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i’m still alive but i’m barely breathing
just praying to a god that i don’t believe in
—breakeven, the script (2008)
It’s been six months.
Yet Harry's body doesn't seem to know that: he still wakes up from nightmares in which the constant body by his side has been replaced by coldness; he wakes up and the nightmares are true.
Six whole months.
Yet when it’s late at night or early in the morning, when Harry’s just in-between states of consciousness, Harry sometimes calls his name. Waiting for him to reply from another room in the apartment.
Sometimes Harry’s voice dies halfway through the word, and he calls in sick and stays home, because the rest of the day is just a numb blur.
Sometimes Harry manages to stop himself right before saying it. Those days are better: he can usually get something to distract him.
Other times, Harry cries.
It's not ugly sobs. Just quiet, hot tears as he stares at the empty left side of the bed; tears that to make their pathway more tortuous, slide down the side of his nose, tickling; and then get in his nostrils.
That’s what makes him sob, and punch the pillow in frustration; because of course the tears would go in his nose out of every place they could go.
There are better days.
The days in which Harry wakes up to his cat beside him and — it’s not the same, obviously, but a warm body to cuddle in the morning is good no matter whose it is.
Those are the days that Harry doesn't flinch when he finds his old clothes in his drawer, his smell weakly trying to hang on; or, when Harry accidentally uncovers lingerie, his voice calling Harry gorgeous, pretty, loveliest, my darling doesn’t attack him too harshly. (Just gently punches the breath out of Harry’s chest.)
Those are the days Harry determinedly goes out of his way to avoid anything related to him; them.
It’s hard — nearly impossible — to evade someone whose soul is the sun above, bathing all in happiness but overwhelming with his intensity.
Someone with whom Harry’s shared nearly half of his life.
The love of his life.
(Possibly his soulmate. It wouldn’t surprise Harry.)
Harry makes do. He puts on clothes he bought after they were over; uses toothpaste they'd never used together; has coffee rather than tea. He takes the bus to avoid their old car and its familiar, fading smell of his cigarettes and goes through the street with the bank because the other way has a flower shop with too many memories surrounding it.
After work, Harry sure as hell doesn’t read the titles on the bookshops’ windows, too afraid to find his name on one of the covers.
It’s routine, missing Louis.
Sometimes, Louis calls.
Those are the worst days — because as much as he hurt Harry, he’s still the love of his life.
It’s usually late in the evening, when the sky is clear and violet; Harry’s favourite.
“I looked at the sky and thought of you, H.”
It makes Harry want to punch the fucking wall.
“Why won’t you ever call me for something real?” is what Harry says instead. Like wanting to give us another go. Like apologising.
There is hardly a response. They fall asleep on the phone, no goodbyes and no good nights, barely any words. Just breathing.
It’s more than they should offer anyway.
Today is an especially hard day.
February first — Harry’s birthday.
Louis’ was bearable, because there was the flurry of the holidays and their families to distract them.
On February first, though, the stores are all pink and red. Hearts and love messages and couples everywhere.
And roses. So many fucking roses, of every colour.
It’s suffocating.
Harry just wanted a sack of flour to bake himself a cake, god damn it.
It’s good to just lay down sometimes; not think. Go up to the rooftop and watch the clouds fizzle into shapes, scatter through the blue sky.
Sky blue. Like his eyes.
Sometimes it’s good to stay inside; mind empty of thoughts. Watch the cars run through the street like they're on a criminal mission. Watch the passerby check their mailboxes and walk their dogs, holding their children’s hands.
The children they'd promised each other.
If Harry wasn’t so defeated, maybe he’d yell at the top of his lungs. It would probably make him feel better, to let out some emotions. He just sighs, though; because as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t hate him, nor their situation. He could never.
Sometimes, it'd just be nice to not feel at all.
Usually, Harry throws a big party on the rooftop of his complex and invites everyone whose last name he remembers.
This year, it’s just his best friends. Just three invitees.
It’s all he can handle.
It’s already a lot, with their worried, unsubtle glances at each other. Careful in every little thing they say.
Harry’s friends are his friends too — what don’t they fucking share, it was supposed to be forever.
They’re cautious to not mention him.
“Champagne?” they ask instead. Harry will gladly drink to that, thanks.
Zayn — Louis’ best friend — doesn't even bring his skateboard into the flat; Harry heard Niall and Liam have a small, hushed argument about leaving it by the door before they knocked because it might remind Harry of him.
Harry does just that. Louis had tried to teach him to skateboard once — Harry was sixteen — but they kept getting distracted with more important things. (Kissing. Flirting. Laughing. And other things.)
Today is one of those days when Harry caves. He just — Harry needs to be taken care of sometimes; needs feel needed and loved. And so he calls the only person he’s ever trusted like that.
The line rings four times.
They don’t say anything for a while, just breathe into the phone.
Just breathe. Until it gets too heavy and Harry’s eyes prickle with tears, his breathing stained with sniffles.
“Are you free tonight?”
“Yeah.”
When Louis knocks on his door, Harry unlocks it and leans against the wall, avoiding his eyes. Because in them, he knows he’ll find love, and Harry hates that they can’t hate each other.
Louis toes his shoes off and locks the door, knowing Harry needs the silence to subdue the screeching cacophony in his head.
That’s one of the benefits of knowing each other intimately for a decade: they understand one other like they’re just another part of themselves.
“My better half,” they used to say, through muffled giggles and smiles, then half-heartedly argue over who’s the actual better half.
(It invariably ended up in kisses.)
Louis leans against the opposite wall, his stare burning.
Harry sniffles quietly — but in their hush, it’s a siren.
Louis approaches, trails Harry’s fingers with his, delicately; afraid to break him or to overstep, where once he would have been confident, naturally dominating. All that is just gone.
Harry looks at him through his eyelashes. (He’s leaning his weight against the wall so that he’s the same height as Louis.)
“Love,” Louis whispers, so gentle. Because he still loves Harry. The one word is what makes Harry crumble, the final push off the edge that the impending tears needed. Just a hot stream down his cheeks. Louis wipes them with his thumb, with a sad smile on his lips. “What do you want, darling?” Once upon a time, he’d have said my love, my darling. The endearment is still a lot.
“I need,” Harry sobs, fights the closing of his throat. “I need you to take care of me.” By the time the words finally stumble, Harry has his head on Louis’ shoulder, and he’s fiddling with the seam line of his shirt, something he used to do when they slept together in the winter, when Louis didn't sleep naked.
“Okay,” Louis kisses the top of his head and hugs Harry harder. They stay there, in the hall, just holding each other; they both need it.
Eventually, they stumble into the bedroom — it’s still just early evening. The light casts shadows through the window, a line halving the bed unevenly, more shadow than sunlight, so the cat has to squish himself into the warmth rather than spread out and bathe in it.
He arches his back when they come in, and stretches his paws as far as they can go in front of him. He meows accusingly and waddles toward them, happily knocking his head on Louis’ calf on his way out.
An “I’ve missed you.”
Louis kisses Harry’s shoulder blade, holding him close by his arms.
Harry misses this so much. The intimacy, the caring. The tenderness.
“What do you want?” Louis whispers as he kisses by Harry’s ear and guides them to the mattress.
“Just you. Just for a little bit.” Harry slumps onto the bed, pulling at his sweatshirt’s sleeves over his fists to wipe the tears. Just pretend I’m still yours and you’re still mine, just for a little bit.
Louis sits beside him, rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, and hugs him tight. Harry wishes he’d say I still love you. I’m here for you. I miss you. Anything, really.
“Kiss me,” Harry mutters — because he’s not brave enough to fix things with Louis, but also not brave enough to stay away.
Louis does. He begins with soft presses of his lips against Harry’s shoulder, then up his neck. He pecks his mouth once. Then comes back for another, and another and another, longer each time until they’ve fallen backwards onto the mattress, shirtless and kissing each other’s lips raw.
They’re rough because it helps with forgetting why they don’t do this every day.
Louis slows down the kisses, moving away from Harry's mouth — to the side of his lips, then down his jaw, holding Harry’s head with one hand. Not demanding — just delicately telling Harry how he wants him, just like Harry likes.
Harry can tell Louis’ about to ask him again what he wants when he pauses an inch away from his face, so Harry wiggles out of his arms and lays on his stomach, arse higher up in the air than the rest of his body. Words are too hard right now.
Louis trails a finger down his back until he reaches the waistband of Harry’s jeans. He looks at Harry with lust, but there’s a twinge of bittersweet sadness apparent in the droop of his lips. If Harry closes his eyes, he can imagine the last time they did this as a couple, when Louis’ smile was brighter and wider than the crescent moon outside. How happy they were.
“Do you…” Louis swallows.
“Please, Lou,” Harry interrupts him. He just wants to forget, for a moment.
Louis nods softly and rolls over to the nightstand. He skips over Harry’s usual mess — a giant pile of books he’s supposedly reading, and littering water bottles and empty glasses. There are also pictures — formally framed, of his family; hung polaroids of him and Louis through the years, a few with friends. Louis is fixated on a box, though — white faux leather outside, black velvet lining.
Holding a charm bracelet.
Louis had bought it for Harry, a silver band with a pavéed clasp. It took them years to fill it up, because Harry wanted each charm to be meaningful — which is precisely why every time he thinks about wearing it, Harry crumbles to a sobbing mess. That bracelet carries their entire history — from the simple silver charms, like the Ferris wheel for their first date at a carnival, to the gold one with precious stones, costing hundreds of dollars; “until I put a ring on it.” It’s too heavy for Harry to carry.
Louis bites the inside of his bottom lip, and they ignore the wetness of their eyes. He finds the lube and condoms and places them beside Harry, slow and silent.
It’s always the fucking small things that ruin it all.
“I didn’t know you still had it,” he murmurs.
Harry fiddles with the duvet as Louis settles, as he kisses down his spine. “‘Course I do.” It’s proof you cared.
Louis goes slow, teasing with a lubed finger until Harry’s writhing against the bed.
“Louis, ungh.” Harry can feel his smile against his skin when Louis kisses his side, his ribs, and back. “Please.”
Louis crooks his finger, and Harry fists the sheets. His arms tremble. “Please what?” he asks, whimsical cheekiness tinting the words.
“Another, another finger. Please.” Harry moves his hips, slowly but desperate, to use the friction of the duvet to get the edge off. Louis guides his bum away from the bed, just enough to seem like he could; just enough so that the control is there, but not enough to scare Harry off. Teasing, like Louis loves to do. Harry grips the comforter more tightly, knuckles whitening.
“Patience, baby,” Louis taps one of his bum cheeks.
It’s almost enough to make him forget.
“Good?” Louis asks, just as he hits Harry’s prostate.
Harry gasps aloud, knees knocking together. “Yes, yes, yes. God, please.”
Louis gets to three fingers, at which point he’s just sitting back, watching Harry fuck himself on them. “You look gorgeous like this, darling. Always gorgeous.”
It’s so dirty and tender all at once, and the wetness by Harry’s eyes aren’t tears. They’re not.
(They’re droplets of longing. Bits and pieces of Harry that die every day he goes without Louis, because Louis’ all he’s ever known. All he ever wants to know.)
Louis teases with fingers and with kisses on his ticklish spots and by leaving Harry with no friction, with nothing but his fingers. It drives Harry insane; extracts these short, high-pitched whines from rotting parts of him, and he just needs more. Needs Louis every day, in every way.
“Please, please, please, Lou. Need you.” He doesn’t remember letting the words form; they just make themselves comfortable on his tongue. “Please.”
“Shh.” Louis kisses the small of Harry’s back, still twisting his fingers and keeping Harry’s bum up in the air. “I’ll take care of you, baby. You know I will.”
Harry can’t really see — his head is pressed to the bed, too wobbly not to (and, of course, his eyes are watery) — but Louis’ fingers move away. It’s uncomfortable, the cold February air against his hot skin. A moment of sobriety in the middle of forgetting. Then Louis grips his bum — not too hard, they’re not going rough today — and asks, “Ready, baby?”
“Mh-hm,” Harry pants. “Please.”
They probably shouldn’t be doing this — whoever’s heard of exes with benefits? — but they were each other’s first everything — kiss, sex. Love.
His body’s not going to just accept that it’s over; his mind much less. He just needs to relinquish sometimes, let go and trust that he’ll be taken care of.
The only person he’s ever trusted is Louis.
Fuck, if it takes a booty call to his ex to feel okay, even if he knows it’s less than temporary — well, Harry’s taking it, clearly.
They’ve been together — they were together since forever, basically. They were too young to know they had it all, right then and there, just for their taking. They were too young and reckless, and just did whatever felt right without thinking. It was supposed to be forever.
It’s all Harry can think about when his head is buried in Louis’ chest, hugging him close; feeling his breaths move strands of hair, his fingers scratch his roots — that he let go of his forever.
“Happy birthday, Haz,” Louis whispers suddenly.
Harry covers himself with the sheets, a wave of cold air running through his body that has nothing to do with the weather. “Thought you were asleep.”
Louis plays with a curl by Harry’s nape. It was always so easy, for them to be together. The comfortable silence, the dorky nights, the sexy nights. They just did what felt right — every moment felt perfect. Harry thinks through every happy day by Louis’ side — and some of the tense ones, too, the ones that didn’t turn out to be a laughable fight. How did they end up like this? How did the perfectly straightened string connecting them together turn into this jumbled, knotted mess, that doesn’t let them move away, but keeps them from fixing its wrongs, too?
“Thought you were asleep too.”
A pause. Always so tentative with each other, nowadays. “Were you just going to wish me a happy birthday without me knowing?”
“Guess I was.” Harry moves his head, knocks the bone by his eye against Louis’ collarbone lightly.
“I should get going, baby,” Louis runs a hand through Harry’s hair. They never sleepover, in nights like these. It’s fine at night, when they can blame the stars for their needy patheticness, but the daylight would make every flaw so visible. (That they’re perfect for each other, just can’t get it right to save their lives.)
Harry kind of wants to push him away and tell him to not call him baby if he can’t be his all the time, but simultaneously melts at the term. He wishes he was addicted to honey instead, because it's just as sweet, but hurt way less. Reliably in stores, never hard to get a hold of.
Harry wants to scream all this, and ask a billion questions — like if Louis misses him so much that it aches. If Louis thinks about their future as a collective still. If Louis’ been with anyone else. If Louis’ written about them.
Instead, he just kisses Louis’ shoulder and whispers, “Guess you should.”
The morning after is weird.
First of all, Harry’s officially a year older. Not that it changes a damn thing — he’s still a young, lonely dumbass — but now he’s going to get choked up saying his age for the next couple months, making it seem like he’s lying.
It’s weird, being with Louis — feeling his love and touching him and acting as if nothing had happened — only to wake up alone and dazed like every day in which they hadn’t.
The night before, they’re just two people still very much in love.
The day after is — well, after.
They’re the days that fly by at the same time they drag on forever, some events stretching endlessly, and others so short Harry forgets they even happened almost as soon as they’re over.
They’re the grey days, when the sun sets before dinner time and messes up with people’s hunger and sleep schedule.
They’re the days when there’s no fulfilment in anything. Harry could have his most successful day at work, have all his photo shoots go perfectly — but things would still be too muddled in his head to fully appreciate it.
They’re the days when Harry wants to cry the most, and the only time his tear canal magically dries up, the weak bastard.
“Hi, baby,” Harry croons when his cat jumps on his lap. He’s watching telly, or at least he was trying to — now his cat’s butt is on the way, and he kept getting lost in thought and missing parts of the programme until it just turned into white noise anyway.
His cat pauses his furious kneading of Harry’s sweater and turns to look Harry straight in the eyes, and meows loudly and lengthily. It makes the corners of Harry’s mouth twitch upwards tentatively.
His cat had run into the room in the morning, when Harry left to brush his teeth, and jumped on the bed. Then he had paused, meowed at Harry, and looked at every corner of the room before finding Harry in the bathroom, to stare up at him intensely.
He was looking for Louis.
Harry sighs and pets down his perked ears. “I miss him too, baby. I know.”
Harry ends up looking out the veranda, cat on his chest and thoughts running wild.
What hurts the most is how dumb it all is. Like, nine years of dating and someone asks what happened, and they have to reply, “Oh, you know. We’re just fucktards who like, gave up on the best thing that could have ever happened to us.”
Harry did it. It wasn’t his choice alone, obviously, but he’s the one who said the words. I think we should just take a break.
Sometimes Harry spends hours looking at himself in the mirror, imagining how hard he’d slap his past self for being so stupid.
Truthfully, Harry usually winds up crying not because he gave it up, but because they both did.
It wasn’t in a final, singular sentence; they gave it up in the little ways. It started with arguing in front of other people — from bickering to outright shouting — and escalated into simply not speaking at all — “if you don’t want to talk about it, fine, we won’t.”
They were all they knew. There is no guidebook, and they had never needed one; they had always had such ease shifting into serious topics, deciphering what the other needed, until one day that ease was just... gone.
They weren’t kids anymore.
That night, Harry looks at his nightstand and his face just contorts. He snaps that jewellery box closed and runs to the bathroom to wash his face.
He wonders if Louis’ writing about him. About them.
Probably.
That’s how Louis dealt with things; he wrote about it. He usually didn’t get it published; sometimes he never even tried, the stories were too personal. He went through these obsessive urges, sitting in front of his computer for hours, just typing, or reading and editing. He wouldn’t leave — and barely eat — until he got the words just right. Until the sentences stood up by themselves when he glared at them, when they flew when he pushed them; “they cannot be weak and crumble,” he used to say.
It’s a little late — late afternoon — but Harry throws on a coat and his camera over his neck and heads to the city anyway.
Harry likes the suburbs because they scream their messages. They don’t care for peaceful protests, for easing into topics. They’re “loud and in your face,” as Louis had once described them.
Harry doesn’t shake his head and try to forget Louis this time. Fuck, he’s never going to be able to, if he’s being honest. He’ll just have to fucking deal with the longing.
He takes pictures of billboards and posters hanging on the poles and lampposts, of animal shelters and graffiti. He takes pictures of places they’d been to and place they’d wanted to. Everything.
They all, in some way or another, remind him of Louis. Sometimes it’s clear: a sentence he would like, a scene he would use. Sometimes vague, like the mood or the colours.
It doesn't have to make sense to anyone else.
Harry prints his favourites that very day, and stays in his studio putting it together until morning, when he wakes up to his alarm.
The room is very different this early in the morning. The sun is up, making the clouds bright grey, almost white — illuminating the space. Making every trace of Louis stand out like a bloodstain on white wool.
He’s still everywhere around here, as in every aspect of Harry’s life. He’s by the door, waiting for Harry with two cups of tea, fond nose scrunched as he watches Harry work. He’s sitting on the other side of the table, eyebrows furrowed as he listens to Harry talk through his projects. He’s leaning beside Harry, hugging the stress out of him.
Harry had cleared his workspace of photos and gifts and his copies of Louis’ books and the post-its Louis used to leave him, but the memories will always linger.
He can’t erase him, he’ll just have to deal with it.
Harry arranges the pictures he took, adds a few he already had, working assiduously.
He only pauses once, when the pictures just aren’t meshing, to look out his window and clear his mind.
Of course, it’s right as Louis’ opening the bookshop, flipping the “closed” sign to read “open.” (It was supposed to be forever, so they made their workplaces just a street apart.)
Harry had never seen Louis come in, after they were over; he had always made sure to look away at nine a.m.
There was a time when Louis’ smile took over his face, even in the morning, as he opened the shop. He’d greet customers and try to catch Harry’s eyes through the window to wave, always happy to see him.
Now, he’s grim as he wipes the balcony and opens his computer to write while the customers don’t need help.
He rests his head on his hand and catches Harry’s eyes. He must not be used to seeing Harry either; he freezes, lips half parted, curled downwards at the borders. He jumps, startled, when the door opens, and Harry doesn’t see him looking his away for the rest of the day.
Harry doesn’t let his eyes get blurry with tears today. He uses that jittery energy Louis gave him to put his project together; it has to be right in every detail.
There are pictures from when they met, when they were young and in love — when every picture is drenched in besottedness.
The picture of Harry offering Louis a flower, when they weren’t boyfriends yet but already daydreaming of each other. The picture of their first date at the carnival, laughing at nothing. The picture of Harry hugging Louis even as sweaty as he was from playing at that footie match, but Harry didn’t care, he was so proud. The picture of when it became obvious that Harry had grown way taller than Louis, and so many others marking their life — always shared, always together — through the years.
Always happy with each other.
In between are pictures of places they visited together, where they had dates and where they just happened to be in whilst in love. There are pictures of things Harry knows they’d like to do and of things that meant a lot to them.
The flower shop, from where Louis bought Harry flowers so often that the shopkeeper knew them by name.
The park, where they first kissed (so hard and so much that they were kicked out.)
The bridge, where Louis gave him the diamond charm and said he wanted forever with Harry.
The lobby of Harry’s studio, where Harry said they should take a break.
There are a million other small things scattered all over it, because nine years is a long time to love someone. A long time to collect important memories.
Looking at the poster hurts, but at least he’s not burying it all anymore. All the things he misses and wishes he could have back are right there, staring expectantly back at him.
Usually, after they meet up at night, they wait around three days to call again — but this call is different, and that poster is just so painful to look at without his arms to fall into, his arms that were always, always there for him when he needed.
Louis picks up at the second ring. “Harry? Y'alright, love?”
The false yeah dies in Harry’s throat. He has to stop holding things back from Louis. “Need you,” Harry mewls instead.
Louis softens immediately. “Of course, darling.” Harry hears in his voice that he’s biting his lip, can hear the tiredness in his tone.
When Louis knocks, Harry opens the door and immediately hugs him tight. Louis takes a minute to hug him back, but it’s okay. They haven’t talked yet.
Louis rests his head at the crook of Harry’s neck, hands on his waist, delicately rubbing his thumb against Harry’s skin. Still in the hall, where everyone can see.
Harry walks backwards, pulling his shirt down and his sleeves over his palms to rub away the tears he hadn’t known were there. “I have something to show you.”
“Okay.”
“Wait here,” Harry gestures towards the living room.
He comes back carrying the waterproof case where he’d put the poster and lays it on the centrepiece.
He sits on the other end of the sofa, not leaning against the back cushion, holding his hands together by the sleeves of his shirt. Curling inwards on himself.
“So, like, I know that…” Harry forces a cough, just to get himself a pause. “That, I don’t know. That we’re not together. But I — Lou, you know I still love you,” he whispers as if it’s a secret. Louis is immobile where he’s sitting across from Harry, but he swallows and nods slowly. “I’m not — I’m not trying to force you to be with me again. If —” Harry chokes, “if you really don’t think we have a chance, then, well, what can I do?” he wheezes, wipes his cheeks again. He unwraps the collage, still babbling. “You’re all I know, Lou. I don’t — I never want to know anyone else.” Harry holds up the pictures beside him, trying to get his arms to stop wobbling pathetically. “We’ve been together for so long, we’ve been through so much. I— I don’t want to learn how to be without you.” His voice cracks, and he lets the poster fall, the tears stream. “I’ll always love you.”
He’s buried in his hands now, shaking and sweating cold.
“Shh, Haz, come ‘ere,” Louis whispers, gathering Harry into his arms. Tight, so tight; just like Harry needs. It grounds him, pins him to the present.
Harry wants to ask if Louis’ saying no; if he’s just too nice to leave him while Harry’s crying — but he just sobs harder. He sobs for not knowing which words to use.
“This looks beautiful, babe,” Louis mutters after a while, regarding the photos. “Like you.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
Harry sighs, pulls Louis closer. “You have to stop saying things like that.”
Louis is quiet, just holding Harry close and running his hands through Harry’s hair. “Sometimes I don’t know if I hurt you more when we were together or when we’re apart.”
Harry curls his fingers around Louis’ sweater. “Me too.”
“But,” Louis’ voice wobbles, “but you’re so beautiful, and you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. And — and it hurts so much, seeing you sad. But when we were together we —” he sniffles. “It was so hard. We just lost each other, baby; I used to always know what you wanted, what you needed, and then, suddenly — you were a mystery. I — I don’t know what to do. Without you.”
“Louis…”
“I don’t even know if we’ll hurt each other more by staying apart or getting back together, and I don’t know if I’ll survive either way If— if we break up again I’ll fucking shatter, Harry, I just will.”
Harry plays with the zipper of Louis’ jacket, just to have something to do. “Do you think,” he swallows. “Do you think we’re not worth another chance?”
The question screeches, distorted in their silence. When they finally speak, the sky is light violet, their faces blotchy and red, and their palms sweaty from holding on to each other so tightly.
“Harry… I will still want to be with you no matter how many times you break my heart,” Louis finally croaks.
Harry’s heart rabbits in his chest, his breath hitches. “What?”
Louis sighs. “You know I’ll always love you, darling. It’d take a lot for me to not want to be with you.”
Harry licks his lips, tentatively raising his head to look at Louis. To show how sincere he is. “I… Lou, what even happened to us? It used to be so easy.”
“I don’t know, love. I don’t know. We just stopped talking.”
“If… if we’re together again, I — we have to promise we’ll talk. About everything. What we love, what bothers us, what needs to change. It used to be easy; we can do it if we really want to.”
Louis switches from Harry’s left to right eye quickly, as if he’s scared he’ll take it back and yell “April fools!” in the middle of February. As if Harry could ever.
“Okay.”
It’s odd, at first. Harry tries to hide what bothers him — when Louis gesticulates with his fork, when he flirts with customers (even if it’s unintentional, it makes Harry see flaming red ) — because he wants to enjoy being able to kiss Louis whenever he wants again, but Louis looks at him and always sees the hurt and anger written on his face anyway.
He corners Harry, usually by the bedroom door, and kisses him everywhere: his neck, his cheeks, his forehead, his collarbones — asking “What is it, baby? Please tell me. What is it?” It’d be easy to just forget it, just move on and fuck it out and forget about it — but then Louis kisses his lips slowly, holding his jaw with his thumbs softly caressing his cheeks, and murmurs, “We promised,” and the words just stumble out. They leave like they came in — angered and miserable and wet with salty tears. Louis listens, and he kisses Harry’s fingertips, and comforts him.
“Baby, I don’t mean to. I don’t. I love only you; it’s always been only you. Always you.”
“I know, I know, I know. It just makes me so mad, I — I should trust you. I’m sorry.”
“My love, you can feel however you do. I don’t want to ever make you feel worth less than you are — and know that you’re worth everything.”
The night they got together was bittersweet.
They were still sad — dampened by emotions, the past six months still weighing on their shoulders — but also so happy to call each other their again, their smiles painful. Asking, still a little more careful than they used to be, if every little thing was good. (“Is it okay if I keep kissing you?” “Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?” “Is it okay if I touch you here?”)
When Harry was on his back, watching Louis — for the first time since they broke up; it had been too painful to look at Louis touching him and not be able to call him his — as he kissed down his chest and twisted Harry’s nipples, barely able to purse his lips with how wide he smiled.
When Louis laid back in bed with Harry, he didn’t just carry lube and condoms — he had a jingling silver bracelet in between his fingers, thumbing at the charms shyly.
He looked up at Harry, question in his eyes, and Harry could barely contain his giddiness. He nodded.
Louis made sure that the hanging charms point outwards and Harry’s wrist is downcast. He kissed Harry’s hand like a knight would kiss a lady’s, and proceeded to treat Harry like a gentleman the entire night.
(“Shit, I’ve definitely written about this.” “You’ve written about me?” “Harry, you’ve always been my muse.”)