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harry doesn't really know what he's doing. he doesn't know (but then again, he doesn’t really care either). he has basically spent all his life caring, contemplating every choice. this time he just floats. he lets the wind take him wherever it wants him. and it might not be ok, but right now, he's ok with it. he doesn't really know when or how he ended up like this; all empty, cold and out of breath as he takes a long drag off of the last cigarette in the torn up pack. he just sort of ended up here, and in many ways he wished to go back; but in more ways, he wish to stay just as he is.
there are times when he feels mental and delusional, but there comes a beautiful and addicting freedom with it. a freedom he never wants to let go of, but at the same time wants to leave in a box somewhere out of reach from each and every one who could be smart enough to find it.
he changed a lot the last year, so did others. or maybe it’s just him looking at them in a different light. he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. he doesn't really have to spend time with anyone, not even his friends; but at the same time he has to. it doesn’t make sense for a second, but it makes sense to him, and he thinks it makes sense to zayn and liam, although it probably doesn’t.
the two lads both mean a great deal to harry though (considering they are the only ones he talk to except for the fit bartender he always talk to before leaving with a line of random men). he doesn’t necessarily want to see them too often. it's not that he doesn't like to hang out with them, it’s just that he prefers to stay outside and just think.
he tries to think about pressing matters that actually needs contemplating, but his mind is always filled with so much sorrow and darkness that he can't focus on what he feels the need to think off. he normally ends up writing tragic stories in his head about death and the rain. he doesn't mind though. it’s nice. nice enough, at least.
he doesn't get out of bed before late. not because he's lazy or anything (besides the fact that he is). it's just that the world seems much more pleasant surrounded by the warmth his covers provide. all good things end, and harry knows that, he really does; but that doesn’t mean he wants to surrender to the idea before 4pm in the morning (yes, morning).
he knows that he has to leave the warmth behind sometime. it doesn't really make it easier, it really doesn’t (although the knowledge that he has a pack of new cigarettes laying on the kitchen table helps a little). he leaves his bed eventually, if only to have a fag. he should probably be ashamed that he stayed in bed until 4pm, but he can't really bring himself to care anymore. there are worse things to worry about; things like world peace and making sure he took the garbage out on monday’s (which he sadly forgot, and now he has a big problem). he doesn't know really, neither does he care.
his head hurts from sleeping all day and all he really wants is to spend the rest of the day outside thinking about sad things and writing stories in his mind, but that doesn't stop the door from opening and neither does it stop his young mate from invading his apartment. harry really wants to tell him to leave, he just want some peace and quiet (to contemplate his own death). but he can't. and even if he could, he wouldn't. all though he’s sad, and probably the most suckish friend in the history, he doesn’t suck that much. not yet at least. and besides liam can be nice. harry likes him. maybe it's ok. maybe.
"please don't say that you stayed in bed until now." liam furrowed his brows. "not again harry. please." harry thinks liams cute when he frowns.
harry doesn’t reply. His silence saying more than any words he could've given him. he half expects liam to burst out yelling at him for sleeping away the day, as he usually does, but this time he just stands there. the look he sends him hurts more than any word a man have ever thrown at him though. liam don’t look good with a worried and sad look on his face. harry thinks it should be illegal to make liam upset, which is rather ironic considering he’s the one making his friend sad.
"liam.." he tries to say, but all that leaves his mouth is a small whisper. if he was able to he would probably cry by now. but in some strange way that either him nor others understood, he was unable to. and he think that it’s worse than anything. the guilt of not feeling the pain he’s ought to feel, it’s so much worse. he may be immune, but liam isn’t and that hurts him more than anything. it’s as far away from ok as it can come, but harry still doesn’t care, and that kills him.
liam doesn’t reply. harry knows he fucked up again, but then again he haven’t done anything but fuck up for years.
"liam.." he tries again. Harry reach out to liam desperate for some contact, some reassurance, something, anything; luckily liam takes the hint and it doesn’t take long before harry is wrapped in a strong loving hug. he doesn’t deserve liam, he really doesn’t, but he would do anything not to lose him. he needs him too much. that may be awfully selfish, but harry can’t help it anymore.
"You okay?" Liam says later when they’ve settled down on the couch, cigarettes between their lips, inhaling smoke into their lungs before breathing it out along with oxygen and loads of other shit harry don’t have any idea what is.
"i'm ok." harry says before inhaling.
"you're ok." liam nods. “you’re ok.”
harry don’t believe himself, and neither does liam, but the lie seem to comfort the both of them, so maybe it’s okay, although it probably isn’t.
liam leaves later that night after making sure for the hundredth time that harry is ok. harry had promised that he’s ok. and it might not be completely true, but it’s not a complete lie either. he is ok, he just could be a lot better. but then again, maybe he couldn't. he doesn’t know, and maybe, just maybe, that's ok.
it doesn’t really matter, because at the end of the day he ends up under the protection of his covers. ever since he was a little boy, he has always had this thing that whenever he were to sleep, he had to bed naked, wrapped in a blanket. he feels safe when he can feel the warmth of his covers directly on his cold skin, he don’t know why that is, but he’d be damned not to do the one thing except smoking that manages to calm him down. it's one of the pleasures in life he thinks he deserves. that’s a lie, but he tries to convince himself that he does. maybe it’ll be real one day.
sleep has never been his strong side (although that isn’t completely true considering the fact that he could sleep perfectly before). he loves to stay in bed thinking, procrastinating and going through resent events in his head, but that does not mean that he can sleep. well, he does fall asleep around five am only to wake up two hours later finding it impossible to sleep. his sleeping schedule is fucked up, but then again so is he.
he just lays there, at 4am in the morning, waiting for the next day to come. the lads tend to ask him what he thinks about when he can’t sleep, but he don’t know. they don't believe him so they tell him that they accept that he don’t want to tell them.
the thing is that he’s telling the truth, he has never lied about that (even though he have lied about a lot of other things, which is probably why they don’t believe him). he solemnly and honestly swear that he doesn't know what he's thinking about.
every god damn morning, or afternoon, that he wakes up all the thoughts from the night before is gone; and it should probably annoy him more than it does. he just can’t seem to care, even though it’s probably really bad. he sometimes wonders how bad it really is; the voices, the things he forgets, the sadness, everything. the problem is that after contemplating it for a while, he always decides on not caring. and maybe that’s fucked up, but it sort of works with him, so he’s ok with it.
he isn't made out of stone, even though it sometimes feels like he is, and sometimes he gets so lonely that he wants to scratch his heart out only to feel some kind of verification that he has a heart worth loving (although ripping his heart out of his chest wouldn’t prove to anyone, much less himself, that he’s worth any sort of love it doesn’t make him want it less).
he needs so much, but he can’t have it, and it hurts so bad. he needs to be wanted, owned, cared for. he just needs. When he’s in those moods he goes to a bar with hopes of plastic love and fake ownership. he is more than willing to suffer the numbness of the loss when he wakes up the next day to endure a night full of belonging.
it sounds really cliché. and perhaps it is, but it works. or at least it works until he wakes up to an empty bed the next day feeling used and empty. it works until he’s sat looking into an empty wall with sheets full of strangers and empty words. it’s still worth it.
it probably is a horrible idea, but louis will be there, and harry likes louis. he also needs some faceless sex tonight, so really he’s just giving himself a chance to lift his heart to the wonderful boy behind the bar, and afterwards give away the rest to a faceless man with no attachments flowing through the air, confusing him.
it probably is a horrible idea, but he still leaves. he would drive to a fancy club further away from his apartment, but he doesn't have a car, and he doesn't like fancy clubs, and besides, it's easier to go to the far too familiar pub around the corner anyways (he also really wants to see louis).
it's raining outside. harry doesn’t mind for a second, he likes the rain. it makes him think that maybe, just maybe, the universe can feel his pain. it's a stupid thought, but it helps. and he's ok with that. he light a cigarette as he start the short walk towards the bar. he stops in front of the door leaning his head back feeling the rain hitting his face as the smoke leaves his mouth. he could get used to this.
the bar's quiet, or not quiet, but calm. calm is more like it. calmer than usual that is. not that it matters, he doesn’t care, and he’s pretty sure no one else does either. he makes his way to his regular seat furthest away from the door. he likes the place. not to small, not to big. it’s cosy, or as cosy as a bar can become that is.
once louis spots him, he jumps over. “and to what do I own this great pleasure?” he asks smiling at harry.
harry smiles. “y’kno the regular.”
louis looks at him and for a second harry could swear he saw something resembling sadness. before harry can register it, he’s back to his smiling self. “let’s get you a drink! what do you want, darling?” harry get chills down his spine at the name. he loves to be called darling, he haven’t told anyone before but louis sort of caught up on it the first time they met when louis had accidently called him darling (louis had froze in horror until he realized harry had looked really pleased, louis has been calling him darling ever since).
he looks up at louis with a sad smile plastered on his face. “give me four of the strongest shot you have.” louis looks at him with a confusing look on his face, but does as he’s asked. before harry knows what’s happening the four shots is gone and he is asking for more.
“I’m going to check out that guy over there.” harry says, and before louis get a chance to protest, harry’s off. he slides right into the guys lap and smiles at him.
"I see you have got a bit to much, eh?" harry doesn't know how to reply to that so he simply shrugs. that made the guy chuckle. “you’re a pretty one aren’t yeh?” harry want to nod, but he can’t. it’s all lies, he knows it, but he just needs them. “m’arry.” he says into the guys neck.
the guy smirk before tugging at harrys hair, so he’s forced away from the guys neck and to his lips. it’s not pleasant. It’s all teeth and cruelness and harry know’s it’s so wrong. that doesn’t stop him from joining the man at the gent’s. it doesn’t stop the guys from pushing his dick into harry’s wrecked mouth thrusting again and again until harry’s a crying mess.
it doesn’t stop him from throwing harry to the ground when he’s finished with him muttering how worthless he is. harry doesn’t stop any of it, because he know’s the guy is right.
harry doesn’t leave the loo until louis bangs on the door telling him that he’s closing. harry’s completely sober by now, and he wishes so bad that he weren’t. he don’t want to be present, he don’t want to know, don’t’ want to feel. he wants to write. write and think and then write and perhaps smoke a bit. he just wants peace.
“harry? pleas come out, I’m closing up.” louis bangs on he door again.
harry likes the way his name sound on louis lips. “darling, you okay?”
harry sighs. he wants to say yes, he wants to say yes so badly, but he stays quiet thinking about how beautiful louis’ voice had sounded whilst saying his name. how his eyes always makes him want to write beautiful poems about a beautiful boy who were too good for everyone, too good for him.
louis’ whole being screams to be made into a story, and if harry could write a story beautiful enough to live up to louis beauty he would've written one for him, but he can't. harry know’s it’s bad. he promised himself not to get attached, but louis just made him feel something, and he hates him for it, but he also adore him for it.
harry thinks about louis’ beauty a lot. he’s a like a treasure too precious to touch, too lovable to love and too good to be for him. harry refuses to get attached to him, because he know he’ll break him.
harry stands up to leave the bathroom, what he doesn’t expect is for louis to stand outside the door waiting for him.
"you look like absolute shit, darling. want a drink before I close up?" louis looks so sad and so fragile and harry want’s to scream for him to run while he can, run before harry consumes him.
before he can make up a believable excuse to leave so he can go home and feel miserable under his covers sleeping away every feeling his mind desperately want to have for louis, he can feel louis hand dragging at his arm.
"come one sulky." he says whilst dragging harry towards one of the tables in the back before leaving to get something to drink. harry should run, he should run before he does something stupid. louis doesn’t understand what he’s doing. louis doesn’t understand that if he talks to harry more than asking him what kind of drink he wants to order, harry will lose it and drag louis down along with him. louis doesn’t understand, and harry doesn’t want to explain.
"do you want to tell me what all that was about?" louis asks sitting down next to harry. it wasn't that Harry didn't want to reply, because he did. it was just much easier to not say anything (also saying something meant getting attached, and harry can’t afford that). he doesn’t know what to say without revealing anything, so he just stays quiet, taking a sip of his drink.
when louis figured out that he wasn't going to reply he started talking himself.
“you know, when I first saw you I almost spilled the drink I was making.” louis says all of a sudden. harry doesn’t know how to respond. “you see, you were just so god damn beautiful and when you sat down you looked at me as if someone had just killed your puppy, and since then I’ve been obsessed with asking you why, but I just haven’t dared.” louis stops to look at harry before continuing.
“anyways; after a while I figured out that you had to be really sad or something. then you started leaving with a different guy every nighy, and I didn’t know how to react, so I tried to pretend that it didn’t bother me. what im trying to say here, is that I care about you a lot for some odd reason. have ever since you walked in here during my first shift really.”
harry doesn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think. his mind being a constant mantra of “no no no no, pleas no god, not him, he’s to good.”
he doesn’t know how to respond, so he does what he does best; he runs. he runs for the door, and once he’s outside he runs some more. he runs and runs and runs and he just never stops. after something that feels like ages, he stops. the rain is worse than ever, mixing up with his tears. he don’t want louis to care, he don’t want to break louis.
he drags a cigarette out of the pack before lighting it in the shield his hand provide from the rain. the smoke calms him. he let his hands glide into his pockets and retrieve his notebook, starting to scribble down some words.
“pass him the pack
pass him the lighter
cigarettes makes everything better.”
the pain is so intense, and harry can’t remember feeling like this. it is as if he just left behind something massive, he bloody well don’t even know louis that well. how dared louis just to make harry get attached, why couldn’t harry just. just.
harry hears footsteps behind him, he knows it’s louis before he even turns around. he knows because he once told louis about this place. it wasn’t on purpose, but harry had been sad, and louis is so lovely.
louis approached him before sitting down next to harry. louis looked him straight in the eyes. harry could see that he was thinking about something, something bothering him. “harry.”
harry expect him to say something more, but he keeps quiet. Harry offers him a cigarette, and louis accept. they sit there like that for a good while, just smoking in silence. the rain has stopped and harry is sure the time has passed four am when louis talks again.
“i’ve been thinking a lot. i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve tried to get to know you so many times, but you just wont let me. i didn’t understand it in the beginning, but I think im starting to get it. You’re scared, aren’t you darling?”
there it was again. the name. harry wants to wake up every morning hearing that name leave louis lips, and that’s the problem. yes, harry’s scared. he’s terrified. he’s terrified to break louis, to break louis like the world broke harry.
harry should get up and walk away and never visit the bar again, but instead he opens his mouth and says: “yes. i’m scared to break you, the way the world broke me.” harry can feel a tear fall down his cheek as he says it.
he doesn’t know what to do. the wind is cold, but comforting. he can feel louis body next to his, and it feels so right, but it can’t be right, harry can’t be right for louis. louis so good. louis is all sunshine and happiness, while harrys darkness and sadness.
he turns to look at louis, and at that moment he knows that even though he’s not worthy of louis love, he wishes he were. the way the light of the moon shines on the boy’s face makes harry want to write poems and songs about beautiful boys and love.
“harry?” harry turns his face to meet louis. “may I kiss you?”
his mind screams for him to say no, for him to push him away and leave; leave before he breaks the beautiful boy. he tries so hard, but when louis leans forward and puts his small tender fingers on harry’s cheek slowly closing up on harry’s lips, harry gives up every ounce of selflessness there were in him.
he wish he could describe how it felt to kiss louis, but it were just too much and too little at the same time, and harry knows that even though he might end up breaking louis, he’ll try his hardest not to. louis makes him want to try, and that, he thinks, is more than ok.