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It starts with the Toyota interview in Japan – there’s a moment where Harry thinks that they’re going to lose Louis there right on camera, because he goes all pale and peaky like someone might right before they faint, but fortunately Niall’s right there to bring him back into the circle before anything too untoward happens.
No one mentions it after it happens – probably not a sound coping strategy, Harry realises, but Lou swears that he’s okay and that he just needs a little time to chill, which Harry’s totally okay with, because he gets that Louis has been through a lot lately. Still, he tucks it away in the back of his mind, and it lingers throughout their time in Los Angeles, sneaking around like superspies (save for Louis’ ankles’ cameo appearance in that one 5SOS Keek, but no one from management ever talks to them about it so Harry just assumes they’re in the free and clear).
Louis spends a lot of the time before the tour in Doncaster, and Harry feels like he’s done the Cheshire-London-Los Angeles route enough times to have intimately memorised the layout of LAX by the time things between him and Kendall meet their flawlessly choreographed end shortly before their first concerts in South America at the end of April. (He’s not terrifically broken up about it.) Still, it’s good to walk in the door to his and Louis’ house in London and have his excited little boy leap into his arms like he hasn’t seen him for years and years.
There’s something distinctly calming about being around Louis, but tonight there’s something different in Louis’ energy. He’s more nervous than usual – he had set the table before Harry got home, which is unusual for Louis because Harry usually has to bribe him with handjobs or cupcakes to get him to do anything around the house.
Louis is blathering about something that the twins did, and there are so many add-ons and digressions that Harry’s not really following the story anymore and is just watching Louis dash around the kitchen like a bat out of hell.
“This okay?” he says, holding up a bottle of red wine to Harry.
Harry doesn’t know anything about wine, but he’ll say anything to get Louis to calm down at this point. “Yeah, love. It’s fantastic.”
“Good.” Louis uncorks the bottle, and grabs wine glasses from one of the cupboards. His hands, however, are shaking so hard that he drops them both.
“Shit!” Louis yells, and Harry shakes his head. “I’m so sorry Haz, I keep fucking everything up –“
“No, baby, it’s okay,” Harry whispers, holding on to both of Louis’ hands. “Why don’t you go sit on the couch, and I’ll clean this up, okay? Just take a breather.”
“I just wanted everything to be perfect, Haz,” Louis says, and Harry realises that it’s been a long time that he’s heard his voice sound so small.
Harry leans forward and presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead. “Just go take a break, okay? I’m happy enough just being with you right now.”
Louis walks out of the kitchen dejectedly, and Harry finds the broom and a brown paper bag to put the broken glass in. He reminds himself to replace the two broken ones before they leave, because Gemma will, for whatever reason, take the piss out of him for not having a complete set of glassware (and yet, she lives alone and potentially only owns plastic cups, so she isn’t really one to talk). He’s mostly thinking about Louis though, and it’s worry that’s coursing through his mind – why is he so anxious all of a sudden?
He sweeps the glass into the paper bag, and safely disposes of it in the garbage. He leans against the doorframe separating the dining room and the living room, and watches Louis for a moment. He’s almost curled up into a ball on the couch, taking up the absolute minimum amount of space. Harry folds his arms across his chest and walks over to the couch to sit down across from Louis.
“Boo,” he says, quietly when he sits down, “what’s going on?” He reaches across the gap between the two of them, and slips his fingers between Louis’ hand and shin so that he can run his thumb over his knuckles.
“I don’t know, Haz,” he says. “I just get so stressed out when you’re not around.”
‘Not around’ is kind of a code for ‘on management-mandated relationships with people that he ordinarily wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole’, and Harry gets that Harry being with someone like Taylor or Kendall has always been a lot harder than Louis’ being with Eleanor, simply because there tends to be a lot more press following Harry’s every move. (He and Eleanor have also developed a funny sort of friendship as well, whereas Louis will leave the room if one of his sisters even so much as breathes Taylor’s name.)
“I – god Lou, I’m sorry,” Harry says, biting his lip.
“I know that you can’t control it,” Louis says, looking up at Harry. “That doesn’t make the headlines and stuff any easier. What do you even do with them anyways?”
“Oh, braid each other’s hair, paint each other’s nails, talk about boys,” Harry says, putting on a bit of a falsetto. It gets a little bit of a giggle out of Louis, a sound that Harry has been sorely missing these past few months. “Seriously, though. Kendall did put my hair in ponytails one day. Just for fun, you know.”
Louis shakes his head. “You bloody idiot.”
“Well, I’m your bloody idiot,” Harry says. “C’mere.”
Louis shifts forward just enough that Harry can properly wrap his arms around him, and this is one of his favourite feelings in the whole world, just having Louis’ warmth pressing against his chest and Louis’ hair tickling his neck.
“Lou,” Harry says, “it’s going to be better, okay? It will get better someday.”
“I know Haz,” he mutters. “I know.”
That week – just the two of them dodging paparazzi and walking around the house in minimal clothing (Louis knows just how to mess with Harry’s head, so he’s rarely wearing a shirt and thus, Harry spends a lot time crowding him up against counters and radiators and into any available space for a snog whenever he feels like it) is idyllic in a way that Harry barely remembers experiencing for a long time. The problem is, and that’s always the problem with Louis and Harry having Louis and Harry time – it never lasts.
Harry spends the plane ride over to Bogota mentally preparing himself for six months of forced public separation from Louis. Louis just sleeps, snoring occasionally with his head resting on Harry’s shoulder.
They get mobbed at the airport, and it’s not been this bad for ages and ages. Someone claws Liam again, and he spends the car ride swearing and cursing the day he auditioned for X-Factor as Paul tries to administer antiseptic ointment. Niall can’t come up with jokes to crack, which is how Harry knows that things are desperate. (Liam’s histrionics, he can handle. Niall being lost for words – that’s something new and a little bit frightening.)
They have an interview with a radio station about three hours or so after they land, and all return to the hotel jet-lagged and cranky. Louis is wound up so tight that he’s practically vibrating, and as soon as the door to his and Harry’s shared hotel room clicks shut, he jumps Harry so fast that in surprise, they knock over a lamp.
“You’re really one for breaking things lately, eh?” Harry says.
“Just kiss me,” Louis says breathlessly, standing on his tippy toes, “and we can deal with it later.”
Harry doesn’t need a ton of convincing to do that.
South America is fine but busy, but the UK is a blast, because there’s nothing greater for Harry than playing for a home crowd. It’s also in an Edinburgh hotel room at the beginning of June that Louis kind of stops sleeping. He falls asleep in the middle of a Die Hard marathon, and when he wakes up, Louis is still watching TV, except it’s the morning news.
Harry understands, to a degree, because sometimes he gets wound up after shows – it was a damn good thing that, while they were in Manchester, they basically booked the whole floor of the hotel where they were staying, because he and Niall and Louis played tag until three in the morning after their concert. He just kind of writes it off as Louis being Louis and doesn’t think anything of it.
The sleeplessness continues through the European tour, and when they’re driving from Madrid to Barcelona, Louis finally passes out on the tour bus, Harry specifically locks him in the room with the bunks and instructs everyone else to be very, very quiet.
“I don’t think he’s been getting much shut-eye lately,” Harry whispers as he mutes the TV.
“Must be hell for you, Harry,” Zayn says, flipping open Infinite Jest. (What he sees in David Foster Wallace Harry will never know, but it’s not playing Mario Kart, which at this moment, is positive.)
“I can handle it,” Harry says with a shrug. “It’s Louis I’m more worried about.”
After that incident, everyone watches Louis like a hawk, which makes things tense because Louis is fiercely independent, and resents most attempts to take care of him. The shift in the dynamic shows, which means that things are off onstage
“Why would you tell them that, Haz?” Louis yells from across the room the night before their last concert.
“Because I’m worried about you, Lou!” Harry shouts back. Louis then throws a pillow at him, which Harry narrowly misses. (It does knock over a glass of water that he’d just poured for himself, and the glass shatters on the nightstand.)
“I’m fine!” Louis rants. “There is nothing wrong with me!”
“How many hours have you slept in the last week?”
Louis purses his lips in concentration, and shrugs. “Enough, Harry.”
Harry is about to continue the conversation, but then recognises that any further discussion is probably pointless, and will result in more objects from the hotel room being used as projectiles. “Lou, I’m going to bed.”
Louis storms around, gathering a few personal effects. “I’m staying with Niall tonight.”
“He’ll kill you if you keep him up,” Harry mutters as he pulls himself under the covers, Louis doesn’t respond, and the last thing Harry hears is the hotel door slamming shut.
The next morning at breakfast, Louis still isn’t talking to him, but both he and Niall look plenty bleary eyed.
Niall leans over to Harry and says, “Listen, I get that you two had a little spat last night, but if Louis ever threatens to come over to my room again, you will use every available means to stop him, or you’ll have to look for a new boyfriend.”
“Understood,” Harry says.
The two-week break is very needed, because honestly five twentysomethings in a tour bus will start to all turn on each other after a certain point. Louis disappears to Doncaster and maintains an impressive radio silence for most of the break, and Harry goes and hangs out at home with his mum and Robin and does not very much of anything at all. Except for fret about Louis, and send him the odd text message that never seems to merit a reply.
The next time he sees Louis is at Heathrow when they’re about to fly off to Toronto, and the other three boys purposely switch seats to make sure that he and Louis are sitting together. Well, seven hours in a tube of pressurised air does tend to have the effect of knocking some shit loose, for better or for worse.
The first hour of the flight is spent in stony silence, and Harry also notices that Louis is quite possibly looking far worse than he was before – the bags under his eyes have grown, and he looks gaunt and strung out.
They’re somewhere over the mid-Atlantic Ocean and the turbulence is so bad that Harry thinks he’s going to throw up, and looks over at Louis and says, “I’m really sorry.”
Louis cocks an eyebrow at him. “You’re only saying that because you think we’re going to fall out of the sky and die.”
Harry rolls his eyes so hard that he’s pretty sure that they’re going to get stuck in the back of his head.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Louis, I’m worried about you, okay? But if it helps at all, I won’t say anything about it to anyone, or to you.”
Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, and stares out the window. Harry wonders if he’s just going to give him the cold shoulder for the rest of the flight.
“Haz,” he says, carefully, “I’m just dealing with some stuff, okay? I’ll sort it, but it’s easier without you hovering.”
“I won’t hover,” Harry says, hating himself for agreeing to this, “though you know, Lou, it’s out of my nature not to hover, especially when it comes to you.”
“Try for me, Haz.”
“I will.”
It’s thirty-five degrees when they land in Toronto. (Harry now refuses to listen to anyone who tells him that Canada is supposedly this Arctic wonderland. Maybe the rest of Canada is, but Toronto in August certainly is not. It wasn’t even this bloody hot in Mexico when they were there.) He doesn’t feel much of the heat, though – just a quick blast when they step out of the air-conditioned airport and into an air-conditioned Escalade, all the while being mobbed by screaming fans.
Harry looks over at Louis, who is sitting beside him and leaning his head against the window of the car with his eyes closed. He opens his mouth to say something, then remembers his promise to Louis.
That night they stay in separate rooms – at times, it’s better if their public separation becomes private separation as well – and Harry’s not sure if Louis sleeps for not, but he pointedly ignores how bleary-eyed he looks at breakfast, despite the pointed looks from Zayn and Liam from across the table. Not my problem anymore, Harry thinks. Unfortunately.
The soundcheck and rehearsal for their show goes alright – nothing terribly out of the ordinary happens, and Harry stays far away from Louis willingly for once, because it’s easier for him to pretend that he’s not desperately worried about how he’s faring in the awful heat and how jet-lagged he may or may not be when he and Niall can purposely screw up the choreography just to get a rise out of Liam.
Even the show that night goes well (well, seeing as the last time that they performed in Toronto, Harry had to dash offstage and puke, and that doesn’t happen this time, so he can call that a win), and Lou does an excellent make-up job with Louis, because for a moment Harry thinks that Louis might have made up on three months worth of missed sleep, but then he’s shaking a little bit onstage. Can’t cover that with a bunch of concealer, unfortunately.
Things are actually perfectly fine until they’re all filing offstage, and Harry’s behind Zayn who’s behind Niall who’s behind Louis, and they’re all laughing and taking the piss out of each other like they do at every other show, and then suddenly Niall lets out this unearthly shriek and the little tunnel that they’re walking in is suddenly very full of people, and oh, where in god’s name is Louis?
He’s collapsed on the floor, which is why Harry can’t see him, and as soon as he gets a view of his Vans-clad foot sticking out from the people hovering over him, Harry is pushing through the crowd like it’s the last thing he’ll do, because suddenly he’s all washed over with guilt and worry and ohmygodisLouisdeadorsomethingwhydidn’tIsayanythingwhenIcouldhave, and then he’s kneeling beside Louis and grabbing both of his shoulders.
“Lou!” He shouts, because his eyes are closed and Harry’s stomach drops when he doesn’t respond. “Louis!” He shakes his shoulders.
There’s a really tense moment when nothing happens, and Harry’s pretty sure that if Louis dies he’s going to die too, but then Louis’ eyelids flutter, and he opens his eyes. Harry breathes a sigh of relief, and gently rests his forehead against Louis’.
“Help me get up, Haz?” Louis asks, weakly, and Harry leans back and helps him into a sitting position.
“Are you okay?” Harry says, bracing one arm against Louis’ back to keep him up.
Louis nods.
“You know you just fainted, right?” Harry asks.
“Yeah,” he says, as though fainting was a totally normal thing that happened once in a while. “Help me up, Harry.”
Harry fits his hands under Louis’ armpits, and lifts him up. Louis’ knees buckle immediately, and Paul dashes over to help Harry keep him upright.
“You,” Harry whispers into Louis’ ear, as he and Paul gently guide him towards their waiting tour bus, “are definitely not okay.”
Louis squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t answer.
Harry stays at the hospital long after the other boys go. The doctor gives them various diagnoses for Louis – heat exhaustion, fatigue, emotional distress – and strongly hints that it would be wise for Louis to take a good, long break from touring and performing. Harry knows that the people who are actually in charge of that decision will strongly object, but at least in this instance, he knows that he and the other boys will dig in their heels. There will be cancelled shows, lots of money to refund, and probably PR hell to pay, but that all matters very little to Harry when Louis, his Louis, is lying on a hospital bed, eyes half-closed and breathing shallow.
“Haz, can you get me some water?” Louis groans. Harry jumps out of his chair and pokes his head out the door of Louis’ room. They’re located, rather conveniently, right outside one of the nurses’ stations, so it’s not difficult for Harry to flag down a nurse and get her to bring him a glass of water.
Water in hand, Harry moves his chair close enough to Louis’ bed that his knees bump up against the end of the bed. He leans over Louis, and gently presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Haz,” Louis says, “I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologise for, Lou.”
Louis props himself up in bed and takes a sip of water. “Sometimes, things just all catch up to you at once, you know? And you know me Haz, I’m no good at letting people take care of me.”
“Can you try?” Harry asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Not for too long, Lou. Just give it a week, or so, and then we can try to be normal again, and I’ll stop as soon as you ask me to. Just until you’re back on your feet.”
Louis considers this for a while, and Harry is thinking about all the things he could do if Louis says no, which may include locking him in a hotel room for a few days until he finally catches up on sleep.
“Okay,” Louis says.
“Good,” Harry says. “I think you’re going to be here overnight, Lou – can you try to get some sleep?”
Louis rolls his eyes, but lies back down, and rolls on his side so he’s facing Harry. “Okay, mum.”
“Night Lou,” Harry says, shaking his head and laughing a little. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
There is nothing glamorous about sleeping in a hospital chair, Harry discovers, and when the morning comes around he’s bleary-eyed and has an awful crick in his neck. Louis looks better after a good night’s sleep, but Harry knows that he’s got a long way to go before he’s officially ‘better’. For the time being they’re all staying in Toronto, and at least Niall will be excited to be there, because he really wants to go to the aquarium there. Harry plans on holing himself in a hotel room with Louis and being the bearer of tea and the sleeping pills that they gave him at the hospital.
There’s a back door that they can sneak out of, but Louis spends his wheelchair ride down to said back door fretting about photographers. It’s in the back of Harry’s mind as well, but he’s more worried about making sure that Louis doesn’t faint again between the exit and their waiting car.
“Lou,” Harry leans down to whisper in his ear as he pushes him down the hallway, “if there are any incriminating photos, I was just helping out a good friend in a totally platonic way that means absolutely nothing romantic.”
“Okay.”
There are fortunately no photographers at either the hospital or the hotel (Harry remembers to thank Niall for that, because apparently he made sure that he, Zayn, and Liam had a very conspicuous trip to the aquarium, and managed to draw enough attention that everyone seemed to forget that forty percent of One Direction was holed up in a hospital.) Paul drives them back and they get in the service entrance of the hotel unseen.
“Easy as pie,” Harry says to Louis as they stand in the elevator. “Nothing to worry about at all.”
Louis cracks a smile at that, crinkles and all. Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulder and presses a kiss to his temple.
“Okay,” Harry says when they get to their room, “wait here. I’ll draw you a bath, and then I’ll put out some clothes for you while you’re in there.”
Louis sits down on the bed (one bed in the hotel room, Harry notices, and wonders who was in charge of making that decision), and looks up at Harry expectantly. Harry nods once, and then disappears into the bathroom. There’s lots of nice-smelling shampoos and stuff, so he puts them all along the side of the tub. He turns the water on – not too hot, not too cold – and hopes that he hits the happy medium for Louis.
“Your bath is done, boo,” Harry yells. “Get here before it gets too cold.”
Louis comes into the bathroom and strips out of his clothes, and then climbs into the bath.
“You gonna join me, Haz?” Louis says as he sinks down into the bath.
As much as he appreciates the view and would really like to, Harry shakes his head. “Nah. Another time, though. I might just sit in here and stare at you like a perv.”
“Suit yourself, Haz,” Louis says with a shrug. Harry sticks his tongue out at him, and then picks up his clothes off the bathroom floor and leaves so that Louis can have a little bit of privacy. (They’re going to be in Toronto all week, so he’s got lots of time for pervy staring if he wants to do that.)
He dumps Louis’ clothes by his suitcase, then rifles through Louis’ things to find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt for him to wear. Someone’s jacked the AC up in their hotel room to practically polar levels, so he also grabs one of his own knitted jumpers that Mum insisted he pack, despite his assertion that it will be hotter than the fiery pits of hell everywhere where they’re going on tour. Harry changes his clothes too, because he’s been wearing the same clothes for nearly a day now, and then tries to work out the kettle in their hotel room. He can’t, predictably, and considers calling the front desk, but Louis is naked in the bath, and he doesn’t really want anyone who isn’t him seeing that.
By the time Louis is out of the bath, Harry has managed to figure out the kettle and find Louis’ secret tea stash in the bottom of his suitcase. Louis surveys the room, and grins, towel low on his hips.
“You know Haz, no one’s laid out clothes for me since I was about six,” Louis says, dropping the towel and putting on the clothes Harry laid out. “Not saying I don’t appreciate it, though.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry says with a smile. “I made tea, too. That was a bit more challenging.”
“You found my stash of tea?”
Harry nods.
“Well done,” Louis says, sitting on the edge of their bed with the mug in his hand. “Boyfriend of the month, you are.”
“I try, I try,” Harry says. “Listen, I know it’s still kind of early in the day – “
“I honestly don’t think a nap or fourteen is really going to spoil my sleep tonight,” Louis says.
“I’ll put the sleeping pills on your nightstand,” Harry says, running one hand through his hair. “Just in case.”
“Might need them,” Louis says, plopping down on the bed. “Maybe I won’t if you sleep here.”
“Anything for you, Lou,” Harry says, sitting down on the bed beside Louis and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He then shifts back on the bed and settles on his back, and then Louis snuggles up to Harry’s side and puts his head on his chest – their default sleeping position. (Louis always complains that Harry snores when he lies on his back, but then again Louis has never suggested that they change the way they sleep, so Louis can just cordially suck it up.)
Harry lies awake for what feels like ages and ages but is probably only ten minutes, enjoying the smell of Louis’ shampoo and how warm his body feels next to Harry’s. Eventually, Louis’ breathing evens out, and Harry kind of squints at him and says, “Boo?”
The only response he gets is a cross between a snort and a snore. Perfect.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” he whispers, and then falls asleep himself.
The next week passes in a haze of sleep and terrible daytime television, and the odd very furtive walk around downtown Toronto. There’s a beautiful park down by the provincial legislature (according to the signs around the place) and he and Louis enjoy watching all the passersby completely pass them by. (He makes that pun to Louis, who promptly threatens to lock him out of their hotel room.) It will take a while for Louis to get the pills that will keep him on an even keel for the rest of the tour. He knows that things will change when that starts, and Harry’s worried that they’re just pumping Louis full of meds to get him touring again as quickly as possible. However, Harry just tries to focus on enjoying this one little week of freedom, and also tries to think of myriad ways to subtly tell their management to go fuck themselves.
One of the things that Louis insists that he and Harry do is shower together, because Harry did kind of say that he’d do anything to help Louis feel better, but then again, Harry doesn’t need a lot of convincing to get on board with that plan.
There’s something wonderfully intimate about sharing that space with Louis, in Harry’s view, and Louis is also pliant – he lets (or rather, orders) Harry wash his hair, and it’s not like Harry ever needs an excuse to put his hands all over Lou.
One particularly hot day, after one of their walks, they’re trying desperately to cool off, but Louis is being an asshole and basically hogging the shower spray so all that Harry’s getting is some cold droplets, and would probably be totally freezing if he didn’t have Louis’ body pressed flush against him.
Louis kisses him, mouth hot and hungry on Harry’s, and cards his fingers through his curls. Harry’s hands slip down Louis’ sides and settle on his hips. It’s been a long time – far too long, Harry thinks – since they’ve been able to enjoy this kind of intimate time, and then suddenly Louis pinches the back of his neck and brings him back to the task at hand.
Louis breaks their kiss and then whispers, “Haz, I need you to touch me.”
Harry grins wolfishly. “I am, you idiot.” His hands slip down from Louis’ waist to cup his ass, and Louis groans.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do?”
Louis rolls his eyes and wraps his hand around Harry’s dick, then gives it a quick pull. “That,” he says. “I need that. Very specifically.”
“Ah,” Harry says, slowly, and then gets his hand around Louis, who makes the most exquisite keening noise when Harry strokes him slowly from base to tip. He debates kneeling down and sucking him off, but that would involve not having Louis pressed up against him and he doesn’t want to miss that for a minute, and there’s also the prospect of killing two birds with one stone and getting himself off as well, so that pretty much does it for Harry.
He wraps his hands around his dick and Louis’ dick and starts stroking them off together, slowly at first just to gauge Louis’ reaction. Harry barely has enough mental energy left to process anything other than LouisLouisLouis, so he leans in for another shockingly intense kiss. Louis keeps on moaning into his mouth, and then breaks the kiss and leans his head down to rest on Harry’s shoulder, panting and groaning.
“Oh Lou,” Harry says, even though it’s hard for his brain to find words, “you look so fucking good right now, you know that?”
That’s all he can manage, and he’s usually a lot more eloquent than that, but he can feel Louis tensing up and his hips rocking like they do just before he comes, so he tries to focus instead on getting him off as quickly as possible.
“That’s it,” Harry pants, “just let go. Come on –“
Louis’ hips jerk up suddenly and he comes all over his and Harry’s stomachs. It doesn’t take Harry long to follow – just a few more strokes, and then he has to brace himself against the wall with this free hand to keep his knees from giving out when he comes.
For a while everything freezes, and the whole world collapses into the small space in the hotel shower with the shower’s spray soaking them both. Harry regains some semblance of consciousness first, and he grabs the bar of soap to help clean the two of them off.
They spend the rest of the afternoon wrapped around each other in bed, and it feels like the heaviness in Harry’s limbs doesn’t truly dissipate until the sun’s already gone down and he and Lou are taking in a Harry Potter marathon.
Harry yawns and stretches his arms up, and then presses a kiss to Louis’ temple.
“Fancy some tea, darling?” he asks.
“Christ, I thought I was going to have to beg you for it,” Louis says with a smile.
Harry gently punches him on the shoulder, and crawls out of bed to go tussle with the kettle once more.
Before Harry knows it, their first show is upon them, and while they’re backstage waiting to go on, he leans over to Louis and asks, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Hazza,” he whispers back, and then grabs Harry’s wrist and rubs his thumb over the anchor tattoo. It’s become their grounding gesture – a sign that even when Louis is struggling with his meds or they have to put on a disguise of indifference in public, they’ll always be there for one another.
“Great,” Harry says. “I’ll see you after the show.”
Louis gives him a quick nod and then it’s time for them to go on.
Afterwards, the five of them are buzzing with electricity, but the minute they’re on the bus and Harry’s settled on the couch, Louis sits down beside him, puts his head on Harry’s shoulder, and is asleep before Harry can say anything. So he tells the other boys to keep it down, and drapes a blanket over him and Lou. In the grand scheme of things it probably doesn’t fix anything, really, but Harry knows that right now, he’s doing good by his boy, and that’s what really matters.