.
Also, Harry’s noticed that Louis loves it when he does magic.
He’d thought about it the first time they met, when Louis seemed to trust him
when he made those branches grow, and he’s seeing it now. Harry is usually too
focused on the game to do magic when they play, but it happens sometimes
anyway. And as soon as it does, Louis stops playing immediately to stare at the
way Harry’s making flowers bloom, or the earth ripple, or water sprout from a
tree like a fountain. The first few times, Harry thought he did it because he
thought it was weird, but then Louis had turned around and smiled at him,
glowing brighter than ever, and Harry had known that wasn’t it.
But it still takes him a while to realize that Louis can do magic too.
They’re not attacking but hiding this time. The wizards have taken a little
baby prisoner and they have to be quiet if they want to sneak in and rescue it.
They’re flattened on the ground, dragging themselves through the undergrowth as
silently as they possibly can, but when they’re almost there suddenly Louis
jumps up and starts running. Harry wants to yell at him because now they’ve
been hiding for nothing and Louis isn’t supposed to play like this, but– the
moment Harry opens his mouth, Louis is gone.
What?
Where is he? Did he just disappear into thin air? Harry forgets about hiding
and props himself up on his knees, looking around wildly. How did he do that?
Where did he go? What if he doesn’t come back?
“Louis?” Harry calls out uncertainly. He gets no reply.
But then– Louis, somehow, is appearing again right next to Harry, in a
different place than when he disappeared. He’s smiling widely and cradling an
imaginary baby in his arms. “I did it, Harry! I got him!”
Harry scrambles to get up and looks at Louis, stunned. He reaches out and
touches Louis’s arm to make sure he’s really there (he is) and then demands,
“How did you do that?”
Louis frowns, dropping his arms. “Do what?”
“You were there, and then you disappeared, and– and now you’re here,” Harry
explains, gesturing wildly.
Louis seems to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh,” he says. “I don’t know. I
just did it. But it’s just like you, right? When you do things like make
flowers appear.”
“But that’s different,” Harry says. “I can’t just…” He trails off suddenly,
because he’s realized something. “Does that mean you can do magic too?”
He’s barely met anyone who can. He talked to the girl who used to go to his
school once, but she was so much older than him so he felt too shy to say much,
and once his mum took him to a sort of meeting with other kids and their
parents, which was fun, but two kids got in a fight and one of them turned the
other into a fox so they didn’t come back after that. But Louis doing magic is
something else entirely. Maybe Harry should have suspected it already, seeing
that strange light in his body. But if he really can, this is even better than
he thought.
“That’s brilliant!” Harry says excitedly. “How does yours work? Is it when you
want things too?” Louis looks confused, so Harry helpfully adds, “You should
talk to your mum about it. Mine took me to see a doctor and we found out lots
of stuff. Maybe it can help you too.”
“My mum?” Louis asks, looking more bewildered than ever.
“Well, you don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” Harry says. “It
might help, but maybe it won’t, I don’t know.”
“What?” Louis says. Harry’s excitement fades a bit, and he stops to look at
Louis more closely. If Harry didn’t know better, because Louis is older and he
doesn’t do that, he’d say Louis was going to cry.
Harry frowns. “Louis, don’t you have a mum?”
Louis suddenly grows tense all over again. “What are you talking about?” He
looks defensive, and angry, and Harry wants to know so badly but the idea of
Louis being angry at him is scary.
“I didn’t mean–” Harry says helplessly. “Louis, please don’t be mad at me. I
was only trying to help.” Why is Louis acting like this? Why doesn’t he want to
answer? What magic can he actually do? Harry doesn’t understand at all.
“It’s okay,” Louis says, but it’s not, because he doesn’t look friendly anymore
at all and he’s glowing brightly, but not in a warm way like he usually does,
and Harry doesn’t like it. But he says nothing else after that, and Louis
doesn’t either, and Harry knows Louis doesn’t want to play right now so he
leaves almost right away. Even though he can’t stop wondering about Louis’s
mum, and about Louis’s family, and, for the first time, if he really is all
alone, not just here but everywhere.
                                       *
Harry’s known about the trip to Whitby his mum has planned since the start of
the summer. He’s even been looking forward to it, because he hasn’t been to the
beach since last year and it really is a lot of fun. But ever since he met
Louis he’s started to forget about a lot of things, like seeing his other
friends or the fact that he’s technically not allowed to take chocolate from
the cupboard without asking his mum first. (She’s told him off about a week
ago, and now he’s having to secretly buy it with his own pocket money.) So he
more or less forgets all about the trip, too, until they’re having dinner one
evening and his mum tells them, “You’re going to have to start packing for
Whitby soon!”
Harry’s brain freezes unpleasantly. “What?”
“Whitby, silly,” Gemma tells him.
His mum takes a look at his face and smiles. “It’s okay, Harry, you don’t have
to tell me you’d forgotten about it.”
Harry’s stomach feels twisty. “When? How long are we going for?”
“A week, remember?” Gemma tells him. “We’re leaving in two days, aren’t we,
Mum?”
She looks to his mum for confirmation and she nods. “That’s right, Gem.”
“But–” Harry can’t get the words out. “But we can’t be away for a whole week!”
“Why’s that?” Gemma asks curiously. Harry says nothing.
“Harry, love, is something wrong?” His mum sounds concerned. For a moment,
Harry wants so badly to tell her, tell her that he can’t go because then Louis
will truly be all alone and what will he do then? But he doesn’t. He can’t. So
he just shakes his head no and looks down at the table, feeling helpless and
guilty and terrible.
                                       *
He packs an extra big bag for Louis the day before they leave, with water,
chocolate, a jumper and a raincoat. He feels a bit silly, but he also takes a
picture he drew a few days ago of him and Louis chasing a spiky blue monster,
folds it carefully, and slips it in the bag too. He doesn’t want Louis to feel
alone.
He felt too bad to tell Louis anything yesterday. He’s going to have to do it
today. A feeling of dread weighs him down on the entire walk to the trees.
The game isn’t very good today. Harry can’t get into it properly. When they
stop playing and collapse to the ground, Harry can feel Louis’s eyes on him. He
turns his head to meet them. They look like they’re asking a question.
Suddenly Harry can’t take it anymore. “I’m going away tomorrow.”
Something in Louis changes a bit. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He’s silent for a
moment, and his eyes flit away to look at the ground. “Will you be coming
back?”
Harry frowns. “What? Yes! It’s only for a week.”
Louis shrugs. “Okay,” he says again, and neither of them say anything for a
while after that.
Harry feels like he needs to say something else. “Louis,” he tries. Louis
doesn’t look at him, but Harry knows he’s listening. “I can ask my mum if you
can come with us if you like. I bet she’d say yes.”
“No,” Louis says immediately.
Harry can’t help but feel hurt at that. “But why?” he says. “Why don’t you ever
want to go anywhere that isn’t here?” He sees Louis tense up at that, but he’s
tired of Louis not answering his questions, and he feels hot inside. “I just
want to be proper friends with you, why don’t you want to?”
Louis is on his feet now. “Harry. Just shut up, okay? Just shut up.” He glows
bright, but it doesn’t look friendly at all.
Harry feels his eyes start to get itchy with tears. “Why won’t you answer me?”
“Just– just because, okay?” He’s very very near to shouting, and Harry’s heard
him shout before but never like this, never at him. He suddenly feels less
angry, more scared. He tries to reach out to Louis, but Louis jerks his arm
away. “Harry, just leave me alone, okay? Just leave me alone.”
Louis turns away and Harry gets up, gets ready to chase him. But before he can,
Louis just goes, disappears completely, and Harry can’t possibly follow.
                                       *
Whitby is only a week, but it feels so long, the days going on and on and on.
Harry’s distracted by the beach and the wind and the sea during the day, but at
night he can’t get to sleep. It’s like as soon as he lies down in bed all the
tired disappears and he starts to think and think. Like before with the bad
thoughts, only now Louis is in them, too. He wonders what Louis is doing. He
wonders if he’s all alone. He wonders if he’ll ever want to talk to Harry
again. It doesn’t seem likely.
Dimly, he wonders if Louis will die too, someday. Where before he’d managed to
imagine it much too clearly with Gemma and his mum, with Louis it’s much
harder. Louis dying just doesn’t seem right. He’s much too bright to.
It rains during the whole drive back to Holmes Chapel. It’s a long trip, takes
more than three hours, and Gemma sleeps through most of it. Harry tries to, but
he can’t. He settles for watching the raindrops on the car window, making them
race each other until he loses track and just stares, thinking, thinking.
                                       *
The first thing Harry wants to do when he gets back is visit Louis. He’s
halfway to asking his mum if he can go to the park when he realizes what a
terrible idea that would be, and he retreats to his room immediately.
In the end, it takes him two whole days to muster up the courage to face Louis.
Sam and Greg show up at his door and they ask him to come to the park with
them: he panics at first, but then he gives in. He guiltily plays football with
them for a while until he can’t stand it anymore and stops playing to sit on a
wet bench a little further off, and he spends ten whole minutes staring at the
ground after that (Sam comes to ask if he’s okay and he answers yes so she goes
away eventually) before he finally picks himself up and trudges towards the
trees.
He expects at least five minutes of walking around and calling out Louis’s
name, if Louis even turns up at all. So when five steps in he looks up and
Louis’s sitting on a tree stump right there, Harry doesn’t have a clue what to
do with himself.
“Hi,” Louis says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Hi,” Harry says back, because he can’t think of anything else to do. Louis
doesn’t hate him. Or does he? There’s no way Harry’s going to ask.
Louis stretches his arms above his head and grins right at Harry. His glow is
happy and warm, and there’s no anger on his face at all. Harry’s never done
magic on people before, but he wonders if it’s happened now. Maybe he wanted
Louis to forgive him so badly that he made it happen. But no, that can’t be
right, because he hasn’t felt the magic feeling once in the whole week. Maybe
Louis’s just forgotten about it. In any case, he actually looks happy about
seeing Harry again, and Harry doesn’t want to question it.
So he launches himself at Louis and yells, “Duck!”, because a wizard’s just
fired a spell at them and he can’t let it hit either of them, and of course
Louis goes right along with it, flattening himself to the ground until Harry
tells him in a whisper that the spells have passed. Because it’s what he always
does, and Harry can only feel relieved that it’s something he’s still doing.
                                       *
Louis isn’t mad at Harry anymore. Harry knows because he asks him. Once. Louis
goes very still, and says, “Why would I be mad at you?”
Harry doesn’t push it. If he’s forgotten, at least they’re still friends, and
that’s enough.
                                       *
They talk now, sometimes. They play, of course they play, they play all the
time, but sometimes Louis collapses to the ground and drags Harry down with
him, and either they just lie there (which makes Harry’s mum tell him off for
getting mud all over the back of his clothes) or they sit on a rock or against
a tree. And then, Louis asks him things. They’re everyday things, things that
Harry would consider almost boring, but Louis listens intently every time,
barely ever fidgeting or mucking around. (He does interrupt Harry a lot,
though.) Things like what his house looks like, or how a washing machine works,
or the stories his mum tells him before he goes to sleep. Harry rarely asks
anything back, because he remembers what happened the other times he’d tried to
get Louis to answer his questions. He tries to let Louis tell things of his own
accord, but he never does. Harry doesn’t even know how old he is.
Once, though, after Harry’s done describing his mum’s dresses in meticulous
detail, he says, quietly, “It’s okay if you don’t have a mum, you know. I don’t
have a dad.” Maybe Louis’s figured that out on his own, because Harry’s
mentioned other people’s dads, but never having one of his own. Still, he wants
Louis to know.
There’s a pause. Then, Louis says, “I don’t have a dad, either.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “Okay. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I don’t think so,” Louis says. It’s an answer that’s a bit strange, but that’s
not what Harry’s concerned about, right now.
“Are you– are you all alone, then?” Harry asks it quietly, because he’s not
sure if Louis will want to hear it. Louis doesn’t look at him, and Harry, for a
moment, is scared he’ll disappear.
But then Louis looks at him and says, “There’s you.” He glows a little bit
brighter as he says it. For some reason, Harry is relieved.
                                       *
Harry’d thought he was doing a good job keeping his visits to Louis from his
mum. He’s fairly sure Gemma doesn’t suspect a thing, and he thinks his mum
doesn’t, either, until he’s helping her fold the laundry and she casually says,
“So what’s all this visiting the park nowadays, then?”
Harry’s so surprised he drops the sock he’s holding. “Um,” he says. “Sorry?”
She laughs. “I was just wondering, love,” she says. “I’ve noticed you go there
a lot, and I talked to Sam’s mum yesterday and she told me you don’t play with
Sam much these days. So, what’s it you do here?”
No no no no. This wasn’t meant to happen. “I, er,” he says, and before he can
make something up he just blurts out, “I play with my friend. A friend I made.”
“Oh?” his mum says, sounding interested. “Who’s this friend you’re spending so
much time with, then?” At least she’s not telling him off. Harry feels like
crossing his fingers, though, just in case.
“Louis,” he says carefully. “His name’s Louis. He’s fun.”
“Louis,” his mum says. “I can’t remember if I’ve heard the name before. Does he
live around here?”
Harry hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t even
know if Louis lives anywhere at all.
His mum looks thoughtful. “Okay, then,” she says. “You should invite Louis
round sometime, then. I’d quite like to meet him. He sounds lovely.” She smiles
at him and keeps on folding a shirt of Gemma’s, leaving Harry thoughtful, but
mostly relieved.
                                       *
“My mum said you can come over to my house someday if you want,” Harry tells
Louis the next day. They’ve defeated the wizards again and they’ve slumped
against a tree, trying to get their breath back. Harry tries to say it as
normally as he can, but his heart is going thump thump thump inside his chest.
“That’s nice of her,” Louis says casually. For a moment Harry thinks he might
leave it there, but then he says, “What’d you tell her about me?”
Playing with Louis is easy, straightforward, but when Harry talks to him he
sometimes thinks he can’t figure out anything he does. “I told her you were my
friend,” Harry says.
“Oh,” Louis says. Harry thinks he sounds a little bit relieved. “All right.”
Harry fidgets, scratching a nail against the tree bark. “Are you coming, then?”
Louis’s glow dims a little bit. “I don’t think so,” he says. Harry’s about to
ask him why, but then Louis says, “Tell me more about Ben 10, then,” and Harry
does, and that’s that.
                                       *
August goes on. It’s sunny sometimes, and it’s cloudy on most days, and things
stay as they are. There’s Harry’s life, and there’s Louis, and they’re separate
things nearly all the time and that’s how it is. Harry tries suggesting to
Louis that they leave the trees, even if it’s just to hop the fence and go over
to the park, but Louis refuses every time. Then he starts talking about
something else really fast so Harry can’t ask him why.
They spend a lot of time climbing trees. Louis is brilliant at it, halfway up
the tree trunk even as Harry struggles to make it to the second or third
branch. (He also ends up falling off a few times, disgruntled, as Louis hoots
with laughter. Louis never falls, not once.) There’s a tree here that’s
excellent for climbing, the one Harry had first met Louis in, and they climb
that one high enough that Harry gets scared if he looks down. But then he looks
at Louis, glowing bright against the green of the leaves, and he feels
reassured somehow. Louis’s here, so he’ll be okay.
Louis seems happier up here, much less nervous. Harry thinks he’d love the
swings, and resolves to get him on them one of these days.
                                       *
Okay, Harry didn’t really think his mum had forgotten about Louis. He’d just
hoped it was a long time before she brought it up again, is all. It’s not.
They’re having lunch one Saturday, his mum and Gemma and him. The rain patters
against the window, and Harry’s looking at it worriedly while he eats his
salad, hoping it stops this afternoon so he can go see Louis, when his mum
says, “Will Louis be coming over someday, then, Harry?”
“What?” Harry says, panicking.
“Who’s Louis?” Gemma asks.
“He’s my friend,” Harry says defensively. He glances at his mum. “I don’t think
he wants to.”
“Oh?” his mum says. “Why not?” Harry shrugs.
This is strange. The whole of it, it’s just– strange. Louis isn't something he
talks about at the lunch table, that’s all. He never wants to go out of the
trees, so it’s weird talking about him anywhere else. Even if he isn’t there.
Harry wonders if he was wrong about Louis. Maybe he can’t do magic, maybe he
just is magic. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to leave the trees– because
he’s one of those magic creatures, fairies of the woods, like in stories. Only
Louis is a boy, not a lady, like they are. Also, he’s not green.
“What’s he like?” Gemma asks. “Is he your age, or is he older?”
“Older,” Harry says. Gemma asks him how old, but he tells her he doesn’t know.
“You wouldn’t like him anyway,” he tells her. “He plays with me all the time,
and you say playing’s for little kids.”
“He sounds like a good friend, then,” his mum prompts him.
Harry nods seriously. “He’s the best.” It might be weird talking about Louis to
his mum and sister, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t secretly enjoy it a little
bit. He wants to tell people how great he thinks Louis is, but he never gets
the chance to, so. “He has the best ideas for games, Mum, you know? They’re so
good. And he’s really cool. I mean, he even glows–” and then he claps a hand
over his mouth, because he really should not have said that.
“He what?” Gemma asks, frowning.
“He– I mean–” Harry thinks wildly, panicked, trying to find an excuse for what
he’s just said. He comes up with nothing. “Well, he glows,” he admits. his
heart is beating so loudly he wonders if his mum can hear it. It’s the kind of
thing he thinks she might be able to do. “I mean, his skin does. It’s actually
quite nice. I think he can do magic too, but I don’t know for sure because he
won’t tell me.”
He glances up from where he’d been looking at the table, embarrassed. His mum
and Gemma are both looking at him, but they have odd looks on their faces. Why?
Harry doesn’t understand.
Gemma is the first to speak. “Harry, is Louis actually real?” Harry recognizes
her voice immediately. It’s the one she uses when she thinks she’s a proper
grown-up. Harry hates it.
“What?” Harry asks wildly. “Why?”
“Gemma, Harry, calm down, the both of you,” his mum says sharply.
Harry whirls around and turns on his mum. “Why’d she say that?” he demands.
“Because you’re making up stories about people in your head and saying they’re
real,” Gemma says. She sounds calm enough, but when Harry turns to face her
there’s something in her face that’s maddening. Like she thinks she’s right
when she’s lying.
“Liar!” Harry shouts at her. “You’re a liar! He’s real. Why would you say
that?”
“Yes, but you only think he’s real ‘cause you’re the one who made him up,”
Gemma says, and that’s it.
Harry runs right out of his chair and pounces on her. “You’re a liar!” he
yells, and then he pulls on her hair, hard. She shrieks and slaps him, but he
only pulls harder, because Louis is real, he is, he is–
–but then he’s being pulled back sharply, and he lets go, and suddenly his mum
is there, and she’s angry, really angry, like he’s almost never seen her. She
doesn’t shout. His mum never shouts when she’s angry. Somehow, that makes it
even worse.
“None of that,” she says. Her voice is cold, stern, deadly serious. “None of
that here, or ever. Understood?” She looks each of them right in the eye. Harry
shrinks back when she looks at him. “I won’t have my children acting like
savages. Not in this house. Never do that again.” She pauses, lets them take it
in. “Now I want you, Harry, to apologize to Gemma, and Gemma, you apologize to
Harry. And then you’re both going to sit down, and behave, and neither of you
are going out this afternoon. I don’t care what plans you’ve made. Understood?”
Harry watches Gemma nod sulkily. His mum turns to him then, but he doesn’t nod.
He doesn’t say anything at all. He just turns away and runs, right up the
stairs, into his room, slamming the door behind him. He throws himself against
it and then it all wells up and it’s too much and he just sobs and sobs until
his chest hurts and he can’t breathe.
                                       *
It’s a while before he hears a knock on his door. He doesn’t answer.
“Harry?” he hears his mum say through the door. At least it’s not Gemma. He
still scuttles further up against the door, though, leaning all of his weight
against it so it can’t be opened. He’s not going to talk to his mum right now.
He’s not.
His mum knocks again. “Harry, can I come in?” He hugs his knees and buries his
face in them, doing his best to cover his ears with his arms at the same time.
“Harry.” She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds concerned, and a little bit tired.
Harry hesitates.
Slowly, he wriggles away from the door, settling against the wall instead. He
doesn’t open the door, but it looks like his mum can tell he’s moved even from
the other side. The door opens, slowly. Harry stares at the ground.
His mum walks up to him. He can only see up to her knees from here. She
crouches in front of him and takes hold of his chin gently, making him look at
her. “D’you want to tell me what happened down there, love?”
Harry feels his face turn hot. The tears come back, and dimly, he’s aware that
some sort of mist is floating around him, shielding him. He can’t remember
making that happen, but he doesn’t want it to go.
“I don’t want her to be right,” he mumbles. He wants to hide his face, but his
mum won’t let go of his chin. The mist grows thicker.
His mum bats it away with a hand. “Harry,” she says. “Is Louis real? For you?”
Harry doesn’t even hesitate before nodding, because he is. “Do you play with
him, have fun with him?” Harry nods again. “Then he’s real. End of story. If
you feel he’s with you, he is.”
Harry tugs his face loose and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. He
lets what she’s said sink in. “Yes, but–” he starts, and stays there. He
doesn’t know how to explain. She hasn’t seen Louis. No one has seen Louis
except for him. She doesn’t understand.
In the end, he just looks at her and asks, "Do you think he’s real?"
She smiles, warm and mum-like. “I believe whatever you believe is real, love.”
It’s only a bit reassuring. Still, he can see the mist fading, little by
little.
                                       *
He doesn’t see Louis that afternoon. Even if his mum had let him go out after
all (she’s not angry with him anymore, Harry thinks) it rains the whole
afternoon and all through the night. Harry goes to bed listening to the rain on
the window and worrying that the next time he goes to the park Louis will have
somehow disappeared.
He hasn’t, he finds out the next day when it's stopped raining. He’s relieved,
but he also can’t stop thinking about what Gemma said.
“Can we go out to the park?” he asks Louis, because he’s certain seeing Louis
outside of the trees will prove he’s really there, that Harry’s not making him
up. (He wants to touch Louis, too, see if that’ll clear it up, but that’s not
something he’s going to ask. He’ll have to do it sneakily.)
Unfortunately, if they haven’t done that before it’s for a reason.
“Um,” Louis says. “Maybe not now? Hey, how about we do that bit where we climb
up the trees and then drop down and attack?”
That sounds brilliant. Harry’s just about to say okay when he catches sight of
Louis’s glow and remembers what he needs to find out.
“Louis,” he whines. “Please can we go to the park, pretty please?”
Louis has stopped moving. He stays in one place now, but he still rocks back
and forth on his feet, and his fingers fidget. “I like it better here,” he
says, quieter.
“Come onnnnn,” Harry says in his best pretty-please voice. “I really want you
to come on the swings with me, Lou. They’re the coolest. It’s like,” he makes a
gesture, “it’s like, when you’re up here, right? It’s like you’re in the sky.”
Louis blinks. He blinks again. He’s quiet for long enough that Harry’s going to
tell him more reasons why he should come, but then he says, “Okay,” like it’s
no big deal. Harry’s eyes go wide and he’s immediately taking Louis by the arm
(he’s so warm, and he’s there, he’s definitely there) and starting to walk
towards the fence. Louis shrugs him off after a moment and bounds ahead. Harry
has to run to catch up.
They make it over the fence easily. It’s easy-peasy for Harry now, he’s climbed
it so many times, and it looks like Louis’s just good at climbing everything.
He hops down, lands on the grass and looks around. Harry hadn’t really thought
ahead to this moment, but he’s pleased to see Louis suddenly has a giant smile
on his face, like he can’t wait to start exploring everything that’s out here.
They’re actually out in the real world. Louis hasn’t disappeared, and his glow
is nice and bright. He’s here. Harry’s sure he is.
Louis turns to look at Harry. His smile is huge. “Let’s go!” he yells, and
breaks into a run towards the seesaw. Harry follows. Of course.
They go on the seesaw (Louis isn’t very pleased by Harry always staying at the
top and tries to kick himself up with very little result) and the slide even
though it’s for little kids and they climb the monkey bars all the way to the
top as soon as some kids that were there have left. Then Louis demands Harry
come with him to the swings, so Harry does.
Harry swings higher than Louis, at first, but Louis gets the hang of it soon
enough (Harry wonders if he’s ever been on a swing before) and starts kicking
properly, higher and higher until the chain starts making a clacking sound.
Louis whoops and cackles with laughter the whole time. Every time Harry looks,
he’s smiling wide and bright, his hair all over the place. He looks happy,
maybe happier than Harry’s ever seen him. He glows so much that Harry thinks of
the sun.
They swing until their legs ache, until Harry looks at his watch (it’s actually
an old watch of Gemma’s, all purple and flowery, but Harry doesn’t mind) and
sees it’s past twelve. He remembers he said he’d help his mum cook dinner
today, so he slowly swings to a stop, digging his heels into the mud below the
swing. Louis notices and stops swinging too, eventually stopping just like
Harry had done.
Louis looks at him. He looks messy and bright and real. Harry has no doubts
left. They haven’t met that many people today, but he’s sure all of them have
noticed Louis. He paid attention and saw them looking: not in a strange way,
like the way he glows is weird, but just how they’d look at Harry. Also, Louis
got into an argument with a girl on the monkey bars earlier. Harry’s fairly
sure real people can’t argue with made-up ones.
“You have to go, don’t you?” Louis asks.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “Sorry.” His legs are really tired, but he’d quite like to
stay. He hopes Louis knows this.
Harry stands up from the swing. His feet sink into the mud a bit. “Today was
fun,” he tells Louis. Louis nods, still grinning. Harry’s about to turn away
when Louis hops off the swing, too, and– he comes right up to Harry, but he
doesn’t stop there. Instead, he hugs Harry, properly hugs him, wrapping his
arms around him and squeezing a bit. It’s lovely, even though it’s quick. It
feels like being out in the sun even though it’s cloudy today.
“Bye, then,” Louis says, and Harry says bye back, and he watches Louis hop back
on the swing and start swinging again, the chain creaking a little. Harry walks
away hearing it behind him. When he’s nearly home already, though, about to
push open the gate, he cranes his neck a bit as he looks towards the park and
thinks he can still see Louis there, swinging up and down.
                                       *
The last week of August arrives, somehow. Harry only realizes this because his
mum starts taking him and Gemma to try on school uniforms. Gemma’s going to
secondary so she needs a whole new one, and Harry’s old sweaters and trousers
are all too small on him. When he tries them on, his ankles and wrists stick
right out.
Harry’s never really minded school all that much. It’s not boring all the time,
and he makes friends there so he has people to play with. Also, he’s in Year
Four now, which means his classroom is upstairs with the big kids. It’s all a
little bit exciting.
He has one big thing on his mind, though, and that big thing is that he has no
idea what’s going to happen with seeing Louis once school starts.
School means being out all morning and a bit of the afternoon. School means
doing other things in the afternoon, too, like art or music or football
lessons. (Even though Harry doesn’t think he’ll be signing up to those ever
again.) School means, on the whole, a lot less time to be visiting Louis every
day like he’s been doing all summer. So even though Harry generally doesn’t
mind school, this year he’s actually not looking forward to it at all.
(Once or twice, he tries to do magic again, like he used to do when he was
little. At night, he shuts his eyes tight and wishes for more days until
September arrives. He never gets them.)
His mum takes them to buy new crayons and pencils and folders, pens and second-
hand textbooks for Gemma, keeping last year’s school bags and lunchboxes
because they’re in okay shape and it’s best if they don’t buy new ones.
Everywhere Harry looks, it’s like it says SCHOOL in big capital letters. On TV,
on the ads on the bus, in Gemma’s Girl Talk magazines. And he still hasn’t told
Louis about it.
It’s actually Louis who brings it up in the end.
He’s been going out on his own, Harry can tell. Once or twice, he’s looked for
Louis all over the park and the trees and found nothing. Also, he tells Harry
about the things he sees, the people he talks to, the dogs he pets. Harry
wonders if people are asking him any questions he can’t answer, like “who’s
your mum and dad.” Grown-ups want to know those things sometimes, even if it’s
someone they barely know at all. But Louis seems happy enough when he tells the
stories, so Harry decides it’s okay. Even if he’s maybe a little bit jealous
that other people get to spend time with Louis, too.
They’re sitting on top of the slide one day – ever since Harry first persuaded
Louis to come out here they’re at the park a lot – and there’s three days to go
to September 2nd, which is the day school starts, when Louis asks him, “So are
you going to school then?”
“Yes,” Harry says glumly. He wonders how Louis found out, but he doesn’t ask.
Louis kicks the top of the slide. “D’you think I could go too?”
Harry thinks about it. It’s weird to imagine Louis in a school uniform sitting
at a desk. Harry isn’t even sure he’d be able to sit still that long. Also, he
realizes he doesn't actually know what you have to do to go to school. He’s
never felt like he had to find out. It’s sort of like a mum thing. “I don’t
know,” he tells Louis. “I think you have to sign up somewhere, but I don’t know
where. You could just try going. Maybe they’ll let you in.”
Louis hmmms and kicks the slide again. “Maybe I can go to school with you.” He
smiles at Harry as he says it. “Anyway, even if they won’t let me, you’ll still
play with me, right?”
“Duh,” Harry says. He’d much rather be here with Louis than at school, anyway.
He tells Louis this, and then adds, “Maybe I’ll skip,” with a smile on his face
that he knows is naughty. Louis seems pleased by the idea. Then, he seems to
decide the conversation is over, because he stops kicking the slide and pushes
Harry down it instead. Harry laughs and Louis slides down too, and they get
stuck at the end until Harry staggers forwards and collapses onto the ground.
Louis follows, roaring with laughter. Maybe Harry will skip school after all.
It definitely seems worth it.
                                       *
Harry doesn’t like his new shoes. They’re too shiny and too stiff. He supposes
the ones he had last year were like that too, but he’s spent the whole summer
going around barefoot or in muddy trainers and these shoes feel like they’re
not even his at all.
He also doesn’t like the fact that it’s only his mum who’s walking with him to
school. Gemma goes to secondary now, and she’s old enough to walk there with
her friends. It feels weird but in the bad way. Harry tries to cheer himself up
by thinking of his classroom on the top floor. It works, a bit.
They’re at the gate now. His mum stops, and just for a moment, Harry wishes he
could hug her legs and cry and tell her not to go like the little kids do
sometimes on their first day. But he doesn’t, of course, because he’s big now
and he doesn’t do those things. Also, Harry likes school. It’s just that he
doesn’t really want to go.
He hugs his mum goodbye, and she gives him a big kiss on the cheek and tells
him good luck. Harry nods. He walks past the gate then, all by himself, last
year’s bag hanging off his shoulders even though there’s nothing in it yet. He
sees people on either side of him but no one he recognizes and for a moment he
feels scared, actually scared– but then he spots Tess over by the drinking
fountain and it’s okay, everything’s okay, he can breathe normally again.
He sits with Tess on one side and Greg on the other during assembly, and later
on when they climb the stairs (the stairs!) to get to class he gets put into
the Cubes table with people he already knows and a new boy with nice eyes.
Also, Sam is in the Prisms and the Prisms table is right next to the Cubes, so
he’s not alone at all, he has friends and nice people all around him. So it
doesn’t even make sense at all that his thoughts keep going back to Louis all
day, over and over. Is he okay? Is he alone? Is he at the park or somewhere
else? Harry doesn’t know, and he doesn’t like not knowing.
                                       *
“I went to school today,” he tells Louis that afternoon. His mum had let him go
out as soon as he changed out of his uniform, which was nice. He isn’t looking
forward to later on in the year when she always asks if he’s finished his
homework before letting him do anything else, though. But today he gets to be
with Louis, and he doesn’t have to wear his uniform shoes until tomorrow, so
everything’s okay for now.
“Yeah?” Louis is busy finding pebbles on the ground and tossing them at the
tree opposite to the one they’re sitting next to. He isn’t looking at Harry,
but Harry knows he’s paying attention. “How was it?”
Harry shifts. “It was okay,” he admits. “I saw my friends. My other friends, I
mean. Also, we get a guinea pig for class pet this year.” Much better than last
year’s goldfish. All it ever did was swim around and it got sort of boring in
the end. “D’you still want to come?” he asks Louis curiously. It’d be weird to
have Louis at school with him, but not a bad weird. He could talk to him all
the time. Also introduce him to everyone else. Harry thinks they’d all really
like him. He’s pretty sure it’s impossible to not like Louis. Plus, he glows.
Harry frowns. Although maybe Louis’s too old to go to school with him anymore.
Maybe he’s supposed to go to secondary with Gemma already. Harry’s not sure he
likes that thought.
Louis shrugs and doesn’t answer the question. Well, okay.
“D’you wanna play?” Harry asks him, because he’s spent the whole day at school
already and he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, especially when he’s here
with Louis. But Louis shakes his head no and throws another pebble at the tree.
Harry would ask what’s wrong, except Louis doesn't like it when he does that,
so he doesn’t ask anything at all. He just looks at Louis’s glow to try and
figure it out on his own. It’s sort of dim today, and not as warm as usual.
That’s really not a good sign. He hopes it’s better tomorrow.
                                       *
Harry’s on the playground after lunch the next day when he sees something that
makes him trip on the skipping rope.
He gets his knees dirty and everyone laughs, but he doesn’t mind because he’s
not paying them any attention anyway. He jumps right back up and flat-out runs
to the fence that goes around the whole of the playground, because he needs to
see– and, sure enough, he gets right up to the fence and Louis’s face on the
other side is unmistakable.
“Louis?” he whispers, stunned, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Louis
looks sweaty, like he’s been running, and there’s something about his face
that’s just off even though Harry doesn’t know what it is. Still, it’s Louis,
here and with him. Harry squishes his forehead against the metal of the fence
and hooks his fingers through the spaces in it.
“Harry.” Louis makes a face. “I tried to go in and they wouldn’t let me.”
Harry’s tummy feels heavy and unpleasant suddenly. He never told Louis, but he
sort of expected that to happen.
Still, he needs to hear about it. “What?” he asks Louis. “Why? Did you try
the–” he gestures, “the thing where you disappear?”
Louis nods furiously. “Yeah. I tried that the second time. Only I tried to go
into a classroom and I accidentally did it so people could see me now.” He
frowns. He glows, but not really in a good way. “I– they didn’t throw me out
right away.” He fiddles with the metal on the fence, not meeting Harry’s eyes.
“They tried to ask me some questions, you know? Like, what was I doing here,
where were my parents, and that. So I ran away and they couldn’t catch me.” He
looks pretty pleased with himself for a moment before he deflates again,
looking down at the ground.
Harry– Harry doesn’t know how he feels. Just, Louis is sad, and that is not
okay. He pushes himself closer against the fence, trying to get closer to
Louis– and then he feels hot all over, and suddenly the bit of the fence his
face was leaning on isn’t there anymore. Harry looks down. It’s melted, and
it’s run down the side of the fence and is now making a puddle on the ground,
like rainwater.
This could be a good thing. This could help Louis sneak into the school. The
only problem is that the gap is barely big enough for Harry to put his head
through.
Louis looks at the gap in wonder. “Brilliant,” he breathes. “Harry, that’s
genius.” Louis fits an arm into the gap and wriggles it around, glowing
brightly. Harry reaches out and tickles the palm, giggling. Louis swats him
away, but he’s smiling too.
“Okay,” Louis tells him, “now you just have to make it bigger and then I can go
in.”
Oh. Right.
Harry’s never been able to use magic at will, but he tries now, he does. He
focuses on the gap as much as he can, he closes his fists tightly, he shuts his
eyes and screws his face up – but nothing happens. The gap stays much too
small. Harry’s eyes prickle with tears. Why can’t he ever do magic when it
actually matters?
“Louis,” he says, blinking hard. He can’t let Louis see him cry. “Louis, I
can’t do it.”
Louis looks at him blankly. “Of course you can,” he says. “You did it before,
just do it again, right? It’s not that hard.”
“No, it doesn't–” he concentrates harder, but still nothing, he’s still letting
Louis down, “it doesn’t work like that, Lou, I can’t, I can’t do it.” He’s
going to cry. He’s going to cry right here in front of Louis and it’ll just
make everything worse. He wipes at his eyes angrily.
“What d’you mean you can’t?” Louis isn’t smiling anymore. “Come on, Harry, you
can. Just do it again. That’s all.”
Harry shakes his head miserably. He tries to breathe deep but he can’t, he
keeps making stupid hiccupy sounds, and everything’s going wrong, everything's
going wrong– and then he hears the bell go off. No. Oh no.
He glances back towards the playground. Katie and Zoe and everyone else who was
skipping are putting the rope away now, and people are climbing off the monkey
bars and stopping their football games, and he can’t leave Louis here.
“Harry?” Louis asks. If Harry didn’t know better he’d say he was scared.
“What’s going on?”
“I have to go,” Harry tells him, panicky. Louis’s eyes widen. Then they narrow.
“You have to go where?” he says suspiciously.
“To class,” Harry says helplessly. “I have class now. I’m so so sorry.”
“Oh, right,” Louis says. He doesn’t look friendly at all. He looks mean. “To
class. With your friends. And you won’t let me in.”
“Lou, no, it’s not–”
“Okay,” Louis says, as if he hadn’t heard Harry at all. “I’ll just go, then.”
“Louis!”
But Louis isn’t listening. He turns away even though Harry’s shouting after him
and he starts running, really fast, even though Harry’s yelling at him to stop.
Harry so desperately wishes he could make the gap bigger now so he could run
after him, even though he’s never been able to outrun Louis, but the gap stays
like it is so Harry stays where he is too, his hand reaching out through the
gap and his eyes all wet and itchy.
                                       *
Harry doesn’t see Louis for a week. He cries a lot on the first day and spends
the whole time making apologies in his head. He has to make Louis see, he has
to make Louis know that he didn’t mean it, that he’s so sorry, that he can try
again and see if he can sneak Louis in. But he looks for Louis everywhere and
he finds nothing.
Then, he gets angry.
Because he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t, and he told Louis, and Louis didn’t
believe him and got mad at him instead. So he can stay mad. Harry’s not going
to look for him anymore. He’ll make Louis come and find him instead and show
him that Harry doesn’t need him around. He’s not going to chase after Louis
anymore. That’ll show him.
(His resolve wavers a few times, though. What if Louis never wants Harry around
again? What if he finds some new friends that aren’t little kids like him? What
if he disappears? Each time, he tries to ignore it and immediately goes off to
play with the other friends. See? Harry can have fun without Louis perfectly
well.)
So he stops looking for Louis. He goes to the park with Sam and all the rest,
but he pointedly does not look at the trees ever. Louis will come back and say
sorry. Harry’s sure he will.
And so one day when Harry’s walking home from the park (he’s only sneaked two
glances at the trees today, he’s getting better at it) he hears a strange sound
and suddenly Louis is appearing right next to him. Harry jumps. Louis looks
like he’s tripped on something because he falls to the floor in a heap right
after appearing, and he lifts his head and sees Harry looking at him in shock.
His eyes widen in panic and he screws them shut, presumably trying to make
himself disappear again. He flickers a bit, but stays very much there, so he
looks up at Harry again and groans.
Harry cannot possibly be mad at him anymore. “Hi,” he says. He can’t keep the
smug smile off his face. “Were you following me around?”
Louis picks himself up off the floor and blinks. “What? No.” It’s really not
very convincing. “I was just, um, practicing.” His face lights up then. “I got
into school!”
Harry’s eyes widen. “What?”
Louis nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Not yours, another one, but.” He pushes his
hair out of his eyes. It’s getting quite long now. If Harry grew his hair that
long his mum would have a fit. “I’ve been practicing. I can do this thing now–”
He chews on his lip. “I mean, it’s not the same as the other thing. People see
me. They just don’t remember me after. It’s easier.” He grins wide. “So now I
can do whatever I like and no one notices.”
“That’s so cool,” Harry breathes. He’s envious for a moment. He’d love to be
able to do that, do magic whenever he wanted. He’s wondered about Louis’s magic
a few times, if it’s like his or different. Maybe this means he’s not like him
after all.
“I know,” Louis grins. “So I just, like, go into whatever class I want and do
what they do. The little kids are cool. They do colouring-in.”
“That’s much more fun than what I do,” Harry says, pouting a bit. It’s true.
Being older is nice, but it also means school is much more boring. He misses
when he used to do stuff like dressing up. Does Louis dress up if he goes with
the little kids? He pictures Louis trying to fit into little-kid costumes and
giggles.
Louis walks back home with him. Harry thinks this means they’re okay. Louis
doesn’t say sorry for being mean to him, but Harry doesn’t say sorry for not
making the gap bigger, either. Harry’s forgiven him anyway. Being with Louis
again is so nice that it’s impossible for Harry to stay mad at him. In fact,
he’s so not-mad now that when they get to the gate outside his house Harry
tentatively asks him if he wants to come in. (He’s sure his mum won’t mind.)
Louis says no, but Harry thinks it’s a different kind of no than usual. Louis
doesn’t sound quite so sure of himself when he says it. Harry smiles secretly
while he’s walking up to his front door. It’s only a matter of time.
                                       *
The weeks pass like always. The days get shorter and the days get colder. The
leaves start falling off the trees next to the park, and somehow it makes
everything a little bit different from before. Being there is not the same.
It’s harder to pretend, when they’re playing, that the rest of the world isn’t
there anymore when the trees don’t have as many leaves and you can sort of see
the roads and the houses through the gaps.
Harry goes to school, and he thinks Louis goes to school too, and they’re not
together as much anymore because Harry does things like homework and art
lessons and visits his school friends’ houses and Louis goes off to do things
Harry still has no clue about. (Does he have other friends now? Harry wonders
sometimes.) But they’re still friends. They’re very much still friends, and
Harry hasn’t told Louis but he’s pretty sure Louis counts as his best friend
now. Sam and Greg and all the rest – they’re okay, they’re nice, they’re fun.
But it’s not like how it is with Louis. It’s never like how it is with Louis.
Because Louis is there always. He’s wild and he’s unpredictable but if he’s not
mad at Harry Harry always knows he’ll be able to find him if he looks for him.
And Harry thinks about it and realizes that it’s not just that he likes playing
with Louis because Louis is good at it, but also because when Harry plays with
him it’s like Harry gets better at it too.
There’s also the magic thing. Harry’s friends know about it, but Harry knows
they don’t really get it. Okay, he’s pretty sure Louis doesn’t get it either,
but Louis is magic. In what way, Harry still doesn’t know, but the important
bit is that he is. And having someone like that is lovely. Whenever Harry makes
something happen, Louis doesn’t ooh and aah like his friends do; instead, he
just looks at it closely and smiles knowingly at Harry. It makes Harry’s
insides feel all warm.
So being with Louis is different. It’s something Harry can’t really put a name
on, but– he and Louis, it’s like they’re really good at being each other’s
friends. Like how Louis can sometimes know what Harry’s thinking even when he
doesn’t say it out loud or like how Harry sometimes knows what Louis’s going to
do even if it’s something strange and crazy and unpredictable. It’s nice, it’s
better than nice, and whenever Harry is with him he just knows Louis is his
best friend, because anything else is out of the question.
But Louis doesn’t want to meet Harry’s other friends. Harry would think it’s
because he doesn’t like them very much, but he doesn’t want to meet Harry’s mum
and sister either. Harry’s told him to come over a million times and he’s
always said no, and the one or two times Harry's asked why he’s refused to
answer. It’s worse because Harry’s mum keeps nagging at him, too; ever since he
told her about Louis she’s been telling him to invite him over and he’s always
had to tell her that Louis doesn’t want to come. Whenever he says this and
Gemma’s around she doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face says it all.
Harry’s not stupid. he knows she still thinks Louis is a made-up person and
that Harry makes excuses so he doesn’t have to admit it. Harry is dying for
Louis to see his room and his books and his Legos and his Lord of the Rings
posters, but he also kind of wants Louis to come over to prove Gemma wrong.
He’s not having much luck so far.
“But why don’t you want to come?” he asks Louis while they’re both in the park,
swinging idly. Louis shrugs. “No, real reason,” Harry says.
Louis starts kicking his feet into the ground and pushing himself higher. Harry
reaches out and grabs the chain, stopping the swing. The chain clacks and Louis
almost falls off. He glares at Harry. “What’d you do that for?”
“Answer me,” Harry pouts.
Louis huffs irritatedly. His hand comes up to run through his hair, which has
been sitting on his head in uneven chunks ever since Harry tried to cut it for
him last week with his school scissors. (See, that’s more proof that Louis is
his best friend. Sam would never let Harry cut her hair.) “I’ve told you, I
just don’t want to.” Harry opens his mouth to argue because he’s been thinking
about this and coming up with the most persuasive arguments he possibly can,
but then Louis mumbles, “Your mum’s gonna ask questions and I don’t like them,
okay?”
Harry almost falls off his swing. “So if I make her not ask questions you’ll
come?” he asks excitedly.
Louis shrugs and starts swinging again. Harry doesn’t stop him this time. His
mind is racing. He needs a plan.
That evening, when his mum gets home, he asks her, “If I convince Louis to come
over do you promise to not ask him any questions?”
She looks up from the spaghetti she’s cooking. “What?”
“I talked to Louis today,” he explains patiently. “He said he doesn’t want to
come because he doesn’t like people asking him questions. So you just have to
promise you won’t and then you can meet him.”
His mum looks amused. “What kind of questions?”
Harry thinks about it. “Well,” he says. “Questions like ‘are you staying for
tea’ are okay, I think. Just don’t ask him about his mum and dad, or why he
glows, or anything like that.”
His mum nods. Her face still looks like he’s said something funny, though.
“Deal,” she says. “Bring him over whenever you like. On weekdays you know I
don’t get home until six, though, so if he wants to come over–”
“I can make toast if he’s hungry,” Harry says quickly. “Or get Gemma to make
anything else.”
His mum laughs. “Okay, then,” she tells him. “I do look forward to meeting
him.”
Harry looks at her suspiciously. He still can’t tell if she thinks Louis is
real or made-up. Well – it doesn’t really matter now, anyway. Louis’s going to
come over and he’s going to prove all of them wrong. Harry will make sure he
does.
                                       *
“Come on,” Harry whispers, standing in front of his house. “It’s okay. My
sister’s the only one who’s home and she’s never interested in my friends, so.
She’s not going to bother us.”
Louis blinks and doesn’t move. It’d taken Harry a while to even persuade him to
come (“I didn’t even say I’d go! I just said I don’t like people asking me
questions”) and now he’s stock-still in front of the gate. He’s never this
still. He must really not like questions.
“Come on,” Harry says again, and he takes Louis’s wrist and leads him through
the gate and up to the door. Louis doesn’t complain, at least. Harry takes that
as a good sign. He knocks on the door and glances at Louis. For a moment,
Harry’s sure the look on his face means he’s going to disappear or run away. Or
both. But then the door opens, and Gemma’s face pops out, and Louis is very
much still there. Harry squeezes Louis’s wrist for reassurance. Gemma’s eyes
are wide.
“Who’s this?” she asks Harry in disbelief. Beside him, Louis tenses. Wait,
that’s right– he forgot to tell Gemma not to ask questions, too. Whoops.
“This is Louis,” he tells Gemma confidently. Gemma’s eyes go even wider. “Can
we come in now?”
Very slowly, Gemma swings the door open and steps out of the way. She looks at
them as they go in, Harry still holding Louis’s wrist. “But I thought he was…”
Harry grins, smug and wide. “I know you did. D’you wanna go upstairs?” he asks
Louis, and Louis nods, looking relieved. Gemma’s still looking at them in
disbelief as they go up the stairs. This is the best day ever.
                                       *
“See? See, see? I told you you’d like it! I always tell you you’ll like stuff
and you never listen!”
Louis jumps on Harry’s bed one more time and then collapses onto it, face-down
and giggling. He’s sweaty and flushed and glowing bright and Harry knows
jumping on the bed’s not allowed but his mum isn’t home yet and this feels like
it’s worth it anyway.
“I know,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s pillow. “It’s funny when you’re annoyed at
me, though.”
Harry kicks Louis’s foot from where he’s sprawled out on the bed a little
further along. “You suck.”
Louis only giggles again and kicks him back. Then he looks at the bedding
thoughtfully and starts to roll around in it, making himself a cocoon like a
caterpillar-butterfly. He seems curiously fascinated with Harry’s bed, Harry
thinks. It’s almost like he’s never seen one before.
Louis finishes rolling himself up and looks at Harry upside-down. “Hey, why’d
your sister make that face when she saw me?”
“Oh, that’s just ‘cause she thought you weren’t real,” Harry says dismissively.
Louis’s face goes serious. “What? Why?”
“I–” Harry frowns and realizes he actually doesn’t know how to explain. “I
think because I told her you glow? She wouldn’t believe me so she thought I was
making you up.”
Slowly, Louis unrolls himself, and when he’s sprawled out on the bed again he
inspects his own arms and hands. “But, like,” he says, looking like he’s
concentrating hard, “you also do things, right?” Louis never calls it magic.
“So does she think you’re not real either?”
“I think she doesn’t,” Harry says. He’s never thought about it, but it would be
very weird for Gemma to think he was made-up too. “But she can see me, and she
hadn’t seen you before, so.”
Louis looks at Harry. He looks like he really is trying to understand. “So am I
real, then?”
“Yes,” Harry says immediately. If he had any doubts left, Gemma’s reaction
proved everything.
Louis is now feeling his body, his arms, his chest. “But how do you know?”
Harry thinks about it. He supposes he could tell Louis about people seeing him,
and about how people don’t actually see you if you’re not there. Or that him
being here now proves he doesn’t just exist in the trees. But neither of those
things sounds much like proof when he thinks about them.
So he does something else. He crawls up to Louis and he puts a hands on Louis’s
chest, feeling around. Was it the right side or the left side? Harry can’t
remember, so he feels all over, just in case. He finds it just as Louis asks
him what he’s doing, and he grins wide.
He takes his hand off. “Okay, feel there,” he tells Louis.
Louis does and frowns. “I don’t feel anything.”
“You do,” Harry tells him. “You just have to pay attention.” He frowns, takes
Louis’s hand and moves it around, pressing down. Louis’s eyes widen.
“Okay,” Louis says. “Okay, I feel it.”
“That’s your heart,” Harry tells him.
“I knew that,” Louis says. “I go to school, remember?”
Harry does remember. He doesn’t know what Louis actually does there, though.
He’s asked him to come to his class a few times, but Louis always says that he
likes it better when he gets to go in whatever class he likes and that he
doesn’t go to Harry’s school, anyways. Harry just assumed he did colouring-in
with the little kids all day. Do they learn about organs and bones and things
in Reception?
Anyway. “If you can feel your heart beating you know you’re alive,” he tells
Louis. “So there you go.”
“Cool,” Louis says, but there’s something like relief on his face. The next
thing he does is jump up and start jumping on the bed again, though, so Harry
can’t be too sure.
                                       *
Louis’s still there when Harry’s mum gets home, because he doesn’t seem in a
rush to leave and Harry wants him to stay for as long as possible. He’d managed
to drag Louis off the bed, and Louis had promptly become fascinated by Harry’s
Lego instead. So that’s what they’ve been doing, Harry carefully building
following the instructions and Louis taking different pieces and putting them
all together however he likes, even though Harry’s tried to explain that’s not
how you do it.
Harry’s spent the entire afternoon expecting a chance to show off his toast
skills, but Louis hasn’t told him he’s hungry, so.
Anyway, it’s past six now and Harry drags Louis down the stairs as soon as he
hears the front door close, because Louis’s not getting out of meeting his mum.
He doesn’t look too happy about it, but not in the panicky sense, just in the
sulky one, so Harry thinks he’ll be okay.
And he is. At first, Louis seems – not shy, Louis’s never shy, but just, like,
not wanting to talk at all. But Harry’s mum smiles at him in her mumsy way and
says (not asks), “You must be Louis, then. Harry’s always talking about you,”
which makes Harry’s face get a bit hot because that’s embarrassing and he
doesn’t talk about Louis that much, anyway.
But his mum is lovely to Louis, actually, and before Harry knows it Louis’s
right back to his usual chatty self. He somehow ends up staying for tea, and
it’s amazing to see how nicely he fits. He joins the conversation like he’s
been there forever and not just an afternoon; even Gemma seems to like him when
she’s gotten over the shock. (Harry’s still smug about it.) It’s weird, but a
good weird, because Harry’d never in a million years thought he’d get to see
Louis sitting with his family and telling the story about petting that dog he’d
told Harry the other day. But he is here. And he could be here more often,
Harry knows. It could be like this – maybe not all the time, but. Enough times
to get used to it.
Maybe. If his mum still agrees to not ask questions. If she still lets him be
friends with Louis even though she knows nothing about him. Harry gets an urge
to cross his fingers, just in case.
Harry’d say the only time he sees Louis get tense at all is when it’s time to
go. He can’t stay the night here, Harry knows. He also knows he’d probably love
to, judging by the way he was looking at Harry’s bed before. Has Louis ever
slept in a bed? Does he even sleep? Harry’ll have to ask him at some point.
Anyway, so after they’ve finished his mum asks Louis, how’s he getting home?
Will his mum pick him up? She can take him home if he wants. Harry sees the way
Louis tenses up and decides that was probably one of the questions she wasn’t
meant to ask. So he quickly says, “Oh, he lives right next to us, he’ll just
walk home.” His mum, thankfully, looks convinced, so that’s how they end up
where they are: Louis on Harry’s doorstep, Harry on the other side of the open
door, not wanting to shut it. It’s just– it’s been the best afternoon in ages.
He doesn’t want Louis to go.
“That was nice,” Louis says, quietly, like he doesn’t want Harry’s mum to hear.
“I told you,” Harry says. Louis smirks at him. Harry slaps him on the arm.
Then, a bit more hesitant, he asks, “Where’re you gonna go now, anyway?”
Louis shrugs. “Just–” he makes a vague gesture with his arms and then drops
them, and explains nothing else. “You know. Wherever.” What? Harry thinks, and
he’s going to ask for details but then Louis says, “Can I come back, then?”
“Of course,” Harry says, shocked Louis even has to ask. He’s planning to sneak
Louis in as often as he can now. If his mum liked Louis as much as she seemed
to, maybe he won’t have to sneak him in at all.
They say goodbye, eventually, and Harry shuts the door but he can’t resist
opening it a crack to watch Louis leave. His glow is visible as he walks all
the way down the road. It’s nighttime already – the days are getting shorter
and shorter, which Harry always gets excited about because short days means
winter and winter means Christmas and snow – and the stars are out, twinkling
high up in the sky like they’re saying hello. By the time Harry looks back down
at the road, Louis is gone.
                                       *
Harry hadn’t realized his mum not asking Louis any questions means he’s getting
them all himself.
“So where does Louis live, anyway?” his mum asks him the next morning as she’s
walking him to school.
Harry almost trips over his own feet. Oh no. If she starts asking him Louis
questions he’s going to have to make everything up. “Just, you know,” he says
vaguely. “Around.” A sudden flash of inspiration comes, and he quickly adds,
“Near the park.”
“Oh,” his mum says. “Is that why you’re always so eager to go, then?” Harry
nods seriously. He’s being convincing, isn’t he? He glances up at his mum and
she’s smiling. Good. “I can see why,” she says. “He’s lovely. A little on the
chatty side but…” She looks at him in her mum-way. “You look happy when you’re
with him. He looks like a good friend.”
Harry fidgets a little and looks down at his feet. “He is.”
Is she going to stop asking him now? Harry fervently hopes she does, crosses
his fingers inside his coat pocket, but it doesn’t seem to work, because then
his mum is saying, “Do you think I could talk to his mum someday, then?”
Oh no. This is not good. Harry thinks furiously and tries to act normal. “Er,”
he says, his heart beating fast, “um, maybe not.” He realizes he probably needs
to explain why, so he hurriedly says, “I don’t think Louis would want you to, I
mean.” Which is true. “I, um– he says she’s not very nice.”
Harry’s mum is frowning, but they’re finally at the school gates now, so Harry
sees his chance. “Okay, bye, mum!” he says quickly, and hugs her goodbye. She
hugs him back, and Harry goes into the school gates before she can ask him
anything else. Good. That was close.
He’s walking into the playground when he realizes his mum hasn’t asked him how
come Louis glows. He frowns. That’s probably the strangest thing about Louis,
right? So why? Now that he thinks about it, how come he’s never seen anyone
look at Louis like the way he glows is a weird thing? Maybe they’re used to it.
Maybe there’s glowy people somewhere out there that Harry’s never seen. Either
way, Harry’s not going to ask his mum about it. Just in case.
                                       *
Much to his relief, his mum doesn’t ask again, not even when Louis keeps on
coming around, as often as Harry can get away with it. Louis is very good at
avoiding questions himself, Harry realizes. Whenever he gets one he doesn’t
want to answer, he either changes the subject completely or makes something up
on the spot, sounding so convincing that Harry’s left wondering if he’s telling
the truth or not. Is Louis really ten years old? Is his dad really away for
most of the year? He tries to ask Louis about it when his mum and Gemma aren’t
there, but he just laughs and doesn’t answer.
Being at home is nicer when Louis’s there. Everything is nicer when Louis’s
there. Even Harry’s magic works better, he realizes. He does more of it, and he
changes bigger things. It’s even better than when he’s with Miss Wheel and
she’s trying to help him use it. Harry doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t matter.
Harry doesn’t ask his mum if Louis can spend the night at home. She’s never let
anyone stay without talking to their mum first, not even Sam, even though
they’ve known each other since they were little babies. So he can’t risk it.
Louis never asks, but Harry knows he wants to.
But then the snow comes.
Christmas is near now, but they’ve only had ice so far, not snow. Harry doesn’t
like ice very much. He’s fallen and bumped his bum twice already, and his
friends laughing at him hasn’t really helped. But he wakes up one Sunday and he
looks out of the window and there’s snow, actual snow. The sky is white and the
roofs of the houses are white and the backyard is white and Harry gets so
excited he tries to run down the stairs and out of the door in just his
pyjamas, because he wants to see. (His mum intercepts him and says where do you
think you’re going, young man, though, so he’s forced to have breakfast and put
on his coat and gloves and winter boots first.)
And then after he’s run around and made a snowman and thrown snowballs at
Gemma, he suddenly thinks what about Louis?
Has Louis seen snow before? Does he even know what it is? And, wait, what’s he
going to do now? Maybe there’s a reason people ask questions – maybe there’s a
reason grown-ups want to know if Louis has a mum and dad, if he has a house.
Because they’re things someone needs. For the first time, Harry tries to
imagine living without a house, without anyone to look after him. It makes him
shiver.
So – there are so many things Louis doesn’t have, then. He doesn’t have a
family, he doesn’t have a bed, he doesn’t have any clothes apart from the ones
Harry brings him – sweaters and gloves now, enough to keep warm during the walk
home from school but definitely not to sleep somewhere all alone. Harry sits on
the steps of the backyard door and thinks hard, panicking a bit. Does Louis eat
anything apart from what Harry brings him sometimes and what he eats at Harry’s
house? Did he ever have a house or a family or has he been living outside ever
since he was little? How come he doesn’t have a mum or a dad? Harry’s such a
horrible friend. Why did he never think of all this?
He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t even tell his mum. Harry doesn’t know what
happens to children who have no house, but he’s never seen any of them here. If
he tells a grown-up about Louis they’ll take him away. He can’t let them do
that.
What’s Louis doing right now? He must be so cold. Harry has to go and find him.
But his mum catches him on the way out again. She tells him off for not taking
his boots off to come into the house and leaving snow everywhere, and then she
seems to realize what he’s doing and tells him there’s no way he’s going out in
this weather. Harry looks outside and sees the snow has started falling, bits
of white that the wind throws against the windows. He’ll try again this
afternoon, then. He has to find Louis. Somehow, he has to.
                                       *
He doesn’t.
He makes it past his mum after lunch, but the snow has really picked up now,
and as soon as he opens the front door he gets hit in the face by freezing-cold
wind and snowflakes. No. He squints, trying to see past the road, but he can
barely make out the rows of houses on the other side.
He’s never going to find Louis like this. He wouldn’t be able to see him if he
was outside the gate right now. Even trying is no use, he knows this, but when
he steps inside and closes the door behind him it feels horrible. It’s like
he’s giving up.
The snow doesn’t stop all afternoon. His mum checks the school website and
finds out it’ closed tomorrow. Harry would usually be happy about this – it’s
like early Christmas holidays – but today he goes to bed and cries until he
falls asleep.
                                       *
Harry jerks awake, clutching the covers tight around himself.
That was a horrible dream. He’s glad he can’t really remember it, because it
was awful, awful. It was so cold. And there was also Louis, Louis and the cold,
and something else, something terrifying… something that was coming to get
them.
Then, there’s a noise.
It comes from the window. Harry’s s scared he can’t move at all. It’s coming,
it’s coming to get him, maybe it’s gotten Louis already and it’s his turn now.
Louis. Louis, who’s out there in the cold. Harry can hear his own heartbeat,
fast in his ears and terribly loud. He dimly remembers he can do magic. Where’s
the magic now? Why can’t he make it go away?
The noise of the window comes again, louder. Harry can’t move. He can’t get
away–
–but then he hears something else. It’s not a tap like it’d been before – it’s
a word. Harry’s shocked for a moment – it can talk?– but then he forces himself
to look right at the window. Oh. He feels weak with relief, and he loosens his
hold on the covers a little. It’s a person. And its messy hair and small-ish
figure and the way it glows gently against the night very much confirms it’s
Louis.
“Harry!” It’s one of those whispers that are like a shout at the same time.
Harry collapses out of bed and runs over to the window. The glass is cold. He
fumbles with the latch and struggles to pull it open, and when he does, icy
wind blasts into the room – he shivers furiously in his pyjamas – and Louis
falls through it.
Harry slams the window shut, forgetting to be quiet in case his mum’s awake,
and looks at him. Louis’s soaked all over. His hair is all stuck to his face
and his clothes are dark and wet and he’s making a puddle on Harry’s bedroom
floor. He’s not even wearing any shoes. But he’s not shivering and he’s glowing
softly, like Harry’s night-light when it’s on: he lights the darkness up. It’s
like he’s not even cold at all.
“Hi,” he whispers to Harry when he meets his eye. “Can I stay here tonight?”
“Of course,” Harry answers immediately. He looks around wildly. He doesn’t know
how to handle this. Where’s he supposed to start? “Are you cold?” he whispers
urgently. “Hold on, I’ll get you some dry clothes. And a towel.” He opens his
wardrobe and squints into it through the dark. Louis comes up behind him,
though, so he can see; he grabs dry comfy clothes and puts them down on the
bed. “Those are for you,” he tells Louis. “I’ll get you a towel now, hold on.”
He quietly sneaks out of his room and brings a towel back from the bathroom for
Louis, because he has so many questions, of course he does, but he has to help
Louis get warm first; when he hands Louis the towel he takes it with a weird
little smile and starts taking his clothes off and drying himself. (Harry
doesn’t know what to do with the wet clothes, so he sneaks out to the bathroom
again and dumps them all in the bathtub while Louis’s getting dressed. He’ll
sort that out tomorrow.)
“Are you still cold?” he asks Louis when he gets back.
“What?” Louis says.
Harry frowns. It wasn’t that hard a question. “Are you still cold?” he asks
again. “I mean, you can get in bed if you like. I guess you’d be warmer like
that.”
Louis smiles. “I’m not cold.”
What? “What?” Harry says. He was in the snow all day. How can he not be cold?
“I don’t get cold,” Louis announces proudly. Harry just blinks. “Look,” Louis
says, and he reaches out and touches Harry’s hand. Harry feels a jolt. Louis’s
hand is warmer than Harry’d been when he was in bed. He doesn’t understand, but
it’s wonderful.
Louis just smiles at him, and Harry holds his hand tighter. It feels so nice.
Harry’s eyes suddenly feel droopy. “You can stay here,” he tells Louis.
“‘Course. Come on.”
Harry gets into bed and Louis slips in after him, mumbling something about how
the snow’s nice during the day, really, but he doesn’t like it at all at night
so that’s why he came here. Harry only pays a bit of attention to it. He can’t
remember if he’s ever slept in a bed with a boy before – Greg’s mum has always
made him a separate one every time he’s stayed over – but it doesn’t really
matter anyway, he decides, because this is Louis, not some other boy. He’s warm
and glowy and safe. He’s not talking anymore, so Harry closes his eyes. He
curls up into Louis without really meaning to, and Louis just moves a little so
they fit better. Harry falls asleep like that, not even remembering there’s
snow outside.
Louis isn't there the next morning. But Harry wakes up with a strange wonderful
warmth inside, and there’s wet clothes in the bath and his biggest hoodie isn’t
in his wardrobe anymore. It was real, then. Harry hopes he comes back.
                                       *
He does. Every time it’s snowing outside, Harry will hear a tap at the window
in the night. Louis doesn’t come in as wet anymore because he seems to have
found a proper snow coat, so he’ll just take it off and dry off his legs and
hair before getting into bed with Harry. Harry can’t remember a time where he’s
slept this warm.
(He wakes up sometimes from nightmares in the middle of the night. Louis’s
asleep most of those times, but he still glows gently. It makes the darkness
not look so dark. It makes things better.)
Harry worries, at first, that his mum will notice. He doesn’t know what she’d
do if she did, but he knows it’s better if it doesn’t happen. But then Louis
explains that if she ever came in while he was there, he’d just do the thing he
does at school. Harry thinks he understands now: it’s not that people don’t see
Louis, it’s that they forget about him the moment they stop looking at him. It
took a lot of practice, Louis explains, sounding quite proud of himself.
Anyway, his mum comes in to check on him one time when Louis’s there, and she
says hi to him as if it were completely normal for him to be there and doesn’t
even look at him before she leaves, so. Harry knows that it works, even if he
doesn’t know how.
Louis staying over becomes one of those things that happen so often you just
know they’re going to be there, like breakfast in the morning or a bath instead
of a shower on Sunday night. Harry sort of forgets it wasn’t always like this.
He supposes, then, that it won’t always be like this. Maybe Louis will stop
coming once it’s not so cold anymore. He doesn’t like to think about that.
But the snow goes away eventually, and Louis stays.
                                       *
Harry doesn’t measure time like grown-ups do. He knows this.
He’ll sometimes catch bits of his mum’s conversations with her friends. They
say things like oh, how long has it been since that? Six years already? It’s
like they’re always surprised by time passing. Harry doesn’t understand how
whole months, whole years can pass without you noticing. It’s such a long time.
What do they do to make it go by so quickly?
The days pass and the months pass, and the weather changes, from sun to rain to
snow and back again. He knows this. He notices this. But it seems so huge, all
of it, especially when one year ends and the next one begins (it takes ages for
him to stop writing the old year on the dates in his school notebooks). He goes
to school and he gets holidays from school and he sees his friends and goes to
their birthday parties, watching them turn a year older. He moves from Year
Four to Year Five to Year Six, and his sleeves get too short and his shoes get
too small and the pencil marks on the kitchen wall where his mum measures how
tall he is get higher and higher up. Relatives tell him how much he’s grown,
even though he looks in the mirror and sees himself exactly the same as always.
And his birthdays feel a little bit strange, too, apart from hugely exciting;
he has to spend at least a week after each one telling himself, I’m ten. I’m
ten years old. I’m a person who is ten now. He grows, but he doesn’t feel like
a person who is growing. He just feels like himself.
If he ever thinks of a future where he’s older, it’s hazy and far away. (He
thinks, now, that he’d like to be a zookeeper when he grows up. Also, having
lots of babies would be nice. But that’s for when he becomes an actual grown-
up, and there’s so much time left that he doesn’t have to worry about it.) It’s
something that grown-ups, he’s noticed, don’t really do. The future is as much
a part of their lives as the moment they’re in now.
So that’s how it is. That’s how it happens. And as things change, slowly,
without him really paying much attention to it, his magic also changes.
It becomes less strange, more focused. Harry doesn’t notice right away and
can’t possibly tell when the change started, but it’s like this: it does what
he wants it to more often now, instead of being strange and accidental and
nonsensical. Where before he made trees twist and furniture float and and the
pavement crack, now he can make the dishes clean themselves sometimes, or make
Gemma’s bedroom door disappear when he’s mad at her. It’s great. (But he maybe
worries every so often, in secret, because the big things – the really big
things – he can’t do them anymore. He hasn’t made it snow in ages, and the
things he changes look like they’re getting smaller and smaller. It can’t mean
anything, though. Maybe it’s some sort of compensation? He gets to do what he
wants now, but he can’t do really big things anymore. Or not. Whatever.)
He has no one to talk about it with, anyway. His mum doesn’t understand, and
Miss Wheel, for all that she’s his magic teacher, has yet to do magic in front
of Harry. She probably doesn’t even have any. His friends don’t really get it
either, and he doesn’t talk to Gemma about these things. And then there’s
Louis, of course, there’s always Louis, but– he doesn’t like to talk about
that. Even though he’s magic himself (Harry assumes) it’s… not like that. They
aren’t friends because of the magic, they’re friends because of everything
else.
Louis still very much glows, though. It’s just who he is, he’s just like that,
and Harry more or less takes it for granted after so long. It just– it makes
sense for Louis to glow, Harry finds himself thinking sometimes. He’s loud and
he’s bright and he’s unpredictable and magic and brilliant. If someone has to
glow, that someone has to be Louis. Harry knows this even though he’s not
exactly sure why he does.
Maybe it’s just because they’re best friends that he thinks it. Harry’s never
had another best friend, so he’s not sure how the rules work. With Louis he
doesn’t need them, anyway.
They don’t play as much now, maybe because they’re older and don’t do those
things anymore. Every time they go back to the park, or the trees, the only
kids they see are little ones – smaller than Harry, definitely smaller than
Louis. They still have fun there, though, because they’re best friends and
that’s what best friends do. And, privately, Harry thinks Louis still goes into
the trees to sleep the times he doesn’t climb up to Harry’s window (he’s still
very good at climbing) and sneaks into his room. His mum has never caught him
there. Louis likes to brag about that whenever he can.
So it all goes on. Harry turns eleven, and he finishes his last year of
Primary, which is exciting and a little bit sad, but other than that he doesn’t
really feel like things are changing that much. He looks back a couple of years
and there’s a difference, of course there is, because back then he used to be a
little kid and now he’s not – but here, now, things stay mostly as they are.
Knowing things have changed isn’t the same as things changing right now, and
even though things changing is sometimes exciting, things staying the same is
nice, and safe, and Harry doesn’t mind it at all.
                                       *
Being older also means knowing things about Louis he hadn’t realized, before.
He’s never had a family. Harry thinks how terribly lonely that must have been.
What did he do before he met Harry? What did he do when he was little and had
no one to look after him? That’s why he’s so good at taking care of himself,
Harry knows. If he always knows what to do and how to do it, better than Harry
can, it’s because that’s what he’s always had to do.
Harry also knows that Louis isn't a normal person. It’s not really the magic or
the glowing, because Harry can do magic too so he’s never thought of it as
especially weird. But there’s other things: how he never gets cold or sick and
rarely gets tired at all, how he doesn’t seem to need much food or water
either.
Louis usually doesn’t like to talk about himself, but sometimes he’ll tell
Harry little things at night when it’s just the two of them. He hasn’t always
lived here; he comes from somewhere else. He likes being outdoors more than he
likes being in buildings. (Harry doesn’t ask, but he does wonder how come he
comes to sleep with him, then.) And he also asks questions that let Harry know
how much he doesn’t know, how there are normal everyday things that he doesn’t
quite understand. Maybe it’s because he never had anyone to teach them to him.
Why do I sometimes see things happen when I’m asleep? What happens when people
die? Why do people love each other? He asks them quietly, like he’s embarrassed
about it. Harry explains as best as he can. It’s harder than it looks like.
So it’s like this, then, when he realizes:
The window is open because it’s summer and it’s dark outside and Harry’s lying
belly-up on his bed and Louis’s looking out, leaning out of the window. They’re
not talking. Harry watches Louis and wonders what he’s looking at. He cranes
his neck and tries to see, but there’s nothing apart from the yellow light of
the streetlamps and the row of houses opposite and the sky, big and dark blue
and starry. Harry makes a grumbly noise and rolls his face over onto the
sheets.
“Where I’m from,” Louis says suddenly, not facing Harry but looking out of the
window, “it was different from here, you know?”
Harry rolls onto his back again and looks at Louis upside-down. “Yeah? How?”
Louis glances at him and shrugs. “Dunno. It wasn’t– not like this. It was
different.” He sounds frustrated, like he can’t quite explain it properly.
“Some things were better there. And the people, they were…” He trails off,
looking like he’s thinking hard, and then shrugs again. “I can’t really
remember much.”
“How come you’re here, then?” Harry asks, because Louis sounds like he doesn’t
mind talking about it.
Louis half-turns his face, so he’s not quite facing Harry but not looking away,
either. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just remember, like– I was there, right?”
He glances out of the window, up at the sky, like he can’t help himself. “I
remember being there. And I remember then I was here but– the bit in between?”
He frowns hard. “I can’t– I mean, there was a load of light, I think, and then–
I don’t know.”
Which is weird, and not like any journey Harry’s ever heard of. Still, it
should be easy to just pass it off as one of Louis’s strange things – there are
a whole lot of them already, one more wouldn’t actually matter – but he can’t
quite do it. It niggles away at the back of his mind, like it’s something he
should be worried about. He has no idea why.
There’s a pause, and then Louis carries on talking. It sounds like something he
wants to get off his chest. “I only remember the trees. You know, the ones next
to the park?” Harry nods, because what other trees could they be? “Um, I was
there for a while. And then you showed up, and then. You know.”
So– was Harry the first person to see Louis here? It makes sense. Harry doesn’t
like it.
He thinks back to meeting Louis for the first time, back when he was eight. It
feels like it was ages ago. Remembering it, he feels like he was such a little
kid. He thinks back to going off into the trees and playing on his own. Why? He
can’t remember. Was he upset about something?
He was, he remembers dimly. He was upset because… because, right, he’d had
those nights he spent crying because he realized everyone was going to die. It
was ages ago, but he still doesn’t really like thinking about it. He remembers
the horrible helplessness, and the panic and guilt, and how lonely the house
felt at night… and one of those nights, hadn’t something happened one of those
nights that he should remember?
He looks at Louis, who’s leaning out of the open window again, his elbows on
the windowsill, looking up at the stars. The sight feels oddly familiar.
“D’you miss it?” he hears himself say, even though he has no clue why he said
it at all.
Louis turns to face Harry. He looks surprised at the question, but not upset.
He glows gently, brighter than the streetlights outside. “It was… nice,” he
says. “I just– yeah, sometimes I just want to go back.”
Harry knows him. He knows just from looking at Louis that that means he does
miss it, very much.
Maybe, Harry thinks, that’s where Louis’s parents are. Maybe he’s here all
alone because he doesn’t know how to get back to them. (Harry remembers going
on his first overnight school trip back when he was little and crying all
through the night because he missed home. He understands, then, why Louis would
want to go back.) But why can’t he get back to them? How could he have
travelled so far on his own and not been able to go back? Maybe he got lost,
but it’s been ages now. He could have told a grown-up and asked them the way.
“Louis,” Harry says slowly, frowning, “where are you from?”
It’s the sort of question Louis usually refuses to answer. Harry finds himself
hoping, for some reason, that he doesn’t answer it today either.
But Louis answers. He stretches out his hand a little and points up at the sky.
“Up there. Why?”
Up there?
For a moment, Harry is completely baffled. What? How? What does he mean? Maybe
he lived in a really high place. Like a tower, or a skyscraper. But as Harry’s
opening his mouth to ask, frowning, it hits him.
It’s like putting puzzle pieces down into place. The glowing. The climbing. The
magic. Louis always being confused by everyday things, normal things. Not
getting cold, or eating; not being able to go back to where he came from. And
that night, that night when Harry looked out of the window and saw so many
stars, and did the biggest magic he’s ever done, and looking back and not being
able to find the star he was looking for–
His stomach feels like it’s dropped out of his body. No. No.
“Harry?” he hears Louis say. He blinks, and he realizes Louis’s face is right
up close to his, looking at him strangely. “Harry, are you okay?”
Harry looks back at Louis and forces himself to nod. He’s never felt more like
a liar in his life. He hopes Louis doesn’t notice.
For the first time, he finds himself hoping Louis doesn’t stay the night. The
knowledge weighs him down, heavy and terrible. A star. A star. Louis is a star,
and he’s here because of Harry. How can Harry sleep next to him when he knows
that now? But Louis stays, of course. When they get in bed, Harry has to roll
over and face the wall to avoid looking at Louis, but he’s still terribly aware
of the warmth beside him, of the glow Louis casts around the room.
Harry screws his eyes shut and tries to think about anything else. He can’t.
Because the guilt he feels takes over everything, controls all his thoughts so
he can’t get away. He curls in on himself, crossing his arms over his belly,
the sheets rustling as he moves. He did this. He did all this to Louis. How can
he ever make it right again?
He took Louis away from everything he knew. He made him come here, alone,
without a home and without having any idea where he was at all. He’s the reason
Louis has no family. He’s the reason Louis will never go back to where he
belongs.
In that moment, Harry would do anything to fix it. Even if it meant Louis
leaving him. He wants Louis to be back home again, wants it so badly he feels
like he could burst with it– but nothing happens, no magic comes, because it
never does when he really needs it, does it? Wasn’t it supposed to change
things when he really wanted them to change? He knows that right now there’s
nothing he wants more than to make things right. So why can’t he?
Harry wants to cry. He wants to cry so hard he shakes with it, wants to shout
and kick things and rip things until this terrible ache inside him is gone. But
Louis is here with him, his breathing already slow and steady, and Harry can’t
do that now.
So he curls in further on himself and digs his fingers into his sides, and can
do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut and try not to notice the warmth of Louis
beside him, a star, a star.
***** Chapter 2 *****
"O how he loves you, darling boy. O how, like always, he invents the monsters
underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to
back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night."
– Richard Siken, from You Are Jeff
                                       *
It takes a while to learn to live with it.
Sometimes Harry’s with Louis and he’ll be Louis, nothing more, just the boy
he’s known for ages now, his best friend in all the world. But then he’ll find
himself paying attention to Louis’s glow and he’ll suddenly remember
everything. A star. It’s hard to get his head around it sometimes. Stars have
always looked so tiny to him, so far away – something that he knows is there
but sounds vaguely made-up, something that could be imaginary and it’d have the
same effect on his life anyway. It’s hard to think of the teensy glittering
lights up there in the way he’s told at school: giant fiery balls of heat like
the Sun, bigger than the Earth many times over.
But where being with Louis sometimes is so normal, other times Harry looks at
him and just knows. Louis is made of light. There’s no other way it could be.
Which is confusing, even if the knowledge fits so well. How can that be? Louis
has a boy shape. He’s not a giant ball of fire. It makes everything Harry
though he knew about stars become strange and abstract. But there’s no one he
can ask about it; he’s old enough to know that no one will believe him when he
tells them what Louis is. (He suspects that he’s the only one who can see Louis
glow, for whatever reason, so he won’t even be able to use that as proof.)
So Louis is a star. Okay. He gets used to the idea eventually, like he’d get
used to a new haircut or the change in number from one year to the next. It’s
strange, it should be impossible, but it makes sense. The more time that
passes, the more familiar the idea sounds, and the less it suddenly shocks him
when he’s with Louis and he thinks about it.
The guilt is different.
Harry tries to learn to live with it, but it’s so much harder. It’s not
something the just has to get used to – it’s something he can never escape, no
matter how hard he tries. It sits heavy in his gut, and he can never ignore it
for long. He forgets it’s there sometimes when he’s having an especially good
time, when he’s with Louis and he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe – but
then Louis will make an offhand comment about where he came from, or Harry will
have to go home and he’ll remember Louis has nowhere to go home to and it’s
suddenly back again, stronger than ever. He gets better at shoving it away and
pretending it isn’t there, but he can never fully escape it.
He can never tell Louis. That’s the one thing he knows. He can never tell Louis
that Harry was the one who brought him here, because Harry’s certain it’ll make
Louis hate him and he can deal with the guilt but he doesn’t think he could
deal with that.
                                       *
In Harry’s head, summer is when he gets to be with Louis properly.
He doesn’t know when he started thinking of it like that. He doesn’t really
care to remember, either – that’s just the way things are. He sees Louis during
the school year because he always sees Louis, but there’s so much other stuff
in the way: school itself and homework and things he does after school and
seeing all his other friends and having to go visit relatives on the weekend
when he’s supposed to have the whole day to do as he likes. Summer’s different.
Summer means travelling every so often, yes, but it also means weeks and weeks
ahead of him where he has absolutely nothing to do. And “absolutely nothing”
always has something to do with Louis.
Summer means the park and playing there like when they were little. (Because
playing is a little-kid thing, yes, but Harry has so much fun he can’t bring
himself to care.) Summer means Harry having the time to teach Louis football
and Louis promptly becoming much, much better at it than him; summer means
Harry having to go up to the ice cream cart and ordering two cones by himself
because Louis stubbornly refuses to order his own; summer means Louis staying
over and talking in whispers way past midnight and clear blue skies and
sunlight in the day and no clouds to block out the stars at night. Summers are
for them. Harry never wants them to end.
But they do, and things aren’t quite the same after.
This year is different. Primary’s over for Harry. Last year, his teachers tried
to reassure him that the change wouldn’t be that difficult, that it’d feel
strange at first but he’d get used to it. Harry’s not convinced. The thing is,
he doesn’t know. He knows nothing about Secondary except for what he’s heard
from the people in his class – who make things up a lot of the time – and what
Gemma’s told him, and it feels grown-up and unfamiliar and somewhere Harry
doesn’t belong in. He’s not scared, because it’d be stupid to be scared about
something like that, but–
–but then the summer’s ending like it always does, and Harry never wants it to
but this time there’s a little bit of dread in the wanting as well.
He tries to tell Louis about it in an offhand way. Louis just hmphs and says
nothing else on the subject. Louis’s old enough to go to Secondary now too, but
Harry knows better than to suggest it or ask about it, because Louis’s glowing
faint and sulky today and he always does exactly as he likes anyway. Harry
doesn’t even know if Louis still goes to school. The magic thing he does where
people don’t notice him is as strong as ever – he likes doing it when he’s with
Harry somewhere other people can see him, for whatever reason – so he probably
can still go. The thing is, Harry knows Louis probably just goes whenever he
feels like it, and there’s no way to tell how often that happens.
(Worrying about Louis is a familiar feeling. Harry’s being doing it forever,
even if he sometimes isn’t very good at being responsible. But he usually
worries about clothes or food or showers – school is a valid thing to be
worried about too, he supposes, but he kind of forgets about it a lot of the
time.)
So when September comes, even though he walks to school with Gemma again, he
starts Secondary more or less alone.
Things are different. Holmes Chapel is a small town, and there shouldn’t be
that many new people even if he’s changing schools. But it feels like there
are: people from the other primary school in town, older people he’s seen
around but has never really talked to, people he technically knows but have
somehow changed in the time between leaving Primary and starting here.
(Perhaps, he reasons, he never really knew them at all.) Harry gets to know a
lot of them fairly quickly, because he’s actually quite good at that, at
talking to people and making friends with them, but there’s still so many
people left that are strangers to him. It makes him a little uneasy.
Also– no one knows that he does magic. (He hasn’t told anyone, at least. His
old friends should know, but maybe they’ve forgotten about it? He doesn’t
particularly want to ask.)
He realizes this about three weeks in –which is, coincidentally, the first time
he does magic at school. He’s hurrying to copy down the maths exercises before
Mr Lofthouse wipes the board clean when he suddenly feels it; before he knows
it, his numbers are squiggling all over the page and flashing bright blue and
green. (Which is stupid. What could he possibly want that would make that
happen?) And his first reaction is to quickly flip the page and look nervously
over at the boy called Mark who’s sitting next to him to make sure he hasn’t
seen. He doesn’t question it until much later.
“Louis,” he says the next time he and Louis are hanging out. Harry’s
distracted, so it more or less slips out on its own. “Does anyone else know
that, like… you can do stuff? Like I can?”
They’re practicing their football in the spot behind the factories. Louis looks
up at the question, and the ball falls to the ground from where he was
balancing it on his foot. “What?”
“I mean.” Harry looks down and picks at the bits of grass that grow between the
cracks in the pavement he’s sitting on. “Like, the thing you do when you go to
school? Does anyone know about that? I mean, apart from me.”
Louis picks the ball back up. “I don’t really go to school anymore. ‘S boring.”
He tosses the ball in the air, catches it on his foot and starts balancing it
again.
“Louis,” Harry says. “You know what I mean.” Louis concentrates on the ball and
doesn’t answer. Fine. Harry slumps back on the ground, annoyed. He should be
used to Louis not telling him stuff, but, like– they’re best mates. It doesn’t
seem fair. Harry considers asking him about how he glows, just to be spiteful,
but breathes in deep and decides it’s not a good idea.
The conversation leaves him feeling weird. The next day, at school, he decides
he’s not going to tell anyone about the… about the things he does. Just the
separate teacher he has for that, and that’s it. It’ll be easier that way, and
no one will think he’s weird.
                                       *
Louis has changed.
Harry doesn’t realize this properly until his own twelfth birthday in February.
Before, he’d kind of thought they weren’t together very often because of
school, but once it was summer again things would be the same as ever. Then–
well, Louis doesn’t so much forget about Harry’s birthday as completely
disappear for the whole weekend (Harry can’t remember when he stopped being
able to find Louis no matter where he’d hidden) and it’s stupid, it shouldn’t
matter this much, but it hurts. And it makes Harry realize that maybe things
aren’t the same now, and that maybe it’s not something that summer can fix
after all.
Well. Okay, then. If Louis doesn’t want him around, Harry’s not going to sit
around waiting.
He hangs out with his other friends instead, the ones he already had before and
the new ones he’s made this year. They’re fun and they’re nice to be around,
and Harry never has to worry about them getting enough food or about asking
questions he shouldn’t. They’re normal, and they think he’s normal too, and
things are okay.
Harry barely thinks about Louis at all, actually. Except for, like, when he’s
with his friends and accidentally does some magic he has to cover up and
thinks, I wouldn’t have to do this if I was with Louis. Or when it’s night-time
and he’s in bed and his feet are freezing cold and he can’t get them to warm
up. But they’re not important thoughts. They shouldn’t be. Because Louis
clearly has no interest in being Harry’s best mate anymore. He probably has
some new mates, people like the ones Harry sees at school that treat younger
kids like they’re stupid little six-year-olds. Maybe Louis does that too.
(Even though every time Louis shows up, sneaking in through Harry’s window or
waiting for him outside the gate when he gets home from school, Harry can never
help but go right along with whatever Louis wants to do. He never tells Louis
he’s sort of angry at him either, because whenever Louis is actually there in
front of him Harry can’t even remember why he was annoyed. That bit comes
later, when the brightness of being with Louis has faded and Harry hasn’t seen
him in a week. Next time, Harry tells himself, next time I won’t talk to him
and make him see just how mad I am, but next time comes around and the only
thing Harry can do is follow Louis’s glow.)
                                       *
By the time summer comes around, Harry’s passed all his classes and has gone
from being shorter than half the girls in his class to being about the sixth
tallest boy. (It looks like the growth spurt his mum spent so long going on
about has turned out to be real. He’s still shorter than Louis, who’s the
tallest of his friends, and he has no muscles yet, but he supposes that’s just
a matter of time.)
There’s a problem, though. And the problem is that Harry doesn’t know what to
do now that it’s summer and he’s barely seeing Louis at all.
There’s so much time to fill suddenly. He meets up with his friends from school
as much as he can until it’s generally agreed that they’re going to see each
other every day, and a sort-of group is formed where they hang out every
afternoon next to the train station. He goes swimming in the mornings. He bakes
cakes. He gets so bored he even starts borrowing books from the library. But it
feels like he’s just passing the time, waiting for something else to come along
– and he refuses to be waiting for Louis.
He also refuses to admit that the days when Louis shows up are the best he has.
Harry feels so stupid after, but when he’s with Louis it really feels like
nothing’s changed at all. And maybe that’s why he’s so bad at staying mad at
Louis – because he doesn’t want to say something that would make that go away.
Because he wants things to be like they were before, when they were just
friends, and it didn’t look like Louis had gotten tired of him. And each time
Louis appears, he still kind of hopes it’s going to be like that now – but
Louis always leaves, and Harry eventually stops hoping.
                                       *
There’s a guy from the group called Alec who thinks he’s so cool just because
he can do twenty keepie-uppies. He’s taken to carrying a ball around and
demonstrating whenever he can. He’s in the group so they’re kind of friends,
Harry supposes, but he privately finds Alec just bit annoying.
He’s bouncing the ball and counting yet again today. Harry’s not really in the
mood for this. “Please,” he scoffs at Alec as soon as he’s dropped the ball at
nineteen. “Twenty’s nothing. Louis can do fifty easy.”
He realizes what he’s said a little bit too late.
Niall, who’s leaning on a wall and doing nothing apart from absorbing the
sunlight, opens one eye and looks at him. “Who’s Louis?”
There was a time when Harry used to jump at the chance to talk about Louis, at
the idea of him getting to meet his friends. Now, he hesitates, and then
shrugs. “No one,” he tells Niall. “Just– no one.”
Niall grunts and says nothing else. Harry’s glad.
                                       *
He has his first proper fight with Louis in late July.
It hasn’t been a good day. His mum yelled at him three different times this
morning, he got in a fight with Gemma over toast, Alec was especially annoying
today and also called him an idiot and he’s been weird and on edge all day,
snapping at anyone who’s tried to talk to him, reasonably or not. Also, it
started raining as he was coming home from the train station, and now his t-
shirt is soaked through and there’s water in his trainers and he just wants
everyone to leave him alone.
Which is, naturally, when he sees Louis sitting on his front steps.
Oh, right. He thinks he can just show up here when he hasn’t been around
properly for months? He thinks he can ignore Harry like he’s a silly little kid
but come back to his house whenever he feels like it? He’s probably just here
to get out of the rain, Harry thinks bitterly.
So he unlocks the gate, walks right up to the door, and starts rummaging
through his pockets for the key without even a sideways glance at Louis.
“Hi,” Louis says. Harry says nothing. “Hey,” Louis says, a little louder. Harry
ignores him.
He finds the key and aggressively jams it into the lock. He doesn’t actually
know what he’s going to do now, because going inside and leaving Louis out here
in the rain seems a little extreme, but before he has to make a decision Louis
scrambles to his feet and tugs on Harry’s sleeve.
“What’s going on?” he says. He sounds annoyed. Good. Harry shrugs his hand off
and pointedly does not look at him.
“Harry.” Harry sneaks a glance. Louis’s frowning, looking like he doesn’t
believe whatever he’s seeing. “Are you mad at me?”
He says it like it’s this completely unbelievable thing. It just makes Harry
angrier. “So what if I am?” Harry shoots back, gripping the keys so tightly
they dig into his fingers.
Louis still isn’t taking him seriously. Harry can see it on his face. He hates
Louis’s stupid expression, Louis’s stupid glow, Louis’s stupid everything. “Why
are you mad at me?” He says it like he can’t figure it out for himself.
“Oh, let’s see, why would I be?” He tries to make it sound clever and
sarcastic, but it just comes out angry. “You’re never around. You’re always
disappearing. You never want to be with me anymore. And even if you did, you’re
a rubbish best mate!” He’s talking too fast, stumbling over the words. “You
always do what you want and expect me to do what you say. You never tell me
anything even if we’re supposed to be best mates. You never want to listen to
me properly when I want to tell you about something.” Which is a lie, he knows
it’s a lie, but he can’t take it back. “I don’t want you here. So you can
leave.”
Louis doesn’t look surprised anymore. Instead, his eyes are narrowed, his
body’s tense, and his mouth is sharp and angry. When he talks, it’s nothing
like Harry does. He doesn’t just blurt things out – it’s like he has time to
think each one of them through.
“You know what?” he says. “Maybe I was never your friend in the first place.
Maybe I don’t want a friend like you.” He glows menacingly. Harry feels a sort
of quiet fear when he remembers he’s made a star angry. “You’re just an idiot
little kid, you know that? Why do you think I’d ever be friends with you?”
Harry feels his cheeks heat up with anger and shame. His eyes sting. “Fuck
you,” he says fiercely. He’s never said that to anyone before in his life. He’s
not taking it back.
Louis just laughs at him. He laughs at him. Harry feels ashamed, humiliated,
wrong. So without even thinking about it, he launches himself at Louis and
punches him in the face.
Louis stumbles backwards, caught completely off guard, and for a moment Harry’s
scared they’re both going to topple over backwards – but then Louis regains his
footing and shoves Harry off, hard. He looks at Harry, rubbing his jaw and
glowing bright and angry and dangerous, but makes no move to fight back, which
makes no sense. And is also frustrating, because Harry needs it, all the pent-
up rage inside him bubbling, looking for a way out. He stands there for a
moment, looking right at Louis, breathing hard – and then, oh. Of course. Of
course Louis doesn’t want to fight him, because he thinks Harry’s just a little
boy and he wouldn’t be worth it.
He can’t have Louis think of him like that anymore.
So Harry lunges forward again, fists brandished, and this time Louis’s waiting
for him. He catches both of Harry’s fists easily, latching onto his wrists and
not letting go even when Harry thrashes and twists his wrists painfully.
Harry’s eyes burn. He struggles for a moment, Louis pressed right up against
him, his shoes scuffing on the ground– and then Harry jerks his knee up, Louis
avoids it smoothly and Harry uses the distraction to heave himself forwards
with a grunt and topple them both over. Louis hits the ground with an oof,
Harry right on top of him.
There’s a moment of blind struggling. Harry wrestles an arm out of Louis’s
grip, but the other one is still caught – he can see nothing, his face squished
into Louis’s shoulder – he tries to shove, to hit, but Louis’s holding him more
or less still and he can do nothing – and there’s Louis everywhere, fingers
tight on Harry’s wrist, body pressed all along his as he struggles, everything
glowing. And then Harry isn’t on top of Louis anymore but suddenly pinned below
him, his back against the ground. Louis holds him down as Harry tries to twist
out of his grip, pressing both of Harry’s hands against the ground by his
wrists.
Harry feels so infuriatingly trapped.
Louis’s legs are on either side of Harry’s body, his weight solid on Harry’s
hips even as Harry tries to struggle. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Harry feels
his cheeks heat up with shame at how easily Louis beat him like it was never an
effort for him at all, because he was right, wasn’t he? Harry isn’t worth the
fight. Harry has nowhere to look at except for Louis’s face right above him,
can feel nothing but the ground against his back and Louis’s body on his. He
knows he’s… he’s hard. Louis has to feel it the way he’s pressed up against
Harry. But Harry can’t think about that now, because he fought Louis and Louis
beat him and that’s so, so much worse.
Louis moves against him a little. It must be digging into his leg, but he says
nothing. The look on his face is strange, so angry but also something else
Harry can’t figure out, but he’s glowing so blindingly bright that Harry
doesn’t dare speak. Harry feels his own heartbeat everywhere. His throat, his
wrists where Louis’s holding him down, the place where he’s hard. What now?
But Louis speaks. “I’m leaving now.” He doesn’t sound angry and he’s not
gloating because he’s won. It’s something else, and it sounds cold and empty
and doesn’t give away any emotion at all. It’s not scary. It’s not. “Goodbye,”
he says, and he’s suddenly clambering up from on top of Harry and walking away
without looking back once. Harry doesn’t even try to chase after him. He stays
where he is, with hot tears in his eyes and an erection that hasn’t gone away
and all full up with horrible shame.
                                       *
Louis doesn’t come back.
For the first week or so, Harry’s mad enough to be happy about it. (He doesn’t
even stop to think about why he’s mad. He just is. Every time he thinks about
Louis, blind, hot rage wells up in his stomach, and that’s enough.) He doesn’t
want Louis anywhere around here and Louis obviously doesn’t want to be here
either, so. He can never come back for all Harry cares.
He sees his friends and he does other things that have nothing to do with Louis
at all, and he’s never bored, ever. He can get on like this perfectly well.
But still, even though he barely thinks about Louis at all, really, he sort of
keeps track of the time he’s gone without seeing him. Two weeks pass. Fine.
Whatever. Louis’s probably hanging around town anyway – maybe he’s avoiding
Harry, that’s why he hasn’t seen him. Either way, he doesn’t care. Three weeks.
Maybe he isn’t here after all? Maybe he went somewhere else and Harry’s never
going to see him again. Which is… fine, he’s not as mad as he was before. Maybe
he still doesn’t want to see Louis, but, like, that doesn’t mean he won’t want
to see him ever. A whole month. Well… okay. Where is he? He’s never been away
for this long. Harry shouldn’t care, but not caring is getting more and more
difficult.
It’s almost September and there’s no sign of Louis. Harry’s pretty sure by now
he’s not in Holmes Chapel anymore. (He’d never admit it to anyone, but once he
went looking in the trees next to the park to see if Louis was hiding there. He
found nothing.) And it’s fine. It’s fine because Louis shouldn’t be here if he
doesn’t want to be, and it’s fine because Louis can take care of himself. He’s
more or less fourteen by now, Harry guesses, and also he can do all sorts of
things by himself that Harry can’t do. He doesn’t need Harry for anything, so
worrying about him is no use.
(Not that Harry’s worried. He’s just, like. Thinking about it.)
So when school starts again and Louis isn’t back, Harry tries very hard not to
be bothered about it. It’s not all that different from last year, he reasons.
Just that instead of not seeing Louis very much he’s not seeing him at all. He
keeps himself busy enough that there’s not really much time to think about it –
but it catches up to him when he lies awake in bed, restless and fidgety, eyes
scanning the darkness of their own accord. Louis might be able to take care of
himself, but he’s alone. And he’s been here for ages, but Harry can’t forget
that Louis isn’t a person, that he doesn’t really belong down here. What if
he’s lost? What if he got hurt? Fear makes his lungs go strangely tight. If
something bad’s happened to him and Harry was the one who made him leave…
Sometimes he dimly imagines what it’d be like, right now, if Louis was here in
bed with him. (He doesn’t think about the boner, because it’s a thought that
right now seems too much, for some reason.) But one night he gets a familiar
hot feeling and suddenly his fingertips are lighting up in a faint echo of
Louis’s glow, so he stops imagining it. Before, he might have been excited
about making something like this happen, but now it just makes him sad, and he
doesn’t like it.
Louis has to come back. He can’t be gone forever. Can he?
                                       *
It’s a late September night and Harry can’t sleep again. Closing his eyes is no
use, and trying to leave his mind blank doesn’t work either – he’s wide awake,
a restless feeling inside him even though he’s been up since seven thirty am.
He lies on his back beneath the blankets – it’s not just sheets anymore, the
weather’s getting colder – and stares blankly at the ceiling. It’s faintly
visible, because he still hasn’t gotten into the habit of closing the shutters
before he goes to bed, even if it lets the heat out.
The house is quiet. A car goes by outside, and the noise it makes gets fainter
as it gets further and further away. There’s silence again. Harry tries not to
think about why he can’t sleep. Then– there’s a noise from the window.
Harry scrambles upright so fast he almost falls out of bed.
It can’t be. It can’t– but then Harry jumps out of bed and more or less runs to
the window (the thought that Louis usually comes straight in crosses his mind
before he remembers that he shuts the window properly now so it can’t be opened
from the outside) and gets right up close to the glass, and Louis’s face stares
back at him from the other side, glowing gently.
A million questions run through Harry’s mind one after the other. What’s he
doing here? Is he still mad? Where was he? Harry’s hands shake a little as he
fumbles with the latch. Is he okay? He looks okay, even if his hair’s a bit
long and the clothes he’s wearing aren’t Harry’s, but. Harry needs to make
sure. There’s a strange urge to touch him as he clambers in easily through
Harry’s window and his bare feet hit the carpet, to make sure he’s really
there, that he’s not going to leave. He obeys it without thinking, puts a hand
on Louis’s arm and feels him solid and warm beneath. Harry gets an odd nervous
feeling in his stomach.
Louis’s looking at him without saying anything. Harry drops his hand from his
arm.
“Hi,” he says. It sounds too quiet and not enough. So he does what he actually
wants to do because there’s no reason why he shouldn’t – he launches himself at
Louis and hugs him tight, unable to help himself, burying his face in Louis’s
shoulder and letting himself feel him, real and here. Louis hugs him back, his
arms snaking under Harry’s armpits and around his middle, and everything is
warm and glowy and for a bizarre moment Harry feels like crying.
Instead, he breathes in deep against Louis’s shoulder and mumbles, “Missed
you,” because it’s the truth, and Louis says nothing but he squeezes Harry
tighter like he doesn’t want to let go.
                                       *
“Louis,” Harry says quietly when Louis’s slipped into his bed like it’s the
most normal thing in the world, dragging Harry behind him. (He’d hesitated for
a second before getting in, telling Harry he didn’t want to get it dirty. Harry
hadn’t liked the flicker of doubt on Louis’s face, so he’d just shoved him on
the bed and told him he was dumb.) Now their feet are tangled together and
Harry feels warm inside even after he asks a question that he knows might be
tricky. “Where’d you go?”
He hasn’t asked until now. They’ve fallen right into step like nothing’s
happened, and it’s not weird or uncomfortable at all but Harry needs to know,
hasn’t forgotten why they fought in the first place (Louis didn’t tell him
things and most importantly Louis wasn’t there and Louis’s been not there for
two months). His chest gets a bit tight when Louis stops facing him and rolls
over to lie on his back, taking his feet away so they’re not touching anymore.
But Harry doesn’t push him, and when Louis starts talking he doesn’t sound
tense or like he wants to change the subject.
“Well.” He clears his throat. His voice is quieter than Louis’s used to hearing
it. “I guess at first I just wanted to get away? ‘Cause I was really mad at you
and I kind of thought I never wanted to see you again.” It’s hard to tell in
the darkness, but he thinks he sees Louis’s eyes dart towards him before moving
to stare resolutely at the ceiling again. “So I went to the train station, got
on a train and didn’t get off until it stopped. Which was in Manchester. And
I’d never been to Manchester before, so, um…” He trails off for a second and
his glow wavers a bit. “I was really kind of lost at first, and, um, sometimes
things weren’t so good? So I got upset and stopped concentrating on people not
seeing me so someone took me to the police and they put me in a home, but–”
Harry’s eyes widen immediately. “What?”
Louis squirms a bit like he was hoping to avoid the subject. Harry’s heart
thuds. Louis’s not, like, homeless. He has Harry’s house. That’s enough. Right?
Also, what happened?
“It wasn’t too bad, I mean–” Louis starts, and cuts off abruptly, still staring
right at the ceiling. “Well, actually, it was. It’s just– there’s no real
reason for it, really, I just– it felt like I was trapped there, you know? Like
I couldn’t breathe, like I–”
Harry can’t help himself: he reaches out a hand and squeezes Louis’s arm,
gently, just to let Louis know he’s listening. He wonders if it’s easier for
Louis to say things in the dark. He never sounds like this when Harry can see
his face clearly. He sounds strangely young, and vulnerable, and Harry knows
Louis can look out for himself but that doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t get a
strange urge to protect him when he’s like this, to make sure nothing bad
happens to him.
Louis blinks hard. “I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but–”
“It doesn’t,” Harry interrupts, because Louis needs to know that. (Louis is a
star, he reminds himself. It makes sense that he can’t be held down like that.
Harry knows how Louis gets a little bit uneasy if he even spends too long away
from the open sky.)
Louis glances at him. “Okay,” he says quietly. “So, I just needed to get out.
But it’s much harder to stop people from noticing me when they’re actually
looking for me, you know? So it took me a while to get out of there, and then I
sort of got lost trying to get back here, messed up the trains.” Harry doesn’t
want to think about it, doesn’t want to imagine Louis lost and upset and alone
and not being able to find his way back here. Louis carries on talking. “And I
only just got here, so. Sorry for barging in in the middle of the night like
this.”
Harry can’t hold back any longer. He’s given Louis his space; now he wiggles
over to him and hugs him fiercely. Louis seems a little surprised, but he hugs
Harry back. “You can come here whenever, stupid,” he tells Louis, the words
muffled a bit by Louis’s hair. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He pulls back and adds,
a little embarrassed, “Also, sorry I hit you.”
Louis laughs and it’s wonderful. “It’s okay. I hit you back, anyway.” He kicks
Harry in the knee without any real force behind it. “Also, um” he clears his
throat, “you were right, sort of. I’m a rubbish friend.” Harry opens his mouth
– he’s not sure what he’s going to say, possibly something about how that’s not
true at all – but Louis kicks him again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here very much. I
had to think about some things, but… I will be now. Promise.”
“Okay,” Harry whispers, because he’s not going to argue against that. He
wonders what things Louis had to think about. He wonders if he remembers Harry
got hard when he was fighting him. But he doesn’t say any of it out loud;
instead he bumps his feet against Louis’s again and stays like that.
Louis’s staying here, is the last thing he remembers thinking. Harry’s going to
take care of him. He’s never going to let something like this happen again.
                                       *
Louis keeps his promise.
He isn’t there when Harry wakes up to go to school the next morning, but when
he gets back and goes into his room Louis’s lying on his bed with damp hair and
wearing one of Harry’s hoodies that’s a bit too small for him, and that’s it.
He’s back, and Harry gets to have a best mate again, and he feels like he could
punch the air.
And he doesn’t leave again. He isn’t there always because he has his own stuff
going on as well (Harry thinks maybe he’s made other friends around Holmes
Chapel, but for some reason it’s not a suspicion he really wants confirmed so
he doesn’t ask about it) but he’s there whenever Harry needs him to be, which
takes a bit of getting used to. And Harry might be biased, but he thinks this
is the most fun he’s ever had with Louis, because apparently he’s gotten into
his head that his mission is to corrupt Harry. Harry doesn’t mean to, but he
always ends up going right along with everything Louis comes up with – which is
completely unfair, because he’s the one who gets told off by his mum whenever
it goes wrong. Louis just grins and runs away. Tosser.
It gets to the point that they actually end up climbing one of the old
abandoned factories out on the edge of town – no, not going inside and
exploring like Harry suggested, but climbing it, because Louis is obsessed and
also probably insane. When they get to the top, climbing up a pipe that gets
shakier and shakier the higher up they get, and collapse onto the roof, Louis
says this is the highlight of their career while glowing bright and smug. Harry
looks out at the rooftops thoughtfully and tells him everything the light
touches will be his. Apparently, Louis has watched The Lion King at some point,
because instead of looking confused he calls him a prat.
Then, half the roof caves in, and Harry almost falls straight through with it.
Louis grabs him in time, though, and tugs him to the safe bit (even if there is
no safe bit and they should most definitely get out of here as soon as they
can). Harry’s gasping because oh my God but he’s also laughing breathlessly for
some reason, and when he looks at Louis Louis is too, and it’s suddenly very
very hard for Harry to be scared.
                                       *
When he thinks about it, Harry realizes he’s never really cared very much about
dating. His guess is that he’s not there yet. He’s old enough to have had the
sex talk at school that everyone in his class giggled through, and he’s
definitely old enough to wake up in the morning and find his dick sticking out
through his pyjama bottoms, but… girlfriends. That’s something that seems
strange and abstract, and after some conversations with his mates he’s found
himself staring thoughtfully at the backs of girls’ heads in class, trying to
imagine maybe kissing them or even doing some of the other stuff all his mates
seem so eager to do. It’s… interesting to think about, but Harry doesn’t think
it really explains why everyone else is so obsessed with it.
Which is probably why it takes a while for him to notice that Sophie Watts who
sits behind him in English apparently fancies him.
Actually, it’s Niall who does it for him. “Sophie was lookin’ at you again
today,” he tells Harry casually while they’re waiting in line at the drinking
fountain at break.
Harry’s head snaps around from where he’d been watching the football game going
on distractedly. “What?”
Niall shrugs. “Just sayin’. I sit next to her in Maths, right, and she just
kept starin’ at you the whole time. She never even talked to me once.” Niall
looks vaguely offended by this. “Think she proper fancies you.”
Harry is– Harry is confused. “What?”
“‘S what everyone’s saying,” Niall says. “Anyway, she’s fit, so good for you,
right? Your turn,” he tells Harry, gesturing with his chin to the fountain,
where everyone in front of them’s left already. Harry obeys, dumbstruck,
slightly grateful that the conversation’s over but also with the strange urge
to interrogate Niall about everything he’s just said. Sophie fancies him?
Everyone’s saying so? Really? Why?
He pays extra attention to Sophie for the rest of the day, trying to figure it
out. Niall’s right, she’s not bad-looking. Her hair is lovely, hanging in waves
down her back, and she has a nice nose. What does it mean if she fancies him?
Is she going to ask him out? Harry can’t for the life of him imagine going on a
date with her. They’ve barely even talked.
Of course, that’s when she looks up from her work and sees him looking.
Harry freezes. Crap. He can’t look away now because she’d think he was
embarrassed about being caught staring, which means he must fancy her, but if
he keeps on looking doesn’t that also mean he fancies her? He’s trying to think
of a way around it when she smiles right at him. Oh. Right. He looks away
hurriedly. She does fancy him. What’s he supposed to do about it?
He sneaks a glance at her. She’s still looking. She smiles at him again. He’s
probably in trouble.
                                       *
Sophie catches up to him outside the school where he’s waiting for Gemma to
come out. By the time he notices her coming up to him, it’s too late to pretend
he hasn’t seen her and leave, so he stands there nervously as she gets closer,
his fingers fidgeting and pulling down at his sleeves.
“Hi, Harry,” she says as she gets up close to him, smiling brightly. Harry
smiles back automatically. She’s put her hair up. It looks nicer when it’s
loose, Harry thinks.
“Hi,” Harry says back. Her smile gets wider. Harry’s kind of in awe at how
confident and relaxed she looks. If he was going to ask out someone he fancied,
he’d probably get all nervous and muck it up.
Not that she’s going to ask him out. Maybe she just wants to say hi.
There’s a moment of slightly awkward silence, and Harry’s wondering if he was
wrong about her when she speaks up again. “So, I was thinking maybe we should
hang out sometime?” She smiles again. Harry thinks it looks hopeful. And–
And the thing is, looking at her like this, Harry’s noticing how pretty she
actually is, how she has really nice blue eyes, and maybe he wouldn’t mind
kissing her at all, just to see what it’s like.
“Sure,” he says. “Sure, okay.” He doesn’t really realize what he’s said until
the words are already out of his mouth. Oh. Oh no. What’s he doing?
His eyes flit around nervously, and when he catches sight of Gemma finally,
finally coming up towards them his stomach floods with relief. “That’s my
sister there,” he tells Sophie. “I should probably, um–”
“That’s okay,” she tells him. “I’ll message you, yeah? And we can, like, decide
on a time and place?” Harry nods dumbly, and she beams at him before saying a
quick bye and whirling away. Harry spots her group of friends huddled outside
the gate waiting for her. Oh no.
“What’d she want?” he hears Gemma say. He looks up and she’s there, frowning
thoughtfully at Sophie as she walks away.
“Nothing,” Harry says back quickly. Gemma doesn’t look convinced at all, but
she doesn’t push it. Harry’s glad.
                                       *
They talk on Messenger and decide to go see the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel
on Saturday evening. Harry has no reason to be nervous. He doesn’t even fancy
her. Does he? Why’s he going on a date with her, then?
He doesn’t tell anyone (even though word gets out pretty fast at school, much
to his distress). Not Louis, because for some reason he really doesn’t want
Louis to know right now, and not Gemma or his mum – even though his mum grins
at him unsettlingly when he tells her he’s going to Crewe with some friends
this afternoon. That means he can’t ask for advice from anyone, but he doesn’t
need it, because he’s not nervous. He ends up wearing jeans and a hoodie under
his jacket, which is what he wears on a normal day anyway (although he does try
to tidy his hair up a bit).
The February wind is cold and biting as Harry makes his way to the bus stop
where he’s meeting Sophie. (There’s only one cinema in Holmes Chapel, and it
only shows, like, a film a month. You have to catch a bus to Crewe to see
anything decent.) She’s waiting for him when he gets there and she’s looking
much nicer than him even bundled up in her jacket. It’s a little uncomfortable
at first – Harry has no clue what he’s supposed to do, is he meant to hold her
hand and kiss her cheek and do date-y stuff or should he just act like they’re
mates hanging out? – but they start talking while they’re on the bus and she’s
nice and she’s funny (although not as funny as Louis) and Harry decides he
likes her just fine.
The film is cool, even though Harry gets slightly nervous when he starts side-
eyeing all the couples around them and seeing all the boys have their arms over
the girls’ shoulders or are just straight-out snogging them. Harry really,
really hopes he isn’t supposed to snog Sophie like that. He’s relieved when the
only things she does is take his hand; he hold it for the rest of the film and
doesn’t mind too much.
It’s dark already when they make it back to Holmes Chapel. They get off the bus
and the wind blows around them, freezing cold and making them huddle in their
coats. Harry wonders if he’s supposed to walk her home. Is this how dates
usually go? Was this not date-y enough? He supposes that except for the hand-
holding this could have been like hanging out with a friend, so– wait, why’s
she getting so close to him? What’s she going to– oh.
Sophie kisses him gently, and it’s not a very long kiss or a very steamy one
but the press of her lips on his makes Harry’s stomach feel all warm despite
the cold. She draws back, and Harry notices, again, how nice her eyes are,
clear and blue and shiny. He can see her breath in the air when she talks.
“Bye, Harry,” she says, smiling. “Thanks for this. I had fun.” She leans in
again. Harry’s hoping for another kiss, but he gets one on the cheek instead.
Fine. That’s… fine, he thinks as he watches her walk away. He touches his lips.
Maybe he’ll get to see her again soon.
                                       *
“Lou, you ever been kissed?”
Harry’s homework is scattered all over the floor. (He thinks he might be lying
on some of it.) He can’t concentrate at all, though; his thoughts keep going
back to last evening, and is Sophie going to ask him to be her boyfriend now?
Does that mean he’ll get to kiss her again? Because she’s nice and fun to be
around, but Harry thinks what he might like the most about her is that he can
probably get to kiss her again.
Louis glances up from where he’s concentrating furiously on Harry’s second-hand
Nintendo. “What?” he asks, and then he looks down at the screen again and
curses, pressing buttons forcefully. It doesn’t seem to work. He tosses it
aside and huffs.
“I said,” Harry says, dragging the word out, “have you ever been kissed?”
Louis frowns. “What’re you asking that for?”
Harry shrugs. “Dunno,” he mumbles. “I mean, um. I think Sophie from school
might want me to be her boyfriend.”
Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he thought Louis would look,
well, at least a little bit happy for him? He doesn’t. Harry wonders why. “Oh,”
Louis says. “That’s nice.” Harry doesn’t like his tone – it’s the one that
makes him remember Louis’s at least two years older than him. “What’s that have
to do with the question?”
Harry squirms a bit. He can feel himself blushing. “I just, um. I went on a
date with her yesterday. And she, like, kissed me, and I think I might be
rubbish at kissing?”
“You went on a date and you didn’t tell me?” Louis just looks offended now.
Harry shrugs. Louis regards him for a moment before hmphing and continuing.
“You want some advice on kissing, then?”
Harry blushes deeper. “It might come in handy?”
Louis taps his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully. He’s gotten better at
staying still throughout the years, but there’s always some sort of movement
about him, hands fidgeting or feet swinging. “I dunno, the best way to do these
things is just to practice, right?” So Louis has snogged someone. It sits
strangely in Harry’s stomach. “But if you’re going out with her you aren’t
gonna be kissing other people.”
“I guess not,” Harry says. It comes out quiet. He doesn’t know why.
“Right,” Louis says. “Then… I guess the best thing you can do is not get
nervous. If you’re nervous, it’s gonna show. Just–” And then he’s scooting
closer to Harry, crumpling some of his homework beneath him in the process.
Harry’s heart thumps. What’s he doing? “You’re like this, right?” His face is
inches away from Harry’s, and Harry can feel the heat from his skin. Louis’s
eyes are really blue, Harry notices dimly. Like Sophie’s. “And even if you’re
crapping yourself you need to pretend you’re really calm. And then you just…”
His fingers touch Harry’s chin lightly. They’re glowing so bright. “You just do
it.”
Harry feels heat build up inside him. He remembers getting a boner when he was
fighting Louis – it jumps into his head for no reason he can figure out. He
wonders if Louis remembers. Louis hasn’t taken his hand away. And then– then
harry hears a miniature explosion and he and Louis jump apart and it turns out
Harry’s just made tiny fireworks appear in the room for no reason whatsoever.
Louis bursts out laughing, and Harry doesn’t know why but it gets him laughing
too, and by the time the fireworks disappear they’re both breathless with it.
Louis looks at him like he’s going to say something, and Harry gets a weirdly
nervous feeling in his chest – but then Louis opens his mouth and says, “Also,
try not to do any magic while you’re at it, yeah? It might freak her out.”
Harry shoves him and calls him a tosser. He doesn’t know why he feels relieved.
                                       *
So. Yeah. Sophie is Harry’s girlfriend.
Harry– Harry doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he supposes he fancies
her, right? So he doesn’t mind. It feels odd being someone’s boyfriend, but
when it leads to really nice snogging whenever they have a moment to
themselves, Harry thinks it’s an absolutely smashing deal.
Harry likes kissing. Harry really, really likes kissing. It feels like he
finally understands what the big deal’s about: he can join in those
conversations his mates have now (even though, for some reason, he feels like
it’s a little bit different for him than it is for them – he can’t quite put
his finger on it) and he finally feels like he has something substantial to
wank to, rather than just doing it because it feels good. Sophie seems to like
it just as much as he does, so being her boyfriend just kind of means having a
person he likes around all the time and being able to kiss her whenever he
feels like it. Which is fantastic.
(They haven’t gone any further than kissing. Oddly enough, Harry doesn’t mind.
He knows a lot of the boys he knows are desperate to touch a girl’s boobs, but
Harry’s absolutely fine like this. He feels them against his chest while they
snog, and it’s nice and more or less enough for him.)
Gemma and his mum find out soon enough, of course, because Holmes Chapel isn’t
a big village at all and because there’s only so many times he can claim he’s
going out somewhere with a friend. Gemma tells him to be nice to her, and Harry
gets home once to the terrifying sight of his and Sophie’s mum chatting
animatedly in the kitchen over tea.
And Louis… well.
Louis doesn’t like Sophie. Harry knows this much without even having to
introduce him to her. Whenever Harry mentions her Louis either completely
ignores what he’s said or makes fun of him. (When Harry asks him why,
indignantly, he just laughs. It’s annoying.) And Louis never really says it,
but a few weeks in Harry realizes that ever since he and Sophie started going
out Harry’s spending much, much less time with him, and couldn’t that be why
Louis doesn’t like her? It probably isn’t very nice to be pleased about Louis
not liking that, but Harry sort of is anyway.
(Harry also wonders if that’s what Louis was doing last year when he wasn’t
around. Because Louis has apparently snogged girls before, so when else could
he have gotten a girlfriend without Harry noticing? Maybe it’d just be easier
to ask him, but Harry reasons that if Louis hasn’t told him by now it must be
because he doesn’t want to.)
Louis gets more and more annoying about it as the weeks go by. “You’re
thirteen,” he tells Harry with the air of someone who’s absolutely full of it.
“When you’re thirteen, relationships aren’t supposed to last longer than two
weeks.” Harry shoves him and calls him a prat, because he and Sophie have been
together for three months, thank you very much, and since when is Louis an
expert on relationship advice anyway?– and is promptly proven wrong when Sophie
breaks up with him by the end of the week.
She doesn’t feel like she’s important to him, apparently. She wants a proper
boyfriend that takes her on dates without her having to suggest it first and
who doesn’t spend half his time with his mates (what’s she talking about? She’s
the reason he barely sees Louis nowadays) and who’s interested in more than
just snogging her. Harry defends himself as best as he can. It doesn’t really
work.
So– that’s it, then. Harry goes home and doesn’t know how to feel.
He’s not anyone’s boyfriend anymore. It’s weird to think about in the same way
that it felt weird being someone’s boyfriend back in February. And he’s never
going to be able to be proper friends with Sophie again, which kind of sucks,
because he really did like her– and also now he has no one to hold hands with
and no one he can out his arm around and no one he can kiss.
He tells Louis because he has to tell someone, tells him about how he doesn’t
like feeling alone and how he didn’t mean to be a bad boyfriend and how he
hopes he didn’t make Sophie feel bad. Louis is unusually quiet throughout the
whole thing. Harry’d expected him to be smug about it and say I told you so,
but the only thing he does is try to make Harry feel better: first by cracking
jokes, then by tackling him to the ground, and when none of those works he
makes Harry go get the laptop and introduces him to internet porn.
It– it should be weird, his best mate since he was eight (who happens to be a
star, Harry still forgets sometimes) pulling up a site called Pornhub and
starting to give him tips on how to tell the good videos apart from the bad
ones. It’s not. It’s like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Harry knows
a lot of his friends watch porn, has known for a while that theoretically he
could do it too, but between all the vague fantasies he got from snogging
Sophie and all the other stuff he kind of comes up with it’s never really
seemed necessary. But this– this is new and strangely exciting with how dirty
it is. Watching actual people have actual sex on the internet. It makes Harry
feel older.
It’s only when Louis pulls up a video to “try it” that Harry wonders what the
hell they’re going to do now. Because he’s hard already just from Louis
scrolling through the website– is he, like, supposed to have a wank? Right here
in front of Louis? The idea should be embarrassing, and it is, but it also
somehow makes Harry feel like he’s getting even harder. Anticipation makes his
breathing a bit shaky. Louis glances at him as the video starts. Harry’s palms
feel sweaty.
The man and the woman are already kissing onscreen, and they take each other’s
clothes off surprisingly fast. (Is it like this in real life?) Harry watches, a
little bit in awe, as the man gropes at the woman’s breasts and she actually
moans. By the time she’s sucking his cock, Harry’s shifting self-consciously on
his chair, his fingers digging into his own thigh, and when the man groans and
comes on her chin he can’t take it anymore and presses his palm down on his
crotch, breathing out hard.
Louis’s still there. Harry hasn’t forgotten for a moment.
He glances at Louis uncertainly, hand still on his crotch. On the screen, by
the sounds the woman’s making, it sounds like they’re having proper sex now.
Harry doesn’t know what he’s expecting Louis to do, only that he feels all hot
inside (he really, really hopes he doesn’t accidentally do magic now); when
Louis meets his eyes, Harry’s scared for a second that he might come right
there and then.
Louis looks at him, and then his eyes drop straight to Harry’s crotch. Harry
has to bite down on his lip. “Go on, Hazza,” Louis says quietly. “You can touch
yourself.”
Harry takes his eyes off Louis and obeys. His hand reaches into his pants and
he grips himself properly – he’s close, really close – and he squeezes his eyes
shut as he begins moving his hand up and down a tiny bit. His breathing is
shaky. He hears the little cries of the woman in the video, his hand moves
faster and he bites his lip hard, he realizes Louis is definitely watching him
– and then he opens his eyes, meets Louis’s blue ones and comes all over his
hand with a shaky gasp.
For a moment neither of them says anything, the only sound in the room the tiny
moans from the laptop speakers. Then Louis jumps up from where he’s sitting.
He’s glowing so bright it reminds Harry of a blush, and through his trackies
it’s impossible to miss that he’s hard. Harry feels another jolt of heat.
Louis clears his throat. Harry’s hand is still in his pants. “Okay, just make
sure you clear the browser history when you’re done,” Louis says quickly. His
voice is a little high-pitched. He clears his throat again. “Um, have fun,
sorry about Sophie, I’ll see you later, yeah?” And with that, he pulls the
window open and jumps straight out. (It’s not the first time he’s done it.)
The video’s still playing. Harry closes it and pulls his hand out of his pants
slowly. Ew. He takes a Kleenex from the box on his desk and wipes it clean.
Then, after thinking for a moment, he turns back to the computer and pulls
another video up.
It’s not until two orgasms later (none of them are as good as the first for
some reason, and he can’t get Louis watching him out of his mind) that it
occurs to him that, wait, where did Louis learn to find porn from?
                                       *
Things are different after he breaks up with Sophie.
Harry feels different. He feels restless, like there’s something about himself
he can’t quite get to, an itchy spot he can’t scratch. After a couple of weeks
go by, he realizes he’s going into what he mentally refers to as a quiet time–
things aren’t happening, he isn’t doing anything, and he has way too much time
to, like, think. He doesn’t like it.
He needs to make things happen. He needs to fill time up and not start thinking
weird thoughts. Other times he’s gone to Louis because the one thing he knows
Louis always does is make him laugh, but it somehow doesn’t feel right now.
So he dates.
It’s easy, really. He’s noticed girls at school looking at him interestedly
ever since he started going out with Sophie. Maybe they see him as someone
boyfriendy now, not just another guy from school they’re not interested in?
Either way, there are heaps and heaps of pretty girls now he’s noticing them
properly, and most of them are quite nice to be around once he gets talking to
them. Harry’s always been best with people when he’s alone with them. He likes
people, is the thing, likes being with them and getting to know who they are
and what they like and what they think like. He pays attention to them, and
it’s easy to notice girls like that. He’ll talk to a girl and then see her go
off with her friends and whisper to them and suddenly they'll all be turning
their heads and shooting looks at him and he can’t help but feel a little bit
pleased.
So there’s Leah, who has blonde hair and a lovely laugh and who he’s with until
the end of summer, when they both have tan lines from sunbathing together and
she tells him she likes him but she likes Alec better. Then there’s Mandy for
two weeks in September, Nicole for most of October, a few dates in November and
December with girls he doesn’t see again and then Jenna, and Nat, and…
It starts out new and exciting. It’s nice to be wanted, and it’s nice to be
with someone he likes who likes him back. He likes being kissed goodbye, likes
texting until it’s past midnight and his phone’s run out of credit, likes
smelling girls’ hair and holding their hand and have them look at him like he’s
the best thing. He likes being with someone, likes how it’s like having a
friend that’s just a little bit more. And he likes the girls themselves, of
course he does, likes getting to know each one’s little habits and quirks, like
how Mandy is more ticklish than anyone he’s ever met or how Nat likes to put
her hands under his t-shirt when they snog and run them up and down, feeling
his chest. He likes feeling their mouths on his, warm and slick, and he likes
the feel of their bodies when they're pressed up against him or underneath him
on his bed. Girls are wonderful. Harry feels lucky to have this. But–
–but nothing, really. It’s not a big deal. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.
He’s not thinking about it.
Louis doesn’t much like any of his girlfriends, though. Harry introduces him to
Leah and it’s such a disaster that he doesn’t try again. Given that he never
actually meets most of them but still makes a face every time Harry mentions
them, Harry only gets more certain that Louis doesn’t like them because they
take up Harry’s time. (It’s a bit frustrating, though, because with some of
them, like Mandy and Nat, he’s reminded a little bit of Louis, and he’s sure
that if Louis stopped being a prat about it they’d get on really well.) But
even though Louis doesn’t like them, he’s surprisingly understanding when Harry
needs him to be. When Leah breaks up with him, he lets Harry cry angry
embarrassed tears onto his chest and hugs him tight while he glows angrily,
calling Leah all sorts of names under his breath and muttering fiercely that
she didn’t deserve him, that Harry shouldn’t cry over someone like that. Harry
sniffs and burrows into Louis’s chest and, for a moment, feels so lucky he gets
to have Louis here with him.
(Then he feels guilty. Because Louis is somewhere he doesn’t belong in because
of Harry. Harry can never quite manage to forget it.)
It’s not until Louis shows up one day with two lovebites on his neck that Harry
realizes Louis might be seeing someone too.
He’s spent the weekend busy with Nat and revision and he’s barely seen Louis at
all; when he shows up at Harry’s window on Sunday night because it’s pouring
outside Harry just yawns, lends him some dry clothes and goes back to bed,
Louis slipping in after him. Harry’s falling asleep when he squints and sees
them: two purple bruises on Louis’s neck, one under his jaw and the other just
above his collarbone. They look strange on Louis’s gently glowing skin, like
tiny galaxies.
He feels a jolt. Someone’s been giving Louis lovebites. The thought sits oddly
in his stomach.
“D’you have a secret girlfriend you haven’t told me about?” he mumbles
sleepily. He hopes it comes across as casual. Louis looks a bit confused –
Harry isn’t sure if it’s genuine or if he’s just pretending not to know what
Harry’s talking about – so Harry gestures to his neck. There’s a strong impulse
to touch. Harry manages to hold it in, but he can’t stop himself from tracing
the shapes of the bruises in the air, like he’s touching them from two inches
away.
Louis follows his hand with his eyes. “Oh,” he says. His eyes flick up to
Harry’s face. “No, Hazza, I don’t have a secret girlfriend. You don’t have to
worry about competition.”
Harry ignores the joke. “Who’d you get those from, then?”
Louis rolls over so he’s not facing Harry anymore. “Someone I’ve been seeing.
Not my girlfriend.”
“But–”
“But nothing,” Louis says, sounding grown-up and something else Harry can’t put
his finger on. “Goodnight, Harry.”
Harry frowns. Okay, then, if Louis doesn’t want him asking he can just say. He
rolls over so he’s facing the ceiling, then sniffs. That’s weird. It doesn’t
smell like Harry’s deodorant. That sometimes happens when Louis forgets to
borrow it so he ends up smelling like boy-sweat, which Harry doesn’t really
mind unless it’s more than, like, three days old. But the familiar Louis sweat-
smell isn’t there. It’s just the fabric softener his mum uses for the sheets
and… someone else’s deodorant?
Harry sniffs again. it’s definitely boy deodorant – it has that musky sort of
smell, not girls’ clean fruity one. So Louis is using someone else’s deodorant,
someone that’s not the person who’s giving him those lovebites. Or… is it?
What would it mean if Louis was seeing a boy? Harry doesn’t know why, but he
doesn’t want to think about it.
He resolves to make sure Louis uses his deodorant tomorrow. He doesn’t want
Louis smelling different. It makes it seem like he’s getting further and
further away from Harry, and Harry doesn’t want to get left behind.
                                       *
After that, he develops a strange fascination with giving girls lovebites. It’s
something he’s done and had done to him once or twice, but never like this–
he’s never been this eager to, he’s never looked at them after and marvelled at
the fact that he’s left a mark on someone else, that now everyone will know he
was here. He can’t get the way Louis’s neck looked with the bruises on it out
of his mind.
(He still doesn’t know who Louis got them from. He hasn’t asked again.)
                                       *
Around April, he realizes he doesn’t have to date a girl to kiss her.
It starts at Sam’s birthday party. He was very good friends with her when she
was little (she’s one of the people who knows what he can do) but now they’ve
sort of drifted apart; he has his own mates and she has hers. So the party’s
full of friends of hers Harry barely knows at all, including some girls who are
maybe a year or so older. In particular, a very pretty girl called Eve.
She likes him. Harry notices soon enough. She comes up to him an hour or so
after the party starts, smiling and sneaking these sly looks at him, and they
end up in Sam’s yard chatting as the sky grows darker (she knows a lot about
music; it’s really interesting to talk to her). When the first stars are coming
out, she takes hold of him and kisses him against the fence.
She knows what she’s doing, that much Harry can tell, aside from the fact that
she’s really good at it. After they’ve snogged for a while he’s about to ask
her for her number when she pulls back, kisses him on the cheek and tells him
she has to go now, but this has been lots of fun. And she’s gone before Harry
can even ask her wait, what?
When he finds Sam and asks her about Eve, she laughs. “She told me she was
leaving at eleven,” she tells him. “She does that. She always has other stuff
going on.” Then she takes a proper look at him and laughs like she’s surprised.
“Oh my God,” she says. “You hooked up with her!”
Harry tries to deny it, but the fact that he’s blushing bright red is probably
what gives him away. So Sam just laughs at him and tells him Eve hooks up with
lots of boys but doesn’t really date any of them, because she doesn’t like to
get involved with anyone. Which sounds very grown-up, even for someone who’s
older than him. And then Sam gets this sly grin on her face and asks him if
he’d like her number.
And it all goes on from there. He texts her, she texts back, they hang out,
they snog. She’s not his girlfriend and Harry doesn’t ask her to be. He knows
she hooks up with other people, and is strangely unbothered by it– why should
he care when he still gets to be with her? It’s different to anything he’s ever
done with a girl before, and it’s so exciting– especially because she knows so
much stuff he doesn’t. Like sex stuff. They never really do anything – Harry’s
not sure he wants to – but she’s very very good at groping him through his
jeans, which is a learning experience. Even if it makes him come once or twice
and makes his pants all gross after. When they stop seeing each other it’s
June; she calls and tells him she thinks she has a proper boyfriend now and
they’ve agreed not to see anyone else, and that it was cool getting to hang out
with him, yeah? It’s all surprisingly friendly, which works just fine for
Harry, and later, when he thinks about it, he realizes he’s not really upset.
Just… excited. Excited because this feels like something has changed and change
means new things. Because he wants to get to know as many people as possible
and for the first time it feels like he doesn’t need to limit himself, like he
doesn’t need to be someone’s boyfriend to get to know them and kiss them. It
almost feels freeing.
                                       *
He tells Louis all this, because he thinks his mates from school will just
laugh at him. Louis doesn’t do that, exactly. He just snorts and says, right,
so you think you’re gonna get a bunch of girls now without even having to date
them? You really are quite full of yourself, aren’t you?, which stings a bit
until Harry realizes he’s probably right and just kind of laughs at himself.
But, like, in a good way, because it’s Louis, and Louis never makes him feel
bad about himself on purpose. He just, like, puts things into perspective. It’s
nice. He’s possibly the best mate Harry could ask for.
Now it’s summer and Harry doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s hanging out with
Louis a lot. Louis seems quite happy with this, which inevitably makes Harry
pleased, because it’s what always happens when he has direct evidence that
Louis likes being with him. And really– sure, kissing someone is great, but
sometimes when he’s with Louis Harry catches himself wondering how the hell he
missed out on this because he was busy dating. It just– at times, it doesn’t
seem worth it.
He doesn’t tell Louis that. It’s embarrassing.
(They don’t talk about the lovebites or the person Louis got them from. Harry
doesn’t spot any more of them, but he still wonders. Who was it? Was it a boy?
The thought makes him feel something he can’t place. Was it a one-off thing, or
has he seen them again? Is he seeing them now? Louis’s pretty much always
around when Harry looks for him – so could he have time to be seeing someone
without Harry finding out? It’s not important, but the questions still niggle
at Harry, so much that when he thinks about them for too long he finds himself
doing odd bouts of unexpected magic like he used to when he was little.)
Louis’s sleeping in his bed a lot too on all sorts of nights, not just during
bad weather like he does when Harry’s dating someone. It reminds Harry of being
younger and being used to Louis sleeping next to him all the time, glowing in
the darkness like a night-light. It’s comforting, remembering that there are
things from when he was eight that feel the same now, and he wonders if it’s
like that for Louis too. How do stars feel time? Louis measures time in hours
and days and years just like everyone else does, but Harry wonders if it’s just
because he’s learned stuff from being here. How would he measure it if he was
still in star-shape? Stars live for hundreds and thousands of years, even if
Louis’s boy shape seems to be getting older just like any other person would.
If he was still in the sky, Harry would just be a tiny little thing to him. His
whole life would be like a day.
It’s unsettling to think about. He doesn’t do it often.
Instead, he curls up in bed next to Louis and lets their feet bump together.
Even in the sticky summer heat, Louis’s warmth never bothers him, and he feels
it on his own skin all over and falls asleep calm and safe.
Of course, he’s not eight anymore, so the fact that Louis is more and more
often still there when he wakes up is a problem, sometimes.
The first time it happens, Harry wakes up early in the morning with Louis’s leg
touching his and pale light slanting in through the window – and, of course, a
boner poking up through the worn fabric of his pyjama bottoms. Harry panics,
then thanks God Louis hasn’t woken up yet, and then hurriedly goes off to the
bathroom and has a wank with his forehead pressed up to the tile wall, his leg
still warm from Louis’s skin. The second and third time are more or less the
same, and it happens about five more times before he manages to stop panicking.
(It’s useful that he always goes right back to sleep after. That way, he
doesn’t really have time to think about it.)
Louis never wakes up, thankfully. Never ever. Not even that one particularly
embarrassing time when Harry wakes up and there’s already a dark wet spot on
his pyjamas because he’s already come all over them. Harry knows Louis’s asleep
not because he checks – most times he doesn’t dare to – but because if he was
awake and had noticed, he wouldn’t stop teasing Harry about it ever. What
reason could he have for pretending to be asleep anyway?
                                       *
Through the summer, he sees girls sometimes – but it’s not what it was before.
Maybe it’s what happened with Eve, maybe it’s being off school and with Louis
all the time, maybe it’s a completely different thing. For whatever reason, he
doesn’t feel like dating girls anymore, and he’s not sure if it’s the dating
itself that he doesn’t want to do or if it’s just that he can’t find a girl he
fancies enough.
He’s still very much into the idea of hooking up, though, so that’s what he
does.
It’s hard to meet new people in Holmes Chapel, especially people who are
willing to snog and then not date, but he makes do between friends of his
friends he hangs out with sometimes and people he gets to know outside the
village. It’s nice, hooking up with people who don’t expect anything from him,
but– for some reason, by the end of the summer it’s lost the appeal. He can’t
help but feel it’s the same thing over and over, and what does that mean?
Shouldn’t it be exciting to meet new people and kiss girls he likes, shouldn’t
that be enough? Because it makes no sense, then, that he’s constantly feeling
like he needs to find something more.
So by the time summer’s over, the only thing he really does it hang out with
Louis, because being with him makes that feeling go away. Being with him is
easy and familiar, and he never has to think about it – at least, not until
he’s gone.
                                       *
Harry isn’t drunk.
Yes, okay, it’s one of the first times he’s tried alcohol, he feels a strange
kind of tingly energy all over and he keeps laughing at everything, so what.
He’s only had, like, a beer. And a half. Surely that’s not nearly enough to get
someone drunk, even if he’s fourteen and not very used to drinking. He’s fine.
Okay, he’s maybe a little tipsy. But that’s all it is.
He sighs and flops back against the cushions lying all over Jess’ attic floor.
(Some of the boys had laughed when they’d seen them and asked if they were
having a sleepover, but Harry is very very glad they’re here. Genius idea.
He’ll have to tell Jess that.) Lying on his back, he thoughtfully inspects the
situation. This was supposed to be “the last great party before school really
starts up and we all get screwed over!” – because teachers have spent all of
September drilling the importance of GCSEs into their heads and no one wants to
admit it but they’re all kind of scared – and that’s why there’s so many people
here. Most of them he’s friendly with but doesn’t really know all that well,
which would be a great chance for Harry to get talking to a few of the girls
but the truth is that right now he really can’t be bothered.
Anyway. So, in theory it should be a fun night. But no one’s really doing much,
Harry notices. In fact, most people seem to be more or less in the same
situation he is: leaning on cushions and looking generally inactive.
It turns out Jess isn’t having that. Suddenly, she claps her hands. A few
people startle. “Okay, people, what is this?” she says. “This is no fun at all.
If I knew you lot were this boring I wouldn’t have invited you.”
This gets a few glares, but people start sitting up on their cushions. “Right,
so what’d you say we should do then?” asks a boy Harry’s pretty sure is called
Matt.
Jess frowns. “Well, I dunno. We could play a game? Truth or dare?” she suggests
halfheartedly. Someone groans. “All right then,” Jess says back snappily in
their direction, “you come up with something, if you’re so full of good ideas.”
Harry props himself up on his elbows and grins. “Spin the bottle,” he says.
It’s meant to be a stupid comment, because does anyone play that in real life
anyway or is that just from, like, films like High School Musical? But then he
sees a few faces looking thoughtful and a faint, “Cool,” from across the room,
and before Harry knows what’s going on Jess is clapping her hands excitedly and
calling him a genius. And then people are scooting over on their cushions to
make a sort-of circle and Jess’ fetching an empty beer bottle from somewhere
and wait, what?
Jess clears her throat before Harry can grasp the full implications of what
he’s done. “Okay, so we all know how the game works, don’t we? Everyone gets
their turn with this here,” she holds up the bottle, “and they have to kiss
whoever it lands on. So, for instance…” She gives the bottle a twist with a
flick of her wrist and it spins, spins, slows down and ends up pointing at Tony
Hall. There’s a few wolf-whistles, Tony blushes, Jess looks disgruntled but she
says, “Fine, shut up,” and crawls across the circle to Tony. She gives him a
quick peck on the lips, and when she pulls back Tony’s face is even redder.
“Next,” Jess announces, and passes the bottle to Kat Miles on her right.
And that’s how it starts. The bottle moves around the circle, girls giggle and
boys wolf-whistle, the air in the room feels heavier and Harry kisses Jenna
(which is a bit weird since she used to be his girlfriend), then a girl called
Harriet and then Jess herself. After three rounds, the initial awkwardness is
gone, and people start upping the rules. Two more rounds – Harry gets Anita and
then Harriet again – and the kiss has to be at least three seconds long. And
then Kat spins the bottle and it lands on Miranda and it’s decided that girls
have to kiss girls now if the bottle lands on them; the girls protest and say
they’ll only do it if boys have to kiss boys too. It’s agreed a bit
reluctantly.
Harry watches Kat and Miranda kiss to a chorus of ohhhhs and watches the bottle
come closer and closer and glances around at all the boys in the circle. His
palms feel sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, but it feels like the sweat
isn’t going away. And then it’s his turn, and he’s spinning the bottle a bit
sloppily, and it slows down down down until it’s perfectly still and pointing
at Dan Nicholls.
Harry’s lungs feel tight.
There’s no whistles like there was with Kat and Miranda, only the sound of a
few whispers here and there. Harry wipes his hands on his jeans again. “Go on,
Harry,” he hears Jess say, and he feels like he wants to get up and bolt, but
there’s no way out of this, is there? It’s the rules. So Harry flicks his eyes
up to Dan’s face nervously, then pushes himself up on his hands and knees and
crawls across the empty space in the middle of the circle, heart thudding.
Everyone’s watching. Harry meets Dan’s eyes, then glances away nervously.
They’re blue. He flicks his eyes down to Dan’s lips instead, and there’s a
moment that feels so long where he’s sure he’s just going to sit there frozen
and not be able to do it. And then he’s moving forwards and pressing his lips
against Dan’s for a full three seconds and it’s nothing like kissing all those
girls before, nothing at all, and Harry’s stomach feels warm from the inside
and his crotch feels warm from the inside and he realizes that unless he pulls
away now he’s going to have a very serious problem very soon.
So he does. He sits there and he looks at Dan and Dan looks back at him and his
face feels like it’s burning. Harry’s heartbeat is thudding like crazy and he
feels like something’s happened, something big, something scary. Then Dan
blinks at him and Harry jolts back to reality and turns around and scrambles
back to his spot in the circle without a word. no one’s saying anything. Harry
passes the bottle to Anita on his right and hopes everyone gets distracted,
because the thought that everyone was able to see that makes his cheeks burn
even hotter. He glances around the circle, meets Dan’s eyes, drops his gaze
immediately and tries to will his half-hard dick back down.
He needs another beer.
                                       *
Harry stops kissing girls after that.
He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to know what it could mean
should mean maybe possibly means. He doesn’t. It’s not– he doesn’t.
It’s not him. It can’t be him.
He has to stop himself from thinking. If he does, he’ll be fine. It’s the
thinking that’s the problem, he’s thinking too much and screwing all his
thoughts up, yes, that’s it. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
Because if it’s not nothing, he has no clue how he could possibly deal.
                                       *
It’s late October when Harry gets woken up at three am by someone falling
through his window.
He jolts awake and sits up in bed, heart pounding. Louis’s always quick and
noiseless when he comes in. What’s this? What’s going on? He panics for about
three seconds before the shape on the ground starts moving and his eyes fix on
it and he realizes that yes, it’s glowing faintly. Which is a relief, because
it means no one’s coming to kill him in his sleep, but what the hell is Louis
doing on the floor?
“Louis,” he whispers. He watches the Louis-shape on the floor move around but
not get up; he frowns and slips out of bed, cold air hitting his bare feet when
he sets them down on the floor. He pads up to Louis and crouches down beside
him. “Hey. Hey, look at me. Are you okay?”
“Yep!” Louis says, too loud and cheerful, startling Harry. “Yep, I’m fine, I
just need to–” He pushes himself up suddenly, getting up on both feet, and
Harry isn’t quite sure how he manages it (he’s still a bit sleep-clumsy) but
when Louis stumbles and sways dangerously he gets up too just in time to catch
him.
Louis hits his chest – solid, warm, glowing bright and happy in the dimness of
the room – and giggles, giggles, as his arms snake around Harry’s middle and
hold him tight. He’s taller than Harry, but when he fits his head onto Harry’s
shoulder it doesn’t seem like it at all. It’s only when Harry’s staggered a bit
and recovered from the slightly overwhelming feeling of having Louis everywhere
that he smells the alcohol on Louis’s breath and realizes what’s going on.
He tries to pull Louis away because he can’t concentrate when he’s all over
Harry like this, but Louis isn’t having it, tightening his fists in Harry’s
shirt and making a little clingy noise in the back of his throat. Harry
swallows. Louis probably has no clue what he’s doing right now, he reminds
himself. “Louis, are you drunk?” he asks quietly, even though he already knows
the answer.
Louis giggles again – Harry’s never heard him like this – and then, oh, he
presses his mouth up to Harry’s ear so that Harry can feel the warmth of his
breath on it. Heat floods his stomach. “Maybe I am,” Louis whispers
conspiratorially. His mouth doesn’t move from where it is. Harry needs to do
something.
So he pulls back from Louis, more forcefully this time, glancing away from the
confused look on Louis’s face. “All right, let’s get you to bed,” he tells him.
Louis’s frown eases and he nods seriously, but he’s barely taken three steps
before he trips on the carpet and Harry has to snake a hand around his waist to
steady him, whispering hey, careful. “Whoops,” Louis laughs, and Harry lets him
lean on him all the way to the bed, his stomach feeling heavy.
Louis launches onto Harry’s bed as soon as he can and smiles wide, wrapping all
the covers around himself like a cocoon. “Stay there, okay?” Harry tells him,
and dashes to the bathroom to get a glass of water because he’s heard it’s what
you have to do to not get hungover. He can’t stop the questions running through
his head as he fills a glass from the bathroom sink, the sound of the water
echoing off the tiles – where’s Louis come from? Who was he with, and why did
they let him go home alone if he’s like this? How the hell did Louis manage to
climb up to his window without falling and breaking his neck? His heart thuds
at the thought, because he knows that even though Louis is, strictly speaking,
not a person, he can get hurt just like everyone else can. He tries not to
think about it.
When he gets back, glass in hand, Louis seems to have decided he’s actually not
cold at all, because he’s thrown all the covers off. His head is tilted back,
his neck is all exposed – Harry’s eyes linger on it instinctively for a moment
– and, oh. Okay. And he also has a very large and very obvious boner. Harry
sees it and nearly drops the glass.
“Louis,” he says softly. His chest feels tight, and it shouldn’t, because
there’s no reason for it to be. Louis opens his eyes slowly, eyelashes
fluttering as he blinks and squints at him. A wide smile spreads over his face.
“Harry,” he whispers, and makes grabby hands at him.
Harry puts the glass down on the bedside table – for later, he reasons, for
when he can convince Louis to drink it – and slips into bed with Louis, pulling
the covers over both of them. It’s a tight fit nowadays, because they’re not
little kids anymore. Harry wonders if it should be weird. Then Louis sighs
happily and curls up into him, fitting a leg between Harry’s, pressing his face
into Harry’s neck. Harry freezes. Louis’s boner is insistently obvious against
Harry’s thigh, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but Harry watches on helplessly
as he starts getting hard too.
He grits his teeth, screws his eyes shut. This doesn’t mean anything. It
doesn’t–
He feels lips on his neck before he really registers it, and then Louis is
pressing a wet, sloppy kiss into the skin there. Harry’s eyes fly open. He
wants to tell Louis to stop, but he can’t find his voice. Louis presses another
kiss to his neck. Harry can tell his mouth is open. He’s fully hard now, of
course he is, because Louis’s lips are warm warm warm and they make Harry
tingly all over and this has to stop.
It doesn’t.
Another kiss, longer this time, lingering. Harry fight the urge to shiver and
doesn’t quite manage it. Louis draws back then, eyes shining. They’re so blue.
“Hazza,” he murmurs, the syllables all slurred into one another. “Hazza, I– I
always–” His lips go back to Harry’s neck, and they detach this time with a wet
sound. Hearing it jolts Harry into action.
“Louis,” he says, trying to stop his voice from shaking. His throat feels like
it’s all sealed up, like he can’t get enough air. He pushes Louis back, gently
but firmly, and ignores the way his body feels all cold after. “Louis, you’re
drunk.”
Louis frowns. Harry hates to look at it. “No, Hazza, I always– I just–”
“You’re drunk,” Harry repeats. He feels like it’s someone else speaking through
his mouth. “Go to sleep now, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.” And then
he turns his back to Louis, hands shaking, because if he doesn’t stop this now
he doesn’t know what will happen and it’s terrifying.
He screws his eyes shut. He hears Louis shifting around next to him until he’s
facing away from Harry too, but their backs are still touching, because the
bed’s not big enough for the two of them. Harry breathes in and out, in and
out, trying to stop himself from thinking so he can fall asleep. But he can’t,
so he lies there staring out at his bedroom in the dark, his cock throbbing
from how badly he needs to be touched.
He turns to look at Louis just once, when his breathing has levelled out and
his glow has dimmed and Harry knows for sure he’s asleep. But as soon as he
does, Harry feels hot all over, and then he notices Louis’s shirt moving,
gravitating towards him of its own accord, clinging to his fingertips. He
shakes it off and turns over immediately, heart hammering. He doesn’t fall
asleep for a long, long time.
                                       *
When he wakes up, Louis is gone, and it’s three days before Harry sees him
again.
                                       *
They don’t talk about it. How would they? Louis never brings it up, not once,
and Harry clings to the hope that maybe he’s forgotten about it, because it’s
him who was drunk. Harry wasn’t. Harry was perfectly sober, and he let Louis
kiss all the way up his neck, he got hard from it. What kind of friend was
that? How could he ever tell Louis about it?
So they don’t talk about it, and they’re still best mates, and it’s for the
best. And if Harry’s wanking sometimes and the memory of wet lips on his neck
is enough to send him over the edge immediately it doesn’t have to mean
anything at all.
                                       *
Harry goes to each and every party he can find nowadays. (It’s not a lot of
parties; it’s a small village.) They’re fun, and they’re distracting, and he
can get as tipsy at he wants, so. It’s a win-win situation, really.
Today was the last day of school before the Christmas holidays, which means no
more exams, which means they’re all more or less free now and Niall can invite
people over to his place and have them actually come. Harry doesn’t know if
tonight was meant to be Christmas- themed or not, because there’s mistletoe
hung half-heartedly in a corner of the living room but not much else.
Harry contemplates it while sipping his drink and then sighs. He’s bored.
There’s some sort of intense card game going on on the other side of the room,
but getting off Niall’s sofa to have a proper look doesn’t feel like it’d be
worth the effort. He squishes his cheek into a sofa cushion and looks out of
the window. If this doesn’t get more interesting, he thinks vaguely, it’s dark
enough outside to sit in Niall’s yard and do some stargazing.
He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sofa dipping and someone sitting down
beside him. Harry looks up and blinks. There are fifteen people here at most,
but he’d forgotten Dan Nicholls was here too. (Also, that thing with the bottle
and the kissing was two months ago. There’s literally no reason for Harry to
still be flustered about it. None at all.)
“Hey,” Dan says casually. Harry says hi back and tries to puzzle out what he’s
doing here. They’ve never really talked much. Come to think of it, Harry
doesn’t know why.
“You look busy,” Dan says. Harry looks at him and sees he’s smiling a little.
Harry yawns theatrically. “This is so boring,” he says dramatically.
“Everyone’s playing cards. Cards! I think they just discussed it and said, hey,
what’s the dullest game we can possibly find? Let’s play that!”
“Oh, like you’re one to talk. All you’re doing is lying there.”
He’s– he’s teasing him. Harry’s two minutes into this conversation and he’s
already being teased. “Yeah, so why are you sitting here talking to me? Don’t
you have better things to do?”
Dan meets his eye and grins. Harry feels his stomach give a little twist.
“Maybe I don’t.”
                                       *
“I like you,” Harry tells Dan very seriously after… how long has it been?
Harry’s sort of lost track of time, to be honest.
Dan’s really nice to be around. Like, really nice. Harry always assumed he was
sort of shy, but Harry’s been talking to him nonstop for ages now and maybe
it’s the beer or whatever but he’s giggly and smart and teases Harry a lot and
doesn’t seem even a little bit self-conscious. His hair gets in his eyes a bit,
and every time he brushes it off his forehead Harry finds his eyes tracking the
movement.
Harry’s a bit tipsy, so that’s probably why they’ve ended up doing what Harry
was considering just before, sitting on the sparse grass in Niall’s yard and
squinting up at the sky. Harry’s weirdly fascinated by it. Like… they’re
sitting on a rock that’s floating right through space. Space is out there. It’s
huge to think about. Harry’s been staring up at it for a while when Dan turns
to him and tells him, isn’t it crazy that all those stars are millions and
millions of miles away but we can still see them from here?, which is along the
lines of what Harry himself was thinking. Harry looks away from the sky and
beams at him. I like you.
Dan nudges his shoulder against Harry’s and leaves it there. Something jolts in
Harry’s stomach. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Harry, because he’s tipsy, turns his head and looks at him again, really looks
at him. He can see how blue his eyes are even with the faint light coming from
Niall’s house. He remembers noticing that back in October, when that happened.
Harry liked it. No, he’s going to think the words now, because he’s tipsy and
he can. He liked kissing Dan.
He thinks about how Dan came to talk to him specifically, how he’s been finding
excuses to touch Harry all night, and lets himself think that perhaps Dan might
have liked kissing him too.
They’re looking at each other now and neither of them is saying a word. Harry
feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something, like this moment could
somehow be what pushes him one way or the other.
So he makes a choice.
“Remember when we kissed that time?” Harry whispers, making the words just loud
enough to be heard. Dan nods after a moment, and Harry thinks he might have
moved forward a little. Before Dan can say anything, Harry carries on. “It was
nice.”
There it is. It’s out there and it’s terrifying. Harry feels his stomach clench
with nerves, because this could be it, this could be the moment when Dan pushes
him away and calls him that word and goes inside and tell everyone what he’s
just said. It could happen. It doesn’t.
“Really,” Dan says, just as quietly. Harry feels relief so strong it almost
overwhelms him, but there’s no time for that now – not when Dan’s lifting a
hand up and placing it on top of Harry’s so gently. He’s nervous, Harry
realizes. His hand is gentle and his eyes are flicking everywhere and he’s just
as nervous as Harry is.
Harry doesn’t think. He just mumbles, “D’you think we could do it again?” His
heart thumps frantically, he moves his face closer, Dan’s hand tightens on his
own– and then their noses bump and they’re kissing, right there in Niall’s yard
with the open sky above them. Dan’s lips are warm and slick and gentle, and it
should feel like kissing a girl does but it’s nothing like it. Harry feels
tingly down to his toes, feels himself nervous and shivery and happy, and it’s
almost like the feeling that comes when he does magic only there’s no magic
this time. Just this, Dan’s lips and Dan’s hand on Harry’s and kissing Dan.
They pull apart. Harry’s eyes flick up to Dan’s and he comes back for more.
They kiss again, and again, not talking at all, Harry letting Dan’s tongue
brush at the edges of his lips and then slip in between them. There’s nothing
else. Harry’s free hand tentatively moves to Dan’s neck, feeling the skin
beneath his fingers. There’s the feel of the shorter hairs at the back of Dan’s
neck and feeling a chest that’s solid and flat and the small short kisses every
time they draw apart, not wanting to stop. There’s only that. Harry doesn’t
even remember the stars anymore.
                                       *
Harry gets home unable to stop tracing his lips with his fingers. He gets into
bed – Louis is nowhere to be found – and for the first time in ages he falls
asleep without thinking.
                                       *
Things should change.
Harry kissed Dan. He kissed Dan because he wanted to. It should feel
terrifying, it should, because he can’t– he can’t just do something like that
and not expect anything to happen. But Harry can’t let himself think about what
it means, not now. He can only remember what it was like, how it felt like
nothing he’d done before, and wonder, is it supposed to be scary when it felt
so good?
Things should change, but they don’t, not really.
This is what he knows: he doesn’t want to be with girls anymore, not when
there’s this. (He isn’t sure if he wants to be with anyone. The next day, Dan
texts him I broke up w my gf a couple days ago i think i need some time to
think is that ok ? Harry texts back sure. friends? x and gets the answer Obvz,
so. Harry’s… a bit relieved.) But. Now what?
He kissed a boy. He’d maybe like to kiss more. That’s all there is to it. It
doesn’t change anything about who he is, because he’s not– he’s just Harry.
Just Harry.
And if it doesn’t change anything about who he is, it doesn’t matter that he
doesn’t tell anyone, right?
                                       *
It does. It does matter if he doesn’t tell anyone.
It’s been a week, Christmas is over, and Harry feels like he’s going to burst.
It’s like there’s this huge thing growing bigger and bigger inside him and he’s
trying to hold it all in. This shouldn’t be happening, not telling people
things shouldn’t be a problem, but– but he fantasizes sometimes about just
talking about it all with someone who won’t make a big deal out of it, just
talking so he can sort out the mess in his head. That’d be nice. But he stops
imagining it every time he remembers that talking about it would mean telling
someone.
If he’s being honest, the problem is Louis.
Because, like– he can’t just go around telling people things he hasn’t told
Louis. It doesn’t work like that. No one gets him like Louis does, so what
would be the use?
But. But just the thought of telling Louis makes Harry’s brain freeze, makes
him feel like he’s going to throw up. It’s– no. What would Louis think of him?
He’d remember that time, that time with the boner – and that other time with
the porn – and the night with the, the kissing Harry’s neck, if he ever
remembered it the next day – and, just, maybe he wouldn’t do anything outright
but he’d know, and he’d know when they slept in the same bed and he’d know
every time Harry hugged him and the thought is so huge and terrifying that
Harry shoves it away as soon as it comes.
But they’ve been friends for years and years, and now it’s the holidays and
there’s snow outside so they’re spending more time together than ever, and
Louis can always tell when there’s something wrong.
He never says anything. He just acts especially loud, drags Harry along to
whatever he’s come up with with particular enthusiasm and then keeps shooting
him these small worried looks whenever he thinks Harry’s not looking. It’d
cheer Harry up if his stomach didn’t feel all heavy whenever he’s with him.
He’s already keeping one thing from Louis. He doesn’t know if he can deal with
another. Especially not when it feels like this, like it’s dragging him down,
like it’s something to be ashamed of. He doesn’t know how much longer he can
take it for, how long it’s going to be before he cracks.
                                       *
Louis want him to climb a tree. Louis wants him to climb an icy tree. Harry
doesn’t know how someone could ever think that’s a good idea.
(To be honest, if he were in a better mood he’d probably do it anyway. But he’s
not. He’s in a horrible mood and he’s cold and he feels awful and tense and a
liar and he has to tell Louis but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to.)
“Harryyyy,” Louis calls from above, because of course he’s already up there.
“Come on! Don’t be boring.”
“Because falling and breaking my neck is so much fun,” Harry mumbles under his
breath. Somehow Louis hears it, because the next thing Harry knows a branchload
of ice is being dumped right onto his head. Ugh. Harry blinks. There’s snow on
his eyelashes. Also, he thinks some of it might be sliding down the back of his
neck.
Fine, then.
Harry stares blankly ahead to where the river flows. He’s not in the mood for
this. He’s never really in the mood lately, but today is especially bad,
because he feels weighed down and fed up and mad at himself for getting upset
over nothing. He just wants to go home. He wants to go home and sleep for as
long as he wants and not have to worry about anything, about not telling people
things and what would happen if he told people things and–
“Harry?”
Louis plops down next to him so suddenly it’s like he’s fallen out of the sky
(ha). Harry doesn’t want to look at him. He’s fine, he is, it’s just that
climbing trees is stupid anyway and–
“Harry. Hey.” Louis nudges his shoulder with his own. He’s barely wearing any
winter clothes, just a sweater of Harry’s. Still, he’s warm even though the air
is icy. It’s not just that you can see his breath when he talks, but also a
faint faint steam that seems to come from his skin. “D’you wanna head back
home?”
Harry blinks at him, a little stunned. He was expecting to have to brush off an
are you okay? Instead, Louis’s somehow figured out exactly what he wants to do
right now and hasn’t asked Harry for a single explanation. How does he do that?
“Yeah,” Harry says. His throat feels a little hoarse. He clears it. “Yeah, I’m
not really feeling so good.”
“Okay,” Louis agrees easily, and in a moment he’s hauled himself up and is
holding a hand out to Harry. Harry takes it and lets his fingers linger for a
moment even after Louis’s pulled him up. The warmth is nice is all.
                                       *
The walk back home is unusually quiet. Harry’d say something to lighten the
mood, but he’s so furiously stuck in his own head that the outside world is
lost to him. Even Louis. (Even though Harry knows without even having to look
that he’s doing that worried-looks thing. It makes his skin prickle.)
It’s only Gemma in the house, which probably means she’s studying like crazy
and he won’t see her all afternoon. Still, Harry locks his bedroom door behind
him after they both come in. It feels like the thing to do somehow.
He stands there for a moment and then paces the whole of his room once or twice
before he gets to the window and looks out, eyes fixed on a point in the
distance. The glass is misty. He’s dimly aware of Louis sitting down on the bed
somewhere behind him, of his own fingers digging into the wood of the
windowsill, but he only snaps out of it when he hears Louis’s voice. “So are
you gonna tell me what’s wrong or what?”
Harry whirls around and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “What?”
Louis sighs and just keeps looking at him. Harry doesn’t like it. Louis’s eyes
feel weirdly searching, and for a moment, Harry’s irrationally scared that
Louis might be able to read everything on his face without him saying it.
Harry turns away abruptly. He doesn’t know how Louis does that. He makes Harry
feel like spilling everything out and he hasn’t even said a word. Harry hates
it; it makes him feel vulnerable and helpless and stupid.
Louis’s eyes are still there, fixed on the back of his head. Harry doesn’t need
to look at him to know that.
“Louis,” his voice is rough, and it feels like it’s someone else speaking,
“what do– what do you do if you think you’re into boys?”
He hears himself say the words. His heart thuds, hard. Shit. Shit. It’s out
there and he can’t take it back. His hands tighten on the windowsill. He can’t
look at Louis, it feels like he’s never going to be able to look at Louis
again–
A hand touches his shoulder gently. Harry almost jumps, then recoils into
himself because of course it’s Louis, who else would it be? He tries to turn
his face away. “Harry,” he hears Louis say. “Harry, hey.” His hand starts
rubbing circles into Harry’s shoulder. Why’s he doing this? “Harry, breathe.
It’s okay. You’re okay.” Harry turns his head a little, meets Louis’s eyes,
blue and fixed straight on him. He looks away again. “You wanna sit down and
tell me about it?”
No, there’s nothing in the world that Harry wants less, so why’s he going along
with it, why’s he padding away from the window and gingerly sitting on the bed?
Louis follows him. Harry looks at his feet moving closer and says nothing.
Louis sits next to him, his back against the wall. Harry hugs his own knees and
stares straight ahead. Louis’s still pressed up against him, all along his left
shoulder and arm, and Harry isn’t sure if he wants to move away or lean into
it. He doesn’t move.
“Tell me about it?” Louis prompts.
Harry breathes deep. Okay. It’s okay. Louis said so. He can hear his pulse
inside his ears. “I, um,” he starts. He stays there, lost. What’s he supposed
to say? He can’t figure it out at all. “You know who Dan Nicholls is? He goes
to school with me. He lives around here, I think…” He trails off blankly. One
of his hands curls into a fist.
“Think so,” Louis says. “What about him?”
Breathe. Breathe. Harry hugs his knees tighter and tries to curl into himself.
“I,” he says. His chest is tight. “I, um, I kissed him. The other day.” He
screws his eyes shut for a moment. “I liked it.”
Shit.
His eyes are burning. He can’t think. Louis knows now, Louis knows, he can’t
take it back. He’s changed things. He’s changed things forever. Louis might
pretend to want to be his mate but he won’t be, not anymore, because oh God
he’s going to think Harry fancies him and that’s–
“Harry.” Louis’s hand is on his shoulder again. Why? “Harry, it’s okay. Hey.
Look at me. Come on.”
And Harry thinks that’s probably the last thing he can do right now, but. But
he still turns his head around to face Louis and he still meets Louis’s eyes
and there’s nothing in them – no weirdness and no sign he’s uncomfortable
around Harry. He looks as serious as Harry’s ever seen him, and he’s glowing so
bright it makes Harry want to squint against it.
There’s a moment where nothing happens.
Louis says nothing. Harry can’t say anything. There’s a sudden tug of nerves in
his stomach. What’s going on? What does this mean? He looks at Louis, and Louis
looks back, and then– then there’s a jolt, hot and strange and powerful. It’s
like he’s about to do magic – like when he kissed Dan, Harry thinks wildly –
and it overwhelms him for a moment. So much that when he jolts back into
reality he’s staring right at Louis’s lips.
There’s a long silent moment where Harry just stares, frozen. Then he draws his
eyes back up as quickly as he possibly can. It’s not quick enough. Louis’s eyes
are trained on him, and he’s seen everything. He’s seen everything and he’s not
moving.
Harry feels like he shouldn’t understand at all, but before he can even begin
to get confused he understands it all. Easy. Clear.
This he’s feeling– it’s want.
It doesn’t shock him. It doesn’t affect him at all. He just blinks, and he sees
Louis’s face inching just that tiny bit closer, and for the first time he
doesn’t think. He just does it. He just moves forward suddenly until his and
Louis’s foreheads are touching and Harry’s close enough that he can see the
tiny gold flecks in Louis’s eyes and feel the heat pulsing off his skin. Louis
doesn’t move. Harry doesn’t either. There’s a long, long moment.
Then, Harry whispers, “Can I?” and Louis seems to jolt into action, and where
before his lips were barely an inch away now they’re closer and closer and oh.
Louis’s lips are warmer his skin is. It’s the first thing Harry registers. He
kisses Harry gently, like he’s something he’s uncertain of. Harry feels the
heat in his gut grow and grow. He’s kissing Louis, he realizes somewhere in the
back of his mind, he’s kissing Louis, and that thought is what makes him start
kissing back fiercely, messily, opening his mouth up. Louis makes a surprised
little sound but then scoots over so his whole body’s facing Harry and he can
hold Harry properly, snake an arm around to his back and inch a hand up the
back of his shirt. Harry pulls back, shivers without wanting to and immediately
comes back for more.
The kissing is wetter this time, dirtier. Harry can smell Louis everywhere.
Their mouths make a slick sound when they slide against each other. Louis’s
hand moves further and further up until it’s splayed out on Harry’s back,
making Harry arch and press into Louis. He’s hard, of course he is, and he
feels a jolt when he pulls Louis against him and realizes Louis is too, his
cock pressing into Harry’s thigh. Harry makes a sound into the kiss. Louis rubs
up against him and Harry breathes out hard.
Harry pulls away and tugs Louis towards him. “Come on,” he pants, “come on,”
and then he’s dropping backwards, landing face-up on the bed, tugging Louis
down with him so that he ends up right on top of Harry, their boners pressed
together. Harry moans. Louis looks down at him, glowing bright and blinding,
and then presses his lips to Harry’s neck, wet and sloppy, just like he did
that other time. Harry writhes and grinds up against Louis. He’s close already,
and he can tell Louis is too by the way he’s grinding down frantically. It’s
hot, it’s so hot that he was the one to get Louis like this, he was the one to
make him lose control, to mouth at Harry’s neck like this, fierce and slick. He
thinks he might have said Louis’s name out loud, but it doesn’t matter, nothing
matters except for Louis’s lips and Louis’s cock and the way it’s rubbing down
against Harry’s. He tugs Louis off his neck. His hips snap. God, he’s so close.
He looks up at Louis’s blue blue eyes on top of him and surges up to meet his
lips, and then Louis sucks his tongue into his mouth and grinds down
particularly hard and that does it– Harry arches off the bed and into Louis,
moaning, hips rutting desperately, burying his face in Louis’s neck because
it’s too much oh God as he feels himself come. Louis follows straight after,
and Harry slumps back and watches in wonder, breathing hard, ears ringing.
Watching Louis come is like nothing he’s ever seen.
Louis’s mouth falls open, and his eyes screw shut, and he shudders and glows so
bright Harry has to close his eyes for a second. It’s the hottest thing Harry’s
ever seen.. But it’s also huge, and like this, below him, still grinding out
tiny aftershocks, Harry feels for the first time so tiny – so human.
Louis is a star. Louis is here with him.
Louis collapses down on Harry then, and Harry kisses him because he can, even
though he feels tiny, barely important at all next to something like this.
Louis rolls off and drops down next to him and they look at each other for the
tiniest moment, still breathing hard, Harry’s heart racing. Then Louis surges
forward and wraps his arms around him, holding Harry tight and fierce, burying
his face into Harry’s neck without words. Harry thinks he feels more there than
he’s ever felt.
Then, he feels something cold on his nose. He squints, looks up, and– it’s
snowing inside his bedroom. Harry blinks, and a snowflake lands on his eyelash.
“Hey, Lou, look,” he whispers, and Louis disentangles from him and looks up.
His face cracks into a gigantic grin. “Well done, Hazza.”
Harry hasn’t made it snow since he was nine. He doesn’t wonder about what made
him do it now. Instead, he just turns to face Louis. The snowflakes melt before
they land on him. Harry tucks his head in between Louis’s chin and shoulder and
stays there.
                                       *
It’s dark outside and the house is silent and Harry’s made Louis come two more
times and is feeling quite pleased with himself. (They’d taken turns to shower
after because they were both all sticky and gross. Louis’s hair is still wet,
drying against the pillow.) Harry’s mum comes home late tonight, so they’d had
dinner with Gemma, who’d looked exhausted and didn’t even bat an eyelid at
seeing Louis there too.
And now they’re in Harry’s bed, Louis’s foot kicking against his, the snow
hitting the window silently from the outside.
Tentatively, Harry scoots over a bit and fits his head on Louis’s shoulder,
chasing the warmth there. Louis lets him. Harry closes his eyes and lets his
thoughts drift. He briefly considers more kissing, but they’re in clean clothes
now and he feels it’d be a bit of a shame to get them all gross again.
He blinks sleepily a few times and then a thought comes to him. “Lou?”
“Yeah?” Harry can feel the vibrations in Louis’s chest from his voice.
“You know– those lovebites you had? Who did them?” Harry doesn’t know why, but
he’s been more or less wondering about it since the day he saw them, so. It
can’t hurt to ask.
Louis is quiet for a moment. Harry thinks he might not answer. Then, “Friend of
mine.”
“Oh.” Harry considers it for a moment. “Guy or girl?”
Louis shifts a bit. “Guy.”
“Oh,” Harry says again. Fine. That’s– fine.
Then he moves suddenly and he’s straddling Louis, his hands on Louis’s chest
and his knees on either side of him. Louis makes a surprised noise. Harry
smirks down at him and, before Louis can say anything, Harry leans down and
puts his lips to his neck.
He’d kissed all the way down Louis’s throat a while ago, but this is different,
because he’s doing it with a purpose. Louis’s skin is soft and having it
against his mouth makes Harry feel glowy himself. He sucks on a spot, gently at
first, getting bolder and bolder when Louis starts reacting to it: he doesn’t
say anything, but he keeps shifting against the sheets and Harry can hear his
breathing getting heavier. Harry sucks on the skin particularly hard and then
lets go with a wet sound; he goes back right after and grazes his teeth against
it. Louis hisses.
When Harry pulls back to admire it he has to blink a few times. It’s a deep
glowing purple; in this light, it almost looks like it’s changing shapes. He
can’t stop himself from reaching out to brush his fingers over it in awe. He
can hear Louis breathe out when he does. He did this. Harry did this to him.
It’s hard to get his head around it.
Speaking of hard. Ha.
Harry draws back and does his best to cock an eyebrow at Louis. “Again?”
“Shut up,” Louis laughs. “I can feel yours too, you know.” He probably can,
yes. It doesn’t matter that Harry hasn’t been touched or kissed at all – seeing
Louis’s neck like this is hot.
Harry bites his lip, considering. Louis’s eyes fix on it.
Okay. To hell with the clean clothes, Harry thinks vaguely as he puts his hands
up Louis’s shirt. They can shower tomorrow anyway.
***** Chapter 3 *****
"There are
some feelings
you will never
find words for;
you will learn
to name them
after the ones
who gave them
to you."
- Maza-Dohta
                                       *
Harry thought, – after… six years? It’s been six years, hasn’t it? – that he
knew everything there was to know about Louis. Or, at least, that he knew more
about Louis than anyone else did. It’s strangely exciting to discover that he
was so, so wrong.
He already knew that he’ll somehow end up laughing whenever Louis does and that
Louis likes looking up at the sky and that he nicks Harry’s things whenever he
can get away with it. He’s still sure there’s that thing he knows about Louis
that nobody else does. But it’s the first time he gets to figure out that Louis
kisses like it’s the easiest thing in the world, that he sometimes giggles for
no reason when he’s sucking on Harry’s neck, that he gives absolutely fantastic
handjobs.
(He discovers this the day he’s sulky about having to go back to school after
Christmas holidays, and Louis takes it upon himself to “cheer him up.” Louis
has to have done this before, there’s no other explanation for how smooth he is
about it, but Harry finds he doesn’t particularly mind – not when he’s so good
at it Harry’s coming in about five seconds with Louis’s hand on his cock and is
left gasping and trembly. Harry insists on having a go at it right after.
Having his hand on Louis’s cock should be a bit weird but it’s mostly just
really hot, especially because his sort-of clumsiness at this is still enough
to get Louis writhing and have him coming all over Harry’s hand soon enough.)
So it’s a thing that just sort of… happens. Louis is absolutely still Harry’s
best mate and they snog a lot and get each other off whenever they possibly can
and when Harry thinks about it it’s a bit like having a girlfriend – boyfriend?
– but one that’s just, like. Just Louis. So they’re technically the same as
they’ve always been only with this new thing they never really talk about,
that’s just there – they’ll be wrestling on the ground and when Louis has him
pinned down instead of just grinning smugly he looks at Harry for a moment and
then kisses him – and anyway, Harry reasons, it works just fine, doesn’t it?
Why should they talk about things and risk it getting weird when they can just
carry on as they are without it being, like, a thing?
Anyway, thinking about a thing with Louis is strangely unsettling. It’s… it’s
Louis. They don’t work like that. Do they?
Whatever. This he only thinks when he’s alone. Being with Louis is nice because
he never has to think about it.
He’s stopped dating girls for good. That’s not even a question. It doesn’t
matter that he and Louis aren’t anything, because the idea is just– it’s wrong.
As the weeks go by, one or two girls try to approach him tentatively, and he
turns them down every time. (He’s sort of friends with Dan now, but that’s all
it is.) He barely hangs out with people from school now anyway because he’d
much rather go home and find Louis and snog him for a few hours. When would he
even have time to date someone?
It’s like– since Louis’s barely met anyone Harry knows apart from Gemma and his
mum, it’s like whenever he’s with him it’s something completely apart from
everything else in Harry’s life. And now that feeling’s only gotten stronger.
Harry doesn’t do it on purpose, exactly. It’s just really, really hard to
remember anyone else exists at all when Louis has his shirt off and a hand in
Harry’s pants– and for some reason it happens a lot of the other times too,
even when they’re not doing handjob things. But really, how is Harry going to
think about anything that’s not what’s here when he has Louis glowing warm next
to him?
They don’t only do things in Harry’s room. Harry kisses Louis down by the river
a lot, and that’s out in the open even if there’s barely ever anyone there. It
seems daring at first, makes Harry’s hands shake a bit when he pulls Louis in
and makes his heart beat even faster than when they usually do this. But they
move on to riskier things when Louis won’t stop touching his leg under the
table when he stays over for dinner, or when he insists on going with Harry to
buy groceries and kisses him next to the canned food where anyone could walk in
and see; before Harry notices, it’s become a game to see just how much they can
get away with. (Harry knows it’s dangerous, that if anyone from the village saw
them at all it’d take less than a day for word to get out, but that only seems
to add to the risk and adding to the risk means adding to the fun.) Harry’s
pretty pleased with himself when he manages to top Louis’s sneaking into school
and snogging him behind the gym by dragging Louis into the trees next to the
park and getting him off right then and there.
It’s exhilarating. It’s probably a combination of that and all the orgasms
that’s making Harry grin so much these days.
                                       *
It takes Harry more than it probably should to start to wonder if all of this
means anything.
Because he’s– he’s not. He can’t fancy Louis, can he? They’re just really good
mates. And, like, they get off because it’s fun, it’s a game. He slips into the
habit of kissing Louis goodbye on the cheek each time without noticing, and
when he does he starts to puzzle over it. Should it be weird? But Louis never
says anything about it even if he never kisses Harry back, so that means he’s
okay with it, doesn’t it?
It’s a while before Harry puts the words “Louis” and “boyfriend” together in
his head, and he finds himself considering them more and more often even if
sometimes they seem so scary he never wants to look at Louis again. It’s– it
wouldn’t be that different from what it is now, would it? Would Louis mind?
Harry finds himself hoping he doesn’t. He thinks it wouldn’t be any more – he
forces himself to think the word and it sends a jolt through him – any more gay
than it already is, if Louis is worried about that. Can stars, like, have
crushes? Logically, Harry supposes they can’t, but he’s fairly sure they don’t
have orgasms either, so you never know.
Whatever. It’s stupid. He should keep things as they are, he tells himself
firmly, and not mess it up. It gets kind of… unsatisfying, though, after a
while.
                                       *
It’s an afternoon in March, so Harry supposes it should be getting warmer. Her
blows on his fingers to try and heat them up. Spring, right, and all that?
When’s that supposed to start?
It’s been raining until just a while ago, so the earth is squishy and the air
smells like cold and that after-rain smell. Harry’s fairly sure his jeans are
getting all muddy even though he managed to find a rock to sit on. He looks at
the river for a moment, then glances up at the viaduct that’s a little further
off and tilts his head backwards to look up at the sky. The clouds are mostly
gone now, gathering along the horizon and leaving a wide patch of pale sky in
the middle. The sun’s going to start setting soon now. Harry thinks, absently,
that the sky always looks especially huge from here, somehow bigger than all
the trees and houses and fields he can see from here.
Harry’s nose is getting numb. He sniffs. Then, he turns to Louis and sticks his
face in his neck to warm it up, more or less a reflex action by now. Louis only
reacts to lift a hand up and pet Harry’s hair vaguely.
“‘M cold,” Harry mumbles.
Louis sighs dramatically. “Imagine if all of us were that lucky.”
Harry lifts his face, smacks Louis’s arm, reconsiders and puts his face back in
Louis’s neck. Louis’s hand comes back like it’s nothing. It’s a gesture that’s
so casual that it stuns Harry for a moment, makes him suddenly wonder is this
what friends do could it mean something does it mean something? And then,
without lifting his face from Louis’s neck, Harry blurts out (because he’s an
idiot), “Will you be my boyfriend?”
He screws his eyes shut here where Louis can’t see; then, he draws back and
blinks at Louis, hope and dread pooling together in his stomach. Louis blinks
back. “What?”
“I, um, I just thought that, like, we’re doing all this stuff, right? And
maybe, I dunno,” Harry doesn’t know why he’s still talking, how he hasn’t run
away to hide forever, “it’d be nice? If you wanted?”
A train rattles by over the viaduct. There’s silence and Harry’s stomach sinks
sinks sinks– he’s such an idiot, how could he ever let this happen–
“Can’t,” Louis says easily. “I’m your best mate already, and if I give up the
title who knows who’ll get it.” He wrinkles his nose. “Probably one of those
people you go to school with, right?”
Harry can’t breathe. “But–”
“Hey,” Louis interrupts, “how about we go back to yours and get off?”
Harry shuts his mouth. Yes. Yes, okay. This is– this is probably the best thing
that could have happened, Louis letting him down easy, because things can stay
the same now but Harry can get that (stupid, stupid) idea out of his head for
good. Yes. It’s fine. It is absolutely no big deal.
After, though, he can’t stop himself from kissing a giggly path up Louis’s neck
after they’ve both come and are lying there all sweaty, trying to get their
breath back. Louis squirms and smiles underneath him even it’s more a
boyfriendy thing than a getting off thing, so Harry figures it’s fine. He
doesn’t have to be Harry’s boyfriend if they can keep doing this, this thing
that they have. There’s no real reason for him to feel disappointed.
                                       *
Harry has this habit, right, of doodling on his hands in class. It’s not
something he really thinks about. He’ll be sitting there trying to pay
attention and then suddenly he’ll have completely spaced out and by the time he
comes back to himself there’ll be scribbles and patterns and tiny
constellations drawn all over his left hand.
It happens in History today, but there aren’t any vague doodles this time.
Harry looks down at his hand and there’s only a tiny L written in the middle of
his palm.
He panics for a moment. When he’s stuck his thumb in his mouth, though, and is
about to rub it off, he stops and reconsiders. He wipes his thumb off on his
uniform trousers and sticks his left hand under his leg, palm facing up. It’ll
rub off on its own soon enough, he reasons. He likes having it, anyway. It’s
like… it’s the same feeling he gets when he gets a lovebite, actually. Proud
and smug and claimed. Only with this it makes no sense.
He takes his palm out and looks at it again. He lets himself imagine, for a
moment, that Louis was the one who drew it, and he lets himself imagine what
it’d be like if Louis let Harry give him a matching H. Then he stops, because
it’s stupid. He licks his thumb again and wipes the L off for good measure.
                                       *
Harry’s had ages to get used to the idea that Louis has other friends that
aren’t him. He wonders who they are sometimes, because Holmes Chapel is tiny
and Harry’s sure he has to know at least one or two of them. But he’s sensed
it’s one of the things you just don’t ask Louis about, and Louis’s never told
him anything about them. Which is why it’s especially weird when one day when
they’re hanging out in Harry’s room, Louis casually asks, “Hey, would it be
okay if I took you to meet a mate of mine?”
It’s such a strange turn from the conversation about lobsters they’d been
having and such a weird thing for Louis to say that Harry needs a moment to
process it. Once he has, the next thing out of his mouth is, “What?”
Louis shrugs. Yes, Harry reminds himself, it’s absolutely no big deal.
Everything weird Louis does is absolutely no big deal. “I just think you’d get
on is all,” Louis says nonchalantly.
“Okay. Cool. Of course,” Harry says immediately. Then he stops and thinks about
it. “Who is it? I mean, um, do I know them?”
Louis kicks his feet out and hums. How he can be so normal while doing things
like this, Harry has no clue. “His name’s Zayn? He goes to school with you. I
mean, everyone in this village goes to school with you, but–“
“I know him,” Harry interrupts. Of course he does. He’s in Year Eleven and,
like. Cool. Even though Harry’s never heard him say a word. “I, uh, I never
thought he’d be a mate of yours.”
It’s true. Harry has to blink a few times to process it. It’s just– there’s
always been his life, right? Home, school, Holmes Chapel; pretty much everyone
he knows fits into one of those. And then there’s Louis. Louis who is a star,
who is from somewhere else entirely, who can do magic and who he’s known since
forever and is almost always alone with. It’s difficult to make Louis fit into
what’s outside of just the two of them.
(Least of all Zayn from Year Eleven. Harry sees him every day when he walks
into school. How long’s he been friends with Louis without Harry knowing?)
“Well, yeah,” Louis says. He glances sideways at Harry. “Anyway, if you already
know him or whatever you don’t have to–”
“Lou, are you joking, I’ve been wanting to meet your friends for ages but
you’ve always been such a twat about it–”
“–or maybe I’ll drop the offer because hey, maybe Zayn and I have better things
to do than hang out with a massive prat–”
Harry shoves him, Louis shoves him back, and they somehow end up in a grappling
tangle of limbs and then they’re both hard, which is a bit distracting. It’s
only after they’ve both thoroughly come that Louis brings it up again. “I’ll
tell Zayn you said okay?” he asks, breathing a bit hard still. Harry nods from
where his face is burrowed into Louis’s (slightly sweaty) chest and
accidentally bumps Louis’s chin with the top of his head in the process. Louis
swears and kicks him. The usual, really.
                                       *
Zayn is… great.
He’s quiet at first but then Louis tosses the football he’s brought into the
air and then all three of them are scuffling for it (Harry failing miserably);
when they collapse on the ground after all the running a while later he’s funny
and clever and thoughtful and apparently gets on with Louis spectacularly well.
Zayn is great. That’s the problem.
He’s also, Harry notices, making a genuine effort to include him in the
conversation. He and Louis obviously have inside jokes and topics only they
understand and Zayn seems to be changing the subject whenever he can when one
of those comes up. It’s like he really does want to get to know Harry. It’s
nice, and it’s also not working.
“So how’d you know Louis anyway?” Harry asks Zayn conversationally in an effort
to stop them from debating the pros and cons of getting their hands on some
weed and trying it.
Zayn blinks at him. “Um, actually, he just used to follow me around for ages,
but, like, I never said anything because I didn’t know who he was and I thought
he might not actually be real.” He glances at Louis, who’s grinning smugly.
“Shut up. I was, like, twelve.”
Harry frowns a little. Okay. So Louis goes around following people on the
street. Is that, like… is that a normal thing to do? Harry knows Louis does
stuff on his own, but he doesn’t like thinking that there’s something outside
of, like, this. That Louis has this whole other life Harry never hears about.
Zayn’s still talking. Harry thinks, vaguely, that it might be the most words
he’s ever heard him say put together. “So I really just kind of ignored him
until he walks up to me one day and asks me if I have any spare socks.” (“It
was raining!” Louis says, like that’s meant to explain anything.) “And it just
kind of, um, went on from there, I think?”
Harry resists the urge to narrow his eyes suspiciously. Because there, that’s
the problem, that’s why he feels a little uneasy around Louis and Zayn (apart
from the fact that they make him feel like he’s ten). He thinks– but he can’t
really be sure, can he? He can’t be sure if Zayn’s the friend Louis was hooking
up with.
And that’s– well. That would open up a lot of new questions. Harry’s already
wondering if Zayn knows what Louis can do, what Louis is. Can he see him glow?
Does he know Louis doesn’t really have a house or a family that isn’t Harry’s?
And this also means he’s asking himself, did they just snog or did they do
something more? Did Louis know how to find porn, how to give a proper handjob
because of what he did with Zayn? When did it start? Are they still doing stuff
now, only Harry doesn’t know about it?
Louis wouldn’t do that, Harry thinks automatically. But would he? He’s not
Harry’s boyfriend. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be. So what’s stopping
him from going off and doing stuff with Zayn too? (He wouldn’t blame Louis,
Harry thinks a little bitterly. Zayn’s cool, and Harry can’t help but notice
he’s really, really fit. So.)
He suddenly wants to grab Louis, right here, and snog him where everyone can
see. Not just Zayn. The whole of Holmes Chapel. Everyone. Lovebites aren’t
enough. He wants everyone to know what he and Louis do, wants them to see so no
one could possibly have any doubts left.
Heat builds up in him before he knows it. Shit.
Zayn and Louis are talking now but he’s not listening, because he can’t do
magic now, not with what he’s thinking. He clenches his hands into fists. Stop.
Stop. But wanting it to stop is never enough. His nails dig into his palms so
hard he thinks he might draw blood, but as he watches, the tiny weeds that grow
between the cracks in the pavement start to grow and grow, their roots growing
upwards, widening the cracks, making new ones. Shit. But just when a crack
starts spreading ominously to where Zayn and Louis are sitting and Harry thinks
well, that’s it, they’ll notice now and I’m screwed, it abruptly stops. Harry’s
body drains of heat suddenly and he feels exhaustion slump down on him instead,
even though he hasn’t made anything particularly big happen.
He blinks hard, trying to clear his head. Everything’s the same as it was five
minutes ago. Zayn and Louis are back to talking about weed. Harry sees Zayn
shoot him a look like he’s worrying about him being left out, but Harry doesn’t
feel like talking anymore. He’s struck by the sudden unexplained urge to run
away and then shout for a bit until he’s not feeling any of this anymore. The
magic has stopped, but both his fists are still clenched tight. They feel like
they’re someone else’s.
He shifts his bum around, suddenly aware of how cold it’s gotten from sitting
here on the pavement. He looks up at the sky absently, Zayn and Louis’s voices
fading to background noise. The sun’s about to set and the clouds are glowing
pink at the edges. Which means–
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. Crap. He promised his
mum he’d be home at eight to cook dinner, and his phone screen blatantly says
20:23. Fantastic. He stands up abruptly and Zayn and Louis both turn to look at
him. “I, um, I have to go now,” he says.
Louis pouts exaggeratedly. “Aw. Don’t go. You can tell your mum you’re fifteen
now and you don’t have to be home by eight.”
It’s probably supposed to be a stupid throwaway comment – it has to be, right?
Louis never says hurtful things to him on purpose – but it makes Harry’s gut
feel heavy suddenly and his cheeks flare. Right. Right, he’s just a stupid
little kid who has to be home to Mummy before dark.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, aiming for nonchalant. “Nice meeting you, Zayn.” Zayn
grins at him a little and says it’d be nice to hang out again. Yeah. Nothing
against Zayn, because Zayn is great, but, like– fat chance.
Such an idiot, he can’t help but tell himself on the walk home over and over.
His footsteps thump rhythmically on the ground. Such an idiot. Because, like,
he already knew he and Louis aren’t anything, right? He already knew Louis
doesn’t want to be with him. But– this has proved what he’s been scared of
since forever. He scuffs the concrete with his shoes as he walks, his jaw
tense. He’s just a kid. There it is, that’s the truth. Just a stupid little kid
who thinks he’s cool enough to, like, have someone like Louis pick him first.
Louis, who is a literal star, who has fit friends like Zayn he probably gets
off with too, who could have anyone he wanted. What reason could there possibly
be for him to stick with Harry? Absurdly, humiliatingly, Harry feels tears
start to prick at his eyes.
It turns into sniffing, then into little choked sobs, and by the time he gets
home he’s full-on crying like he’s ten years old. The first thing he does is
head straight into his room and fling some pillows around until he feels
better. (He still leaves the window half-open that night, though, because he’s
terrible at staying mad at people and especially terrible at staying mad at
Louis.)
                                       *
Harry trips and hits the doorframe, giggling. He feels Louis stumble and bump
into him too, and that only makes him laugh harder, uncontrollably. He claps a
hand over his mouth to stifle it, but it doesn’t work, because now Louis is
laughing too and whenever Louis laughs Harry can’t help but laugh too. It’s,
like. Insinctive? Instinctive.
The thing is. Reasonably, Harry knows he’s laughing this much because he’s
drunk (he and Louis sneaked down to the river with a six-pack of beer Louis got
from who knows where, and this is more or less what’s come of it). But, like,
even though he knows it, he can’t seem to stop doing it, because he’s with
Louis and they’re both bumping into things and it’s so funny.
He leans over and buries his face in Louis’s chest. “Shut up,” he whisper-
mumbles, still giggling, “oh my God, shut up, my mum’s in there.” Harry’s face
feels nice. Warm. Is Louis’s face warm too? He pats it to check and it is.
Good.
Louis pokes him. “You shut up, it’s you that’s making all the noise, you
tosser–” Then Harry pokes a finger into his hip and he squirms away with a
little shriek. “You arse!” he says indignantly. Harry giggles.
He leans back against the doorframe, his face tilted up. His cheeks ache from
grinning. The sky is big big big and blue and the stars are like teensy
pinpricks on it; if he looks at them for too long it feels like they’re
spinning. The night wind is cold. He shakes his head a bit to clear it, blinks
hard and focuses back on Louis. He’s not touching Harry anywhere. Harry has to
fix that.
He reaches an arm out and takes Louis by the wrist, pulling him in. Louis sways
and lands on Harry’s chest, giggling, glowing warm and happy. His face is so
close. Harry can see the tiny little freckles on his nose. They’re nice. He
touches them lightly with a finger. Louis wrinkles his nose and bats him away,
but he’s still grinning, so that means he doesn’t mind that much. Harry looks
at him and he wants to kiss him, so he does. His aim is a little off and it
lands on the side of Louis’s mouth, but Louis doesn’t seem to care at all. He
kisses back wet and enthusiastic, his hands immediately coming up to tangle in
Harry’s hair. Harry loves it when he does that, so the garbled moan he makes
into Louis’s mouth is really not his fault, is it?
He pulls back and blinks, holding Louis close because he thinks the ground
might be moving a bit and he wants to keep him safe. He can feel Louis hard
against his hip, and the feeling’s so good he shudders.
Louis’s head is buried into his neck. And, oh, his mouth is open, and he’s
sucking on the skin there. Harry moans again. For some reason, he focuses on
Louis’s ear, which is right next to Harry’s mouth, in a perfect position for
Harry to whisper something into it. Harry puts his mouth against it without
thinking about what he’s doing at all and mumbles, “Wanna make you come so
bad.”
Louis pulls away from his neck, stares at him for a moment – Harry shudders
again – and says, a little breathlessly, “Want you to.” He goes right back to
Harry’s mouth, licking it open, biting at Harry’s bottom lip. Harry’s hands
grab at Louis’s back and slide under his t-shirt, wanting to feel him. Louis
pulls back. “So hot, Hazza,” he mumbles, “you make me so horny–” Harry’s dick
twitches at the praise. Another kiss. “So good at making me come.” He kisses
Harry again, and when he pulls back Harry can see a thread of saliva hang
between their lips for a second. Harry ruts his hips up into Louis’s cock.
“You wanna come like this?” Louis whispers. At the thought, Harry breathes out
hard. It’d be so hot, the two of them getting off like this, right here, where
anyone could walk by, anyone could see. He’s about to moan yes and kiss Louis
again when an idea pops into his head, so daring and terrifying that his
stomach suddenly feels tight. God.
He pushes Louis off gently. Louis clings and looks confused, but Harry shakes
his head and tells him, “up to my room, okay?” He blinks hard a few times and
feels his pockets for his keys. Louis bats his hands away and pulls them out
himself, his fingers lingering unbearably close to Harry’s crotch, making him
squirm. (“Stop teasing,” Harry tells him huffily. Louis just grins and kisses
him on the cheek.)
It takes a few tries to get the key into the lock, especially when Louis’s
clinging to him and whispering all sorts of stuff into his ear, wanna touch you
and so pretty and get you off. Harry manages, though, and somehow drags Louis
up to his room without tripping over anything or falling down the stairs. When
the door to Harry’s room shuts behind them, Louis’s all over him immediately,
kissing him sloppily, a hand inching into Harry’s pants. Yeah. Harry’s about to
slump on the door and let Louis do whatever he wants to him when he remembers
the plan and draws away abruptly. Louis looks confused for a moment, but then
Harry tugs his shirt and sweater over his head as quickly as he can manage,
drops his jeans and pants in one go and steps out of them.
Louis looks Harry up and down, eyes wide, because– yes, okay, they’ve never
really done this before, never gotten naked in front of each other like this.
Of course Harry’s seen Louis naked, and of course Louis’s seen him too, but–
but whenever they’ve, like, done stuff it’s always been shirts pulled off and
pants hurriedly shoved down to the knees, never anything more. Harry feels
himself hard against his own stomach and his cheeks flare. His belly does an
anxious little squirm.
Before he can get properly nervous, he leans in towards Louis and whispers,
“D’you mind getting your clothes off?”
Louis just stares at him for a moment (specifically, stares at Harry’s dick;
Harry’s face burns hotter). Then, he nods frantically and starts taking his
clothes off. His t-shirt goes first – he gets it tangled over his head and
Harry has to step in to help, giggling – then his shoes, then his sweats and
pants in one go. And then they just stare at each other, Louis looking at
Harry’s face this time, and Harry– Harry just standing there, in awe, because
it’s Louis in front of him and there’s so much skin everywhere that’s glowing
and flickering and his cock is hard and Harry’s hands shake from how badly he
wants to touch him.
He reaches out and takes Louis’s hand. Touching it makes Harry shiver. “Come
on,” he whispers, and tugs Louis towards the bed gently– and then Louis starts
running, giggling like crazy, and Harry follows. Louis pounces on the bed and
Harry pounces on Louis and then they’re kissing again, fast and messy, hands
everywhere. Harry’s head is a blur of different sensations: Louis panting
against his ear, Louis’s hands pressing down on his bum, Louis’s warm hip
against Harry’s cock. Harry starts kissing more fiercely, down Louis’s neck, on
his collarbones, his chest. It feels like he’s biting instead of kissing. And
there’s the press of Louis’s cock against Harry’s stomach which makes Harry
feel hot from the inside and remember, and before he can stop and think about
it he looks up at Louis and blurts out, “Can I blow you?”
Louis’s eyes go wide and he moans at that. He actually moans. For a moment,
Harry feels tremendously pleased with himself. “Fuck,” Louis says, “fuck,
Hazza, of course you can, but are you sure, I don’t–” Harry ducks down to suck
on Louis’s nipple; Louis stops talking for a moment, and then continues
hurriedly, “don’t do this because you’re drunk, I don’t want–”
Harry frowns a bit. “I want to,” he says stubbornly. No, that’s not how it
works– he’s going to get to show Louis how good he can be at this, how he’s not
just a little kid. To show Louis how much he really wants to, he leaves a trail
of wet kisses from his nipples and all the way down his chest and stomach to
where his cock’s lying. Louis makes a noise.
Harry looks at it for a moment, blinking. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a
cock from this up close. It glows gently, just like the rest of Louis, and
Harry finds that so funny he has to stifle a giggle. Then he looks up at Louis
and finds his eyes are fixed on him, and he doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.
Okay. Okay.
He wraps a hand around it first, giving it slow pulls. This he knows how to do.
He knows how Louis likes it by now, knows he likes Harry to go slow at first,
likes him to pay more attention to the head. Louis moans quietly. It makes
Harry want to give him more.
He gets his face closer. He wonders if Zayn ever did this to Louis. He wants to
make this better than anything Louis’s ever done before.
He keeps his hand on Louis’s cock, guiding it towards his mouth, and takes one
deep breath. Then, he lowers his face down and gives the head a wide, tentative
lick. Louis moans again, louder this time. Harry glances up. Louis’s looking at
him in a way that makes him want to take it all the way down. The nerves in his
stomach fade a little, and the alcohol fuzziness starts to take over again.
It’s okay. It’s okay, he can do this, and he’s going to make Louis feel so good
he’ll remember it forever.
So he lowers his face down again and takes the head into his mouth, properly
this time, sucking on it a bit. Louis breathes out shakily. Then, Harry thinks
okay and, carefully keeping his lips over his teeth, he goes down down down, as
far as he can go, until it feels like he might gag. He slides up carefully and
pulls back for a moment, trying to get his breath back. He doesn’t think the
back of his throat has felt this weird in his life. He feels a hand slide into
his hair and pet it gently. Harry looks up at Louis, Louis’s cock bobbing right
in his line of sight. “Hazza,” Louis says. He sounds breathless already. Harry
did that. “Hazza, you’re doing great, you’re so good at this, fuck.”
It’s all Harry needs. He shoots Louis a grin, feeling pleased down to the tips
of his toes, and then gets right back to it determinedly. He slides down again,
trying to get it as deep as he can, his eyes watering a bit, and then when it
feels like he’s adjusted he starts bobbing his head up and down the slightest
bit. Louis’s hand stays in his hair, not guiding him, just there. It’s
strangely reassuring. Harry, tentatively, starts building up a rhythm– faster
now, pulling almost all the way off before sinking back down again. It’s a bit
sloppy, but Louis doesn’t seem to mind; he gets louder, making little choked-
off moans that get clearer and clearer. Harry knows he should be worried about
being heard, but it just makes his own cock throb between his legs. His jaw
starts aching from the stretch, but he carries on, determined to make Louis
come like this.
Because Louis’s getting close. That much Harry can tell. He’s not thrusting
into Harry’s mouth (which Harry appreciates, because he thinks he’d just choke
on it) but his hips are making tiny little circles into the sheets like he’s
holding back. He gets louder and louder, moaning every time Harry sinks down.
When Harry glances up, Louis’s chest is heaving. An idea pops into Harry’s head
then, and the next time he sinks down he drags his tongue down as well as his
lips– and Louis actually curses out loud at that, so he does it again. And
again. And then Louis’s saying, “Fuck, Haz, I’m gonna–” so Harry pulls off
because he’s not all that sure he wants to swallow it, but puts his hand back
on Louis’s cock and wanks him off until Louis’s hips are bucking and he’s
coming into Harry’s hand.
There’s a moment where Harry just stays there, his hand still on Louis’s cock,
Louis’s fingers tangled in his hair. Wow. He’s just sucked a cock. It’s hard to
get his head around it. But then he blinks and comes back to reality, and it’s
a reality where his head’s a little fuzzy and he’s just made Louis come and
he’s still very, very hard.
He grunts a bit and starts rutting against the sheets, letting his mouth fall
open, but then Louis tugs gently on his hair and Harry jerks his head up.
Louis’s looking down at him, all lovely and flushed and messy. He gestures to
Harry. “C’mon,” he says, “up here.”
Harry obeys immediately. He crawls up Louis’s chest, feeling Louis’s come get
smeared on his own belly, and kisses him as soon as he gets up to his mouth,
moaning into it. Louis kisses him back hard and sloppy. (He doesn’t seem to
mind the fact that Harry just had his cock in his mouth, Harry thinks hazily.
He wonders if he can taste it.) Harry’s half expecting him to reach for his
cock and finish him off right there, because he knows he’s not going to last
long at all. But Louis doesn’t touch him. Harry’s starting to wonder why when
Louis grabs his wrists and clumsily flips them over so he’s on top of Harry.
Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he moans anyway because it’s hot.
And then– fuck. Then Louis leans into him and mumbles into his ear, “Let me do
you, yeah?” And before Harry can figure out what he’s said he’s crawled down
and pushed Harry’s legs apart, sucking at the inside of his thigh.
“Shit,” Harry croaks out, garbled, automatic. Louis keeps sucking. God, he’s
going to leave a bruise. The thought makes Harry’s fists curl into the sheets
and his hips jolt up helplessly. His cock brushes against Louis’s cheek. Oh
God. He looks down, and just the sight of Louis’s face between his legs makes
him shudder violently. “Lou–”
He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he doesn’t need to figure it out.
Because then Louis takes the head of his cock into his mouth and Harry stops
remembering how words work.
Shit. Shit. Louis’s mouth is wet and warm and it feels so good around his cock
Harry thinks he might cry. “Nngggh,” he gets out, fists curled into the sheets,
fighting the urge to thrust his hips up. Louis gets straight to it, taking him
down until Harry’s gasping and then coming back up without pulling off. Harry
can’t take his eyes off him. His hair’s sticking up everywhere, he’s rumpled
and bright and he has Harry’s cock in his mouth. Harry can’t stop himself from
reaching out a finger to poke Louis’s cheek experimentally, and when he
realizes he can feel his own cock through Louis’s cheek he shudders and almost
comes right then and there. Louis pulls off, catches his breath, grins up at
him for a moment and gets right back to it.
He’s building up a rhythm, and Harry wants to tell him he doesn’t need to do
that, that he’s close already. “Lou,” he gets out instead, more a moan than a
word. Louis doesn’t pull off. He bobs his head faster and faster, taking him
deeper. Harry whimpers and screws his eyes shut. It’s almost too much, all of
it– he starts noticing every little thing, all at once, until it almost
overwhelms him. The sheets against his back. His own breathing, loud in his
ears. The ache in his jaw from Louis’s cock, the small wet sounds Louis is
making– and, of course, Louis’s mouth around his cock, the slide tight and hot
and wonderful. Harry’s fingers tangle blindly in Louis’s hair. “Gonna come,
Lou, fuck–” he manages, but Louis just keeps going. Fuck. Harry feels like he’s
floating. This has to be what love is, he thinks hazily. This has to be– and
then he’s letting out a ragged gasp and coming right into Louis’s mouth, hips
bucking uncontrollably. Louis just swallows it. Holy shit. Holy fuck.
He comes down from it breathless and sweaty and hazy. He vaguely notices Louis
crawl up next to him, and as soon as his face is in Harry’s line of sight he
grabs hold of it and kisses him. He tastes slightly bitter, and it’s a moment
before Harry realizes that’s the taste of his own come. Wow. Wow.
Harry draws back and pulls Louis in. He’s sweaty and so warm. “Holy shit,”
Harry mumbles. “I can’t believe you swallowed it.” I think I love you, he
thinks fuzzily. I love you I love you I love you.
“Wanted to,” he hears Louis say back. “For you.”
Harry feels something hot inside that has nothing to do with his orgasm. His
thoughts are slow, scattered. He holds Louis closer when Louis tries to move
away to get something to clean up with. Whatever, Lou, it’s just spunk, we can
do that tomorrow. His heart thuds in his own ears. It feels sluggish. “Stay,”
he mumbles into Louis’s shoulder. It’s the last thing he remembers.
                                       *
May is dreary. Harry thinks huffily to himself a few times that isn’t it
supposed to be spring, fuck England as he gets drenched on his way to school in
the morning. He supposes it doesn’t actually matter all that much when he’s
spending most of his time in his room revising for his mock GCSEs and trying
not to let Louis (and blowjobs) distract him, but. It’d be nice to see the sun
every once in a while when he’s looking wistfully out of his bedroom window.
(Louis doesn’t like it when he studies. He says it’s boring and Harry should be
paying attention to him instead. Once or twice, Harry’s caught him trying to
hide his books. It’s oddly flattering.)
But May passes, and June rolls in, and it’s a hellish two weeks of exam after
exam and hurriedly handing in coursework before he’s finally, blissfully free.
“I’m free!” he declares to Louis triumphantly the day his last exam is over
with, and celebrates by blowing him three times in a row “to compensate.” God.
No one breathing down his neck about GCSEs anymore, no waking up at seven,
absolutely no coursework at all, and Louis right here next to him, making him
laugh and getting him off and kissing him and sometimes even holding his hand.
It’s going to be the best summer ever.
It sort of is.
Harry doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking back on the past, because the now is
here and there’s so much to do. But when he does, it’s like he’s looking
through a strange sort of haze. Were things really like that back then? They
seem so boring. He can’t remember the sun ever being this bright or colours and
sounds ever being this vivid; he can’t remember ever feeling like he does now.
He has everything he could want right there in front of him – the whole world
is out there. Louis is with him. He can do anything.
(It’s a feeling that reminds him of doing magic, strangely enough. But the
magic barely happens at all these days, and it usually leaves him exhausted
after, and he doesn’t like to think about it.)
Louis is everywhere. Harry has never been more thrilled. Ever since they
started this thing Harry’s been seeing him more than ever, but now it’s like
it’s on a completely different level. Louis wakes Harry up with a hand on his
cock and hangs out in his house at all hours of the day and sneaks into the
bakery Harry’s started working at to duck behind the counter and pull faces at
Harry every time a customer comes in. (He likes to tease Harry, sneaking quick
kisses when there’s no one there to see, ghosting fingers up Harry’s thighs
from behind the counter. Once or twice, Harry gets so worked up he has to drag
Louis into the tiny bathroom, push him up against the door and rub up against
him until they’ve both come.) Harry blows Louis a lot, with particular
enthusiasm after the few times they hang out with Zayn again, but it never goes
beyond that, even with all the times they have the house to themselves.
Thinking about it makes Harry uneasy. Does Louis want to? Are they supposed to
have done it by now? (But he and Louis aren’t boyfriends, and that seems very,
very boyfriendy.) How does it even work? Harry’s watched enough porn to know
some things, and a few Google searches inform him of all the rest. But it’s
still weird; scary, even. It doesn’t sound like something they do. Harry
doesn’t mention it.
(He never wonders if this thing is love. Not sober, anyway.)
They go down to the river and get drunk and watch the sun go down, Louis sleeps
in his bed and never comments on it, they kiss and touch and get their mouths
on each other and it’s enough. Only the now matters, the now and the huge wide-
open future Harry knows is out there. It’s still such an abstract concept,
though, that he can’t pause to think about it. Louis is a star, he remembers
sometimes with a tiny jolt. That doesn’t mean he’ll have to go back to the sky,
does it?
                                       *
Louis’s head breaks the surface of the water. He shakes the wet hair out of his
eyes, the water shimmering around him, and grins right at Harry. Harry knows
it’s a grin that means he has about five seconds to get his kit off and jump in
the river or he’s getting dragged in. Which he does, willingly, because he
doesn’t like being upstaged. He’s stark naked as soon as he physically can, and
he runs to the shore and barrels into the water without tripping over his own
pants in the process. Smooth, that.
He emerges spluttering, his hair in his eyes and water up his nose. “Oh my
God,” he gets out. “Oh my God. Why’s it so cold? It’s July!” Louis just cackles
at him, because of course he does. Also because he is an arsehole.
Harry ducks back down into the water, the cold washing over him, the silent
rush of the river filling his ears. He kicks out against the current and his
foot brushes against the pebbles at the bottom. Slowly, he squints his eyes
open. He can see Louis up in front of him, stark naked; through the water, he
gives out a strange flickering glow, like faint sunlight.
He comes up for air and doesn’t notice Louis’s moved until a hand is gripping
at his ankle and tugging him down hard. He gets water up his nose again, and
when he tries to get revenge it ends up leading to all-out war; when Harry
emerges from the water he’s breathless and feels like he might have
accidentally swallowed half the water in the river. They flop down on the
riverbank to dry out in the sun, because of course neither of them thought to
bring a towel. Harry lies on his front, his cheek resting on the back of his
arm, and Louis stretches out beside him, close enough to touch. Harry squints
at him through the sun in his eyelashes. Louis’s skin is damp and glows gently
in the sun, his wet hair runs droplets onto his bare shoulders and his eyes are
half-open and clear blue. Harry grins a little for no reason, reaches out to
run a single fingertip down the line of Louis’s spine, shrugs when Louis
mumbles a what was that for? It’s a good thing they’ve put their pants back on,
Harry thinks vaguely as his eyes slide down to the curve of Louis’s arse and
stay there. He doubts he’d be able to control himself otherwise, and if someone
caught them doing sex stuff right here in broad daylight his mum would
definitely hear about it.
He idly wonders what would happen if he were to ask for a kiss right now. Then
he puckers his lips at Louis just to see. Louis looks up, raises an eyebrow and
moves in immediately. It’s short, just a quick press of lips, and when Louis
pulls back he drops his head down to the exact same position he was in. Harry
smiles a little, feeling strangely smug. (Louis wants to kiss him even when
it’s not for orgasms. It’s a nice thought.)
Harry lets his thoughts drift. He listens to the rush of the river behind them,
thinks of them both spread out on the ground like this, and the thought of the
beach pops into his head. Has Louis ever been to the beach? Harry hasn’t been
that many times, but he remembers looking out at the sea when he was little and
marvelling at all that water. Sometimes, he liked to stare for long enough that
eventually he wouldn’t be able to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.
He has a feeling it’s a thought Louis would like.
“You ever been to the beach?” he asks Louis.
Louis glances up at him. “Nah,” he says. “Why?”
Harry shrugs one shoulder. Now that he thinks about it, that was probably a
stupid question. This is Cheshire, Louis can’t drive and he’s never been away
for long enough to have caught a train there. “Just curious,” he says. “But,
like, d’you think you’d want to? Someday? We could go together.”
Louis props his chin up on his elbows. “Maybe fifteen is a bit too young to
start planning trips across the country, Hazza.”
Harry kicks him. Gently. “Shut up. I wasn’t saying now. Just, like, someday.”
He frowns a bit, thinking hard. “I don’t think I’ll be allowed to travel on my
own till I’m eighteen, but… I dunno, maybe we could go somewhere the summer
after I finish school?” He lets the idea run along his mind, picking up speed.
“It doesn’t even have to be England. We could go to Wales. Or Europe. I mean,
it’s just catching a few trains, and the beaches in, like, Greece and Spain are
supposed to be really nice…”
“And then we could get on a plane and fly to Brazil.” It takes a second for
Harry to realize Louis is making fun of him. Harry kicks him again.
“Shut up,” he says huffily. “People do that.”
“I’m sure,” Louis says. He’s smiling a little but it’s not his making-fun-of-
people smile, so Harry lets it slide. “Gemma finished school this year, right?
Where’s she at now, Amsterdam?”
“Well, no,” Harry admits. A thought pops up. “She did go hiking in Scotland for
a week, though.”
“Oh, sounds exciting.”
“Shut up.”
Louis says nothing back, just lets his eyes drift shut. Harry lets his thoughts
wander, and they go in a different direction this time. Gemma finished school.
It’s been over a month, and he’s still not completely used to hearing it said
out loud. It’s not news, of course it’s not, she’s spent most of the year
revising for her A-levels and stressing over uni applications, but what’s more
unsettling is the fact that it’s something that’s real and happening now. She
got into Birmingham like she wanted, and it’s only a train ride away – but
she’s leaving all the same. She’s leaving, and it’s just going to be him and
his mum at home. It’s a thought that Harry isn’t quite sure how to handle.
“Gemma’s leaving,” he says out loud, to see if it sounds less weird outside of
his head. It doesn’t.
Louis hmms and his eyelids flutter open lazily. “Is she?” Harry can’t remember
if he’s mentioned this before or not, so he can’t tell if Louis is being
curious or non-committal.
Harry nods. “Yeah. Beginning of September.” He pauses, not sure if he wants to
talk about it. “It’s just weird, you know?”
Louis just looks at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harry frowns a bit. “I mean, it’s gonna be weird not having her around,
but…” There’s a thought floating around his head he can’t quite put into words.
“It’s just, like, she’s going to uni. She’s gonna be a proper adult now.”
“Well, she is eighteen,” Louis says lightly.
“I know that,” Harry says back. “But there’s a difference, right? Between, I
dunno, age as a number and actually growing up?” Louis says nothing, so Harry
continues. “Like, I can’t imagine going to uni and leaving home. I’ve thought
about it, but I can’t actually imagine myself doing it, you know?”
Something passes over Louis’s face, but it’s gone before Harry can figure out
what it is. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Right,” Harry says. There’s a silence. Louis’s back is completely dry now, and
his hair is drying at the ends. It lies at the nape of his neck, flat and soft.
Harry wants to touch it. But he can sense something about Louis is off (the way
he’s not saying anything, maybe? Or maybe it’s that his flow has dimmed a bit,
but out here in the sunlight it’s hard to tell) so he holds back. He gets
comfortable on his front, closes his eyes, considers falling asleep here, deems
it too boring and yells, “Race you back to the river!” instead. Louis jumps up
immediately and ends up winning. It’s really not surprising.
                                       *
Summer rolls on. It almost feels like it could last forever.
Harry sort of wants it to.
And it’s strange, because when he looks back on it nothing’s really happened.
There’s no stand-out moments in his mind, no holidays or days out or big
parties – nothing he can look back on and remember precisely. It’s just Holmes
Chapel, just the bakery and the spot behind the old factories and the river and
his bedroom; Niall and all the rest, who he sees every once in a while, the
occasional Zayn, his mum, Gemma, who’s packing her bags already. And there’s
Louis throughout it all like there’s always been, separate from everything, but
little bits of him finding their way into every corner of Harry’s life. It’s
enough.
Harry’s too busy living it to think about it, but vaguely, he imagines this
might be a summer he’s going to remember for a long time.
Why’s that? He’s not sure, because there’s no rational reason for it. Won’t
holidays be better when he’s older? Won’t he be able to travel, meet new
people, see the world? There’s nothing he has now he won’t have in the future,
except– no, that’s stupid. Louis isn’t going anywhere. He’s been here for years
and years and there’s no reason why he wouldn’t stay, and besides, why should
Louis matter that much? They’re friends. They’ve always been. There’s nothing
different this year, except– except that, and that’s not important, it
shouldn’t be, it’s not–
See, the thing is, Harry knows how things work. He knows that it says something
about him when he kisses guys and he likes it, when he hasn’t stopped sucking
Louis’s cock all summer. But it doesn’t have to change things, does it? It
doesn’t have to change how his life’s meant to go. He can kiss Louis all he
likes now, and eventually– eventually he’ll go off to uni and, who knows, he
might meet a girl and he might fall in love and they’ll get married and move in
together and have at least three kids. That’s part of how things work too. The
thought is strange, abstract, in the same way that it’s abstract to think about
Gemma going off to Birmingham and never coming back. But it’s what makes sense,
and that’s what matters.
Except. Except sometimes he’ll be lying awake at night with the window open and
Louis asleep next to him and he won’t be able to bring the thought to mind. The
future fades away until there’s nothing but this, Louis’s glow in the darkness
and his calves touching Harry’s under the sheets and nothing outside of this
room and the both of them. How’s he supposed to not have this anymore? How’s he
supposed to let go and move on to the things that make sense? Harry doesn’t
know, so he burrows into Louis’s chest and waits for sleep to take the thoughts
away.
                                       *
And summer ends, like always, no matter how badly Harry wants it to last.
September comes and it’s back to school; usually, Harry doesn’t mind the first
week or so because they don’t do much and he gets to see everyone again, but
this year he has to drag himself there from the very first day. Louis isn’t
very encouraging – he’s not very pleased with Harry having to go back, and even
though he tries to hide it Harry can tell. And school feels less like a
beginning and more like getting shoved back into the whole GCSE mess. By the
third week of September Harry’s already spending weekday afternoons locked up
in his room or the library, a medium-sized pile of books in front of him.
Sometimes, he feels like burning them all.
The fact that Harry’s walking to school on his own for the first time in his
life doesn’t help. Gemma visits on most weekends and tries to Skype at least
once a week, but that doesn’t make the house feel any less empty or the walk to
school any less lonely. It takes some getting used to. Harry has to keep
reminding himself that this is how things are now, that it’s not just something
temporary. People grow up and they leave. The idea still seems slightly
abstract. Harry wonders if it’s him who’s going to be next. He’ll leave home to
go to uni, he knows that. He’s not staying in Holmes Chapel. But in his head,
it’s never him who leaves; it’s an unfamiliar older version of him, taller,
broader, more handsome, who knows what he wants and doesn’t have a Louis to say
goodbye to.
Maybe Louis will be the next one to leave.
Harry tried not to think about it during the summer, because he had Louis with
him and it all seemed so far-off and improbable. But now things have changed;
Gemma’s gone and he’s going to school again, and his thoughts seem to keep
going back to it. Because the more he sees Louis the less he thinks about
things, and now he’s not seeing Louis all that much his thoughts scatter and go
off of their own accord. There’s a tiny voice inside his head that’s asking
what this means, why the idea of being without Louis scares him so much, but
he’s learned not to pay attention to that one. The one that’s growing insistent
is the one that’s asking how much longer this is going to last for. It’s
outside of how things are supposed to work, so it has to end at some point,
doesn’t it? And every time Harry looks at Louis and sees him glow, he’s
reminded that Louis is a star. (Does Louis himself know that? Harry hasn’t told
him. Harry can’t tell him.) He doesn’t belong here with Harry. And Harry’s
known that for years, so it makes no sense to worry about it now.
Harry tries to tell himself that it’s okay, he’s fifteen and Louis is… however
old he is, they still have plenty of time left until whatever has to happen
happens. It doesn’t really work. Why is that? Things are the same and there’s
no reason to worry. Harry’s thinking too much, is all. And if he’s seeing Louis
the slightest bit distant, the slightest bit quiet, it’s because he’s gotten
used to being with him always and now they’re not spending so much time
together it feels like things are different even though they aren’t. There
really is nothing to worry about.
                                       *
A Sunday early in October, Harry walks into the bathroom to find Louis in front
of the mirror, the scissors from Harry’s pencil case in his hand and his tongue
sticking out in concentration. It’s still early, the morning sunlight slanting
in sideways through the window. Harry, eyes still a bit heavy, sidles up behind
Louis and kisses him on the cheek, small and easy. He’s moving away to the
toilet to pee when his sleep-slow brain registers that Louis is cutting his
hair. Right. That explains the scissors and the fact that there’s a few
snipped-off bits of hair now clinging to Harry’s shirt.
Harry lifts up the toilet lid and starts peeing, still blinking sleepily.
They’ve never had any problem with physical boundaries, but during the summer
they somehow disappeared completely and they started going to the bathroom
together in the morning, not necessarily in a getting-off way. Harry will fix
his hair in the mirror while Louis sits on the edge of the bathtub and waits
for him to finish; Harry will brush his teeth while Louis pees; sometimes
they’ll even shower together. It’s nice, and it’s comfortable, and Harry never
comments on it for fear that it’ll somehow stop.
When Harry flushes the toilet and glances at Louis again, he sees him twisting
his neck at the mirror and snipping at the bits of hair at the back of his
head. Harry automatically moves to help. “Want me to do that for you?” He
expects Louis to hand the scissors over and let him do the back of his head,
because it’s hard for Louis to see it in the mirror and it’s what they always
do.
But Louis doesn’t let go of them. He just glances at Harry with a weird look on
his face. “It’s okay, Harry,” he says after a moment. “I can do it.”
Harry blinks, but he doesn’t push it. He feels it’d be weird to stay in the
room, though, so he mumbles a quiet, “Okay,” and slips out of the room. He goes
back to bed and forgets about it soon enough, especially when Louis comes back
after a while with choppy short hair and gives him a morning handjob. It’s
probably nothing anyway.
                                       *
It’s mid-November when Harry starts getting bouts of sudden, inexplicable
horniness.
Talking about horniness with his mates from school would be a normal enough
topic, Harry supposes, but the problem is that it almost always ends up leading
to sex life. (Which means that one or two of the guys start enthusiastically
talking about that one time this one girl let them put fingers up her vagina,
and Harry sort of wants to brag about that amazing blowjob he gave Louis the
other day before remembering he’s supposed to be doing stuff with girls, not
Louis. It makes him feel a bit like a liar.) So it’s a subject Harry tries to
avoid when he can, and the result of that is that he doesn’t have all that many
people he can compare horniness with – has no idea if this is just a normal
fifteen-year-old thing or if it’s something weirder. The thing is, it’s there,
and it’s driving him a little bit crazy.
He’s still doing stuff with Louis, of course he is, but Harry’s always
stressing and always busy and it feels like it’s never enough. He mentions it
to Louis, trying to sound casual (even though he thinks the way he’s blushing
might be giving it away) and Louis just kind of looks at him and says, very
reasonable, is there anything in particular you want to do? And Harry shrugs
automatically and says nevermind, but.
But the thought pops into his head that evening while he’s wanking in the
shower and it’s suddenly very, very obvious what Louis was referring to and,
inexplicably, it makes Harry come with a gasp as soon as he realizes.
Oh. Oh. Other things. As in, sex sex. It’s a thought that’s both terrifying and
strangely exciting. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know for sure that’s what
Louis was talking about, because once the idea’s there it doesn’t go away. Each
time he watches porn now he does it with a special kind of interest; he does
another round of Google searches like he did back in summer and ends up hard
after all of them. The more he thinks about it, the more weidly fascinating it
is – and the more weirdly adult.
Because he’s going to have to talk to Louis about it. That much is obvious.
What’s he going to do if Louis doesn’t want to? Maybe the weirdness Harry’s
been noticing lately isn’t all in Harry’s head– maybe Louis doesn’t really want
to do this anymore, and maybe suggesting it will be the final straw and this
thing will be over for good. Maybe that’s not what he was talking about at all
and he’ll just laugh at Harry. More often than not, Harry’s stomach twists up
in nerves just from thinking about it.
Fine. Fine. He doesn’t have to do this right away. He can take his time, psych
himself up and do some proper research.
He manages about a week of trying to think about it calmly and maturely and not
in the middle of class before he breaks and, on a whim, runs to Tesco’s when
he’s in Crewe with some friends and buys a box of condoms and the most neutral-
looking bottle of lube he can find. (The Internet said lube was important.) It
feels like they’re burning a hole through his coat pocket the entire bus ride
home, like anyone will be able to take one look at his face and tell what he’s
just bought; once he gets home, he hides it all at the very bottom of his sock
drawer hurriedly. What’s he meant to do with it now? He’s not going to have sex
right now, that much he knows, but– but he read what it said on the Internet,
and lately when he’s having a wank he’s sometimes pushed a finger
experimentally against his rim, and– yeah. He could maybe try something, maybe.
And that’s how he ends up naked on his bed on a Sunday morning, his bedroom
door firmly locked and the bottle of lube on his nightstand. Each time Harry
glances at it, it feels like it’s looking at him accusingly.
Okay. Okay. He’s doing this.
Harry lies on his back, props his knees up, shifts his bum around and gets
comfortable. His hand feels up and down his chest; he tweaks his nipples a bit,
rolling his hips, and lets his hand trail down. He rubs down once, slowly,
before taking his cock in his hand and starting to give it long, lazy pulls.
His eyes flutter shut. He lets himself imagine it’s Louis’s hand on him, that
Louis’s lying on top of him and mouthing at his neck, and he feels his cock
start to fill up almost immediately.
He rolls his hips again, his hand speeding up a little of its own accord. Louis
has left his neck behind and is now kissing wetly down his chest, his stomach.
Harry lets his legs fall open; Louis grins cheekily up at him and ducks his
head to suck at the crease on the inside of his thigh. For a moment, it feels
so real that Harry lets out a whimper.
Then – Harry’s stroking himself properly now, working himself up as much as he
can – then Louis moves to the left and takes him down in one go, making Harry’s
cock sink down into soft wet heat. Harry breathes out hard, his hand moving
faster. Louis starts bobbing his head up and down, and then his fingers are
prodding at Harry’s hole and Harry’s eyes fly open. Yes. Yes, he wants this, he
wants this– he fumbles blindly for the lube on the nightstand, takes his hand
off his cock, pops the bottle open and watches nervously as the lube oozes out
onto his fingers, thick and clear. He squeezes it out until he feels like he
has more than enough, puts the bottle back and spreads the lube along his
fingers, trying to warm it up. Then he takes a deep breath and puts his left
hand back on his cock, his right hand hovering.
He gives his cock a few tugs, bringing himself back to full hardness. The glide
of the leftover lube makes it slick, and it’s easier to imagine it’s Louis’s
mouth on him. He tries to lose himself in the feeling, moving his hand faster,
letting it get more and more intense; and then, all in one go, he spreads his
legs wider and moves his right hand so it’s between his legs, his fingers
resting right on the rim of his hole.
The lube’s mostly warmed up, so it doesn’t come as a shock; the point of
contact is slick, insistent, and feels surprisingly nice. Harry’s left hand
stutters on his cock. He starts rubbing the pad of his middle finger over his
hole, coating it all in slickness, pressing down harder as it starts feeling
better and better. Then, he lets his eyes flutter shut, swipes a thumb over the
head of his cock and pushes his finger in.
He goes slow, tentative, feeling the muscle stretch unpleasantly; he remembers
what he’s read and breathes out deep, trying to make himself relax as he pushes
his finger in deeper and it starts to burn a bit. His left hand moves on his
cock, trying to keep himself as turned on as he can, and he pictures Louis
again, Louis with Harry’s cock in his mouth, Louis pushing a finger up Harry’s
hole. Harry whimpers and his hips jerk up instinctively. It makes his finger go
in deeper, and it’s a moment of pain that makes Harry’s eyes screw up– but then
he feels it, feels his finger brush up against something inside, and it makes
him feel so unbelievably good all over that he has to try it again. He pushes
his finger back in, almost as far as it’ll go. Oh. Oh God, that’s it. He can’t
get the angle quite right, can’t manage more than a brush against it, but it
makes heat jolt in his belly, makes him feel squirmy all over. He drives his
finger in again without even thinking about it. This time, it barely hurts, and
the way it brushes against that spot makes it entirely worth it.
He’s moving his finger now, tiny little thrusts that still stretch him, but
it’s just one finger and it’s fading fast. The strange feeling of fullness is
still there, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing anymore; with every jolt of
pleasure it makes him feel hot all over, filthy, amazing. Dimly, he notices his
own hips have started moving to keep up with the pace. His left hand gives his
cock faster and faster pulls, and the double sensation, even with just the
little brushes against that spot, feels more intense than anything he’s ever
done before. He moans quietly without even realizing he’s doing it and spreads
his legs wider, pushing his arse into the air shamelessly. The change in angle
makes his finger hit the spot better. His hand stutters on his cock.
He needs more. He needs more now.
Without stopping to think about it, he runs his index finger along the rim of
his hole and, after a moment, pushes it in alongside the first one. Even though
it’s still slick with lube, it burns slightly as it pushes in. But there’s one
finger inside him already, and he’s all worked up, panting and sweating and
desperately wanting more; the burn doesn’t scare him anymore, it just makes him
feel stretched-out and full and hot. He slides the second finger up to where
the first is buried and then thrusts both of them in together. They touch the
spot, both of them at once, and Harry bites his lip to keep from moaning.
He’s worked up a rhythm before he knows it. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt
before, the glide and the stretch and the pleasure; he opens his legs as wide
as they’ll go and his hips start making tiny circles, trying to get his fingers
in deeper. He’s trying to hold back from making noise, but he’s panting hard,
chest heaving. His other hand works his cock faster and faster as he throws his
head back and lets it wash over him. He’s thrusting in properly now, so that if
he listens he can hear the wet sound of the lube as he fucks himself. God. He’s
close, he’s so close. It’s building up inside him, slower and more overwhelming
than any orgasm he’s ever had. God, he can’t even imagine what it must be like
to have Louis’s fingers inside him– to have Louis’s cock inside him–
There’s a noise at the window.
Harry freezes, blinking his eyes open. His fingers still, but his hips keep
moving of their own accord, desperate for it. In that moment, stretched out on
the bed, legs spread, two fingers inside himself, he’s suddenly aware of how
absolutely filthy he looks– and, like Harry knew would happen, as soon as his
eyes land on the window he sees Louis on the other side, crouched on the
windowsill and staring, eyes wide, right at Harry.
Harry clenches down on his fingers and almost comes right then and there.
He stares at Louis and Louis stares back, and for a moment neither of them
moves– and then Louis’s fumbling at the window and pulling it open, almost
falling through. Harry’s hips roll of their own accord and he moans
involuntarily; Louis’s eyes go dark, and he hurriedly shuts the window and
walks up to Harry’s bed. Harry can see the hard outline of his cock through his
sweats.
Slowly, so slowly, Louis sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed. There’s a look
of awe on his face that Harry relishes through the haze of need in his brain.
Louis reaches out, and he tentatively lays a hand on the inside of Harry’s
thigh. Harry moans. Louis’s fingertips dig in just the slightest bit.
“You can keep going, Hazza,” Louis says quietly. It’s all Harry needs.
He starts pumping his fingers in and out again, slowly at first, opening
himself back up from when he’d clenched down. They brush against his spot and
his whole body shudders. He’s incredibly aware of Louis’s eyes on him as he
starts moving his fingers faster, deeper, working towards the rhythm he’d been
at before. Louis watches him unblinkingly, hand still on his thigh; Harry can’t
tell if the heat there comes from Louis or from the fact that Harry’s so
incredibly turned on. He gives his fingers a little twist as they sink down,
hitches his arse higher into the air, and Louis’s eyes follow it and stay
there. It makes Harry feel hot and filthy and wanted. He stretches his neck out
purposefully, lets little moans spill out from his lips without holding back,
and watches with a tiny flare of satisfaction as Louis grinds his hips down
against the sheets.
He has the rhythm now, his fingers pumping in faster and faster, brushing his
spot every time they sink down. Harry wants so badly to screw his eyes shut but
he can’t stop looking at Louis. He puts a hand back on his cock because it’s
getting overwhelming and he needs something to hold on to, but Louis jolts into
action and bats Harry’s hand away, replacing it with his own. Harry moans
involuntarily.
Slowly, unbearably, Louis’s hand starts moving up and down Harry’s cock. Harry
whimpers and twists his fingers inside of himself. It’s too much, Louis
touching him and this; as Louis starts moving his hand faster, Harry’s hips
start jerking up, trying to get more. Louis moves forward until he’s hovering
above Harry, faces inches away. Harry can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“Are you close?” Louis whispers. Harry nods helplessly. Yes, yes, he is,
there’s something hot and shuddery building up in his lower belly, more intense
than he’s ever felt it. Louis’s pumping his cock fast and it’s so good and
Harry feels like he’s going to cry. His hips are making shameless circles now,
desperately chasing the feeling. He gasps out, thrusts his fingers in as deep
as they’ll go, feels himself stretched out around them and Louis’s hand hot on
his cock and there, that’s it, he’s gone. He clenches down on his own fingers
as he comes, moaning unrestrainedly, screwing his eyes shut; when he opens them
and comes back to himself, breathing raggedly, the first ting he sees is Louis
staring down at him, eyes still wide. Harry pulls him in for a kiss
immediately, feeling himself loose and pliant.
When Louis draws back, Harry slips his fingers out of himself carefully. The
emptiness they leave behind feels strange. Harry reaches down to grab at
Louis’s crotch, wanting to get him off too, but when he shoves a hand into
Louis’s pants they’re all sticky and Louis’s dick is already limp. Harry’s eyes
widen in surprise and he pulls back to look at Louis, grinning incredulously.
Louis just smiles self-deprecatingly and buries his face in Harry’s neck,
rolling them both over sideways.
“I can’t believe you came from that,” Harry mumbles into Louis’s hair once
they’re both settled.
Louis looks up at him and half-shrugs. “It was hot.”
Harry feels his face flare at that. Louis found it hot. Louis found it hot
enough to come without Harry touching him. It’s a wonderful thought, and one
that sparks something else– and suddenly, Harry can’t understand why he was
scared to tell Louis what he wanted. It’s Louis. Louis who likes getting off
with him, who Harry’s known since he was eight, who knows him better than
anyone. There’s nothing to be scared of. Harry feels light, floaty, safe.
So he looks at Louis and tells him, “D’you mind, would you, um–” His face gets
hotter, but he barrels on determinedly all the same. “I want you to fuck me,
like, properly. D’you think we could do that?”
It’s out there. Harry can’t take it back now. It’s okay, Harry has to remind
himself; it’s okay.
And then Louis’s looking at him, looking so hilariously shocked that Harry has
to giggle. It’s somehow a relief. “What, now?”
Harry shakes his head hurriedly. “No! No, I mean,” he trips over his own words,
“not now, but, like, soon? Would that be okay?”
“Are you–” Louis cuts himself off and shakes his head a little, looking torn in
about two million directions. Harry fights a smile. Louis starts again. “Harry,
are you sure you want to do this? Because, like, you don’t have to or anything,
I mean it, I don’t–”
This is as weird for Louis as it is for him, Harry realizes with a jolt. It
feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. It’s good. It’s all good. They
can figure it out together.
“D’you think I’d have been doing what I was just doing if I didn’t want to?”
Harry interrupts, and Louis looks at him for a wide-eyed moment before bursting
into startled laughter. It’s strangely contagious.
“Oh my God,” Louis finally gets out. “How long have you been thinking about
this for?”
“A while,” Harry admits sheepishly. “I mean, I’d never tried the, you know.” He
feels himself blush, but forces himself to say it. “Fingers up my arse. But it
felt so good, Lou, I– I couldn’t stop thinking about what it’d be like if it
was you inside–” and then there are fingers tightening on his arm and Louis
suddenly looks so turned on that Harry can’t help but feel pleased with
himself. “Can we do that?” he finishes, quieter.
Louis just looks at him. “Harry. Jesus. You say those things and expect me to
say no?”
Harry grins. “Is that a yes?” Okay. Okay. This is happening. He’s going to have
Louis’s cock inside him, oh my God. His arse clenches just from thinking about
it.
But then Louis’s face gets a little more serious, and Harry comes back to
reality immediately. “Harry. Are you sure about this? I don’t want you to get
hurt.”
“I am,” Harry says. He’s also nervous and excited and mildly terrified, but he
is. “Anyway, it’s not supposed to hurt. Not if we do it properly. Like, fingers
and lube and stuff.”
A grin cracks across Louis’s face, getting wider and wider. “Oh my God. You
have been thinking about this.”
Harry blushes, still grinning. “Shut up.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you now. Would you rather I just hadn’t mentioned it at all?”
“You wouldn’t have done that;” Louis says smugly. He’s absolutely right.
Because this is Louis and Harry trusts him more than anyone in the world.
There’s only one secret he can keep from Louis. The rest will always come out
eventually, and Harry knows that.
It’s okay. It’s all okay. They’re doing this together and that’s all that
matters.
                                       *
They experiment.
Harry finds that once he’s had fingers up his arse it’s difficult not to want
them there all the time. He loves it, loves feeling dirty and full and
stretched out, and the orgasms leave him shaking afterwards. He makes Louis do
it every time he gets him off and they’re not in a hurry, starting with two the
first time, working on it until Louis can fit in three and there’s no burn,
just mild discomfort at the beginning. It’s infinitely better than his own
fingers. Not just because it’s Louis (even though the oh, God, Louis is inside
me feeling still hasn’t gone away), but also because he can reach deeper than
Harry can and find a better angle. And once Louis learns how to find that spot,
the orgasms become absolutely mind-blowing.
It’s fun and it’s hot and it’s exciting and even though Harry’s in the middle
of exam season it’s making him forget about school completely. It’s like summer
all over again. Louis is everywhere and Harry wants him around always and they
can’t keep their hands off each other. The weird distant moments Harry’s
noticed in Louis aren’t happening anymore, and Harry doesn’t want to ask
because he might screw it up but he hopes this means they’re gone for good.
They fix a date. Harry’s mum isn’t home on the second weekend of December;
he’ll have the house to himself and his exams will be over with until January.
Harry buys more lube just in case and checks that the condoms at the bottom of
the sock drawer haven’t mysteriously disappeared. (They haven’t.) There’s a
perpetual nervous buzzing in his gut, his fingertips; the only thing keeping
him more or less steady is the knowledge that Louis is nervous too. As the date
gets nearer and nearer, it gets harder for Louis to sit still, and he goes back
and forth between loud and insufferable and strangely quiet. Harry knows how to
read him and he knows what that means. (He’s also weirdly affectionate with
Harry. He keeps mumbling things about not wanting to hurt him and wanting to
make him feel good, keeps touching him when it’s not strictly necessary and,
just once, presses a tiny kiss to Harry’s forehead when he thinks he’s asleep.
It makes Harry feel like he’s glowing from the inside.)
The days go by. Harry can’t decide if they’re going too fast or maddeningly
slow. The week is here: he finishes with his exams, his mum gives him a kiss
and a hug on Saturday morning and tells him to be careful and call her if he
needs anything, and then the hours have slipped by in a blur and it’s the
afternoon and Louis is coming in through Harry’s window. It’s happening.
Harry’d though that at first it’d be– not awkward, because he and Louis don’t
do awkward, but… a bit weird, maybe? Because they’re not boyfriends, they’re
not anything, but they’re about to have sex and Harry’s never done this before
and he’s so nervous he feels like he could crawl out of his skin.
It’s not weird. Louis comes up to him, kisses him hard, draws back and asks
him, easy as anything, “Shall we get to it, then?” Harry feels a relieved grin
break across his face and tugs Louis to his bed without a word.
They make it work. The nerves don’t go away, not really, but they’re less
overwhelming; they don’t make Harry feel like he’s going to freeze anymore.
Louis kisses him and his hands slip under Harry’s shirt, warm against his skin.
It’s a feeling that’s easy to sink into. Louis is everywhere, his breath hot on
Harry’s neck, his hands roaming Harry’s chest, his cock pressed against Harry’s
and half-hard already. Harry doesn’t stop to think about what they’re going to
do as he reaches for the waistband of Louis’s sweats and shoves them down, as
he tugs his own shirt up over his head. He just lets himself go along with the
need to have Louis closer and touch him everywhere. This part is easy. They’ve
done this before.
There’s a moment after they’re both naked where the only thing they do is stop
and stare. (They get naked all the time, but not when they’re going to do
this.) Louis looks at his body openly, eyes just a fraction too wide, and Harry
gets the strange urge to roll into the sheets and hide. But there’s awe, too,
when he looks at Louis, because seeing Louis naked is something he’s not quite
sure he’s used to yet. He’s all light, every inch of his skin. It pulses off
him like waves. Harry wants to touch and he follows the urge blindly; his hand
comes up to trace Louis’s jaw and Louis shifts into it, still looking at Harry.
Then Louis surges down to kiss him but ends up missing the spot so that Harry
gets a mouthful of his teeth instead, and just like that, it doesn’t seem so
serious anymore. Harry winces and rubs at his bottom lip, Louis cackles at him,
Harry calls him a prat, an it feels so normal that when Harry pulls Louis back
into a kiss he does it thoughtlessly.
The kiss is hungry, thorough, Louis’s tongue slipping into Harry’s mouth and
making him arch into it. Their cocks rub together and want floods Harry’s
stomach. There’s no noises now except for the wet sound of their mouths and
their heavy breathing; Harry’s hand tangles into Louis’s hair and the other
roams his chest, tweaks a nipple. Louis draws back and Harry’s mouth chases
his, nipping at Louis’s bottom lip with his teeth. Louis breathes out audibly.
Harry settles into the sheets, tugging at Louis so that he’s right on top of
him, their legs fitting together. It makes their cocks line up, sliding against
each other wonderfully. Harry makes a noise and brings his mouth up to Louis’s
neck, because having Louis stare right down at him makes him weirdly nervous.
There’s not much of a technique to it, just open-mouthed kisses and wet
sucking. But Louis seems to like it all the same, because before Harry knows it
his hand is snaking down and he’s touching Harry properly.
Harry moans against Harry’s neck. God, it’s just– it’s just handjobs, they do
this all the time, but the knowledge that this is a handjob that’s leading to
something makes it weirdly intense. He’s going to have Louis inside him. The
thought makes him squirm. His hips make tiny circles as Louis moves his hand up
and down his cock. He sucks harder on Louis’s neck, finding the spot between
his neck and collarbone and sucking on the skin until he knows he’s left a
bruise. Louis breathes out shakily and his hand speeds up. But suddenly it’s
not nearly enough, and Harry detaches his lips from Louis’s neck and blurts out
breathlessly, “Can we do fingers now?”
Louis blinks at him. His mouth’s fallen open a little bit, and Harry moves up
to kiss it quickly. That seems to make Louis react, and he answers hurriedly,
tripping on the words as he gets them out. “Yeah, yeah, of course we– where’s
the lube, hold on–” Harry reaches blindly for the bed stand, finds the bottle
and holds it out to Louis. He feels his heartbeat thud in his ears as he
watches Louis uncap the bottle and squeeze lube onto his fingers. Harry thinks,
dimly, that his hands might be shaking. (Each reminder that Louis is nervous is
reassuring.)
Harry reaches out; his fingers find Louis’s wrist and he gives it a tiny
squeeze. Louis looks at him like he’s startled and Harry just smiles at him,
wanting Louis to understand everything he doesn’t quite know how to put into
words. We’re in this together. I want this. I want you. He’s not sure the
message gets across, but it seems to work all the same, because Louis smiles
back and his hands look steadier as he spreads the lube over his fingers. Harry
looks at them and feels his skin prickle.
“Come on,” he mumbles. Louis draws back a little, his gaze trailing down
Harry’s body. Harry lets his legs fall open even as he feels his face heating
up. He watches Louis’s chest rise and fall. Then, Louis’s moving down and
settling between Harry’s legs and there’s a slick touch to Harry’s rim and oh.
Louis’s finger is gentle, putting just the barest amount of pressure on Harry’s
hole, not even trying to push in. It drives Harry absolutely crazy. His hand
flies to his cock, trying to get some sort of relief. The pressure of Louis’s
finger on his hole increases, but only by the slightest bit. Harry fights the
urge to squirm. Instead, he jerks his hips up, trying to get more; Louis seems
to get it and finally, finally, his fingertip starts to push past Harry’s rim.
A whimper slips out of Harry’s lips at that. There’s mild discomfort, but
nothing he can’t handle, and the feeling of being filled up is so good that
Harry doesn’t mind it. Louis’s finger slides into him slowly, and once Louis
has it inside as far as it’ll go he starts moving, not even thrusting, just
maddening little circles. Harry’s eyes flick up to Louis’s face. There’s a tiny
smile playing at the edges of Louis’s lips, and– oh my God. He’s doing this on
purpose.
“I hate you,” Harry says as vehemently as he can manage with Louis’s finger
twisting inside him. “Get on with it.”
“Ask nicely,” Louis tells him with a playful grin. Harry opens his mouth to
tell him to fuck off, but then, oh, Louis’s pulling his finger almost all the
way out and pushing it back inside, and as it grazes Harry’s spot the words
fade from his mind completely. A ragged breath slips out of his mouth instead.
Louis starts pumping his finger properly now, in out in out, and he has a
rhythm going before Harry knows it. Harry moans and spreads his legs further.
Louis’s brushing his spot on every thrust, and it feels so wonderful and at the
same time so maddeningly insubstantial. It’s not enough. “Another,” he tells
Louis breathlessly. Louis doesn’t even hesitate this time, and as soon as
Harry’s asked for it there’s another slick finger pushing at his hole, pressing
in gently past the ring of muscle.
Harry gives his cock slow tugs as it pushes in. Two fingers make the stretch
slightly more uncomfortable, but they’ve done this before, and Harry knows it
doesn’t last for long. Louis’s spare hand is spread out on the inside of his
thigh, and Harry focuses on it, on the way it makes his skin feel hot
underneath. Louis’s fingers bottom out and stay there for a moment, letting
Harry adjust. Harry wriggles his hips, trying to get them in deeper. Then,
Louis starts moving them. It’s small at first, just little pushes back and
forth, but the movement makes Harry breathe out shakily and move the hand on
his cock faster. Slowly, giving Harry time to get used to it, Louis’s fingers
start thrusting in properly, pushing little moans out of Harry’s lips. Harry
could come like this and he knows it. But he needs to draw it out because oh,
God, Louis’s going to be inside him; his hand stills on his own cock and he
focuses on the side of Louis’s fingers, feeling like there’s something buzzing
under his skin. They hit his spot almost full on, both of them at once. Harry
gasps out shakily.
Louis notices, because the next few thrusts come from the same angle, hitting
his spot one after the other. Harry whimpers and spreads his legs wider. The
discomfort is barely there by now; all he can think of is chasing the feeling.
He never wants it to stop. But Louis’s thrusts are still gentle, even though he
has a sloppy rhythm by now, and it’s absolutely maddening. He hears tiny moans
fill the air without really registering they’re coming from his mouth, and, as
he grabs a fistful of the sheets involuntarily, realizes what he must look like
right now: spread out on the bed, panting, desperate, his forehead all sweaty
and his legs wide open. Louis, Harry notices with a flash of heat, has his eyes
glued right to the spot where his fingers are pumping into Harry. God, Louis’s
seeing him like this– Louis’s seeing him like this and it’s turning him on, if
the way his cock is flushed and hard is anything to go by. Harry wants his
hands on it, his mouth on it, wants it inside him so desperately that for a
moment it shocks even himself.
“Lou,” Harry hears himself say. Louis’s head snaps up. “I can take another.”
“Yeah?” Louis asks. Harry can see his pupils black and dilated inside the blue
of his eyes. They’ve done three fingers before, but Harry supposes it’s
different now that it’s actual prep and not just for the sake of it. Louis
doesn’t look nervous anymore, but the glow coming from him is ever so slightly
pale. Harry knows what that means. So he nods jerkily and hitches his bum up,
breathing hard, wanting to show Louis how much he wants it without having to
find the words.
A moment later, there’s the touch of a third finger at Harry’s hole. “Yeah,”
Harry mumbles, wanting to feel them moving inside him again. Louis’s eyes flick
up to his and back down to where his fingers are, and then Louis’s finger is
sinking in, pushing in gently past his rim. Harry whimpers. The stretch is
uncomfortable, but Harry’s so far gone he barely registers it. There’s just the
wonderful feeling of being full and spread out, desperate, breathless, his hair
sticking to his forehead with sweat. Louis’s fingers start moving again. Harry
has to fight the urge to writhe on the bed.
When Louis’s fingers, all three of them, hit his spot, Harry’s back arches off
the bed and he feels like he could come right then and there. He doesn’t,
because he’s only barely touching his cock and there’s nothing to hold on to.
But the next thrusts get better and better until he’s squirming, moaning with
each push of Louis’s fingers inside him, desperate for something to push him
over the edge but knowing he can’t come yet. Because it’s Louis’s cock next. It
makes his stomach twist with sudden nerves, but he’s ready now. Harry knows it.
Louis’s fingers are gliding in and out of him and there’s nothing except the
stretch anymore, no discomfort, no resistance.
So Harry reaches down and grabs Louis’s wrist blindly. Louis’s hand stills. He
looks down at Harry, and Harry looks back at him, and there’s a moment where
Harry’s sure he’s not going to be able to say it. But he feels Louis’s hand
stroke at his thigh gently, feels the warmth radiating from it, and the moment
is gone.
This is Louis. There’s nothing to be scared of.
“I think I’m good now,” Harry blurts out. His chest is heaving and his voice
sounds breathless. “Lou, I think I’m ready, can we do it now?” He’s acutely
aware of Louis’s fingers still inside him, not moving, but stretching him out
all the same.
Louis’s silent for the tiniest of moments. “You mean–” Harry nods jerkily.
“Yeah, okay, that’s what you mean. I– if you’re sure, Harry–”
“–of course I’m sure, God, Lou–”
“Okay,” Louis says quietly. “Okay, then.” They look at each other. Harry hears
his heartbeat thud in his ears. “I’m gonna take them out now, okay?”
Harry swallows. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, okay.”
Louis’s fingers pull out, dragging inside him; they ease out of his hole
gently, leaving Harry feeling strangely empty. He clenches down against it
unconsciously. Louis stares between his legs for a moment, eyes wide, and then
seems to come back to himself and scrambles for the condoms, his glow
flickering slightly.
Dimly, Harry watches Louis tear open a condom wrapper (it takes him three
tries, and if this were any other situation Harry’d be making fun of him
already). When Louis takes it out and looks at it, Harry feels the sudden urge
to touch him, to make this good for him too. So he tries to pull himself
together, props himself up and leans forward, batting Louis’s hands away,
mumbling a, “Let me.” He kisses Louis once and takes the condom from him,
squinting at it; he pinches it at the tip like he was told in sex ed and rolls
it onto Louis’s cock as best as he can. As soon as Harry’s hands are on him,
Louis lets out a little sigh. When the condom’s on, Harry gives Louis’s cock a
few slow strokes, just to tease. The way Louis’s lips fall open makes heat
flood Harry’s stomach, makes him suddenly aware of the uncomfortable emptiness
inside him. They’re doing this. They’re doing this now.
So he flops down on his back again, breathing hard, hearing the snick of the
lube bottle and fighting the urge to shudder. He watches unblinkingly as Louis
spreads lube on his cock. His heartbeat feels too loud and everything around
him too vivid, almost surreal. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, trying
to relax. A moment later, there’s a soft touch to his wrist. Harry’s eyes fly
open. “Hazza,” Louis says. “You okay?” His touch is steady, but his glow is
uncertain.
“Yeah,” Harry gets out. “Yeah, Lou, I’m ready– do it, come on–”
Louis nods slowly. “Okay,” he mumbles under his breath, so quietly that Harry
isn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. Then, louder, “Okay, I’m just going to–”
and then, so gently, he’s pulling Harry’s legs up and settling between them.
Harry swallows. There’s nervous energy pulsing underneath his skin. He nods
shakily, because he knows that if he doesn’t Louis will never get on with it–
and then there’s pressure at his hole, a pressure that’s Louis’s cock. Harry
reaches for Louis’s hand blindly and holds on.
“Come on,” Harry whispers, and Louis squeezes his hand once and starts pushing
in.
It’s slow, and it’s gentle, but Louis’s cock is wider than his three fingers
and for a moment the burn comes back like it’s his first time having anything
inside him. Harry bites down on his lip and tries to steady his breathing.
Louis’s hand squeezes his own again. Harry meets his eyes, and they’re wide and
blue and concerned. “You okay?” Louis says breathlessly.
Harry nods. “Keep going,” he says, because they’re the only words he can
manage. Louis obeys. He pushes in, deeper and deeper, until Harry’s gritting
his teeth and wondering how much of it there is– and then Louis’s hand is on
his cock, and it’s so unexpected that Harry gasps and his hips jerk
involuntarily. He braces himself for the burn as Louis’s cock nudges deeper
inside him, but it doesn’t come. There’s only what was already there, and even
then it’s becoming more tolerable. Harry blinks in surprise, then moans quietly
as Louis’s hand moves on his cock, giving it a few slow tugs. He wriggles his
hips, trying to look at what’s going on, and– oh. Louis’s cock is almost
completely inside him, oh God, their hips almost lined up, and the sight is so
hot that Harry has to bite down a moan.
Louis notices. “D’you want me to move now?” he asks, a little tentatively. His
glow is getting brighter. Harry wants to watch it forever.
“Yeah,” he gets out. He feels more full than he’s ever done in his life, but
the burn is fading to discomfort now and it makes Harry want more. So when
Louis eases out the tiniest bit and pushes back in, it’s uncomfortable, but it
also makes Harry breathe out heavily, holding onto Louis’s hand. His mouth
falls open of its own accord. “Keep going,” he whispers to Louis. Louis does it
again. It’s better than the first time. Harry screws his eyes shut and waits
for it to build up.
And it does. Louis’s thrusts stay slow but they get harder, Louis pulling
almost all the way out and pushing back in, making Harry squirm. The pain is
gone, and the pleasure gets more and more intense each time. Harry pens his
eyes and there’s nowhere to look at but Louis’s face. So Harry looks straight
into Louis’s eyes as he thrusts into him, and it’s almost overwhelming, Louis’s
closeness, Louis looking at him and touching him and inside him. Even if Harry
wanted to, there’s nowhere to hide. Every little emotion on his face is there
for Louis to see. It should make him feel vulnerable, but all it does is make
him feel safe.
Then Louis changes the angle the slightest bit and Harry feels him hit that
spot inside him and for a moment the pleasure’s so much that he arches off the
bed and moans.
Louis’s eyes go wide, but there’s a breathless smile playing at the corners of
his lips. “Again?” he asks, and Harry can only nod desperately because yes.
Louis pushes back in and it feels even better, the pleasure radiating inside
him from fingertips to toes. There’s nothing else. Just him and Louis and this,
there’s nothing else that matters. Louis pushes in again and an ah falls out of
Harry’s mouth, involuntary, desperate.
Louis’s building up a rhythm before Harry knows it, and it’s almost
overwhelming but Harry never wants it to stop. It builds up until Harry’s
moving his hips in circles, chasing the feeling, moaning shamelessly every time
Louis thrusts in. Louis’s eyes are still on his face, and Harry looks back at
him, because what else can he do? And through the blur of pleasure and want,
Harry realizes that this way he can see every little thing on Harry’s face as
clearly as Louis can see them on his. There’s want, yes, but there’s also
something behind it, something Harry can’t focus enough to put a name on but
that makes him grab onto Louis’s hand tighter. Harry feels something deep and
nameless well up inside him. I love you. I love you. He wants to say it so
badly it feels like his chest might burst from holding back. A moan comes out
of his mouth instead, filthy and drawn-out.
Harry can’t look at Louis anymore, can’t stand it, so he pulls Louis in
clumsily and kisses him, sloppy and fierce. Louis kisses back, all tongue and
teeth. He thrusts in hard. Harry’s thighs shake and he makes a noise into
Louis’s mouth. Then Louis’s hand speeds up on his cock, giving it fast messy
tugs, and Harry has to draw back to bury his face in Louis’s neck. It’s too
much. He’s so unbearably close, and he’s hypersensitive to everything: the
pleasure inside him flooding every part of his body, the wonderful stretch of
Louis’s cock, Louis inside him and on top of him. He glows bright and powerful,
and Harry feels like it’s a part of him too, like they’re both the same thing.
He edges closer, closer, until he feels like he has to come or he’ll lose his
mind– and then his orgasm hits like a wave, rising and rising and crashing over
Harry and making him cry out and screw his eyes shut, lost to the force of it.
Louis jerks him off through it until Harry’s left shuddering out tiny spasms
and whimpering. There’s a faint ringing in his ears. Harry barely registers it.
He collapses on the bed, his vision blurry. Louis pulls out of him and it
leaves behind an uncomfortable emptiness. Harry’s dimly aware of Louis giving
himself fast strokes and coming into the condom, but can’t even bring himself
to lift a hand up and help; his limbs are heavy, dragging him down.
He thinks Louis might have tied up the condom and tossed it somewhere off the
bed, but his thoughts are too hazy to really pay attention. He only registers
Louis rolling off him and snuggling in beside him. He lifts up an arm and Louis
slips in beneath it. Harry arm fits it around his shoulders. He can feel little
bursts of heat pulsing off Louis’s skin. He tilts his head sideways and buries
his face in Louis’s hair. The smell is familiar and faintly comforting.
“Was that good?” he hears Louis mumble. His voice sends vibrations through his
chest. They’re so close together that Harry can feel them too.
Harry finds his voice, “Yeah.” It sounds rumbly, slower than usual. “Yeah, it
was…” His voice trails off. It’s difficult to string words together. “It was
amazing, Lou. We have to do that again.”
“Yeah?” mumbles Louis. Harry nods sleepily. It’s the middle of the afternoon,
but orgasms tend to make him pass out, especially when he has Louis next to
him. “Yeah,” he says back. “Loved having you inside.” The words slur together,
blurring into one. “Can still feel it.” His brain-to-mouth filter has
completely disappeared, but he can’t bring himself to be concerned. “Nap?” he
says hopefully. His eyelids are already drooping.
“Always,” Louis says back. He isn’t being serious, Harry knows it, but as he
settles into sleep the word makes something warm and glowing bloom inside his
stomach.
                                       *
Harry’s mum doesn’t come back until Sunday morning, so they spend most of
Saturday night messing around, discovering new things. Harry wants desperately
to do it again, but his bum’s a little sore and Louis says they should probably
try another day. Harry huffs, but gives in. It’s not like there’s nothing else
to do anyway. They blow each other and then Louis asks curiously if it’s really
that good having something up your arse; that’s more or less how Harry ends up
with two fingers inside Louis, watching him come with wide eyes.
By the time they’re both too exhausted for any more, the moon is high in the
sky and the windows have misted over. This is how it should be, Harry thinks
hazily. This is how he wants it to be forever. He’s too tired for the thought
to be scary.
                                       *
Louis has nowhere to go on Christmas. Harry’s known that for years. He’s never
officially invited him over, because Christmas is for family and he knows if
Louis’s there there’ll be questions, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stay in
the house. They’ve been doing this for years now: Harry’ll go downstairs when
he has to, and whenever he can he’ll sneak upstairs and bring Louis leftovers
from Christmas dinner or a mug of hot chocolate. They do it this year, because
what else would they do?
The thing about Christmas, Harry thinks, is that every year it feels like less
of a thing. When he stops to think about it, he supposes it’s really kind of
sad. Because he loved it when he was little, and he loves it now, he does, but–
it’s not the same, is it? If it weren’t for all the memories he has, it’d feel
like almost nothing.
But it’s okay. It all turns out okay in the end, because it’s Christmas. Gemma
comes home and she’s here every day and Harry can almost pretend she never
left; Aunt Lydia and her husband and kids visit, and his mum looks wonderfully
happy the whole time. It might not be what it was before, but it doesn’t
matter. They light the fire in the living room and watch Love, Actually and
Harry falls asleep on the carpet on more than one night, because he’s full and
warm and surrounded by people he loves.
And when he comes back to his room at night Harry’s there most of the time,
even if Harry can tell by the state of his hair that he’s come in through the
window not very long ago. Seeing him, for some reason, always makes Harry feel
safer, more settled. They don’t do much, but it doesn’t matter. (At least it
doesn’t matter to Harry, and Louis still comes so he can’t mind to much
either.) Falling asleep next to Louis is something Harry’s been doing since he
can remember. It’s easy and it’s familiar and Harry could swear it makes him
sleep better.
He doesn’t get a New Year’s kiss and it doesn’t particularly matter. They go
out to see the fireworks together, his mum and Gemma and him; Harry watches
them and only half pays attention. What’s Louis doing? Can he see them too? So
he enters the New Year without really realizing it; oddly enough, he can’t
bring himself to care very much.
It’s freezing outside. By the time they come back home, Harry’s flexing his
fingers to make sure he can still feel them, and he’s sure his cheeks and nose
are all red from the cold. Louis’s always warm, though, so whenever Harry gets
cold all he has to do is come right up to him and stick his hands up Louis’s
shirt. But when he opens the door to his room, Louis’s not there.
He’s not there?
Well. Okay. It’s not like Louis’s supposed to be with Harry all the time
anyway. They’re not– they’re not anything aside from best mates. Harry has to
remind himself sometimes. He slips into bed alone and tries not to think too
much of it. He fits his hands under his armpits to try and warm them up. It
takes him a long time to fall asleep.
                                       *
January is… strange.
The thing about coming back to school after the holidays is that you get into a
routine again surprisingly fast. A week into the term, Christmas feels like it
was never really there at all. Harry doesn’t like it. Because he’s growing to
sort of hate school and the way all it does is make him stressed, and because
Christmas was great and he doesn’t want the memory to go away. He can already
feel it fading, little by little. But the days go by, and then the weeks, and
Harry lets it go, because there are more urgent things to worry about.
His mock exams are in March. Harry took them last year too, but he remembers it
all much more peaceful and far less panicky. But now they’re suddenly a
terribly big deal because it’s the last thing before the real GCSEs and those
are supposed to decide his future and even though Harry’s never cared that much
about school stuff, he finds himself getting caught up in it all. By the time
February rolls around, there’s not much time for anything else. (He doesn’t
even want to think about what it’ll be like in June when they take the real
exams. Harry just wants it all to be over already.)
And less time means seeing less of Louis. Harry finds himself looking back to
Christmas break almost nostalgically. Did Louis really sleep in his bed every
night? The thought seems so far-off. Louis will mostly come now on weekends,
and Harry will snuggle up to him gratefully against the cold, Louis’s arm over
his shoulders. He’ll sometimes daydream about what they’ll do once this whole
mess is over, once it’s the summer and there are no exams to worry about at
all. It’s going to be even better than last year. Harry’s making sure of it.
Sixteen is probably still too young to travel alone, so no beach, but he could
definitely find a lake around here, and that’s… more or less the same thing,
isn’t it? He mentions it to Louis sometimes when he’s around and they’re not
getting off. Louis just says we’ll see.
(It’s school that’ making them not see so much of each other lately, isn’t it?
Louis isn’t… he couldn’t be staying away from Harry on purpose. They’re best
mates. Why would he do that? Harry shoves the thought out of his head as soon
as it appears.)
The cold leaves eventually. There’s frost on the windowpane less and less often
in the morning, and the pavement isn’t slippery with ice anymore. The days get
longer. The sky’s now pink and gold when Harry walks to school in the morning.
And March comes, which means exams, which means the barely in barely no free
time disappears. The good part is that they last for a week, which means he
gets them over with fairly quickly; the bad part is that that means they’re all
crammed together. Two hours of History in the morning, then two normal class
periods, then the oral French exam, then the written French, Maths at nine the
next day… it’s hectic, and it’s awful, and by Thursday Harry’s right hand hurts
from writing. His mum’s lovely and understanding: she’s constantly making sure
he’s getting enough sleep and telling him grades aren’t worth suffering over
and she brings chamomile tea up to his room every night to “help him relax.”
Louis is nowhere to be found, but Harry expected that anyway.
And then it’s over and Harry does nothing for an entire weekend except stay in
bed and sleep. Spring is coming. Harry can see it in the new leaves on the
trees, in the way his backyard is more green than brown now. Spring, and then
summer. It feels like Harry could brush it with his fingertips if he reached
out far enough.
                                       *
Harry doesn’t see it coming.
Who would? It’s not like– it’s not like there’s anything weird going on. Things
between Louis and him are okay, they haven’t been fighting, they’re perfectly
good mates– and if they haven’t been seeing each other it’s because Harry’s
been busy and it’s not his fault.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Harry has to be the one always saying things
or the one that’s never supposed to ask questions about what’s going on. It’s
not fair that he never knows what Louis’s thinking and it’s not fair that he
feels things sometimes but never knows if Louis is feeling them too. If anyone
should be mad, it’s Harry. But that’s not how things work, is it?
And the way it happens is stupid, anyway.
Now that Harry’s done with exams and he has a nice one or two weeks of not
being horrendously busy, he’s hanging out with Louis again when he can. Things
are the same as always, Harry’s relieved to see. Louis doesn’t sleep with him
every night, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped doing it, and he still lets
Harry kiss him and gives him handjobs and has sex with him once or twice, so–
things haven’t changed. Not that Harry, like, expected them to, but it’s a
relief all the same.
They end up behind the factories one afternoon, Louis kicking a football
around, Harry sat on the ground and leaning back against a brick wall. Harry
follows the football with his eyes as Louis kicks it higher and higher into the
air. His thoughts are scattered, vague. “Did you know,” he tells Louis, “I was
talking to Dan the other day and he said dead people sometimes fart.”
Louis glances over at Harry. His concentration breaks and the ball falls to the
ground. “What?”
“I know, right?” Harry says. “Apparently it’s not really farts, it’s just gas
‘cause they’re rotting inside, but yeah. Sometimes the fingernails grow too.”
“Cool,” Louis says. He kicks the ball up into the air again with the tip of his
shoe, but when he goes to lift it to his knee it rolls off. He looks over at
Harry, a tiny crease between his eyebrows. “You’re friends with Dan?”
Harry’s silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he says lightly. “He goes to school with
me. Why’re you asking?”
Louis just shrugs. Harry watches him turn for the ball again, but he seems to
change his mind halfway and turns back to face Harry. “Maybe you shouldn’t be
friends with him,” Louis says casually.
Harry frowns. “Why?”
Louis shrugs again. “Dunno,” he says. There’s a weird kind of glow to him. It
makes Harry uneasy. “But, like, didn’t he kiss you once? Maybe he’s getting the
wrong impression.”
What?
“What are you talking about?” Harry gets out.
Louis just blinks at him. “Just a suggestion. I mean, do whatever you like.”
For a moment, Harry has no clue what to say. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” Louis says back quickly. “I just said.”
“Then why’re you asking about it?”
“I’m just looking out for you,” Louis says defensively.
Harry knows this conversation shouldn’t be going where it’s going, but it’s
like something’s welling up in his chest, pushing him to keep going. “That was
a year ago.” Does Louis really– does Louis think he’d go off with Dan now? That
happened one time, and he and Louis weren’t even doing anything back then, and
they– they’re just mates.
Then again, he’s mates with Louis too, isn’t he?
“Well, who knows, maybe he still wants something, I’m just saying–”
“I mean,” Harry interrupts, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that
there’s something hot in his chest that’s pushing him to keep going, “from what
I’ve heard, didn’t you do more than kissing with Zayn? And you’re still mates
with him, aren’t you? Maybe he’s getting the wrong impression.”
As soon as the words are out, Harry regrets them.
He hasn’t seen Louis like this in years. He glows in a way that’s bright and
hot and terrifying, and for a moment, Harry feels incredibly small. His anger
drains away instinctively until he remembers why he’s mad and can bring it
back– and then Louis says, in a voice that’s quiet and terrible, “Don’t act
like you know anything about that.”
“Yeah?” Harry says. His voice gets louder and louder, because his anger has to
take up space to free everything that’s jammed up inside him, to make Louis
stop using that awful quiet voice. “I know you did stuff together. I know he
gave you lovebites, at the very least. I know you still hang out with him. And
if I don’t know anything else it’s because you never fucking tell me anything
that’s going on!”
“Oh?” Louis’s eyes feel like they’re burning a hole through Harry, but at least
his voice isn’t quiet anymore. “And why should I tell you anything.”
That one stings. Harry falters. There’s nothing he can say back. Because he’ll
look like an idiot, and isn’t that what he is? Because I care about you.
Because I never know what you think or what you want or how you feel. Because I
think I’m in– “Because we’re friends!” Louis raises his eyebrows, and it feels
like being punched in the stomach. Friends. It’s stupid and it’s childish and
it means nothing. This isn’t because Louis is his friend. “We’re friends and I
never know what’s going on inside your head!”
“So you think because we fuck I’m supposed to tell you everything.” It’s oddly
final. Humiliatingly, Harry feels his eyes start to prickle.
This isn’t Louis.
This isn’t the Louis he’s grown up with. Harry knows beyond the shadow of a
doubt that he’s not saying this because he means it. But this has flown so
wildly out of his hands that Harry doesn’t know how to fix it, can’t stop it
from spiralling into something worse than it already is. And when Harry looks
at Louis and tries to find any clue that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying,
there’s nothing.
“Louis,” he says. There’s no anger anymore. Now, he’s just pleading. “You’re my
friend and I care about you.” The words feel artificial. Harry knows this is
only scratching the surface, and he wonders if Louis can tell too. “I just– I’m
worried, okay? I’m worried because I don’t know what’s going on. I want to know
because I care, not because, like–” Embarrassingly, he stumbles over the words.
“Not because I think you’re supposed to tell me.”
Louis just looks at him.
Harry’s felt like this before. When Louis looks at him like this, it’s like all
of his insides are transparent, like Louis can see everything Harry could
possibly want to hide. Harry wonders if he knows everything Harry’s feeling,
everything that Harry’s not even sure of himself. He wonders if Louis knows
where he comes from, what he is.
Then, Louis says quietly, “You’re the person who knows the most about me in the
world.”
Harry blinks. What does that mean? What’s Louis trying to say? “Louis–” he says
helplessly, not even knowing what he wants to say. But Louis isn’t talking
anymore. Instead, he’s turning around, and Harry knows what’s going to happen
before it happens. “Louis,” he sees again. He can hear the edge of desperation
in his own voice. Louis’s walking away. Harry tries to go after him, but the
moment he does, it’s like Louis’s figure starts to melt away, disappearing into
the afternoon sunlight. “Louis, please don’t leave.” But Louis is already gone.
Harry can’t see him anymore. “Louis,” he tries again, but it’s no use at all,
and all Harry can do is stay there, calling out helplessly, the abandoned ball
lying at his feet.
                                       *
Louis doesn’t come back.
It’s like Harry’s twelve all over again, and if he wasn’t so worried he might
even find the irony in it. Because nothing has changed. He’s not any less
panicked or any more reassured that Louis’s going to come back. And the guilt
is back again, guilt that’s hideous and corrosive and eats away at Harry while
he’s trying to sleep at night; there’s no getting away.
He looks everywhere. His own backyard, the park, the trees, the train station,
the river, the factories; up and down the village, even with the sinking
certainty in his gut that if Louis doesn’t want to be found there’s no way that
Harry’s going to be able to. And when there’s nowhere else to look he looks
everywhere again, just to keep himself busy, because anything’s better than
staying put and thinking. He even asks Zayn a week in when he’s getting
desperate, but Zayn just blinks at him and tells him the last time he saw Louis
was two weeks ago. There’s nothing else Harry can do.
The uncertainty is the worst part.
Harry can live with the guilt. It fades away a little after a while, because–
because the fight wasn’t his fault. The two of them made it happen, only Louis
was the one who left. No, the worst part is the uncertainty, because he can’t
be sure about anything at all, can he? Louis could be right in front of him and
he’d never know. He could have left Holmes Chapel for good. They aren’t twelve
anymore. Louis could leave and he could build a life away from here. Harry has
no phone number, no address, no way to get in touch with him. If Louis decides
not to come back, Harry will never hear from him again.
He wonders, not for the first time, if Louis could ever go back to the sky.
The thought is terrifying. Harry can’t imagine what it would be like to live in
a world where Louis didn’t exist. It’s not rational, it’s not in any way
explainable, but Harry thinks he’d do anything he possibly could to keep that
from happening. It’s selfish, of course it is. But it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t
let Louis go – it means Harry would find a way to go after him.
Maybe he’s gone back to the sky already. Maybe that’s why he’s not coming back,
and Harry will never know.
The days pass, then the weeks. It doesn’t get any more bearable. Harry’s
constantly on edge, jumping at the tiniest unexpected thing; there’s something
fizzing under his skin that makes him restless and keeps him awake. When two
weeks have gone by, he starts looking again, just in case. And again, there’s
nothing. The weather’s getting warmer, but Harry feels like his hands are
always cold.
He hasn’t gone this long without seeing Louis in years. The memories of him are
tied up too deeply in Harry’s life to fade, but the most recent ones start to
become slightly hazy at the edges. They’re not going away; what’s happening is
that they’re becoming a definite past. Harry can’t have that. He can’t have
Louis stop existing in the now.
He brings him up sometimes. He never used to do it before, because the less
questions people asked about Louis the better, but it starts without him
realizing, tiny mentions of “a friend” when he’s talking to people at school, a
“Louis” every now and then when he’s talking to his mum. (She never asks any
questions. Harry doesn’t know if she’s doing it on purpose, but he’s grateful
all the same.) He can’t let Louis go. It’s not going to happen. If he stops
believing he’s going to come back he’ll have nothing left of him at all.
He thinks about Louis in a way he hasn’t done in ages, in a way that’s strange
and analytical and that would never happen if Louis was around. He’s a star.
He’s a star and he’s here with Harry. When Louis is here, the thought makes
sense, because Harry looks at him and thinks, what else could he be? But now it
seems abstract, surreal, like something out of a dream. Stars aren’t people.
What kind of force would be able to make them into one? Can stars feel, can
they get hurt or scared or lost? Can they love?
(The word love isn’t a taboo in Harry’s mind anymore. It’s as abstract as the
thought of Louis being a star, but he allows himself to think it now.)
He wonders what Louis’s doing. He thinks back to that one time when they were
both little and Harry caught Louis following him around when they were mad at
each other and wonders if Louis’s ever been around Harry without Harry
noticing. He wonders where Louis is, and what he is, and if he’s ever going to
see him again, and throughout all of it Louis stays gone.
                                       *
He comes back in April.
April means rain. April means water droplets racing down the windows and
pattering on the roof when he’s lying awake at night; it means his feet getting
soaked as he walks to school because his wellies don’t fit him anymore and his
trainers have holes in them. April is as dreary as February. And it’s also the
month where Harry hears a knock on his window in the night and feels his heart
jolt in his chest.
He’s at the window in a second. He looks out and the déjà vu takes over. (How
many times has he done this, found Louis at his window after weeks of him being
away?) Because, of course, Louis’s there; his glow lights up the window faintly
from the outside, even through the sheets of rain that are black in the night.
For a bizarre second, Harry’s sure he’s going to cry.
He doesn’t cry. He unlatches the window with shaky hands and opens it just wide
enough, expecting Louis to come in. He doesn’t. He just stays outside and looks
at Harry, and his eyes are wide (and blue blue blue, how can Harry have
forgotten how blue they were? It’s been less than a month) and strangely
tentative.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead of coming in. Harry blinks at him, confused,
because why does he want to do this out there in the rain? Maybe he’s leaving
again? But before Harry can panic, Louis carries on talking. “I’m sorry, you
don’t have to let me in, it’s just– it was raining so hard and there’s nowhere
else to go, I can leave if you want–”
Harry just looks at him, dumbstruck. Louis– Louis thinks Harry doesn’t want him
back.
He’s not sure he can speak, so he just opens the window wider, hoping it gets
the message across. It doesn’t. Louis looks a little surer of himself, but he
still doesn’t come in. So Harry gestures instead, fighting to keep the smile
off his face, because even though he gets the feeling there’s still so much
they haven’t solved Louis is here with him and that’s all that matters.
Louis drips all over the carpet as he clambers in through the window, and Harry
could not care one bit less.
For a moment, all Harry can do is look at him. His glow is faint but it’s
there: steady, familiar. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t Harry’s and Harry
doesn’t think he’s ever seen them before. There are traces of mud on them, but
they look like they’ve mostly been washed clean by the rain; they stick to his
skin, dark and soaked through. His feet are bare. He looks at Harry, and
Harry’s struck by how uncertain he looks; Louis doesn’t do vulnerability,
doesn’t let things show plainly, only lets show glimpses that Harry has to
figure out on his own. But there he is, dripping on Harry’s floor and with a
look on his face that Harry isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.
Harry should get him a towel. Harry should get him a towel and clean clothes
and make sure he’s okay. Rationally, he knows this. But right now, he takes a
step forward and does the only things he can think of: he takes hold of Louis’s
soaked-through shirt, tugs him forwards and kisses him.
They’re almost the same height now, Harry thinks somewhere in the back of his
mind, because he barely has to tilt his head up at all to kiss Louis. Because
he’s kissing Louis, he’s kissing Louis again, and it takes a moment but then
Louis’s kissing back, his tongue darting to flick at Harry’s bottom lip. Harry
sighs instinctively and holds on to Louis tighter, his hand coming up to tangle
in Louis’s wet hair. The rain comes down hard against the window, the water
from Louis’s clothes seeps through to Harry’s skin, and Harry thinks it’s a
kiss that deserves music in the background. It’s a kiss that means hope. Harry
isn’t sure if that’s what it is or what he desperately wants it to be.
They pull back. They look at each other. Harry leans back in again, unable to
help himself, and it’s a kiss that’s short and small but that makes something
warm well up in Harry’s chest.
“Hi,” he whispers when he pulls back, unable to keep the grin off his face.
Louis just looks at him and says nothing, so Harry continues. “You’re always
welcome here. You know that. I’m not mad at you.”
“Really?” Louis says, too quietly. A little of the bubbly hope drains away.
Louis’s voice makes Harry strangely uneasy. Because Louis’s never quiet, and–
and if he’s like this now, Harry has no way to predict what he’ll be like
tomorrow. He forces the thought away.
“There’s nothing to be mad about,” he mumbles. A thought crosses his mind, and
his heart rate picks up, because these are the kinds of things they don’t say,
but– but it doesn’t matter, because Louis’s back and Harry knows saying it
won’t make him leave again. “Just– please don’t leave without telling me again.
I–” He looks at Louis and falters. “I get worried.”
Louis’s eyes are a fraction too wide. “You do?” Harry swallows, but nods. A
serious look comes over Louis’s face, and he seems to be considering something
for a moment until he says, “Okay. Okay, I– I won’t leave without telling you.
I don’t want you to worry.”
Harry blinks. “Thank you,” he whispers. A tiny grin plays at the edges of
Louis’s mouth, and as it grows into a full one Harry feels like he has to kiss
him again. Because now Louis’s here and he can.
They get into bed together after Harry’s remembered to get Louis a towel and
give him dry clothes. (It only makes the déjà vu intensify. For a moment,
Harry’s convinced he’s eight years old and Louis’s coming into his room from
the snow outside for the very first time.) Louis’s hair is still a bit damp,
but it’s not cold anymore. None of Louis is cold. He’s warm all over, warmth
itself. Harry slips into bed and falls asleep as soon as Louis’s arms settle
around him.
                                       *
Louis isn’t there when Harry wakes up the next morning. Harry tries not to pay
attention to the heavy feeling of dread sinking into his stomach. He doesn’t
quite manage it.
                                       *
Things aren’t the same after that.
Harry knows, rationally, that things between him and Louis have been changing
for a long time. He knows there have been moments where Louis won’t talk to him
that go beyond the usual, and he knows that Louis not being around is never a
coincidence when it happens over such a long time. But up until now, he’s
managed to avoid facing it directly, squirreling it away into a corner of his
mind to deal with later. It’s not like that anymore. Because even though things
have already been changing, now it’s in a way that Harry can’t ignore.
It starts with staying in Harry’s bed in the morning. Louis usually sleeps
somewhere else on weekdays, but before, he’d slip into Harry’s bed on Friday
and Saturday nights and when Harry woke up he’d be there, sometimes still
asleep, sometimes squinting sleepily at Harry, sometimes with a hand on Harry’s
cock. Bit by bit, that starts to go. Harry tells himself at first that Louis
probably had something to do today, that next week it’ll be different; but next
week comes, and Harry invariably wakes up in a bed that’s empty. Sometimes,
it’ll still be warm.
Harry doesn’t ask about it, because Louis still sleeps with him at night, and
they’re not anything, and– and sleeping in each other’s beds is not something
mates do in the first place, is it? It should be enough. Harry tries his
hardest to make it feel like it’s enough.
Then, Louis starts disappearing.
He doesn’t leave. Harry clings to the promise that he won’t leave without
telling him first. But he’s never around, and Harry knows that this time it’s
not his imagination and it’s not because he’s busy with school either. Because
before, even when they barely saw each other– even when Harry was barely around
he knew that when he had a free moment Louis would be there, and if he wasn’t,
Harry would know how to find him. But now– now Harry doesn’t know how. And that
leads to afternoons spent alone, waiting in his room in case Louis wants to
find him, his schoolbooks spread out in front of him but his mind unable to
take in a single word. This shouldn’t be happening. This wasn’t how it was
meant to happen. Because he’d have to let go of this eventually, he knew that,
but– but he’s sixteen. There were still supposed to be two whole years left.
Weren’t there?
He can’t let go of this yet.
But there’s nothing he can do to stop it. It feels like walking in a dream,
like watching sand fall through an hourglass. He sees less and less of Louis,
and he keeps telling himself that next time he’ll bring it up, he’ll ask Louis
what the hell is going on and they can sort things out. He doesn’t. Because
saying something– wouldn’t that make it into a subject they can’t avoid? If
Louis doesn’t want this anymore, won’t saying something end it completely? If
this is all Harry has now, it’s okay. At least there’s something. At least
Louis hasn’t left.
And when he’s with Louis, sometimes he can even pretend that nothing’s
happened, that everything’s just like it was before. It’s just– Louis is his
best friend, and that’s not something that goes away. He still makes Harry
laugh like no one else and knows what he’s going to say before he says it and
knows just how to twist Harry’s cock so that he comes on the spot. All of
that’s still there, and Harry doesn’t understand. when he’s with Louis and not
thinking things over and over at home everything seems simpler. It’s easy. It’s
not something he has to worry about. They’ll work things out once Harry’s done
with school.
Then, Louis stops letting Harry kiss him.
At first, it feels like it’s nothing. Louis doesn’t kiss him all that much, but
it’s okay because every time Harry ducks in and kisses him, even if it’s not
during sex, Louis will kiss back. But then, sometime in May, Harry goes to kiss
him on the cheek and Louis ducks away casually. It makes something drop in
Harry’s stomach. Because what’s he going to say? Why won’t you let me kiss you?
Louis doesn’t want this anymore, he’s made it obvious, but still– still Harry
can’t find it in himself to do anything other than hold on for as long as he
can.
(They’ve been best friends since they were eight. It’s okay that Louis doesn’t
want this, but are they going to stop doing anything and pretend that nothing’s
happened or does Louis not even want to be friends with him anymore? He can’t
leave. He can’t leave without telling Harry, he promised.)
After a few times when Louis moves away when Harry wants to kiss him, Harry
gets the message and stops altogether. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Harry shouldn’t be letting it matter.
                                       *
A Saturday afternoon, Louis comes in through Harry’s window unexpectedly and,
without saying a word, pulls a joint out from behind his ear.
Harry blinks at it. So he and Zayn really did get their hands on some weed,
then. He’s about to ask Louis what the hell he’s doing with that here when
Louis looks at him and says, “C’mon, smoke it with me.”
You don’t want to be with me anymore but you still want to smoke in my house?
Harry doesn’t say it. “Lou–” he starts instead.
“Come on,” Louis interrupts. “I want you to try it. It’s good, I swear. It
makes you all, like, weirdly relaxed.”
And the thing is, how long has it been since Louis’s tried to convince him to
do something? It feels like it’s been ages since Harry’s had to say no to,
like, jumping in the river in the middle of winter or climbing onto a roof. It
feels nice to have all of Louis’s attention focused on him like this. He can
already feel himself giving in.
“My mum’s home,” he attempts.
Louis shrugs. “Just lock the door.” There’s a tiny glint in his eyes that means
he already knows Harry’s going to say yes. Harry forgets, sometimes, how well
they know each other.
The thought makes inexplicable sadness well up in his chest. He pushes it away.
“It’s going to smell,” he protests weakly. He’s never tried weed before, but
he’s witnessed the smell cling to other people more times than he can count.
“We can do it out the window,” Louis says carelessly. He pulls a lighter out of
his pocket. “Shall we?”
And that’s how they end up with their elbows on the windowsill, the window
thrown wide open, passing the joint back and forth. Harry coughs a lot at first
and can’t quite get the smoke to where it should probably go, but then Louis
shows him how to do it properly and it’s not so bad. After a while, when he
looks out at the trees outside his window it’s like the leaves are moving much
more slowly than they should be. “Is this supposed to make things go slower?”
he asks Louis, frowning slightly, and Louis laughs and says yes.
It’s not hard to notice what it’s doing to him. Before long, his vision is
fuzzy at the edges, and he can’t seem to make his limbs move as quickly as they
should. Louis is blinking at him. It’s nice to have his eyes on him. He tells
Louis that because why not, and Louis doesn’t seem to think what he’s said is
weird at all because he just smiles.
Another few hits and there’s nothing left of the joint at all. Louis flicks the
butt out of the window and Harry scolds him for littering. Louis tells him to
go pick it up, then. Harry tells him to fuck off. His own voice sounds distant,
like it’s coming from somewhere far far away; his thoughts feel sluggish. He’s
giggling at everything Louis says, only half aware he’s doing it. He looks
sideways at Louis and gets caught up in the blue of his eyes, the slope of his
nose. If Harry squints, he can see Louis’s glow through his eyelashes, like
he’s staring at the sun.
Louis’s mumbling something about what do you do when you don’t even know who
you are. Harry’s only listening vaguely. There was something, something
important he kept thinking about before, what was it? And as Louis turns to
face him, he remembers. “You look hot when you smoke.”
Louis blinks at him. “Really?” Harry nods wisely. Louis looks at him for a
moment like he’s hovering on the edge of something; then, he suddenly yanks
Harry in by the shirt and kisses him until he’s breathless.
All thoughts of but I thought you didn’t want to kiss me anymore evaporate from
Harry’s head instantly. His mind goes blank as Louis kisses him, because it’s
been so long, and– and his body feels loose and slow and he wants this more
than anything. He pulls back, closes the window hurriedly and then grabs hold
of Louis and pushes him up against it, kissing him hard, grinding down against
whatever part of his body he can. His lips detach from Louis’s wetly. “Fuck
me,” he mumbles, the words slurring together, “fuck me, please,” and it’s only
a moment later that he realizes what he’s said. Louis’s eyes are a fraction too
wide, questioning. Harry hesitates and then nods.
So he walks backwards to the bed, pulling Louis with him, and they undress each
other quickly, like they’ve done this a thousand times before. There’s no words
this time, no giggling or uncertainty or reassurance. It’s just messy and fast
and almost thoughtless, the weed fogging Harry’s head up, blocking his thoughts
out; when Louis gets his fingers inside, he pants and squirms and moans and
doesn’t say a word. It’s hazy, almost, lips on lips, fingers on skin, legs
tangled together. It’s easy for Harry to get lost in it. He thinks of nothing
but the feeling, Louis everywhere, on top of him, inside him; he lets it wash
over him until it drowns out everything else. It doesn’t matter. None of it
matters. There’s just this, this feeling he’s chasing that makes his toes curl
up and heat swoop in his stomach and moans come out of his mouth without him
noticing. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he can see Louis glow from behind
his eyelids.
There’s a moment after they’ve both come when uncertainty lingers in the air.
Harry doesn’t know if he can kiss Louis or not, doesn’t know how far he’s
allowed to go, so he just flops down on the bed, his left arm outstretched so
that Louis can cuddle up under it. Louis looks at it for a long moment. Harry’s
breath catches in his throat.
Louis shakes his head as if to clear it. “Harry,” he says. His voice is…
pleading? “Harry, I’m sorry, I have to go.” Then he’s turning away, hurrying to
the window, pulling it open. He turns back to Harry like he’s going to say
something else, but after a long moment he just turns back and slips out of the
window. Harry’s left to watch him leave like he’s been doing for years.
                                       *
If Harry thought having sex with Louis would change anything, he was wrong.
                                       *
It’s kind of funny that he’s spent two whole years preparing for his GCSEs and,
now they’re here, Harry could not care one bit less about any of them.
(Fine. It’s not exactly funny. It’s more like ironic. Harry feels like right
now is maybe not the right time to appreciate it anyway.)
They’re a welcome distraction, though. He has to keep busy, has to keep moving.
Not doing anything means waiting for Louis and Louis never comes. If he’s
revising, Harry can tell himself that it’s okay, that he’ll sort it out later;
when it’s exam season you’re meant to put everything else aside and focus on
this until it’s over, and Harry does it gratefully. Even though at times he
can’t quite manage it, and even though he can’t ignore the fact that it takes
hours for him to fall asleep at night because his head is full of thoughts and
he can’t make them stop.
(Is this all it takes to destroy years and years of this? Is it possible that
it’s really all over, just like that? What did Harry do wrong?)
He’s only seen Louis twice since he brought the weed over, and both times have
been short and uncertain and strange. It’s because of all the revision Harry’s
been doing, Harry’s sure. Once his exams are over with he’ll make things
better. Maybe this… this thing between them is gone, but that doesn’t mean
Harry can’t still save the rest.
His GCSEs are at the beginning of June, when it’s already warm outside. They’re
spread out over three weeks, longer than his mocks, and it’s mildly frustrating
because Harry just wants them over and done with. But they start, and it’s
three weeks of cramming and watching other people panic and having one or two
mild breakdowns; it’s sweaty palms and fingers that ache from writing and every
single black pen he owns somehow going missing the night before his Physics
exam. (For some stupid reason they won’t let you do them in blue.) And Harry
gets through them. He gets enough sleep, he’s fairly sure that he passed almost
everything except History, and he doesn’t see Louis a single time in the whole
three weeks.
It’s okay. It’s okay. Exams are over and he can fix this. It’s okay.
                                       *
It’s not.
Because the Sunday after Harry’s finished his exams, a little past seven in the
afternoon, Louis comes in through Harry’s window with a look on his face that’s
completely devoid of emotion and says in a quiet voice, “I’m leaving.”
Harry just looks at him. Harry look at him and says nothing because there is no
way on Earth that he’s just heard what he’s heard.
Louis keeps on talking. His voice is steady. It almost sounds rehearsed. “I’m
leaving and I’m not coming back and I just wanted you to know.”
Everything feels too bright, too real. Harry feels like he’s only vaguely in
control of his body. It feels like it’s someone else’s; everything about this
feels like it belongs to someone else. Louis isn’t leaving. Louis can’t be
leaving. Harry blinks, but nothing falls into place. This isn’t happening.
“Why?”
A tiny crease forms between Louis’s eyebrows, like he wasn’t expecting Harry to
ask questions. Why would Harry not be asking questions? “Because I have to.”
Harry can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his eardrums. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Louis’s glow flickers, and his eyes dart all around the room like
he’s looking for a way to escape. Harry notices this because he’s hyperaware of
every little thing around him, and especially every little thing that’s
crossing Louis’s face.
“Tell me,” Harry says. He wants to take a step towards Louis, but his feet are
rooted to the ground. He can’t breathe.
Louis shakes his head. His face is still carefully neutral. “I can’t.”
“What’s wrong?” Louis doesn’t answer. Harry sees his eyes dart around the room
again, his expression still empty, and something hot and fierce surges up
inside him before he knows it. Louis is not doing this. He’s not leaving and
he’s not refusing to explain. Harry feels his heartbeat hot in his ears, his
chest, the tips of his fingers. Does he think Harry’s going to accept it, just
like that? Is he supposed to just let this go without a word?
“Is this why you’ve been all weird lately?” The words spill from his mouth of
their own accord. “Have you just been dragging this out all this time just to
tell me you’re going to leave? Why didn’t you fucking say so, then, instead of
playing games with me since January?”
Louis’s face isn’t neutral anymore. It’s tense, and his eyes feel like they’re
blazing. Harry feels a wild surge of satisfaction. “You don’t know shit.”
“Then tell me!” Harry bursts out. “Louis, God, tell me, I never know what’s
going on with you, I have to figure everything out on my own, I just–” He
falters, stumbling over his words. “I just want to know why.”
“Yeah?” Louis says. His tone is savage. “You know what? I shouldn’t have
bothered coming here to tell you. I should’ve just left. I doubt you’d even
have noticed anyway. Or wait, now your exams are over–”
“Don’t you fucking make this about that.” The feeling in Harry’s chest is
seething, spilling over. “Don’t you– don’t act like this is my fault when you
were never around. I waited for you, shit, Lou, I never knew where to find you,
I never knew what I’d done wrong–”
“Go ahead, play the victim, yeah, that’s absolutely going to work–”
“I’m not fucking playing the victim–” Harry can’t remember when his hands
curled into fists, but now his fingernails are digging into his palm so hard
they sting. “Louis, what the fuck, what have I done to you, how am I supposed
to know if you don’t tell me–”
“–maybe it has nothing to do with you–”
“Then what the fuck is your problem with me, oh my God–”
“–yeah, maybe you should just leave me alone so I can get the hell out of this
place–”
Harry takes an involuntary step towards Louis and reaches out to touch his arm.
Louis jerks back like he’s been burned. For a moment, they just stare at each
other, and in the back of his head Harry wonders how they’ve managed to come to
this. What happened? When did Harry let this spiral out of control? The feeling
in his chest is less powerful now, less fiery; he feels the anger seep out of
his body all at once. He can’t do this. He can’t be angry at Louis.
“Lou,” he says, the nickname slipping out by accident. He sees Louis’s glow
flicker, burn less angry. “Please just answer the question.”
Louis crosses his arms over his chest, his hands clutching at his sides. “What
question?”
You know what question, Harry wants to say, because he gets the vague notion
that this whole thing has just been a way to derail it. He doesn’t say it.
Instead, he looks Louis straight in the eye and asks him, slowly, “Why d’you
want to leave?”
It’s like Louis curls into himself when he hears it. For a fraction of a
second, Harry’s convinced he’s going to run to the window and leave then and
there. But it passes, and Louis just fixes his eyes on the ground and says,
quiet, unbearably clear, “I don’t know who I am.”
It’s a jolt to Harry’s gut. He stays silent, expectant.
Louis continues without looking at him once. “I don’t know where I come from, I
don’t know how I got here, I don’t know how I can do the things I do. I don’t
have a house. When I sleep outside, I do it underneath the viaduct.” Harry
feels a stab of guilt. He never knew that. He never asked. “I have nothing. I
have no money and no family and barely any friends. You know where my name
comes from?” Harry sees his fingers curl into fists around the fabric of his
shirt. “One of the first days after I got here, I went to the edge of the trees
and looked out at the park. There were some kids playing out there. I watched
them ‘cause I was curious about what they were doing but I knew I couldn’t go
outside the trees. And then–” Louis’s jaw tenses, “and then, when it was time
for them to go, a woman called out to them. Louis, she said, and she repeated
it two or three times. I thought it was a nice word. I thought, since I didn’t
know what I was, I could use that for my name.”
“Lou,” Harry says softly. It’s all he can manage. There’s something bitter
sinking down into his stomach; the word is heavy. He’d never even thought about
this. He’d never known.
But Louis carries on. “I have nothing,” he repeats. Harry bites the inside of
his lip to keep quiet. “There’s only–” and he glances up at Harry just once
before fixing his eyes back on the ground, “there’s just you.”
What?
Before Harry can say anything, Louis carries on talking. It’s halting now, less
steady, like he isn’t quite sure what he wants to say. “You’ve been there
always. Ever since the first day. And I– I don’t know what I’d have done
without you, I–” He shakes his head. “You’re all I have. I wear your clothes, I
sleep in your bed, I wait for you to get home from school, I’m with you
always.” His eyes look everywhere but at Harry. “I don’t know who I am. I can’t
stay.”
This time, when he says it, there’s nothing but raw emotion in his voice. Harry
doesn’t need to wonder what it is: it’s fear. He’s never known Louis to show
any kind of fear at all and yet there it is, written plainly on his face. All
this time. This is what’s been going on all this time and Harry’s never
noticed.
And the next thing that comes out of Harry’s mouth comes from somewhere deep,
unexpected, somewhere Harry’s taken care to never tread. “I love you,” he says.
It feels like it’s making the earth shake. He realizes how true it is as he
says it, and he feels it radiate through his whole body, down to his bones. “I
love you. You don’t have to leave. We can figure this out together.” It’s how
it works. This is love. He knows it with all his being. And if it’s love
there’s nothing they can’t get through; there’s nothing they can’t work out
together. Harry feels goosebumps erupt on his arms and feels the certainty
settle inside him.
But he looks at Louis and the whole thing wavers.
Because Louis is staring at him, wide-eyed; the look on his face hasn’t changed
at all. The fear is still there on every inch of his face. For a second, it
looks like he’s completely speechless. “Harry,” he says. The single word is
enough to make Harry wary. “Harry, you don’t understand.”
Harry blinks. His whole body feels light. “What?”
Louis’s whole expression shifts into something pained. Dread seeps into Harry’s
gut. “That has nothing to do with it,” Louis says. Harry can only stare.
“Please just– please don’t do this. I’m leaving. I’ve told you why, and–” He
cuts himself off and all Harry can hear is his own heartbeat. “I’m sorry.
Goodbye.”
Everything’s happening too fast. It’s like the room’s whirling around Harry,
like everything’s moving away from him and he can’t keep up. “Louis.” Louis
says nothing. This isn’t happening. Louis’s turning away and this isn’t
happening. He’s leaving for good and there’s nothing Harry can do that will
make him stay. “Louis, wait.” It doesn’t work. Harry watches Louis head to the
window and feels the panic rise in his chest, drowning everything out.
And then a sudden thought comes, a thought that had been buried for years and
years, and Harry makes a decision.
“Louis, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Slowly, silently, Louis turns back to face Harry.
“Yeah?” Louis says. His voice is wary. Harry has to do this. He has to, or
he’ll never get the chance again.
He takes a deep breath. The air fills up his lungs, but it does nothing to calm
him down. “There’s something you don’t know,” he says, and he falters. Where
does he start? How can he explain it? “I– I think I know why you’re here.”
Louis looks at him unblinkingly. There’s silence in the room. It feels
unbearable.
The words tumble out of Harry’s mouth. “I was eight. It was just before I met
you. I remember–” What does he remember? The memory feels so distant it doesn’t
feel like it’s his anymore. “I remember I looked out at the sky and there was a
tiny star there, and– I don’t know, I don’t know how it happened, but then this
huge feeling came, like I was doing magic but the most powerful it’d ever been.
And then I looked up and the star was gone, and then you appeared.” He feels
empty, hollowed-out. He’s been hiding this for so long it leaves a space behind
as it comes out. “I think you’re here because of me.” It’s the last thing he
has. “I think that star was you.”
For a moment, all Harry can focus on is the thud of his heartbeat, the rise and
fall of his chest, the rush of air as it fills up his lungs. In and out. In and
out. There’s nothing left for him to say.
Louis’s eyes are fixed on him, and it feels like they can see straight through
him.
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers miserably. It’s not enough. How could it be enough?
He made all this happen. He was the one who took Louis away from everything he
knew, from everything he was. Louis looks at him and doesn’t say a word. Harry
can barely see his glow.
There’s a moment of silence that stretches out. Harry can’t think, can only
wait for Louis to do something, to shout at him or use that terrible quiet
voice or turn around and leave. The tension feels sharp, unbearable.
Then Louis does the most unexpected thing of all.
He reaches out and takes Harry’s hand. His thumb runs over the knuckles. The
touch is soft, barely there, but it makes a chill run down Harry’s spine. Harry
waits with bated breath. Then Louis surges up to him, grabbing hold of him, his
arms wrapping around Harry’s torso and holding on tight; it’s crushing,
powerful, glowing, and Harry can only shut his eyes tight and hold on to Louis
as desperately as he can. It feels like it could last forever.
It doesn’t.
Because after a few seconds that feel like years Louis’s pulling back. Harry’s
hands cling helplessly to the fabric of his shirt, but it’s not enough; they’re
not touching anymore, and the distance between them gets wider and wider with
every step backwards that Louis takes. Harry wants to make it all stop, wants
time itself to freeze in place so that Louis won’t walk away from him, but the
seconds pass inexorably and there’s nothing Harry can do but watch. “I’m
sorry,” he thinks he hears Louis whisper, but his mind doesn’t register the
meaning of the words. There’s nothing left, only Louis, Louis moving away,
Louis already at the window, and Harry doesn’t even have time to etch the image
of him into his mind before his figure blurs away and he’s gone.
                                       *
Harry closes the window and doesn’t leave his bed in three days.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     for all my american readers out there: in this fic, when i say
     college i mean sixth form college, aka a place you can choose to go
     to do sixth form, which is the last two years of your high school
     education. that said, disclaimer: i am not actually from the uk, so i
     have no firsthand experience of how it actually works. i have made
     the entire college application system up. do not trust it.
     warnings in this chapter for dissociative thoughts, mentions of
     fairly mild homophobia and some cissexist language.
"The universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we
have to care about each other."
– David Levithan, from Every Day
                                       *
He tells his mum he’s sick. He’s not sure she believes him, but she doesn’t
question him, and as long as she doesn’t Harry doesn’t particularly care.
The world narrows down. It’s only the house at first, then his room, then his
bed; anything beyond it feels distant and faraway, like Harry’d never be able
to reach it no matter how hard he tried. Thinking makes his head spin. His body
feels numb, like his brain can’t connect with it properly; his mind feels like
a black hole, gaping, empty, dragging him down. He cries once or twice, but
it’s tears that feel like they’re being forced out.
None of this is real. The house, the room, his body, his mind; what’s telling
him they actually exist? It certainly doesn’t feel like it.
Sleep feels like the realest thing of all.
He dreams of grey corridors with dead ends. He dreams that he’s chasing
something, but at some point it all blurs together and he can’t tell if he’s
doing the chasing or if he’s the one being chased. He dreams of floating in the
night in a sea of white pinpricks; of fiery balls of light that expand and
swallow him whole; of darkness that takes over and makes his skin melt away. He
wakes up with his heart pounding. For a second, it makes him feel alive.
Then the numbness drags him down again, and he gets lost in it gratefully.
                                       *
Harry doesn’t know how long it’s been, but eventually his mum comes to talk to
him.
When there’s a knock on his door, Harry’s startled out of his half-asleep daze;
he mumbles a, “Come in,” just loud enough to be heard and buries his face in
the sheets, curling into them. He hears his mum come into the room and close
the door softly behind her, hears the fall of her footsteps on the carpet,
feels the bed dip slightly as she sits down. After a moment, her hand come sup
to stroke gently at Harry’s hair. Harry moves his head into the touch and
doesn’t turn around to face her.
“School’s over,” his mum says. Harry feels a faint flicker of surprise. That
means it’s been… how long? A week? He has no way to measure time anymore.
There’s a silence. He thinks she might be expecting him to say something. When
he doesn’t, she continues. “Are you going to tell me why you haven’t been
going?”
Slowly, Harry rolls over until only half his face is buried in the sheets. He
looks at his mum sideways. She doesn’t look mad, just… concerned. It doesn’t
change things. He doesn’t want to talk. “I’m sick,” he mumbles. It doesn’t
sound convincing at all. He doesn’t care.
His mum just keeps looking at him in a way that says he’s not fooling anyone.
“And why is it you’re sick?” she says gently, leaving no doubt as to what she’s
really asking. Her eyes are warm, comforting. Harry hadn’t planned to say
anything, hadn’t even planned to talk to her properly, but something unfamiliar
and powerful is welling up inside him against his will and all of a sudden he’s
lost, hideously alone, and his mum is familiar and reassuring and there and
before he knows it he’s throwing himself into her arms without a word.
It doesn’t catch her off guard. She wraps his arms around him like she was
expecting it all along. A hand moves up and down his back soothingly. “It’s
okay, baby,” she whispers. “It’s okay if things are hard right now. You know
nothing lasts forever, don’t you? Not the good things, but not the bad ones
either. You’re going to be okay.”
And that’s what makes Harry break.
The tears start spilling over before he registers it. “Mum,” he says weakly.
“Mum, Louis left and he’s not coming back,” and then it all comes out at once,
everything he’s been holding back behind the numbness, all the confusion and
fear and helplessness. He holds onto his mum as tight as he can and buries his
face in her chest, the sobs wracking his entire body like they’re being ripped
out. He cries into his mum’s chest until he feels empty, limp, like he has
nothing else he could possibly let out. She holds her through it, rubbing small
circles into his back, his hair; and even though nothing is okay, he’s not
alone anymore.
That night, for the first time since Louis left, his sleep is dreamless.
                                       *
Louis left. He can think the words now. They hurt, because he’s always hurting,
but at least they’re something to hold on to.
He’s not lost anymore.
He replays his last conversation with Louis a thousand times, thinking about
how it could have gone, how Harry could have managed to make him stay. Each
time is worse than the last, but he can’t make himself stop. He clings to the
memory of Louis, keeping it alive and present however he can, because if he
lets go – what will he have left? He lies on his bed and can almost pretend
he’ll roll over and Louis will be there with him; he closes his eyes, feels the
warmth on his bedsheets and tells himself it’s Louis’s body heat. It almost
works.
I love you. He wonders if he should have said it at all. He wonders if it was
true, and knows with every part of himself that it was. And through the haze of
it all, through the hurt and the horrible loneliness, the only thing he can
think of is this wasn’t meant to happen.
Because he’s always been certain that love can make it through anything; that
as long as you love someone, everything will turn out okay. He thinks about
Louis, and– and wasn’t that what was supposed to happen? Isn’t that what it’s
always been like? As long as they have each other, they can get through
anything. Harry’s been sure of that for as long as he can remember. So what
does this mean? It feels like everything Harry knows is crumbling and there’s
no way to make it stop. What does he do now? What does he have left?
Nothing. There’s nothing anymore. There’s no reason to ever leave this bed.
Nothing’s ever going to be the same, and Harry knows it down to his bones. The
only thing left to do is to hold on, and to remember, and to hope that someday
the hurt will stop.
                                       *
There are flickers of Louis in his dreams sometimes. Harry chases him through
empty rooms, following the glow ahead, but he can never catch up, and he can
never catch more than a glimpse of him.
                                       *
Summer goes on. Harry barely notices.
The light from the window wakes him up in the morning, and some days the heat
in his room makes him throw the window open. Aside from that, nothing really
changes. His mum tries to get him to go out more, to see some friends;
apparently, Niall and Sam have been calling. Harry refuses every time. He goes
out of the house to help his mum run some errands every once in a while,
blinking in the sunlight, but every time he goes back home it’s like a sigh of
relief.
At home, Louis’s presence is in every corner, printed on every wall. Eight
years’ worth of memories belong in this house. At the kitchen table, Harry can
see himself bringing Louis to dinner for the first time; in the living room,
knocking a coffee table over and leaving it wobbly to this day; in the upstairs
bathroom, sloppy kisses in the shower. And Harry’s room has the most vivid ones
out of all the rest. There, Harry can see both of them at every age, and in his
bed there’s more nights of sleeping together than Harry could ever count. Harry
has grown up in this room, and he’s done it with Louis. Louis’s tangled in ever
aspect of his life and it’s impossible to separate the two. And with every
second Harry spends looking back, he’s invariably reminded that the only place
he can find Louis anymore is the past.
He’s not coming back. Harry knows it now.
He knows it, and the knowledge stays with him every second of every day. He’s
never going to get this back. It’s gone forever. Sometimes, when it’s past
midnight and he can’t seem to stop sobbing into his pillow, he thinks back for
the numbness that was there at the beginning and almost misses it.
                                       *
Gemma arrives halfway through July.
She was away for the first two weeks of July, but she’s staying at home for the
rest of the summer. Harry thinks his mum probably had a word with her in
private, because she hugs him extra hard as soon as she sees him and smacks a
kiss to his forehead, which she only ever does when she’s concerned about him.
Harry hugs her tight and breathes her in.
It turns out having Gemma around is a welcome distraction. She’s full of
stories from uni to tell, is snarky and funny and kind in the best of ways, and
Harry thinks at some point he forgot how much he missed having her around. But
the days go on, and Harry gradually stops making an effort to not make it look
like his entire life is a disaster; he shuts himself up in his room again and
lets it all wash over him, pulling him under, Louis’s absence taking over him
until it feels like it’s spread to every part of him, fingertips to toes. He
thinks of the world outside only briefly.
But one night Gemma seems to take a strange initiative and pesters him to do
movie night with her until Harry eventually gives in. It turns out she’s even
made popcorn but she hasn’t got an actual movie to watch, so they just end up
watching whatever’s on TV, which means a frankly terrible movie called Raise
your Voice. Harry’s thoughts are scattered and he barely pays attention to any
of it, and Gemma ends up getting fed up halfway through and turning it off.
It’s strangely peaceful.
These days, Harry tends to make an excuse to get out of spending time with his
family whenever he can, but he’s warm and settled and his eyelids are droopy
and he thinks he might make an exception. It’s nice here. It’s nice not being
alone. Gemma sighs and props herself up, but she doesn’t get up like Harry
thought she would; instead, she just stretches out on the sofa and drops her
head down onto Harry’s lap. She smiles at him with her eyes closed. Harry’s
hand automatically comes up to stroke through her hair. She nuzzles into it
like a kitten, and Harry smiles.
He’s missed this. He loves physical contact, loves snuggling and cuddling up
and having his hair played with, but now he never gets to do it, not since–
“Harry?” Gemma’s voice cuts the thought off. Harry focuses on her, trying to
push it away. “Did I ever tell you about when I broke up with my boyfriend?”
Harry immediately tenses. He knows where this conversation is heading. (He
tries not to look into the fact that she’s trying to get him to talk about
what’s going on by bringing up her boyfriend.) “I didn’t know you had a
boyfriend,” Harry says, trying to keep his tone light.
Gemma lets out a hmph of laughter. “I know. That was on purpose. I wanted you
lot to know as little about him as possible.” If this were any other moment
Harry’d put on a mock-annoyed act, but right now he’s on edge, bracing himself
for what she’s going to say. “It was during upper sixth. We made it through
most of the year, actually, but in spring we broke things off. It wasn’t even
on bad terms. Things just… happened, and we drifted apart, and then he told me
he didn’t love me anymore.”
She says it easily, and her face says it doesn’t matter, but Harry knows her,
and he knows that says nothing about what it meant for her. He feels a stab of
guilt. He never noticed anything was wrong. “And it completely destroyed me. I
tried to not let anyone else find out, but when I was alone I’d just lose it,
you know? What had gone wrong? What had I done?” Harry swallows, breathing
hard. “I tried to cling to him however I could. All my memories of him were
there, and I repeated them in my head over and over until I was sure I’d never
forget him. I was sure I couldn’t live without him. I didn’t let myself move
on.”
Harry’s chest feels tight. Gemma’s words echo inside his head. For a moment,
he’s sure he’s going to cry.
Gemma looks right at him now. Her gaze is serious, and Harry feels it down to
his bones. “And then I realized I couldn’t keep on living like that. I couldn’t
live for a person that wasn’t going to come back. Because love isn’t– it isn’t
something like destiny, you know? There isn’t one person you’re meant to be
with. You just fall in love and you do what you can, and if it doesn’t work out
you find someone else, and if that doesn’t work out either you have to keep
going. You can’t stay there forever. You don’t survive.” She looks at Harry as
she says it in a way that means she knows exactly what’s going on, she doesn’t
say anything else: no questions, no attempts to find out what’s wrong. Harry
loves her for it.
“You’ll be okay, baby bro,” she whispers, and something uncontrollable wells up
inside Harry, something that’s in equal parts love and fear and gratitude. His
vision is blurry. He blinks the tears away as best as he can and smiles down at
Gemma shakily, hoping she understands everything he isn’t saying. Her steady
answering smile tells him she does. You’ll be okay.For the first time, he lets
himself start to believe it.
                                       *
After that, it gets a little bit better.
Louis’s absence is there always. Harry feels it in the back of his head like a
phantom limb, persistent, unforgiving. He’ll turn around to say something, only
there’ll be no one there to say it to; he’ll see a shadow at the window and his
heart will jump into his throat; he’ll wake up in the morning and, in that
blurry moment between sleeping and waking, he’ll reach out for Louis next to
him and find nothing. There are still moments where the hurt drags him under
and he can do nothing but sob into the pillow and wait for it to be over. But
he’s getting better at living with it, and isn’t that what’s supposed to happen
in the end? He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop missing Louis. It’ll be
a constant in the same way as Louis used to be a constant in his life. But that
doesn’t mean it’ll always have to be like this, and it’s a hope Harry clings to
as the days go by. It gets him out of bed. It pushes him to keep on moving.
That’s all he can ask for.
And, bit by bit, he starts to let go.
Gemma’s words stay with him. It takes him a while for them to sink in. Because,
if he lets go of Louis, what will he have left? What will life be like without
him? He wants to go to Gemma and ask her to please please tell him all the ways
life means something, all the reasons to keep on living. He doesn’t. But he
thinks about it himself, and it feels like every day it’s a little bit easier
to think of answers.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he stops trying to keep the memories of Louis alive. He
puts them back where they belong and lets them fade into the past. He stops
looking for Louis in his dreams. He stops pretending Louis is here with him; he
stops pretending he’s going to come back. It leaves him feeling hollow inside.
But he remembers Gemma’s words: you can’t stay there forever, you don’t
survive.They’re soothing somehow, and Harry holds on to them until the worst
has passed.
The days go by. The memories of Louis become hazy around the edges, like
they’re settling into the past. Harry resists the urge to drag them back up
again. Because he pictures Gemma’s face, calm and steady even when she was
talking about the person she’d lost, and he hears her words, you’ll be okay,and
he knows– he knows it’s possible for him to get there too. It’s a hope that’s
tiny and flickering, but it’s hope all the same.
                                       *
His GCSE results come halfway through August, and when he gets the letter he’s
at a point where he’s actually nervous to open it. (He cares about his exam
results. A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought it was possible.) He pulls the
letter out of the envelope with shaky hands, his mum and sister looking on
expectantly, and feels his face break into a grin as he reads the grades. Six
Bs and three Cs, oh God. He’d been in such a bad place when he took the exams
that he seriously doubted he was going to pass them all.
Gemma makes grabby hands for the letter and Harry jerks it out of her reach,
his grin feeling like it’s going to split his face in two. (How long has it
been since he smiled like this?) He reads it to them out loud, and before he’s
even finished he’s being dragged into two separate hugs. They merge into a
single bear hug, his cheek squished into his mum’s hair, his right arm trapped
somewhere between the side of his torso and Gemma’s chest. Harry closes his
eyes and lets it all wash over him, the feeling of being surrounded by two of
the people he loves the most in the entire world, their body heat and breathing
and love. And, in that moment, he makes a decision.
He doesn’t tell his mum or Gemma about it straight away. He does some research
on his own and he thinks it over for one or two days; it’s the fact that his
heartbeat speeds up with nervous excitement each time he considers it that
makes him decide in the end. So a week later, when he’s in the kitchen
unloading the dishwasher, he turns to his mum and tells her, the words rushing
out in a single breath, “I want to go to college in September.”
His mum puts down the lettuce she’s chopping and turns to face him fully.
There’s a spark in her eye Harry can’t quite place. “Do you?”
Harry nods. Saying it out loud makes it unavoidably real, but Harry ignores the
nerves coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah. There’s one in Northwich and
one in Stoke-on-Trent, so I could get there by bus.”
His mum nods seriously like she’s taking it all in, but Harry doesn’t miss the
hint of a smile that’s playing at the corners of her lips. “And why the sudden
decision so late in the summer, may I ask?”
Harry shrugs and feels his shoulders loosen with it. “I want to find something
new.”
“I understand,” his mum says. She manages about a second of keeping a serious
face before the smile is finally breaking out, lighting her face up like
sunlight parting clouds. Harry’s seen the look on her face before. He
recognizes it instantly. His mum looks proud.
                                       *
It turns out Northwich is still accepting applications this late in the summer.
Harry applies to Sociology, Psychology, Photography and Media Studies classes,
sends his GCSE results and keeps his fingers crossed.
He gets an email reply the last week of August. He opens it with his heart
thumping in his chest. He’s in.
                                       *
The thought that come the seventh of September he’s going to be at a school
he’s never been to and surrounded by people he’s never met takes a few days to
get used to.
Harry loves people. He loves finding out their quirks and habits and what they
like and what they don’t, loves sharing parts of himself with them, loves
making them feel comfortable and happy and safe. New people are the challenge
he enjoys the most. The thought that in less than two weeks he’ll be surrounded
by them makes excitement bubble in his belly. But–
–but finding something new also means leaving everything else behind. He thinks
of the hallways and teachers and students at Holmes Chapel Comprehensive,
thinks of their familiarity and the way he knows it all inside out by now, and
a quiet sadness edges its way into the excitement. He never considered he’d be
leaving at the end of last term. He never got to look at it all with the
knowledge that he was saying goodbye. He tells his mates when he sees them, and
they all go awwand scold him but then tell him it doesn’t matter, that they’ll
still see each other around all the time. Harry doesn’t say it, but he knows
deep down that when he leaves, things won’t go back to what they were.
But that’s how it happens, isn’t it? That’s what it means to get older. Nothing
lasts forever, and it might not be okay now but that doesn’t mean it never will
be.
He knows why he’s scared of things changing. He knows that even though he’s
stopped trying to keep Louis present he’s still there in every corner of his
house, in every street in the village. He knows he’s still trying to hold on.
When he looks back on his life, he sees patterns ingrained into it, things that
have been there for so long that they feel worn like an old sweater. And the
memory of Louis is tied up with every single one of those patterns. He might
have walked home from school alone, but he did it with the knowledge that Louis
would be waiting for him as soon as he got there; he can’t go to bed at night
without the knowledge that there’s something (someone) missing. There isn’t a
single article of clothing in his wardrobe that he can’t remember Louis having
worn at some point. And breaking free of some parts of this life– doesn’t mean
losing some of Louis along the way?
Harry can admit it to himself: it’s scary. It’s terrifying. But there’s a new
determination in his chest that’s telling him to push forward, to carry on even
if he’s scared. He’s not backing out. So he watches the seventh of September
get closer, tries to ignore the edge of dread in his thoughts, and doesn’t
consider going back on his decision for a moment.
                                       *
It turns out okay in the end, like so many things do.
Gemma’s already gone back to Birmingham the morning of his first day of
college, but his mum’s awake, and she sends him off with a hug and a kiss and a
smile that makes his insides feel marginally less squirmy. As he walks to the
bus stop, he can almost pretend that he’s headed to school just like any other
day; but the direction is all wrong, left at the post office instead of
straight ahead, and after a moment he stops trying.
It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine. He’s never had a problem with getting to
know people and changing schools doesn’t necessarily mean that everything else
is going to change and it’s fine.
The bus ride feels too short. Before he knows it, its’ dropping him off at the
Northwich stop and it’s only a five-minute walk until he’s at the college
gates. He doesn’t let himself stop and reconsider. He follows a head of blonde
hair in a messy bun through the gates and for the first time it feels like he’s
in too deep to turn back at all. It’s almost a relief.
It’s only a few minutes to eight, so he follows the trickle of students heading
into the building and ends up in what looks like an assembly hall. He finds a
seat near the back, between a girl with dark curly hair and a boy wearing what
looks like a shirt with a pineapple print, and looks around curiously, taking
it all in. He can barely see any faces, just a sea of heads, but even then
there are heads that look more interesting than the whole of Holmes Chapel
Comprehensive put together. Harry spots a flash of purple hair on the left side
of the room and makes a mental note to look more closely later.
A woman stands up at the front of the room. There’s a smattering of applause.
She’s the head of studies, apparently, and before any of them can process it
she’s launching into a speech about AS Levels and impeccable behaviourand
general school rules. Harry tries to pay attention, he does, but he’s woken up
at seven for the first time in months and his eyelids are drooping.
Pineapple Shirt Boy leans in. Harry blinks awake. “How many people,” Pineapple
Shirt Boy whispers, “d’you think are taking in a word she’s saying?”
Harry looks around the room and considers it. “I’d say no more than ten
percent,” he whispers back.
Pineapple Shirt Boy smiles at him like he’s amused by Harry’s answer. He has
brown eyes, Harry notices. They’re really quite nice.
                                       *
Pineapple Shirt Boy is called Mark; Curly Haired Girl is called Erin. They’re
both new here (which, um, since it’s first year, could probably be said for
most people in this room) and don’t know anyone here yet; by the time the
assembly is over, they’ve all agreed to meet up at some point during the day.
Harry tries to hold back his grin, but doesn’t think he quite manages it. He
knows how to do this. This is easy.
Erin heads off to Physics and Mark heads off to English and Harry’s left to
locate his Sociology classroom on his own. When he comes in through the door,
his school bag dangling off his right shoulder, he can tell he’s one of the
last to come in. Almost all the seats are taken. Harry’s eyes are drawn to a
flash of purple, and he recognizes the head of purple hair he’d noticed in the
assembly before. It belongs to a girl wearing eyeliner and a sleeveless black
top. Her bag is on the desk, and Harry can see a rainbow patch sewed on it.
The desk next to hers is empty. Harry walks up and drops down on it without a
second thought.
                                       *
The purple-haired girl is called Chloe, has a tongue stud and a girlfriend
called Elle who’s in Design class right now. (“But girlfriend as in
girlfriend,you know? Not as in friend who’s a girl.”) She’s from town, so she
apparently knows a fair amount of people here, but “most of them are dickheads
anyway” and she maintains it’s nice to have some new people around. Harry tells
her to stick with him, then, and she throws him a thoughtful look and says,
“Maybe I will.” Harry grins at her and she sticks a finger in one of his
dimples. It feels like a nice start to a friendship.
                                       *
At lunch, Harry finds a table with Mark and Erin, plus a few more people they
seem to have met around and stuck with. (Josh, Eve and Jason. They seem nice
enough.) Harry’s taking his lunch out of his bag when he glances up and sees
Chloe standing next to the table with a cute blonde girl Harry assumes is Elle.
“Don’t suppose there’s any spare seats here?” she asks casually. When she looks
at Harry, there’s a playful twinkle in her eye. Harry supposes it’s too early
in their relationship to pretend to tell her to go away, so he scoots over to
the left and makes room on the bench. He introduces Chloe to the table and
gives himself a mental pat on the back for getting all the names right.
And it’s like that the next day too and the one after that (give or take a few
tiny differences; Jason seems to have found better people to sit with and a
friend of Chloe’s called Damien starts hanging out with them) and before Harry
knows it a week has passed and it’s become a thing.Phone numbers are passed
around; a WhatsApp group chat is created. They meet up one Saturday and have
lunch at a park teeming with overfed ducks. It’s… refreshing, almost. Harry
hadn’t realized how much he needed a change of air until now.
Harry supposes it shouldn’t make this big of a difference, but it feels like it
does; when he gets back to Holmes Chapel after class, he walks home from the
bus stop wondering how he ever felt like this was his entire world. Looking at
it now, it feels laughably small.
(In Holmes Chapel, Louis’s presence is still there everywhere he turns, but it
feels different to what it was. It’s not an open wound anymore; it’s more a
dull ache. It still hurts, but it feels smaller somehow, and it doesn’t make
him flinch each time he touches on it. The memories aren’t alive like they once
were. They feel like a photograph: still tangible, still real, but easy to pack
up and put away.)
So the days go by, and the more time that passes the more Harry settles into
this. The excitement of college, of new beginnings, fades into a routine that
replaces the one that was there before. The twenty-minute bus ride to Northwich
and back feels like a blip in his day where at the beginning it seemed to drag
on and on. School gets more intense. Harry can already feel that last year’s
GCSEs are going to feel like nothing compared to this year’s AS Levels, but
oddly enough, he doesn’t mind too much. One step at a time. One step at a time,
and everything will turn out fine.
                                       *
It’s October when the realization comes, with a jolt like lightning.
(Why didn’t he notice it before? Harry has no answer. It was there all along,
the little hints stretching back years ago. Was it that he didn’t want to see
them? Did he just not notice them at all?)
It’s this: Harry hasn’t done magic in over a year.
                                       *
Harry’s never, not once in his life, been able to do magic on purpose. It’s
never stopped him from trying. It doesn’t stop him from trying now.
He tries and he tries, as hard as he can, and it doesn’t work a single time.
There’s no flash of heat, no tiny ripple in reality as something changes. Isn’t
he more mature now? Isn’t he supposed to know what he really wants? He tries it
with everything that he thinks might have the slightest possibility: passing
the Psychology test on Monday, his mum recovering from the stomach flu, making
the cute boy who sits two seats over from him in Media Studies look his way. It
never works.
(When he’s alone in his bed in the dead of night, he wishes for Louis to come
back. He wishes so hard and for so long that sometimes it rips sobs out of him.
There’s nothing in the whole world he wants more. There’s no doubt whatsoever
in his mind. Why is it not working? Why?)
He lets the weeks pass, telling himself that he can’t force it, that it needs
to come out on its own. He holds on to the hope fiercely, because he’s already
lost Louis and he can’t lose this. But the magic never comes, even though Harry
looks for it inside him, tries desperately to dig it up; the hope starts
slipping away, and Harry forces himself to look at the cold hard facts. The
last time he remembers any magic happening is in June last year, and Harry
tries to tell himself well, it hasn’t been that long–but then he starts
remembering the rest of it, how towards the end he could only make small
changes happen, how it left him exhausted each time, and dread slowly starts to
pool in his stomach.
And eventually, he has to face the possibility that it might have gone away for
good.
He tells his mum over dinner one evening when it feels like his ribs might
crack from holding it in. It bursts out of him like a flood, the words rushing
out and stumbling over one another, and when he’s finished explaining
everything he has to stop and breathe for a moment because it feels like
everything’s crashing down on him. He looks up at his mum. Her face is deadly
serious. And in that moment, Harry knows beyond all doubt that she knows more
about what’s going on than he does.
She starts talking. Harry listens, his heart beating double-time, his breath
feeling like it’s on hold. And then she starts explaining, how the specialist
he’d gone to when he was very little had told her that the reality
modificationsdisappeared with puberty a lot of the time. There were barely any
cases where it carried on happening all the way into adulthood; they were still
investigating the causes, but there’d been no results as of yet. She’d been
advised against telling him; it didn’t always disappear, and if it didn’t,
telling him might be harmful to him. There was nothing to do about it if he
did, so it’d be better if he found out in his own time.
And as she looks at Harry with eyes that are serious and sad, Harry sees every
line on her face, and perhaps for the first time, he’s aware of just how old
she looks.
“We can go and see the specialist again and see what she makes of it,” she
finishes quietly. A moment later, she adds, “I’m sorry, Harry.” Her voice is
subdued. Harry barely hears it.
Because it’s gone. Harry doesn’t need to see any specialist to know that. It’s
gone forever. Slowly, unbearably, he lets it sink in, and as it does he feels
the cold clear certainty that a part of him is dead.
                                       *
They drive to Manchester all the same, back to the clinic Harry went to all
those years ago. There are no children over the age of ten in the waiting room.
Harry wonders how many of them will end up losing their magic; wonders how many
of their parents know they will.
The specialist is the same lady Harry remembers, even though her face is more
lined, her eyes more tired. Harry describes the symptoms, and she tells him,
quietly, what he already knows; for some reason, hearing it from her feels like
a death blow, like being knocked back down when he was starting to get to his
feet. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding like she genuinely means it. Harry can’t
bring himself to say anything back.
                                       *
Harry goes back to Holmes Chapel and grieves.
It’s different to how it felt to lose Louis. Louis was someone he thought he
couldn’t live without, but this is – was – a part of him. This was something he
never for a moment though would be taken from him. He feels the loss down to
his bones, and it leaves behind a profound, bitter ache that hovers on the
edges of his mind and refuses to let go.
Why did it take this long for him to notice? Did he really never consider that
something might be wrong? No, Harry realizes, he didn’t because he was so
focused on trying to keep up with Louis that he never once stopped to think
about it. Louis went blazing through the last two years of his life, and only
now that he’s gone can Harry see everything else, everything he didn’t even
notice was there before.
He can’t remember what he changed the last time he did magic. It hits Harry
like another tiny loss.
He thinks back to when he was six and it all came so easily to him. He
remembers feeling like nothing could stop him, like he could do anything in the
world. And he could, couldn’t he? He made a star fall from the sky. Will he
ever be able to get his head around that? He looks at his hands, slowly turning
them over and over. These are the hands that could make magic happen. The
thought feels dreamlike already.
These are the hands that will never do magic again.
Because it’s gone. Harry knows it without a shadow of a doubt. He can recognize
it in himself, knows with a certainty that’s deep and instinctive that it’s not
coming back. Harry supposes that it’s easier this way, that at least there’s no
uncertainty to torture him, but– but it doesn’t feellike it. It feels like a
death sentence. There’s nothing left for him.
Louis is gone and the magic is gone and Harry looks at the future and can only
see it bleak. What does he have? What’s going to make it all mean anything?
It’s strange that where before he saw the whole world out there waiting for him
now it all looks grey and uncertain. There’s no grand scheme of things. Harry
sees that now. Things don’t happen because they were meant to be, they just do,
and sometimes there’s a reason for it and sometimes there’s not and that’s just
how things are.
There’s nothing to do but keep going.
                                       *
It gets better after a while. It becomes another thing he’s lost; another
constant.
Still, at the same time, it feels like everything is different – not in a way
Harry can pinpoint, but not in a way he can shake off either. It feels like
he’s seeing the world from a different place. There’s the realization that
things changed and he never noticed, the knowledge that he’s not who he used to
be, that he’ll never be a child again. There’s things he’ll never get back.
It’s slightly nostalgic, slightly bitter, and it seeps through his thoughts and
colours the way he sees everything around him.
His mum notices. He knows she does. Everyone else– he’s not so sure. Because he
doesn’t know if he sees his old friend enough for them to notice something off
about him, and his new friends– well, they don’t really know him all that much
yet, do they?
(Louis would have noticed. Louis always noticed.)
But it’s a nice distraction being around them all the same – Eve is hilarious,
Erin is shy and lovely, he and Mark seem to be on the same wavelength a lot of
the time. Chloe is one of the people he feels the most comfortable around at
this point, and together with Elle and Damien and Josh they make a group that’s
fun and light and easy to get caught up in. And it’s nice to swap banter; it’s
nice to be around people that make him laugh and make him feel like he’s a part
of something. On some days, it almost feels like a relief.
And it means he can do what he never did over the summer – he can go out with
them, forget everything that’s going on and get absolutely smashed.
Harry knows he’s a happy drunk. He’s a lightweight too, which means that, one
or two drinks in, his veins will be buzzing and his head will feel bubbly. He
knows it’s not realhappiness, he knows that when he comes down from it he’ll
feel terrible, but he’ll take what he can get anyway. There’s not much of a
nightlife around here, but they don’t need it. They make do with the less
frequented parks in Northwich and Chloe’s basement when her parents are out. It
feels good to loosen his thoughts, to stop them from going in the same patterns
they always do; it feels good to let go.
It’s a cold clear night in late October when Harry finds himself more than a
little bit tipsy and holding on to Chloe as they make their way down a deserted
street. Harry has no clue what time it is and doesn’t particularly mind. The
wind is icy, snapping around their ankles. Harry wonders if it could trip them
up, and holds on to Chloe tighter, just in case. Her purple hair brushes
against his face. It tickles.
Suddenly, a thought pops into his head and his face snaps up, his nose almost
whacking Chloe in the face. “Where’d everyone go?” He whips his head around,
trying to look for them, but stops when everything starts spinning a bit too
fast.
“Stop doingthat,” Chloe giggles. “You’re getting hair in my mouth.” Then, she
seems to realize he’s asked her a question. “They went home, remember?”
Harry furrows his brow. Yes, he thinks he might recall that. “So where are we
going, then?”
“You’re sleeping over at mine,” she tells him. Oh. Right. He does remember
that. They walk in silence for a moment, Harry concentrating hard to make sure
he’s going in a straight line. A thought appears. “Will Elle be there? Am I
gonna have to watch you all over each other again?” They’re cute and all, but
Harry doesn’t like being with them sometimes, because it reminds him that he
has no one he can hold hands with and no one to give him a kiss when he asks
for it. Not anymore.
He’s a bit startled when Chloe laughs. “Oh my God. You really are out of it,
aren’t you?” Harry’s confused for a moment. Is she laughing at him? “Elle isn’t
here this weekend. I toldyou that. She hasn’t been here all day, remember?” Oh.
That’s right. That’s what Chloe’s spent the whole night whining about. Harry’s
about to open his mouth to tell her that yes, he remembers, but she doesn’t
look like she’s paying attention to him anymore. “I wish she was here,” she
mumbles, so quietly Harry struggles to make the words out. He glances at her
and finds she’s staring straight ahead, eyes vaguely unfocused. Suddenly, she’s
clutching onto Harry tighter, leaning on him. It knocks Harry’s balance off,
and for a moment Harry’s convinced they’re both going to go crashing to the
ground. Thankfully, all they do is stumble a bit.
“Chlo?” Harry says tentatively, the word sounding a bit fuzzy.
Chloe sighs. “I just love her so much, Harry,” she whispers like she’s telling
him a huge secret. She nuzzles her head into his shoulder, and Harry puts an
arm around her shoulders. There’s a strange feeling stirring inside him, and he
suddenly feels a lot more grounded. “So so much,” Chloe continues. “You think
she knows that?”
“I think she does,” Harry says. The words leave his mouth without even having
to think about them. “I think you should tell her, though.”
Chloe tilts her head up to look at him. “You think so?” she asks like she’s
startled. Harry nods, and she nods back seriously. Then, quietly, like an
afterthought, she asks, “You ever been in love, Haz?”
Harry swallows.
He could say anything. He could say no or he could make something up. He could
brush it off and make a joke out of it, but when he casts around for the words
he finds nothing.
“Yeah,” he says. The word feels heavy, and acknowledging it makes everything a
little bit serious, a little bit sad. “Yeah, I have.”
Chloe blinks at him. Harry notices it only vaguely. “Yeah? What happened?”
Harry wants to ask her how she knows it turned out badly, but then realizes it
might not be that difficult to tell on his face.
“He left,” Harry says simply, and the words sound so bitter and so realthat it
takes a moment for his brain to catch up with what he’s actually said. It
echoes in his mind. His heartbeat picks up.
For a moment, neither of them speaks, and there’s silence except for the sound
of their footsteps on the pavement.
Then, softly, Chloe says, “He?” Harry looks down at her, his cheeks heating up
involuntarily. Her face looks perfectly neutral, just slightly curious, and
Harry thinks why the fuck noteven though his heartbeat is skyrocketing. He
gives a nod, just a tiny one, but he thinks he sees something spark in Chloe’s
eyes all the same. “Girls and guys or just guys?”
Harry swallows. “Um.” His heart thuds against his ribs. “Um, the second one.”
Chloe just look at him, and there’s a moment of sheer involuntary terror – but
then a tiny smile appears at the edges of her lips and it grows and grows until
she’s smiling ear-to-ear. “Knewit,” she says triumphantly, and presses a sloppy
kiss to his cheek; when she drags him to a stop and hugs him hard Harry feels
like, for the first time, he can breathe properly.
                                       *
The world doesn’t tilt on its axis. (The world never really does tilt on its
axis when he thinks it’s going to, does it?)
The thing is, Harry never really considered what would change once he told
somebody, because he never envisioned himself telling someone at all. Because –
and Harry can admit this to himself now – because he never really acknowledged
that was something that was there, did he? It was just something that he didn’t
need to think about, something– something that wasn’t a part of him. That
wasn’t who he was.
It is. Harry can see that now. It is.It matters.
Putting a name on it is tentative at first. He keeps going back to what Chloe
said. Just guys.Why didn’t he even hesitate before saying yes? It’d be easy to
chalk it up to the fact that he was drunk, but– but it feels uncomfortable
somehow. Who’s he trying to fool? Why can’t he seem to stop lying to himself?
He recalls the smile on Chloe’s face when he told her and tries to breathe.
It’s okay. It doesn’t matter if this is who he is. It’s okay.
The first time he allows himself to think the word gay, he recoils against it
immediately. There’s a moment of overwhelming terror before he forces himself
to think about it logically. Okay. Okay. One step at a time. He banishes all
thoughts of who he imagines himself marrying and tries again.
Is he into guys? The first thing that comes to mind is Louis. There’s a wrench
in his gut. He pushes it away. Is he into guys that are not Louis?He recalls
the feeling of a flat chest under his fingers, the weight of a cock in his
mouth, and a thrill runs down his spine. He thinks of the first time Mark
smiled at him, of the fluttering in his stomach whenever he catches the eye of
the cute guy who’s on his bus every morning. He thinks of all of it and lets it
sink in, lets it settle.
He’s into guys. He’s into guys, it’s nothing new, and it’s okay.
But then the hard question comes– is he into girls?
He doesn’t answer it right away. It lingers in the back of his mind, and as it
does, he lets himself observe. He pays extra attention to the girls at school,
tries to imagine what it’d be like to kiss them and doesn’t quite manage it. He
hangs out with his mates from Holmes Chapel and listens to them talk about
which girls they’d fuck. (Harry privately thinks that it’s all a bit cringey.)
And he looks up porn and examines it thoughtfully, taking extra care to focus
on the girl, and the fact that it takes him a good long while to get hard
brings up a small stab of panic in his stomach. Harry tries his best to stifle
it.
Deep down, he knows, and when he lets himself think about it properly it almost
feels like he always has.
He doesn’t think the word yet. He can’t do that. But he goes over the
conversation with Chloe yet again – just guys –and he knows it to be true,
knows it with unshakeable certainty. It doesn’t have to change who he is; Harry
knows that. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a part of him, and if it is– if it
is and it’s been there all along, it means he can live with it.
It doesn’t make it any less terrifying, but despite everything, Harry feels
like something inside him is falling into place.
                                       *
It’s not a huge life-changing realization, but things are different after it.
It’s different because he knows.It’s different because none of the people
around him do. (Or do they? Harry can’t quite shake off Chloe’s knew it.) It’s
different because he has no clue how any of them would react if they didknow.
What would his teachers think? Would guys be more careful when they talked to
him? Would any of them avoid him altogether? It’s too many questions he has no
answer to.
And at the same time, there’s the small things that were there before, but that
were never this stinging – it’s a no homopassed between his mates in the
village, a so gay overheard in the school hallways. It’s a friend of the family
asking whether there’s a girl in the picture yet or being asked what he likes
in a girl by josh at the lunch table and doing his best to keep his answer
gender-neutral. But he can feel Chloe’s eyes on him, and when he turns around
to face her, her face is full of understanding. There’s no trace of judgement
on it, no accusation that he’s hiding who he is.It makes Harry breathe easier;
it relieves some of the crushing pressure. Harry shoots a tiny grateful smile
at her and hopes she understands.
Because he’s not alone in this. Because someone knows,and it’s someone who
understands it perfectly. When they’re alone, he confesses to her that he’s
only just figured this out, that he’s not sure if he wants anyone to know yet,
and she nods seriously. “Don’t worry,” she tells him, “it took me ages to admit
it to myself, let alone tell anyone else, you know?” Harry just blinks at her
and hugs her on impulse until she’s laughing and telling him to put her down.
And it sort of becomes a thingafter that, Harry going to her with something
he’s scared about or not sure of; and even the times where she can’t solve it,
there’s something about saying it out loud and having someone listen that’s an
immense relief. Harry wonders how he’d have managed without her.
(He wonders why he never let himself think about this when Louis was around. He
wonders what would have happened if he had. Would Louis have been willing to
talk about it? Would he have just avoided the subject? Even now, Harry doesn’t
have an answer.)
It goes on. Harry feels more comfortable in his own skin than he’s done in
ages. He feels older, somehow, and where before it’d have felt like a bad
thing, now it’s just… interesting. He’ll never see Louis again. He’ll never do
magic again. He’s into guys. It feels important, all of it, even if some of it
is scary and exciting and some of it is old, dull hurt. He lets his hair grow
out and finds out it’s curly now rather than just wavy. He buys skinnier jeans
and doesn’t even blush when Chloe teases him about it. He notices he’s smiling
more and thinking less about what he’s doing; he lets himself get carried away
with whatever’s going on and doesn’t think about what it’ll mean or how other
people will see him. When he first thinks the words I’m happythey shock him for
a moment – before he realizes that they’re absolutely true.
                                       *
The first weekend in December, a girl called Shireen in his Photography class
organizes a party. Her parents are out, apparently, and she wants to get as
many people to come as possible. “Just bring whoever,” she tells Harry when
she’s inviting him, “my brother bought enough booze to get a herd of cows
drunk, and I was thinking I want to meet some new people anyway.”
Harry obliges, of course, and that’s how he ends up showing up at Shireen’s
house with his entire group of friends in tow. Shireen looks ever so slightly
tipsy as she opens the door and waves them all in with a grin. Harry smacks a
kiss on her cheek as he walks in, and she just laughs and swats him away.
It’s easy to get caught up in the party, especially as Harry gets progressively
tipsier. There are enough people he knows here for him to be comfortable, but
enough people he doesn’t know for it to be interesting; he sticks with his
friends at first, but before he knows it he’s drifted away somehow and is
dancing, ridiculously over-the-top, with a group of girls from his Photography
class. Harry mixes himself another fruit-juice-and-vodka concoction (which
tastes a bit gross, but does its job of getting him drunk nicely enough) and
mingles. Everyone’s so nice.The alcohol makes everything brighter, more vivid,
and even though it’s hard to focus sometimes he laughs a lot and hugs a lot
people he barely knows but that are very nice huggers.
His coordination isn’t the best on a regular day, let alone when his head is
swimming, so of course he manages to trip on every single object that gets in
his way, inanimate or not. He’s laughing at something this one dark-haired girl
said when it happens again, shit,his balance getting all wobbly and being
unable to stop himself from toppling into the nearest object, which is– oh.
Right. It’s a person.
“Whoops,” Harry says cheerfully, taking an unsteady step back. His eyes flick
up to the person’s face. “Hi,” he says with an automatic grin. The boy is
taller than him, with eyes that seem to shimmer. After a moment, Harry suddenly
remembers that he fell on him, and his brain starts working again. “Um. Sorry
about that. I might be a bit tipsy.” He can’t stop the smile from spreading
across his face again, though, because it’s funny.
The boy seems to think so too, fortunately enough. “Hey, at least you didn’t
spill anything on me.” For some vague reason, Harry waggles his eyebrows
ridiculously. The boy just laughs. “Have I seen you around?”
Harry blinks at him. “Maybe,” he says. He doesn’t meanto look the boy up and
down like he does, but it comes out like that anyway. “Actually, I don’t know.
I think I’d remember.” He feels his own smile grow a little bit wider.
The boy’s looking at him in a way that’s just the slightest bit odd, but he
looks amused, so Harry doesn’t bother figuring it out. “Really? Why’s that?”
Harry shrugs. “Dunno. I think you’re just, like… remembrable.”
The boy laughs. Maybe he’s realized that remembrable isn’t a word. “Very
flattered. I’m Eric.” His eyes crinkle the slightest bit at the corners when he
smiles at Harry. Harry feels warm, and he’s not sure it’s from the booze.
“I’m Harry,” he says, sticking his chin out. Eric nods mock-seriously. “Wanna
get another drink?” Harry says, and turns on his heel and heads off to the
kitchen without looking back. He’s pleased to hear Eric’s footsteps behind him.
He likes Eric, Harry decides soon enough. He’s nice and he’s easy to talk to
and he doesn’t groan at Harry when he makes puns. (It turns out he’s Shireen’s
cousin, so no, Harry hadn’t seen him before.) He likes that when Eric’s talking
to him it’s like he’s really, really focused; like out of all the things going
on around them, he’s only paying attention to Harry. Harry finds himself
leaning closer, wanting to catch every word. Eric’s eyes seem to shimmer more
brightly when he does.
Harry should tell him that. “Why do your eyes sparkle?” is what comes out of
his mouth instead. Close enough.
Eric looks sideways at him. They’re both leaning up against, presumably,
Shireen’s living room wall; they’re side-to-side, shoulders almost touching.
Harry wonders what would happen if he nudged closer. Eric looks very, very
amused, and Harry’s about to indignantly ask why when Eric says, “You think my
eyes sparkle?”
Right. Harry’d forgotten he’d asked. He squints at Eric. “Well, now you mention
it, I’m not quite sure,” he says, with as solemn an expression as he can
manage. “I’m gonna have to look closer.” He does it without thinking twice,
turning to face Eric fully, peering up into his eyes, their noses almost
touching. “Hmm,” Harry mumbles. He’s not really registering what’s coming out
of his mouth. “Think it might just have been a trick of the light.” He doesn’t
pull back.
He’s suddenly very, very aware that Eric’s lips are ever so slightly parted,
and that Harry can feel Eric’s breath against his own mouth.
His heart jolts, kicking into action. It sounds deafening inside his own ears.
Surely Eric will be able to hear it? Neither of them moves, and through the
haze in Harry’s brain, it feels important. A memory flickers through Harry’s
mind: years ago, a different house, a different party, but with Dan up close
like this, Dan about to kiss him. The thought make shim bite down on his lip.
Almost in slow motion, Eric’s eyes follow the movement and stay there.
A shiver runs down Harry’s spine, and he fights the urge to shudder.
Eric blinks at him. Harry thinks, dimly, that from this close he can tell apart
every one of his eyelashes. The movement – even though it’s something as tiny
as a blink – is startling. It makes Harry consider the possibility that Eric
might move away. Harry doesn’t want him to.
Slowly, gently, Harry lifts a hand up and rests it on Eric’s wrist. Eric stays
completely still as Harry’s fingers circle his wrist, running over the bones
there. The room spins around them, but Harry focuses on this and feels steady.
For a terrifying moment, he thinks Eric’s going to pull away – but then he
leans in closer instead. Harry lets out a shaky breath. Relief and nerves flood
his stomach, both of them at once. Impossibly, his heart beats louder.
Then Eric’s hand comes up to rest on the side of his neck, a thumb brushing
over the corner of Harry’s lip, and Harry can’t stop the shudder this time.
Even in this state, he knows what’s going to happen. His skin prickles with it.
There are people all around them, of course there are, people who don’t know,
but Eric’s hand feels hot on his skin and his eyes are fixed straight on Harry
and it doesn’t matter.
Harry doesn’t stop to brace himself before leaning in.
It’s immediate, the press of Eric’s lips on his, the way he’s kissing back.
Harry closed his eyes at some point, so there’s nothing to focus on but this –
the wet warmth of Eric’s mouth, his fingertips firm on Harry’s skin, their
chests somehow aligned, pressed together. Harry opens his mouth and lets Eric’s
tongue slip inside. He doesn’t think about how the smell is unfamiliar, how the
fingers that are tangling in his hair feel much too hesitant. He just lets the
fuzziness in his head take over as he kisses Eric like they’re alone, like
there’s no beforeat all and certainly no after,and by the time they draw apart
Harry’s head is spinning in an entirely different way.
He stays close, pressing his forehead against Eric’s temple, and looks at him
until the shape of him gets blurry. “That was nice,” he mumbles. Eric grins at
him and his fingers, gently, untangle from Harry’s hair. Harry closes his eyes,
moves in again, and ignores the weight of all the pairs of eyes he knows are on
them.
                                       *
It spreads.
It spreads, and Harry knows it. Even though barely anyone asks him outright, he
sees it in the sideways glances he gets: they’re not wary like he’d
irrationally feared, just… curious. The girl who sits next to him in Psychology
asks him if he thinks Mr. James is fit. (Harry says yes.) A guy called Oliver
he’s more or less friends with casually asks him if he and Shireen’s cousin are
a thing. (Harry says no, because that ends up not lasting more than a week or
so and not going much further than a couple of handjobs.)
His friends, who Chloe claims witnessed the entire thing, mostly react with
amusement or get vaguely offended (“you could have toldus, mate, you know
that,” Josh tells him in a weirdly earnest way). And– and people knownow, they
know when they walk past him in the hallway or when they see him talk to
another guy. They know, and the vast majority of them act like it doesn’t even
make a difference. By the time the novelty’s worn off, no one really cares
anymore.
They know.They see him as he is. Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this
overwhelmingly free.
                                       *
Harry stretches out on the bed and feels Chloe’s disapproving gaze even through
his closed eyelids. He opens them slowly and grins to himself when he’s proved
absolutely right. “That’s mybed,” she says, “and I know you’re going through a
growth spurt, Harry Styles, but please stop taking up all the space.”
Harry just grins wider. Chloe sighs and plops down on the bed. “I was supposed
to set up an extra bed for you, you know.” They’ve been working on a Sociology
project at Chloe’s house, and none of the parents involved had any objections
to letting him stay the night.
“Tell your parents they don’t have to worry about me impregnating you,” Harry
tells her.
She punches him in the arm. It’s not a hard punch. “I think they already know
that, asshole.”
Harry pouts at her and spreads his arms. “Come on. Come cuddle.” She makes a
show of rolling her eyes and shoving him aside to make room, but settles down
beside him and snuggles into his side all the same. Harry tugs the covers over
both of them. Chloe’s hair tickles the back of his neck. It’s faded to lilac
now; she’ll have to re-dye it again soon. Harry rolls over onto his front and
throws an arm over her torso, chasing the body heat. It’s always easier to fall
asleep when he has someone beside him.
“Are you coming on to me?” he hears her mumble. Harry laughs quietly into her
shoulder.
There’s a moment of comfortable silence. Harry wonders if he should turn the
light off. But then Chloe’s speaking again, shifting around so she can look him
in the eye. “Hey, I never congratulated you on coming out to half the school
andsucking face with a cute guy in the process.”
Harry feels his cheeks flush even as he grins. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Chloe says. “What happened to him, anyway? Haven’t seen
much of him around.”
Harry half-shrugs. “Dunno. Apparently the chemistry there had a lot to do with
the booze.” It’s not a lie. Things weren’t quite so nice when they met up later
and both of them were sober. But perhaps it’s not the whole truth, either;
perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that there was something
missing, something not quite right. Perhaps it had something to do with the
fact that Eric wasn’t Louis.
The thought is uneasy; it feels like unearthing something that’s been locked
away for too long.
When he glances at Chloe’s face, she doesn’t look entirely convinced. Harry
scrambles to think of a better excuse and comes up with nothing. But she
doesn’t push it; instead, she rolls over onto her back and stares at the
ceiling thoughtfully. A moment passes. “You know Mark’s really into you,
right?” she asks.
Surprise dispels Harry’s thoughts. “He is?”
Chloe’s eyes widen as she looks at him. “You didn’t know?”
“How was I supposed to know?” Harry fires back.
Chloe fixes him with a Look. “Harry, I assumed you were less thick.” Harry
blinks, still too shocked to protest. “I mean, I haven’t talked to him, you
know? He hasn’t told me anything about being, whatever, not straight. But you
should have seen the look on his face when you were snogging Eric.”
“What look?” Harry demands. Chloe looks at him like the question is too obvious
to answer, and Harry sighs in defeat. Mark.Well. He tries not to consider it,
but he can’t stop himself from recalling Mark smiling at him, Mark absently
dragging a thumb over his own bottom lip, the line of Mark’s shoulders from
behind. The way his heart speeds up mixes strangely with the unexplained dread
that pools in his stomach.
Chloe’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Harry?” The word is soft, softer
than usual. There’s a moment where she doesn’t seem quite sure of what she’s
going to say. “Remember when you told me you used to be in love with someone?”
Harry nods wordlessly. “Are you still hung up over him?”
Harry blinks in surprise. Hearing the words come from Chloe’s mouth is slightly
surreal; Louis doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in this part of his life.
The uneasiness from earlier intensifies. He doesn’t know if he cantalk about
Louis. What’s he going to tell her?
Are you still hung up over him?
God, he’s in love with Louis. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being in love
with Louis. (It’s been months, and the thought still feels like a punch to the
stomach.) But – has he accepted it? Is he ready to let go? Harry doesn’t know
how to answer that.
“I’m not sure,” he tells Chloe quietly, and his voice sounds less sure than
he’d like it to.
Chloe doesn’t say anything, just holds him closer. Her skin is warm, but Harry
somehow feels like it’s not warm enough. He’s not– he refuses to cry about
this. He blinks hard, and if Chloe notices she doesn’t say anything.
He considers telling her about Louis. He can’t, of course, not without
explaining the whole bizarre thing – how’s he going to tell her the person he
was in love with was actually a star? But the desire to tellbuilds up inside
him until his chest feels tight from holding it all in. How many people does he
not keep secrets from? How many things does he have inside him that no one’s
heard about?
He doesn’t register the decision to start talking.
“Chlo,” he says, and Chloe’s face comes up to look at him instantly. “You ever
heard about those kids that could, like, change things with their minds?”
A tiny crease forms between Chloe’s eyebrows. “I think I might have. Like,
those people that could do this weird sort of magic? Why?”
Harry clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. I was one of those.”
Chloe’s eyes widen a bit in surprise. Harry feels oddly self-conscious. “You
mean you can do magic and you’ve been keeping it from me?”
There’s a weight in Harry’s stomach suddenly. Another reminder of what he’s
lost. Chloe must see something on his face, because her expression immediately
smoothes over, becomes serious again. “Not really,” Harry says, and even saying
it out loud makes him want to curl up and hide from the world. “I mean, the
thing with this is that they don’t really know much about it? But apparently
when a kid gets older it’s really common for it to disappear, so, you know.” He
darts a glance at Chloe’s face. “Not anymore.”
There it is. He’s known for months, he’s had time to accept it, but saying it
out loud still feels deathly final. He fights the emotion choking him up,
clogging up his throat. “Just wanted you to know,” he manages.
For a moment, and probably for the first time that Harry’s witnessed, Chloe
seems at a loss. Her eyes are wide, though, like she getsit, gets just what
this means to Harry. Harry buries his face in her shoulder again so she won’t
have to say anything, and they stay there for a while. Harry screws his eyes
shut and breathes her in. Her smell has become familiar now, and it helps calm
him down; he takes deep breaths until it’s all gone away, until he feels like
he can function, and he doesn’t let go.
“Thanks for telling me,” he hears Chloe mumble somewhere near his ear, and he
huffs out a watery laugh.
“Thanks for listening,” he tells her, and he thinks he understands what she’s
trying to say when all she does is squeeze him a bit tighter.
The pressure on his chest has gone now. The weight in his stomach is there, but
fading. It’s strangely soothing to know that someone else knows too; not every
part of it, perhaps, but it’s not just his anymore. He’s not alone. Chloe runs
her fingers along his scalp, and he shifts into it. Maybe not everything is
okay yet, but as he feels the warmth from Chloe’s skin, hears the soft whisper
of, “Goodnight, Harry,” as she reaches out to turn the light off, he feels like
he’s on his way there.
                                       *
The feeling of relief that comes with confessions lingers in the back of his
mind. It’s… liberating, almost. How did he never notice he was keeping all
these things a secret? He thinks about the fact that someone apart from his
family knows he could do magic, and about the fact that everyone at school
knows,and it’s– it’s like letting out a breath that, all this time, he never
knew he was holding.
Harry’s a person who thinks about things. He considers them from every angle
and he goes over the possible consequences and he worries for days on end; and
then, more often than not, by the time he’s meant to act he ditches everything
he’s thought about and does what impulse tells him to instead. And perhaps
that’s why it happens the way it happens.
Because one afternoon mid-January, when he comes home from college, slips his
shoes off and hangs his coat up on the rack, he lifts his head up and his mum
is there, watching from the kitchen doorway. Kissing her on the cheek when he
comes home is a reflex action; but today he just looks at her for a moment and
he doesn’t do it. He takes her in, all of her, the way her hair hangs down and
barely brushes her shoulders, the creases that are starting to etch themselves
around her eyes and mouth, the gentle smile on her face. He blinks. For a
moment, sudden emotion overwhelms him.
So he walks up to her and engulfs her in as big a hug as he can manage, burying
his face in her shoulder even though he’s taller than her by now, letting her
familiar warmth envelop him. “Hi, mum,” he mumbles, his mouth squished against
her shoulder, and she kisses him on the cheek in return.
“What’s all this, then?” she says as she pulls back and looks at him, and a
thought appears in Harry’s head, so exciting and terrifying all at once that he
follows it without thinking twice.
“Mum?” The word seems too small for what’s going through his head, but he
ignores it, ignores everything,even the incessant pounding of his heart against
his ribs. “I’m gay.”
It’s out there.
For a moment, Harry feels like the world might stop. There’s his mum, looking
at him; there’s his heart in his throat, the feverish nerves that have built up
in a second inside his chest. It’s out there.There’s no taking the words back.
The word, oh God, the word; the word he’s never used for himself ever, even
though saying it out loud has left him no doubt that it fits. Harry blinks, and
everything feels like it’s spinning.
Then, his mum is tugging him in again, and as she wraps her arms around him and
holds him tight, Harry forgets how to breathe.
“Harry,” she’s saying, and it takes him a moment to process each individual
word. “My wonderful boy. I’m so proud of you, darling.” Harry feels his hands
start to shake involuntarily, feels his eyes itch with something he can’t
control. “I’m so proud of you. I always have been and I always will be. You
know that, don’t you, love?”
For a moment, Harry forgets how words work. “It’s okay?” he manages to choke
out, and his mum squeezes him like what he’s said is completelyout of the
question. “Of course it’s okay, baby.” She kisses his hair once. “Of course.I
love you for being the boy that you are, and I love whatever’s a part of that,
understand? I’m so glad you decided to let me know.” And she holds Harry as he
sniffles into her shoulder, not even trying to hide it; she sways them back and
forth like she used to do when he was little and he wouldn’t stop crying. It’s
soothing and it’s peaceful. Harry feels as airy as a cloud.
When the tears stop, he pulls away to face his mum properly, and the look on
her face is almost enough to make him start crying again.
“I was in love with Louis,” he blurts out instead, because if he’s letting this
go he’s letting go of all of it and also because why not.This is different.
This is something he’s said out loud before and something he’s been certain of
for months. It doesn’t stop a tiny bubble of trepidation from blossoming in his
stomach, but it’s enough to make him clamp down on it.
His mum just smiles, looking so very wise. “I know you were.”
Harry blinks. “You do?”
His mum hasn’t let go of him yet. Her hand traces little circles against the
back of his arm. “Harry,” she says, her voice soft, “when you feel something,
you throw yourself into it. You love with every part of yourself. It’s hard not
to notice.” Her eyes feel like they can see straight through him. “And there’ll
be others, you know that? You have so much love to give, darling. Any boy would
be lucky to have you.” Her eyes are unbelievably fond. Harry lets the words
sink in. They make him feel warm down to his toes.
His mum looks at him with a hint of curiosity. “Just wondering, though– Louis
had something to do with your magic, didn’t he?”
Harry’s momentarily stunned into silence. “What?”
“I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “He had an air about him, I think– like
he was something a little bit out of the ordinary. Also,” she adds like an
afterthought, “there was the fact that he seemed to have no one to live with.”
“You knew that?” Harry gets out. He doesn’t know how he forgets sometimes how
incredibly perceptive his mum can be. A little bit out of the ordinary.He’d
never have guessed.
“I knew him for eight years, love,” she says, “and in all that time, he never
mentioned having a family or a house. Not once. Why do you think I let him stay
over as often as I did?”
And they thought they were being sneaky. For a fleeting instant, Harry wants to
have Louis in front of him; wants to tell him look at this, oh my God, we
thought we were fooling her.But, of course, he’s never going to have Louis in
front of him again. It stings even now.
“He was a star,” he says quietly. The words feel too improbably and too real
all at once. “He was a star and my magic brought him here. He never belonged
here in the first place.” His throat closes up. “That’s why he left.”
His mum’s eyes are wide; a little incredulous, maybe, but not disbelieving. “A
star?” she says softly, like she wants Harry to confirm it. Harry nods. “God,
Harry, when they told me my son could do magic I thought anything was possible,
but– a star,” she repeats to herself, her tone marvelling. It’s beautiful to
hear, and also so incredibly sad. Her eyes fix on Harry again, and there’s a
spark of curiosity in them. “Are you sure about this? Is this why you were
scared he wasn’t real when you were little?” Another thought seems to occur to
her. “Is that why you said you could see him glow?”
The question throws Harry off guard. He didn’t even remember telling her that.
“I saw him glow, mum,” he says. “Every time I looked at him. Right until he
left.” The image of Louis at the window, Louis disappearing, is unbearably
clear in Harry’s mind. “It was just like– this golden light on his skin, like
it was coming right out of it, you know? It changed with his mood, but it never
went away. I’ve never seen anything like it.” For a second, Harry misses him so
much his chest aches with it. “It’s what he was. There’s no other explanation.
He was– he was too muchto just be a person.”
His mum just looks at him unblinkingly for a moment. “I think I know what you
mean,” she says, softly. “I just wonder why no one but you could see him glow.”
There’s a moment of silence, and she seems to shake herself. “Thank you for
telling me this, darling. All of it.” I did it for me as much as I did it for
you, Harry could say, but he keeps quiet. “Please remember what I told you,”
she continues. Her tone is soft, and her eyes are gentle. “You have so much
love to give, baby. There’ll be others, just you wait and see, and– and it
might be different, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be just as good.”
Harry lets himself believe it.
So he holds his mum close one last time and gives her a kiss on the cheek as he
pulls away, and it’s like whatever was weighing him down has melted away
without him even noticing. He fills his lungs with as much air as they’ll hold,
aware of his mum’s steady gaze on him, and lets it out all at once. It rushes
up his throat, out through his nose and mouth. It feels like relief. It feels
like growing up.
                                       *
For his seventeenth birthday, Chloe gets him a bracelet made out of rainbow
beads. She winks at him as he opens it (“I’m just trying to help you get laid,
mate”) but Harry thinks back to the rainbow patch on her school bag, how she’s
changed her bag since Harry met her but sewed the patch onto the new one all
the same, and knows she understands what it really means.
He slips it on his wrist straight away. It feels like it’s burning at first,
like everyone’s eyes are on him, looking at it and knowing and mistrusting; but
it gets easier not to care, and when the cute boy on Harry’s bus looks at
Harry’s wrist for a moment before purposefully looking him up and down, the way
his chest bubbles with excitement is worth all the rest.
                                       *
You know Mark’s really into you, right?
Ever since Chloe said it it’s been floating around the back of his mind; and
somehow, the more time goes by, the more insistent it becomes. Mark’s into
Harry. Mark’s into Harry? Harry tries to reason with himself that maybe Chloe
pulled the whole thing out of her arse, that it was just what she’d thought
from looking at him, that it doesn’t need to mean anything– but then he’ll
somehow get sidetracked by the way Mark’s eyes glint as he leans in to tell
Harry something and Harry’ll have to remind himself all over again.
He can’t stop himself from watching, though. He can’t stop himself from
stealing tiny glances at Mark out of the corner of his eye to try and check if
what Chloe said was true, because– what if what if what if.
Mark is cute. Logically, Harry knows this. He has a lovely jaw, his hands are
graceful and smooth, his eyes are brown and wide and look like they belong to
someone you can immediately trust. But¬– but God, the thing is that he’s
wonderful too, he’s caring and smart and has these bouts of weird humour that
seem to come out of nowhere and make Harry laugh until he’s breathless. How’s
he supposed to deal with all of it at once? He can snog Eric knowing it’s
likely they won’t see each other again. He can ogle the cute guy on the bus
because it’s not like there’s a possibilitythere. But Mark is a person he
knows, someone he’s close to. Mark is– Mark is someone he can’t just fool
around with and pretend nothing happened afterwards. There’s somethingthere.
Harry doesn’t know, exactly, what that something is, but it’s enough to make
him panic and consider avoiding Mark altogether. (Which he doesn’t do. Of
course.)
So– so it’s how things are now, stuck in a vague sort of limbo, none of them
making a move but none of them pulling away. Harry can’t bring himself to do
either. He settles for watching Mark out of the corner of his eye when he
thinks Mark isn’t watching, for locking eyes with him across a room only to
look away hurriedly, and it’s enough for now. Chloe’s noticed if no one else
has. Harry can see it in the pointed looks she shoots him sometimes, and he
ignores every single one of them.
He can’t talk to her about this, can he? There’s something else she said that
echoes in his mind. Are you still hung up about him? Because– because what if
he tells her everything that’s going on in his mind and she figures out what he
can’t figure out himself? He knows why he’s scared of getting into anything
with Mark. He knows why things with Eric never really worked out. But– but he
doesn’t want Chloe to know that, doesn’t want her to tell him that he’s never
going to be able to care properly about someone who isn’t Louis. He doesn’t
want his fears to be proved right.
So he gravitates towards Mark and he waits, even though he’s not exactly sure
what he’s waiting for.
                                       *
It happens at some point in March.
There’s not even any alcohol involved. There’s no logical reasonwhy Harry lets
it happen. It’s like this: Mark suggests hanging out together Friday after
school, Harry manages to convince himself that he means it as a totally
platonic friends’ afternoon, and it’s not even mid-afternoon before they’re
already kissing on a park bench. Mark is as nice a kisser as Harry imagined,
and Harry’s lips feel all tingly after.
He kisses Mark goodbye when he gets on the last bus to Holmes Chapel, and Mark
kisses him back and suggests they should hang out some more with a half-smile
on his face. As Harry plonks down on a bus seat and twists his neck around to
watch Mark get tinier and tinier the further away the bus gets, he can’t for
the life of him remember what he was so scared of.
                                       *
Harry’s had a lot of firsts in his life.
He’s a seventeen-year-old boy; of course he has. He’s had first words, first
steps, first days of school and first teeth falling out; first jobs and first
dates; first crushes, first kisses, first orgasms. He can’t remember all of
them, but he knows they’re there. And, the thing is– there aren’t a lot of
firsts that aren’t intrinsically tied up with Louis.
And even with all the firsts he’s had, he’s never had a first boyfriend.
He’s had girlfriends, but that’s not even remotely the same thing, is it? Not
when he knows what he didn’t know about himself before. Being someone’s
boyfriend was a strange enough thing to get used to; but having a beautiful boy
he can kiss and hold hands with and touch whenever he wants and being able to
call him his boyfriend makes Harry feel like a giggly fourteen-year-old. He
doesn’t particularly mind.
Because being friends with Mark was lovely, but being his boyfriend is a
thousand times better. He looks at Harry like he’s the only thing that matters,
and he lets Harry borrow all of his sweaters, and even though Harry doesn’t
think he was actually out before this he has no problem holding Harry’s hand as
they walk down the street or kissing him in front of whoever happens to be
there. It feels daring, but it also feels like freedom. Harry sits on the bus
with his head on Mark’s shoulder and can’t even bring himself to worry about
whoever might be looking at them.
(Chloe calls them vomit-inducing. Chloe can shut her face.)
“You make me so happy,” Mark mumbles in the darkness one night Harry’s staying
over. (Mark had introduced him to his mum as a friend and insists she doesn’t
know he’s into guys yet, but the scrutinizing look she gives Harry as soon as
she sees him makes him doubt that slightly. She lets them sleep in the same
room, though, so Harry doesn’t really mind.) Mark’s lying behind him on the
bed, spooning Harry, an arm thrown over Harry’s chest, Harry curled up into it.
His breath is warm against Harry’s neck. Harry closes his eyes and feels loved;
safe.
“You make me happy too,” he whispers back, and knows Mark is smiling even if he
can’t see it. It’s the absolute truth.
Because he is,he’s happy, happier than he can remember being in months, and he
doesn’t want anything to ruin that. There are things he doesn’t want to think
about. This thing with Mark– it’s like nothing he’s lived before, and it makes
him feel like things aren’t spiralling out of control anymore, and– and it’s
not fairthat Louis gets to mess that up even when he’s not there anymore. Harry
won’t let that happen.
So he closes his eyes and lets Mark kiss his ear gently and nudges all thoughts
of Louis out of his mind; and, as he drifts off, he’s surprised to find he’s
not wishing it was someone else holding him.
                                       *
He doesn’t let go of Louis. Not completely. But the more time he spends with
Mark, the more he finds himself putting those memories to rest, completely this
time. He can’t remember when he accepted that Louis wasn’t coming back, but the
knowledge lives with him, and every day the sting of it is duller. The memory
of Louis is like the memory of being younger, of doing magic, of a time when
everything was brighter and simpler. It’s blurry at the edges like a fading
photograph. Remembering Louis sometimes feels like remembering a dream.
He doesn’t want to spend his life caught up on a dream.
The first time he has sex with Mark, it’s not in Harry’s bed. (Harry,
privately, can’t help but be grateful, because even if the memory of Louis is
faraway and Mark is immediate and here, he’s not sure what would happen if they
were to do it somewhere that has Louis printed on every inch.) They do it on a
Friday afternoon where Mark’s mum is out instead. It’s nothing like Harry
remembers sex with Louis being like. The logisticsare the same, definitely,
but– but Harry knows what he’s doing now, isn’t just a terrified fifteen-year-
old who’s mostly guided by how much the other person turns him on and what he’s
read on the Internet. When he slides his hands under Mark’s shirt, when he
strips in front of him, when he rolls the condom onto Mark’s cock, his
movements are sure, his hands steady. And God, just the fact that this is a
completely different person with a body Harry can discover for the first time
feels strangely exciting. He wants to put his hands all over Mark, to learn all
the ways to make him shiver and come apart, and Mark touches him with hands
that are slightly tentative but that seem to have the same intent.
They have time. Harry knows Mark won’t leave without telling him, won’t hide
things from him that Harry will have to figure out on his own. It feels like an
anchor; like it’s okay to let himself trust.
(Harry doesn’t let himself wonder whether he loves Mark or not. It doesn’t feel
like he needs to. He lets himself enjoy the tingly feeling whenever Mark
touches him, the warmth in his stomach when he glances at Mark and sees him
already looking his way, and it’s enough. Worrying has no place here. Whatever
happens will happen, and it’ll be okay either way.)
                                       *
Spring fades and summer comes in. Harry takes his AS Levels and comes out of
them fairly certain that he’s done okay. June comes around, college ends for
the summer, and Harry and Mark break up around the same time Chloe and Elle do.
It’s mutual. Because at some point it stops being quite what is was: Harry’s
convinced it’s in his head at first, but as time goes on and the only thing
they seem to do is drift further apart, it becomes apparent that it’s something
Mark’s aware of, too. They don’t talk as much and they don’t kiss as much and
they definitely don’t do things like stay up past midnight texting anymore;
when school ends and they stop seeing each other every day, Harry knows it’s no
use trying to hold on to it, that sooner or later it’ll fizzle out. They have
the talk at the beginning of July, and even though it’s supposed to be a
friendly breakup Harry still goes home that night and sobs into the pillow
until he passes out.
(Chloe and Elle’s breakup happens around the same time, but the way it does is
radically different. It’s not on good terms. Chloe tells him, after, that they
were constantly fighting and making each other’s lives miserable; she tells it
like a breakup was the only way to solve it, but Harry doesn’t miss the hint of
what if in her voice, and he understands. She doesn’t put up walls when she
tells him. She just tells it like it is, all the hurt left bare on her face,
enough that Harry knows it must be tearing her up inside. He knows this is
Chloe letting him in, and he knows it to be rare enough that he’s grateful.)
Breaking up with Mark is different to what it was like when Louis left. It’s
only logical, isn’t it? No part of being with Mark was like what he had with
Louis. Louis was all but torn out of his life, and ending it with Mark feels
like another step forward, a natural progression of things. He can accept that
and still acknowledge it hurts. Because it hurts, there’s no denying it; it’s
not quite so visceral, not quite so deep, but it’s still sharp and stinging and
bitter to have lost something that made him so, so happy.
It fades. Of course it fades. He tells his mum and has a cry about it on her
shoulder; he goes over to Chloe’s house and they do nothing but wallow and feel
sorry for themselves. Each of those things seems to smooth it over slightly, to
dull the edge. When he realizes that means he’s moving on, it’s an unexpected
bubble of hope in his chest.
And he does move on. He stops wishing there was someone beside him when he goes
to bed, he stops missing the way Mark’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled at
Harry, and he stops feeling like the world has stopped in its tracks. It goes
on. Harry goes with it.
                                       *
There are things in Harry’s life that he’s always taken for granted. He
supposes it’s just human nature to stop paying attention to things when you’re
used to them, that having them fade into the background isn’t on purpose, just
something he can’t control. So it’s jarring, really, to suddenly notice them
and realize they’re different to what you thought they were.
He never thought it would become something that he could apply to the house he
lives in.
He’s not quite sure how it starts. Maybe it’s a moment of realization when he’s
having breakfast at the kitchen table, or maybe it’s something that dawns upon
him gradually, the idea planting itself into his brain and unfolding little by
little. Either way, it comes, and it’s this: he knows this house, but at some
point in time, it stopped being his.
He walks through the rooms as if in a daze, looking around at everything,
taking it all in like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. Were those shelves on
the living room wall always this low? He passes a hand over them and distinctly
remembers having to drag over a chair and stand on it every time he wanted to
look at what was up there. Were the kitchen walls always off-white? How long
have those drawings on the fridge been there for? The felt-tip ink has faded
now, the colours barely visible. He drags a hand over the hand rail as he
climbs up the stairs, feeling the wood worn smooth beneath his palm, and
reflexively ducks when he’s at the point where the ceiling hangs low before
realizing that he can’t remember when he started doing that.
All of it is familiar. All of it is home. But, looking at it now, Harry can’t
seem to make it all belong to anyone other than a memory of himself.
He pushes his bedroom door open slowly and gets a good look at it for what
feels like the first time in years. The posters are a little lopsided, there
are pictures tacked on the walls that look like they’re falling off, the bed is
unmade and the sheets have a ridiculous teddy bear pattern on them that’s
possibly slightly more embarrassing than Harry’d originally thought. (He
distinctly remembers blowing Louis on top of those sheets what feels like years
ago.) There are books on his bookshelves he doesn’t remember reading. His desk
is piled high with all sorts of crap, posters and envelopes and discarded to-do
lists and this year’s textbooks. When he glances up, there are glow-in-the-dark
stars stuck on his ceiling.
It strikes Harry now that he has no real association with any of these things
at all. Who’s to say they belong to him? They belong to a different time: a
time when he was fifteen and stupid and had Louis beside him, a time where the
future was just a vague far-off thing it didn’t make sense to think about.
That’s not who he is anymore. There are parts of that person that still live
inside him, but fifteen-year-old Harry is someone that’s never coming back
again.
He could keep living in fifteen-year-old Harry’s room, and he chooses not to.
He starts by clearing up everything on his desk, then the drawers, then the
bookshelves. He throws away about as much as he keeps. And with every small
thing that emerges, every scribbled note or printed-out photo or forgotten
relic, it’s like a snapshot from his past is passing in front of his eyes. It’s
a past that he recognizes, but can’t make entirely his. And even with the
detachment, he finds himself wondering sometimes – did all of this really
happen? Has he gone through so much in seventeen years of life? How’s he
managed to forget most of it?
He clears out the wardrobe and finds that most of what he used to wear a year
ago doesn’t fit him anymore. He sweeps under the bed and finds dust balls,
pens, a single discarded condom wrapper. He takes everything down from the
walls and surveys the room that suddenly feels so empty– and then he marches
out to the one DIY shop in the village, comes back with a paint roller and a
tin of green paint and spends the next two days painting the old pale blue of
the walls over. When he’s done, it looks like an entirely different room – but
Harry feels more present in it that he’s done in months.
(He keeps the stars on his ceiling. They feel like a reminder.)
                                       *
He finds himself looking up at the stars more and more often. It starts as a
meaningless habit he develops, looking out the window to watch the sky before
going to bed; but he gets annoyed by the street lights eventually because their
light blocks out all the stars except for the brightest ones and ends up
specifically going out at night to do some stargazing. The spot down by the
river, he’s found, is one of the nicest places to do it.
He prints out a star chart and does his best to find the summer constellations.
There’s the Big Dipper, like always, and the North Star; Hercules, Draco,
Scorpius. He thinks about the fact that even though he can see them, there are
stars up there that don’t exist anymore. He looks out at the vastness above
him, at the sky that opens into space and out into the void, and feels
infinitely tiny. He is momentary. The stars don’t care about his existence.
He wonders where Louis is. He wonders if he’s somewhere on the surface of this
Earth or has managed to return to the sky. He imagines him out there, light
years away but still looking down on Harry, and a chill runs down his spine
that has nothing to do with the night air.
Wherever he is, Harry hopes he’s found himself.
                                       *
He and Mark had talked about going to Leeds Fest in August, and Harry decides
that he’s not about to miss out on that just because he broke up with Mark. He
drags Chloe and Erin there instead, and it’s three days that will stand out in
his mind, later, as one of the highlights of the summer: it’s struggling to put
the tent up, it’s sweat and body paint and alcohol stickiness; it’s the music
blasting inside his head and buzzing in his veins, it’s dancing until he’s
about to collapse from exhaustion. It’s drunk making out with both Chloe and
Erin and all three of them giggling like idiots after. It’s the long-haired boy
he drags back to the tent only to find Chloe and Erin in there and apparently
verybusy, and blowing the boy in a clump of trees instead. It’s being alive,
It’s making memories to replace the old. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever
experienced anything quite like it.
                                       *
At some point between going back to college in September and the UCAS deadline
in January, Harry decides he’s not going to uni.
It’s something that’s been on his mind for a while, lingering, untouched, but
the buzz of activity that comes with the first term of college makes him
consider it seriously for what’s perhaps the first time. Suddenly, there’s
courses being considered and applications being written and sent off and open
days being booked, and Harry feels a little like he’s lagging behind, like he’s
not heading in the same direction that everyone else seems to be.
Why should he go to uni, anyway? What would he even study? Harry picked his A
Level subjects purely on the basis of what seemed more interesting, not
planning for a specific uni course in any way. The thought of spending three
more years as a student is… not daunting, exactly, but it feels like he’d be
settling for something, like letting what he’s expected to do get in the way of
what he coulddo. There’s a world of possibility in front of him, and he can’t
help but feel that going to uni, in some way, would be like giving it up.
And, gradually, an idea begins to take shape in his mind. He’s hesitant at
first, but as he lets himself consider it more and more seriously, it starts
taking root. What’s holding him down? What’s stopping him from leaving? Gemma
left Holmes Chapel for Birmingham, but– but what’s stopping Harry from taking
it further? There’s so much he could experience, so much he could miss out on.
He could leave Holmes Chapel behind and he could go anywhere.
The urge to redraw himself, to redefine himself, stirs inside him restlessly.
The first time he looks up train fares to London is also the first time he
acknowledges completely that this could become a reality. It’s unsettling, but
it also makes a part of him fizz with nervous excitement. This could be real.
This could be the future that he’s never quite managed to picture. He could
take a train to London, and then… what? It doesn’t have to stop there.
Heart beating fast, he opens a new browser window and searches for train fares
from London to Paris. They’re not as expensive as he thought they would be. A
sort of recklessness seizes him then, and before he can stop himself he’s
looking up all the European cities that can be reached by train from Paris:
Amsterdam, Milan, Barcelona, Brussels. A strange, wistful longing buries itself
into his chest before he can realize it, and he can’t quite get it to go away:
it’s there the next day, it’s there a week on, and it’s there a month later,
when he tells his mum for the first time that, just maybe, this is something he
could do.
It’s decided by the end of the year. Come August, he’s taking a train to Paris
and seeing where he ends up. There’s no mention of permanence, of course, but
there’s no mention of coming back to Holmes Chapel either. He could do it a
month after leaving, two months, half a year. Harry doesn’t let himself
consider the possibility that he might not come back at all. Not yet.
                                       *
Winter turns into spring; spring fades away into the earliest hints of summer.
The months feel like they’re going by unsettlingly fast. Routine drags Harry
down, and by the time he looks around him and realizes how much time has passed
it’s invariably a shock. August still feels faraway, but sometimes the
irrational terror of leaving home seizes him, and then it feels like August is
looming over him, immediate and present and very much real.
Because it is real. Harry’s made his choice already. The UCAS deadlines come
and go, and he pays them no mind. It’s like he’s holding his breath, like he’s
living these last months here with the perpetual feeling that his life is on
hold.
And, unconsciously, he begins to say goodbye.
It’s like all of a sudden he’s aware of the fact that everything around him is
temporary. Putting a limit on it all, a precise time constraint, brings about
the painful realization that there’ll be a time – and that time will be soon –
where he won’t have any of it anymore. How much time does he have left to live
in the house that has been his home for the past eighteen years? How many weeks
does he have left of waking up in his own bed in the morning, of looking around
and knowing that everything he sees around him is familiar and unchanging? How
long does he have left until he won’t see his mum every day anymore? When he
leaves, how often will he get to see Gemma? It’s questions that he has no clear
answer for. They hide in his chest and make it ache with quiet nostalgia.
He turns eighteen and throws a party that leaves a good part of the house
looking like a wreck the morning after. He starts working at the bakery again,
on the weekends too now, and adds the money to his trip savings. He starts
telling people he’s leaving, with reactions that range from, “Can I come with?”
to “You’re insane.” (Chloe says she won’t miss him at all in a tone that says
that she absolutely will.) He officially comes out to his extended family, even
though for the last couple of months he’s been wearing the rainbow bracelet to
the occasional family dinner and he knows that all of them have noticed.
He doesn’t date,exactly. There’s boys he hooks up with, and one or two of the
hookups evolve into something semi-steady that both parties involved know won’t
last for very long. There’s nothing as serious as what he had with Mark, and
privately, Harry is grateful. He doesn’t need anyone else to say goodbye to.
After his A Levels are done for good, he dimly realizes it’s been two years
since he last saw Louis. Putting a number on it feels odd somehow. It’s like
his years with Louis exist now only in some kind of dream-like space in his
head – the memories feel timeless, like they’re not completely real. He looks
back and he misses it, but he knows how to keep his distance now, knows how to
remember it in a way that’s only nostalgic, not painful. When summer comes
around, he picks up his old habit of stargazing with surprising ease.
Come July, he starts thinking of everything around him with a finality that
he’d expected, but that still catches him slightly off guard. There’s sadness
in it, of course there is, but buried beneath the sadness is the thrill of new
beginnings; he seeks it out and holds on to it, and it gets him through the
last weeks without so much as a tear for what he’s leaving behind.
He starts packing without really noticing he’s doing it.
As July draws to an end and August looms closer, he starts mentally sorting
everything into leaving it hereand taking it with me.The second is
significantly smaller than the first and mostly consists of clothes, sunglasses
and various device chargers. Before he knows it, it’s transformed into an
actual material pile on his desk. The last week of July, he hunts down an old
backpack of his mum’s and props it up next to the desk as a reminder. Every
time he looks at it, nerves bubble up in his stomach.
The decision is made. He knows he’s leaving, he knows he’s not taking anyone
else with him, and he’s not going to back out on either of those things.
He’s not a child anymore. Rationally, he’s known it for a long time, but this
feels like the first time it’s fully impacted his life. Because growing up
doesn’t only mean maturing and making decisions, does it? It also means being
alone. It means heading out into the future with no assurance that he’ll have
anyone to rely on; and it means that, at times, it feels like he’s about to
take a running leap into a bleak, lonely future.
He doesn’t dwell on it for too long. He doesn’t need that fear.
                                       *
It happens on a day that has absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
There’s nothing to set it apart from any other day that has gone by this month.
The sky is a uniform grey: it’s not sunny, but it doesn’t look like it’s going
to rain either. The morning air is cool, but grows warmer as noon draws closer.
Harry makes himself breakfast and goes back to bed, flopping face-down onto the
mattress and spending an hour or so fiddling on his phone and getting
absolutely nothing done. He side-eyes the backpack and the pile of clothes that
are sitting on his desk much like he’d do any other day. Eventually, he
stretches his arms, groans and heads to the shower. (His mum’s at work, so he’s
allowed to sing as loudly as he wants.) He wanders into his room with the towel
slung around his hips and pulls on a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt, and
his hair is already mostly dry by the time the doorbell rings.
Harry pauses from where he’s looking up cheap hostels in Amsterdam, closes his
laptop and frowns. Who could that be? Maybe it’s someone who’s looking for his
mum, or maybe it’s Niall or someone wanting to hang out for a bit before he
leaves next week. The doorbell rings again as he’s trotting down the stairs.
Jesus, someone’s impatient. He gets to the door, pulls back the latch, swings
it open and his stomach drops to the floor.
It’s not Niall. It’s not someone looking for his mum. It’s not a single one out
of all the people Harry thought had a possibility of coming and knocking on his
door.
It’s not anyone he’s seen in the past two years.
Harry feels his hands start to shake, his heart leap into his throat, his
vision grow blurry for reasons he can’t fathom. This isn’t happening. But it
is,it is and it feels like Harry’s control over his body has vanished
completely, like he’s not watching this from his own eyes anymore but from
somewhere completely removed from himself. Harry blinks, and he blinks again,
and his mind somehow starts registering everything that’s in front of him in
analytical detail.
He’s older than he was. That should be a given, but it still shocks Harry in a
miniature way. Because the image Harry’s had of him in his head – it never
changed, did it? It never evolved or grew older. His face looks different,
thinner, the angles sharper; his hair is longer. And the eyes¬– they’re a more
vibrant blue than the memory Harry has of them, and they carry a weight now
that Harry’s never seen before. They’re the eyes of someone who’s wiser, who’s
grown and changed and seen things Harry can’t quite imagine.
He still glows. Of course he does.
“Hi,” Louis says, his voice tentative but still sure of itself, and Harry stops
breathing.
                                       *
In the beginning, he used to fantasize about Louis coming back.
He’d imagine waking up in the morning and seeing Louis there, reappearing as
suddenly as he’d left. He’d imagine it in a thousand different scenarios: going
down to the river and finding out Louis had been hiding there all along, a
touch on his shoulder as he walked down the street, a tap on his window, a
knock on his door. And in all of them Louis would admit he loved Harry, that he
always had; he’d beg Harry to forgive him, he’d tell him he should never have
left, he’d promise he was going to stay forever. But sooner or later, Harry was
always forced to return to reality; eventually, he stopped hoping.
And now he stands here in front of Louis when he’d managed to accept that he
was never going to see him again, and all those desperate fantasies come back
in a rush, choking him. He wants to surge forward and hold Louis, make sure
he’s real, make him stay; he wants to close the door and run away and never
have to face him again.
He does none of those things. He stands and watches, eyes wide, chest tight.
Louis looks back at him with a look on his face Harry can’t make sense of and
stays silent.
It’s a moment that feels suspended, cut off from time.
“Louis,” Harry hears his own voice say, strange and shaky in his ears; it
cracks the tension but doesn’t quite break it. Louis isn’t saying anything. Why
isn’t he saying anything? He’s the one that’s showed up here – can’t he
dosomething so Harry can make sense of it all? “What are you doing here?”
It slips out of Harry’s mouth, a reflex action, harsher than he’d intended.
He’s not angry. He’s feeling too much to be angry. It swirls up inside him like
a hurricane, and it makes his hands shake harder, his heartbeat stutter.
Louis blinks at him like he’s startled. Why would he be startled?“I wanted to
see you again.” The words are quiet, and they hang in the air between them.
Hearing his voice again, the voice that’s changed but that’s also achingly
familiar (two years) throws Harry off guard for a few long moments, so much
that the words don’t sink in right away. When they do, it’s a jolt that runs
through his whole body.
How can Louis show up here and tellhim that? How can he say that and expect
Harry to know how to react? Harry’s eyes dart all over Louis’s face (Louis’s
face,he’s looking at Louis’s face again) and he tries to find something that
can help him make sense of it. But Louis’s face is serious and more sincere
than Harry ever remembers seeing it. God, he means it. He’s here because he
wants to see Harry again and he’s toldHarry that and what can he say to that?
But Louis carries on talking and there’s nothing Harry can do but listen.
“Harry?” Hearing his name is another jolt. It radiates through Harry’s body.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine. I didn’t want to show up
like this, I just–” He cuts himself off, and for the first time Harry focuses
enough to notice the tension in his glow, the way he’s on edge, too. “I just
needed to talk to you. If you want me to.” Something flickers over his face. “I
can leave if you want to and you’ll never see me again, I swear, I just–”
He stops and looks at Harry, eyes wide; then he looks down at his own forearm,
blinking a little incredulously. Because Harry’s body has acted of its own
accord, and his hand has reached out and is resting on Louis’s forearm. The
skin there is bare, glowing gently, and the point of contact pulses through
Harry’s body like a shockwave. He’s real. He’s real and he’s here with Harry.
Harry has to blink twice to hold back the sudden urge to cry.
“Come take a walk with me?” Harry says quietly. He doesn’t know whyhe says it,
but knows it’s an invitation, a way to let Louis know that yes, he wants to
listen to what he has to say.
Louis looks at him like that wasn’t something he expected at all, but nods
quickly, jerkily. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course.” When Harry lets go of his
arm, his fingertips feel cold.
                                       *
It takes Harry three tries to lock the door behind him. His hands are still
shaky, fumbling, like they belong to someone else. When he turns around and his
eyes land back on Louis, it’s like a sudden weight is lifted off his shoulders
all over again. Harry didn’t think he’d have left, but– but he’s spent two
years looking for Louis and remembering, suddenly, that he’d gone. The impulse
to check that Louis’s still there feels like second nature.
They walk in silence at first. Harry can’t bring himself to break it.
The tension that was there before is back again. (Perhaps it never left?) It
crackles between them. There’s expectation hanging in the air; it feels like
the moment the tiniest thing changes, everything will snap. The sound of their
feet is light on the concrete. Harry looks straight ahead, but Louis’s presence
is heavy in his mind. It’s been two years, but he still acts like gravity,
pulling Harry closer and rearranging all of his movements. Harry can only
barely resist.
“You got taller,” he hears Louis say. His head snaps around. Louis has a rueful
little half-smile on his face, and with a hint of surprise, Harry realizes it’s
true. He’s spent his entire life looking up at Louis, trying to catch up to
him, and now it turns out he’s gotten taller than him. Ten-year-old Harry would
have been thrilled.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “A lot of things have changed, I guess. It’s been a while.”
He feels Louis’s eyes on him, looking him up and down, cataloguing all the
differences in much the same way Harry had done earlier. He glances sideways.
Louis’s looking curiously at his wrist, at Harry’s now-faded rainbow bracelet.
For some reason, Harry feels his cheeks heat up.
“I can see that,” Louis says quietly, and for a while, neither of them says
anything more.
Harry can’t say he’s been paying much attention to where he’s going, so when he
sees the park loom up ahead it’s almost a surprise. It’s deserted, though, so
Harry thinks why notand walks right up to it. Louis follows. Harry hasn’t been
here in a while, and it feels like everything is so much smaller than he
remembers it being. He looks at the monkey bars and finds they don’t go that
much higher up than the top of his head. Didn’t he use to climb on those and
feel like he was on top of the world? It’s a thought that feels surreal.
He glances over at Louis. The look on his face says he’s on a similar
wavelength. “I missed this,” Louis says, almost like he’s talking to himself.
He looks at Harry then, almost like he’s trying to convey something unspoken.
Harry doesn’t want to know what it is.
“You could have stayed, then.” The words sound accusatory, and as soon as
they’re out of his mouth he regrets them. “Sorry,” he says immediately, “sorry,
that was shitty, I shouldn’t have–”
“It’s okay, Harry,” Louis cuts off. The look on his face is strangely distant.
“I get it.”
Harry shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You explained why you did it, and I–”
The memory of the last time they saw each other floods his mind, and it still
feels a bit like a punch to the stomach. “I get that. I do.” Louis looks like
he’s going to say something, but the words keep tumbling out of Harry’s mouth.
“It’s just– it wasn’t easy, you know? For me.” He resolutely refuses to look
Louis in the face when he says it. “And I don’t get why you’re here. I don’t
get why you’d want to see me again–” if you’re just going to leave again.He
leaves that part unspoken, because it’s– it’s not something he can deal with.
Not now.
Louis opens his mouth and then closes it again. Harry doesn’t know what to make
of it.
Has nothing changed? Are they still stuck the way they were? Did Louis come
back just to put his walls up and refuse to talk to him again? At that, Harry
feels a flash of anger, because it’s not fair.After everything that happened,
after Harry managed to put his life back together and move on– he doesn’t get
to come back here and tear all that up.
Louis looks at him for a long moment, and Harry looks back without saying a
word. Then, something in Louis seems to give. “I came back because I wanted to
say sorry.”
Harry blinks. What’s that supposed to mean? Sorry for what?
Harry knows Louis. Even after spending years apart, Harry can read him like an
open book; perhaps not always what he’s thinking, but certainly what he’s
feeling. And right now, Louis is on edge. His glow shines in a way that means
there’s nothing he’d like to do more than run away. (That particular bit of
knowledge aches as it emerges from where it’d been buried somewhere in Harry’s
chest.)
But Louis doesn’t run away. He looks at Harry in the eye even as his glow
wavers. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. I’m sorry I made you
feel shut out.” Dimly, Harry notices Louis’s fingers twitch, like he’s
struggling to hold back from fidgeting. His fingernails are still short, still
bitten. “I’m sorry I spent so long without telling you what was going on.”
“I understand why you did it,” Harry hears himself say, even though he
doesn’t,not all of it. Not why Louis needed to come back just to say this.
Couldn’t he have left things as they were, old, buried, the pain dulled? What
need could he have to come here and tell him this just to leave again?
Unless.
Harry doesn’t let himself consider it, doesn’t even let himself think the
words. It’s no use. He refuses to hope again. He ignores the way his heartbeat
feels thick in his ears. “Why wouldn’t you tell me what was going on?” he hears
himself say, because– because Louis never explained, not even at the end, and
Harry’s tired of living on inferences and assumptions and avoided truths. For
once, he wants to know.
“I was scared,” he hears Louis say quietly. His tone is much too open, much too
vulnerable. Harry can’t take his eyes off him. “I’m sorry for that too. And I
told you that last time, I think, but–” His voice falters for a moment.
“Listen. You were there always. You were the only thing that made me feel
safe.” Harry doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but his chest constricts
painfully when he hears it. “And then we started hooking up, and it was– it was
everything I wanted. It’s– God, Harry, it’s like it was just you and me and
there was nothing else that mattered.” Louis huffs out a small self-deprecating
laugh. “But I knew it was going to end, right? It hadto, at some point. And
that got me thinking– when it does end, what am I going to do? Where am I going
to go?”
“I’d have let you stay,” Harry gets out. His throat feels like it’s closed up.
I never wanted it to end. I’d have kept on doing it forever.It’s not what he
thought at the time, but now he knows it to be true. “I’d have let you. You
know that.”
Louis shrugs. “Maybe not back then you wouldn’t. And besides, I– I had no clue
how to be my own person, you know? I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t with
you. It was a bit terrifying, to be honest.”
Yes, Harry knows this. Harry remembers. The last fight they had feels like it’s
permanently ingrained into his brain, like it won’t go away no matter how many
years go by. He understands, God, he does, but– it’s hard to let go. It’s hard
to accept that no matter how much he’d loved Louis, no matter how much he could
have given him, it wouldn’t have mattered. It wouldn’t have been enough to get
him to stay. An old ache opens up in his chest, sudden and bitter. How
different could things have been if they’d been anyone else? If they had been
born any two other people, if they’d both been regular human beings who’d
happened to grow up together – then what? Could they have found a way to make
it work?
“And Zayn?” he hears himself say, because he needs to know.
The question seems to catch Louis off guard. “That was– no. That was before.
Always.” He’s looking Harry in the eye again like this much he’s certain of.
“That was never after you and I started. I was frustrated, and I wanted you,
and he offered, and that was it.” His eyes are deathly serious. Harry can’t
help but believe him. “It never meant anything.”
God. I was frustrated and I wanted you.How long did that go on for? How much
time did Louis spend waiting for Harry to catch up? Old memories flicker behind
Harry’s eyes. Louis being jealous of his girlfriends. Louis watching him jerk
off to porn. Louis coming in through the window drunk and kissing Harry’s neck.
How much of that was Louis aware he was doing?
It doesn’t matter, Harry tells himself. It’s over. None of it matters now.
Numbly, he says, “Did you find what you were looking for, then? When you left?”
Louis hesitates. “I think so, yes. It… it wasn’t easy. Not at first.” Something
passes over his face, and Harry wonders what it means, what it was like for
him. “I went to Manchester in the end, got some papers, managed to get a few
jobs every now and then, met some people.” His gaze drifts slightly,
remembering. Harry wonders if he’s going back there after this. It should feel
like the same thing, Louis disappearing from his life again, but – it’s not, is
it? Now he has a precise location, somewhere he could potentially look for
Louis in if he wanted. Somehow, it feels dangerous.
Then Louis’s talking again, and Harry’s attention is back on him immediately,
hanging on to every words because he can’t fucking help himself. “I thought a
lot about myself. About who I was. I thought about what you said.” Harry stays
silent. He doesn’t have to ask. “It took me a while to come to terms with it,
you know? Because I always knew I wasn’t like everyone else, I knew I came from
somewhere different, but– but you could do things too, you could change things,
and I knew that wasn’t normal either.” His voice is quieter. “Even though I
knew you were different to me. I just didn’t know how,exactly.” He pauses. “I’m
never going to go back up there. I know that now.”
It’s true. What brought him down here is gone now, isn’t it? Louis doesn’t know
that, but the look on his face says he’s come to terms with it, with the fact
that this is his where he belongs now. Harry can’t imagine living like that,
knowing that you’re perpetually out of place.
He pushes the words out. “Are you happy now?”
Louis looks at Harry like he’s said the most unexpected thing he could say. For
a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, “I don’t know. I’m okay, I think. I wouldn’t
be here if I wasn’t.”
“Lou.” The name isn’t unfamiliar in his mouth; it comes naturally. It’s more
like it’s rusty, like picking something back up after going too long without
using it. Louis doesn’t seem immune to it either. Harry watches his body tense
up. “Why are you really here? Is that all you wanted to say?”
And this is where Louis says yes. This is where he and Harry part ways and
Louis gets on the train to Manchester and Harry goes off to Europe and they
never see each other again. This is where Harry cuts ties with this part of his
life forever. This is the part where he moves on.
Louis looks at him. There’s something hesitant in his eyes, something fragile.
Harry wants him to stay until he can figure out what it is. Harry wants him to
stay.
“Do you want me to say anything else?” Louis asks, and the entire world seems
to teeter on the brink of something.
It’s a loaded question. Of course it is. Harry could turn away or he could
stay. He could leave things as they are, or he could– what? What could he do?
He looks for the answer in Louis’s eyes, looks for something that’s taking the
jump for; he sees uncertainty, he sees tension, he sees… hope?
“Maybe I do,” Harry whispers, and it feels like taking a step into the void.
There’s silence again, stretching out between them. There’s a moment of doubt;
a tipping point. Harry knows he needs to say something, needs to make it all
fall on the side he wants it to.
It slips out of his lips before he can hold it back. “Can anyone else see you
glow?”
It’s something he’s been wondering about ever since he can remember. He
remembers asking his mum about it, asking Louis himself the day they first met,
being puzzled when no one seemed to see in Louis anything out of the ordinary
when it was so clear to him. He wonders, not for the first time, if it has
something to do with his magic, if this means that the remnants of it live on
even when it’s gone.
A crease appears between Louis’s eyebrows. “Glow?”
Harry blinks. Can Louis not see it either? It’s another tiny shock, and perhaps
that explains what Harry does next: he takes a step closer and, without
stopping to think, takes hold of Louis’s hand. Louis goes very still.
Slowly, carefully, Harry turns Louis’s hand over in his own, runs his
fingertips over the knuckles as gently as he can. He hasn’t touched Louis like
this in two years. The heat from Louis’s skin warms Harry’s hand; Louis’s glow
flares brighter. Harry threads his fingers through Louis’s even though every
part of his brain is screaming at him to out Louis’s hand down, and he looks at
their two skin tones one next to the other: pinkish flesh, golden glow. “Can’t
you see it?” whispers Harry, his tone far too intimate for what they’re doing.
Louis looks at him unblinkingly and shakes his head.
When Harry goes to pull away, Louis’s fingers tighten on his, and Harry’s
breath catches in his throat.
“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” Louis’s voice is just as serious
now, but barely above a whisper. “Do you want me to?”
Harry feels his heart kick into action, feels it in his chest, his ears, in the
skin of the fingertips that are pressed against Louis’s hand. He nods slowly.
It feels like what’s coming is inexorable, like it could move mountains if they
got in the way.
“I was in love with you,” Louis whispers. Harry can’t move, can’t think,can’t
do anything but listen. “I was in love with you always. I’ve been in love with
you since I can remember.” The tiniest of pauses. “I still am.”
Is the earth shifting under him? Harry feels unsteady on his feet, like he
might topple over at any moment, but Louis’s fingers are still intertwined with
his and it feels like the single point of contact that’s keeping his gravity
centred. Louis loves him. Louis loves him, Louis loves him, Louis is here and
he loves him. It feels like the entire weight of the universe is hanging on to
that simple truth.
Louis left, it’s true, but Harry understands why. They’re not who they were two
years ago. They’re not irreversibly tangled up in each other’s lives anymore.
But Harry looks back and sees the last two years, sees everything he’s learned
about himself and all the ways he’s managed to keep going; and then he thinks
of the Louis from two years ago, a Louis that had nowhere to go, a Louis that
had no one that wasn’t Harry, and understands that he had so much more to learn
about himself than Harry did. The Louis in front of him isn’t the Louis that
left him, but it’s still the Louis Harry loves.
And Harry knows he doesn’t need Louis, not anymore. The last two years have
been proof of that. But how can he let go of him when he’s right here in front
of him again? He doesn’t need Louis, but he loves him more than he’s loved
anyone in his life, and that’s– that’s something that has to be worth holding
on to.
They’re standing too close (when did they get this close?) and neither of them
is moving. Harry’s hands feel like they’re about to start shaking again, but
every part of him feels warm. He takes a step closer, and another one. Louis
doesn’t pull back, just stays there with his eyes fixed on Harry, watching his
every move. His face is tilted up slightly towards Harry. The warmth radiating
from his skin is strong enough that Harry can feel it on his face.
Dimly, Harry wonders if it was inevitable that they would come to this, if this
was heading towards them from the moment Harry opened the door and saw Louis
standing there. He wonders if there’s anything, time or distance or the
universe, that could keep them apart from each other.
There’s one last thing Harry needs to know, though.
“Are you going to leave again?” he whispers into the space between them. The
words hang in the air, a reminder of everything that’s happened, an echo of
those terrible lonely months Harry never wants to have to live again. Somewhere
in the back of his mind, he wonders if they were like that for Louis too.
Louis’s eyes are unbearably blue and more serious than he’s ever seen them.
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
And for the first time in two years, Harry closes the space between them.
His lips are on Louis’s lips, and Harry’s fourteen again and kissing Louis for
the first time – and it’s different too, it’s different because he knows how to
do this, it’s different because even after everything kissing Louis still feels
like second nature. It feels like the universe rearranging itself, like
everything skewed suddenly falling into place; it feels like coming home for
the first time in years. Louis tugs Harry closer and Harry lets him. Their
chests align. Harry’s fingers tangle in Louis’s hair, and he kisses him like
he’s coming up for air. He was made for kissing Louis like this, Harry thinks
hazily, for holding him until it feels like they’re the same thing, a seamless
unit with no ending and no beginning. He kisses Louis like the world has
stopped, like there’s nothing in it but each other, and Louis kisses him back
like he means just the same thing.
He can’t quite bring himself to pull back. He comes back again, and again,
dropping kisses on Louis’s mouth one after another, and when Harry draws back
Louis’s mouth chases his, biting down on Harry’s bottom lip. Harry cups Louis’s
jaw with his hand and runs his thumb over it, feeling it under his fingertips.
The kisses stop, eventually, but Harry doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead
on Louis’s, nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, and lets his eyes flutter half-
closed. Louis’s light makes rainbows in Harry’s eyelashes when he peers at him
through them. Louis’s hands slide up his back and hold him in place, steadying
him.
“I love you. Always have,” Harry murmurs, because it’s not something he can
leave unsaid.
He feels more than sees Louis smile. “I know,” he says. When Harry’s mouth
finds Louis’s again, it’s like letting out a breath he’s been holding for two
years.
***** Epilogue *****
It’s the third of August, the sun is shining unusually bright, and even though
the Holmes Chapel railway station has no panel, Harry knows that in roughly two
minutes the train will be here.
“Nine minutes,” he hears his mum say, right on cue. Harry glances at her. She’s
looking at her watch, a tiny anxious crease between her eyebrows. Harry knows
it’s not the train schedule she’s worried about.
“The train’s always late anyway,” he tells her. She looks up at him and the
crease deepens. Harry sighs, but knows there’s a fond smile edging its way onto
his face. “I’m going to be okay, mum.”
“I know that,” she says, a little too quickly. Then, she drops the façade and
sighs, deflating a bit. “I’m just worried about you. You know. Official job as
a mum and all.”
Harry does know.
“I’ll be okay,” he repeats, softer this time. She smiles at him. It’s a steady
enough smile, but Harry knows enough to tell that the worry hasn’t eased one
bit. There’s not much Harry can do about it and he knows it, but it still makes
him feel the slightest bit guilty.
Suddenly, there’s warmth behind him and a pressure on his shoulder. Harry
resists the urge to shiver with it. He lets his eyes flutter shut as Louis
hooks his chin onto Harry’s shoulder (Harry still hasn’t gotten used to the
fact that he’s taller than Louis now; Louis’s still a bit huffy about it) and
rests a hand gently on Harry’s waist. The heat from his skin soaks through
Harry t-shirt. It makes Harry’s stomach feel wonderfully airy.
“Back already, are we?” he mumbles. Louis pinches him in the side. Harry’s eyes
fly open and he squirms away from it, letting out a high-pitched noise Louis
will most likely tease him about later. Harry turns around and grabs both of
Louis’s wrists. “Stop that,” he tells him, like he’s chastising a badly behaved
puppy.
Louis just looks at him for a second, a sneaky smile spreading across his face,
and Harry feels himself mirror it unconsciously.
Louis takes advantage of Harry’s distraction to twist his wrists free. “The
book club wasn’t half as interesting as you said it would be,” he tells Harry.
“Hey,” Harry says. For a railway station book club, it’s very cool. Harry
doesn’t even know of any other railway stations that have one. “It’s the pride
and joy of Holmes Chapel. Don’t go around insulting it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna be staying here for much longer, am I?” Louis says. “I
can do what I want now.”
Yeah. Of course.
Louis must notice the expression on Harry’s face change, because he drops the
act in a moment. “Hey,” he says. He touches Harry without hesitance, like the
last two years haven’t even happened. Harry’s still not quite used to it, but
that doesn’t stop him from shifting into the touch. “You okay?” Louis asks him
seriously. Harry blinks at him once and nods, more or less meaning it.
“It’s just– a lot, you know?” It is a lot, because he’s never known anything
but Holmes Chapel, has he? This is where his entire life is rooted, this is all
he has, and the thought of leaving it is enough to make Harry want to curl into
a terrified little ball on the ground.
“I know,” Louis says quietly. Harry looks at him. Of course he does. Holmes
Chapel used to be all he knew too, quite literally everything he knew about the
world, and he left it all behind on his own. If there’s anyone who knows what
this is like, it’s Louis.
And– it’s not true that everything Harry has is in Holmes Chapel. Louis is
here. Louis is with him, and he’s not going to leave. Harry could be facing the
entire world and, as long as he had Louis with him, he’d feel tied down.
He doesn’t quite know how to put the feeling into words, but Louis’s still
looking at him and as his thumb brushes over Harry’s wrist, grounding him,
Harry knows he understands.
A sudden noise startles Harry. He turns around, wrist slipping out of Louis’s
grip, and spots the train in the distance, coming inexorably closer. His heart
leaps into his throat. This is it. He’s saying goodbye for good. He’s closing a
part of his life forever. He wants the train to slow down, wants the seconds to
stretch out so he can come to terms with it properly, but all it seems to do is
speed up instead, and it’s all too much and there’s not enough time. Anxiety
builds up instantly in his chest, sharp and suffocating. As the train rumbles
into the station, he grabs for Louis’s hand blindly and holds on.
“Let’s get a move on, yeah, Haz?” says Louis’s voice behind him.
Yes. Yes, okay. He glances at Louis and the small reassuring smile Louis sends
his way is enough to quell the panic in his chest, at least momentarily.
Mechanically, Harry reaches down and hoists his backpack onto his shoulder.
It’s heavier than he remembers it being. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees
Louis do the same thing. Then, he’s walking towards his mum like he’s in a
dream, like this isn’t happening at all; as he reaches her, the train rolls to
a halt. They meet halfway, his mum’s arms reaching out to him before he’s even
in front of her, and she pulls him into a hug that’s almost crushing.
Harry tries to hold on to the seconds, but they slip away like sand between his
fingers. There’s not enough of this, not enough of his mum holding him close
like she’s done through everything, through all his eighteen years of life. Her
chest rises and falls against his; her arms are strong and steady, her smell
(comfort and warmth and home) envelops him. He holds on tight and burns the
moment into his memory. He’s leaving, but he refuses to lose any of this.
“I’m so proud of you,” his mum whispers, and he feels the words down to his
bones.
“I love you,” he mumbles back, and once it’s out he can’t stop saying it, I
love you into her hair, her shoulder, I love you one last time into her ear as
he kisses her cheek, I love you as he’s pulling away and letting go. He blinks
hard as she tugs Louis in next and hugs him too, short and tight, and whispers
something into his ear that Harry doesn’t think he’s meant to hear but sounds
an awful lot like Take care of him. And then Louis is pulling away too and the
train doors are open, gaping. Louis takes hold of his hand, and the point of
contact is what stops the world from spinning around him.
Harry goes first. It’s just a few steps from where he’s standing to the train
doors, but each step he takes feels like he’s putting insurmountable distance
behind him. But there’s Louis behind him, Louis who’s holding on to him, Louis
who’s not going to let him go. When he takes the final step between the
platform and the train, it feels like he’s stepping over a chasm.
He steps onto the train. His lungs feel tight. Louis is there immediately,
fingers still laced with Harry’s. “C’mon,” he says gently, “let’s find us a
seat,” and they do, Louis weaving amongst the people, Harry following in a
vague sort of daze. Louis finds two empty seats next to a window and Harry
takes the window one immediately, pressing his forehead up against the glass,
looking out. Yes, there’s his mum, looking tiny and faraway even from here, and
it looks like she’s spotted them too because suddenly she’s waving. Harry can’t
bring himself to wave back; all he does is stand there, his forehead against
the window, as the train jolts to a start and starts moving, slow, inexorable.
He watches his mum get tinier and tinier, become a speck and then nothing at
all; he watches the whole of Holmes Chapel fade away behind them, and with it
everything he knows, everything that’s meant home for the last eighteen years.
There’s a touch on his lower back, and Harry turns around and reconsiders. Not
quite everything.
“Come here,” Louis says, his tone soft, his skin glowing, and Harry blinks at
him for a moment before launching himself at him, closing his eyes against the
brightness, burrowing into Louis’s chest. He has this. He has Louis, and even
though he made it through two years without him that doesn’t mean he doesn’t
affect Harry like gravity, pulling him in, balancing him. Harry breathes him in
and knows with unshakeable certainty that even though he doesn’t need Louis
beside him, if he’s with him he can face anything the world could possible
throw at him.
Louis is a star. Louis is something that’s too bright for this planet, but he’s
here anyway. He’s here with Harry, and Harry loves him, and he loves Harry
back. Those three truths are enough.
Louis kisses Harry on the forehead as he pulls away. Harry looks at him and
smiles, even though his breathing still feels a bit too shallow, his heartbeat
a bit too irregular. They’re leaving and he doesn’t know when they’re coming
back. He registers it for what’s perhaps the first time, the motion of the
train under him cementing it. But it doesn’t unsettle him – with Louis’s eyes
on him, blue and steady and full of something that looks a lot like fondness,
there’s nothing he can do but sink into it.
Anything could happen. They have the whole of Europe in front of them. First
the train to Crewe, then Birmingham, then London, then Paris– and from there
they have nowhere to go, which means they could go anywhere. The future
stretches out in front of Harry like a blank canvas. He knows they have no idea
where they’re going; he knows there’s a fair possibility that it could all go
wrong, that they could get lost or run out of money and be forced to go back to
Holmes Chapel. He can’t help but consider the possibility that things with
Louis might not work out, that it could all fall apart again.
But Harry’s lived through it once, and he knows, if he had to, that he could do
it again. He doesn’t think it would be easy, but his life doesn’t hinge on
Louis anymore. He’s doing what he’s meant to do, isn’t he? He’s moving on. He’s
leaving everything behind and going out to see the world, to find something
new.
It just so happens that he has Louis beside him now; and even though Harry
originally planned to do this alone, even though he thinks he could do it alone
if he had to, he wouldn’t trade this for anything.
It doesn’t quite feel like he’s leaving home if Louis is with him.
End Notes
     tumblr: dystopianau. the tumblr post for this fic is here.
     thank you for reading. ♡
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