Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I

THE BEGINNING

September 6th

It's 06:13 am.

It's been 37 hours since Louis last slept.

49 since he last ate.

As he stares at the roof, he repeats to himself that all this waiting is a courtesy. Sticking around until she wakes up is nothing more than a show of good manners. A favour. Louis Tomlinson, one last time, the well-behaved boy. She should be proud.

"Always let me know when you're leaving, Louis", she asks. It’s an empty request, he is aware. It’s probably a concern she believed to be a good mother's trait. "Please, don't stay out too late, baby". Despite her sweet words, for younger-Louis, her demands always felt empty and he never really understood why. He felt guilty for comparing her with other maternal figures he knew, felt guilty for not feeling loved; felt ungrateful and needy. As the years passed, the indifference became too evident to be ignored, the disinterest dripping from her voice. She is always someplace else, Louis' mother, no matter how much he may need her. She finds the inside of her mind safer and Louis tries not to blame her for it anymore. Reality isn't for everyone. Neither is motherhood.

During her younger years, she could have been a supermodel if only she could hide the sadness in her eyes long enough to walk down a catwalk. Silky cinnamon hair; sharp cheekbones and undeniable charm; lighter than a feather. She would have been unforgettable in the modelling industry, Louis is sure of it. Obviously, it wouldn't be fair for all that beauty to come paired with mental stability. There’s always a price to pay and hers was her health. Not that Louis considers her sick; he doesn't. That is actually the problem and the reason why he resents her, as much as he wishes he didn't. She treats her detachment not as an issue, but as an award; not a sickness, a prize. As if after bargaining with fate, she gladly accepted her trophy, self-isolating in her mental palace, lost inside her mind, abandoning Louis in reality with a father that way too soon became nothing more than a memory. She deliberately chose to be nothing but a tourist in reality; a woman so lovely that must stay submerged in the private ocean of memories with which she flooded her mind. Always sunk in a comfortable sadness. For her, the detachment is not a burden, it's a blessing.

Louis envies her, even if she doesn't notice, even if she doesn't care. He is the receiver of a lousy gift; he is the heir of an empty promise. The neglected prodigal son and his broken genetics. For Louis, something is always missing; he always falls short. His birth was nothing but a half-hearted hug, where she kept her secrets to herself and left Louis alone to make do with the remnants. All the worthy traits kept safely locked inside her mind. Selfishly, she couldn't bear to share. Louis still doesn't understand why. If she knew she was going to be away, why didn't she take him with her? Why leave him behind, alone? Isn't it cruel to raise children that will have to recover from childhood? Louis wishes he could have bargained with fate as well. He hoped he would be given a choice, given a chance. He was born ready for it, honestly. He feels it in his blood: a family line that dances on top of that thin line between reality and daydreaming. Louis always knew what he would choose. Sanity is nothing but a cosy lie, overestimated. If he could taste it, he would also hold on to his detachment as a prize; wear it proudly on his distant eyes. They aren't so different, Louis and his mother; it's genetics after all. Obeying the sacred rule about the thickness of blood, he would be ready to follow her on a heartbeat, effortlessly. He wouldn't be afraid of going insane; the only real problem always is the long intervals of horrible sanity.

Not a day goes by where Louis doesn’t think about the infinite possibilities he would have if he had that same detachment skill, if he could just dance his way out of reality like she does. Louis pictured it all, a thousand times. If their minds were similar. If they were more compatible. She would love him more, he just knows it, and he would feel worthy of her love. Louis has pictured it all: the both of them sharing fantasies as if they were inside jokes; taking a moment too long to answer anyone else's questions; having to tune in reality again; murmuring meaningless words and dancing to made up songs; always surprised by food deliveries they did not remember ordering. Slowly, distantly and together, making their way through life. Reality would be nothing but an old country house, stale and lonely, that they would only visit in the summer, only if they wanted to. Their stays would be short and they would soon return to their private ocean, floating in a pure water made out of fantasies, while simultaneously running their fingers through the shining stars. If their minds were similar, this life wouldn’t be so bad after all. Louis wishes he could escape this reality for a while, knows that he deserves it.

It’s Louis’ wildest fantasy by far: sharing his mother's haze of lunacy. Companionship. Belonging. The whole package. Louis is not greedy, just lonely and creative. It doesn't do well to dwell on it, though; too tempting and too unreachable. The truth is that they could never share a fantasy. They are not similar where it matters. For some unknown reason, the secret ocean in which his mother submerges is made out of memories. Melancholic memories. Her sad eyes give her away. She swims in regret and dives into loneliness, waves of misery crushing in. That's what she traded reality with Louis for. The thought is a knife through his heart. She chose unhappy solitude and has the audacity to perceive it as an honored decision. If Louis could shape reality's barriers as easily as she can, he would become the god of his own paradise. He would create heaven in his mind. A kingdom of bliss. A utopia of delight. A universe of pleasure. Oceans and oceans of honey and roses. Constellations of laughter and nebulae of fondness. That is the difference between them: if Louis could, he would drown in a sea of euphoria. He would die of passion before sadness. He is, what people call, an optimist. Unlike her. She cultivates her darkest memories as if they were flowers from a garden which she can only see the thorns. She revisits each one of them by deliberately grabbing the flowers by those thorn, painfully picking one at a time, intentionally hurting her fingers as if it’s a well-deserved pain. Her drops of blood watering her memory garden, making sure it stays alive, stays hurtful.

Not for the first time, Louis swallows thickly, worried and tormented, perceiving how wrong she truly is; perceiving the deepness of her mistake. It’s a thought that keeps coming back to him whenever he tries to analyze his mother’s mind. She may trick herself into believing that she’s safe from reality, but she is just stuck with her own mind, locked in an unescapable cell with her own memories. She lives in her personal purgatory, both the victim and the punisher, paying alive for her sins. In Louis' opinion, her brain is stuck in a looping of her unhappiest memories; must be tiring and painful and also, repetitive. How many times can you re-watch your husband's departure until it becomes boring? How about being laid-off from your dream job by that creepy rude fellow? Doesn't revisiting the bullying you suffered as a kid lose its charm after the 100th time? Giving up on your first love? Growing old? Down the road, Louis' disappearance may even make it to her hall of fame. It can become one of the moments she keeps losing herself to, another memory to which she can escape. Louis is making her a favor. He is broadening her repertoire. It's like showing her a new song or taking her to see a brand-new movie.

Furthermore, he is feeling generous. It's a parting gift: he will respect at least one of her requests this time. He will let her know when he will be leaving - as soon as she does - and as she has no clue about how permanent his decision is, he will secretly say goodbye. As he said, a favor. Politeness. Louis is a good son.

Good, but not tireless. He isn't invincible. The last years have been hard, but the last couple of days have been hell and Louis is exhausted. He is lonely and he feels trapped; like he is burning from within, watching his life pass him by. If a doctor were consulted, Louis would be classified as a patient on the verge of a breakdown. No doctors were consulted, though, and Louis had only his intuition to guide him into the realization that he can't stay. He can’t stay here. In this house, it's way too easy to picture the rest of his existence, meaningless and restricted to his comfort zone, which scares him more than anything. If he stayed, all that would be left of his spirit would be a failed version of himself, misunderstood, living in a reality he doesn't fit in. Louis refuses to live the same year 75 times and call it a life. And, in all honesty, there is no going back. It's been a long time since he convinced himself he deserves better and that kind of idea is powerful, it's irreversible. He deserves a chance to build a good life and that won't happen here. He has to go.

Everything is scary, sure, but Louis is determined now. Today is the day. The fuel for his decision was a complex mixture. The elixir of all good decisions. You must grab a bottle of vodka - gin is fine too, if that's what you got - and add some uncontrollable impatience. Mix it up with a couple of packs of cigarettes, a lot of sleep deprivation and several bottled-up feelings of parental rejection. A couple of coffee mugs can't do no harm, especially in the middle of the night. Oh, it's a recipe for one, forgot to mention. No one to share it with. Slowly, add two spoons of irritation, two or three drops of hidden resentment and boom. You're good to go (away from your mother's house). Who would have known that it would take Louis only 23 years to finally find the right incentive?

In the 11:31 pm coldness, he decided he'd had enough. Guess that today really is the day after all.

At 01:47 am, Louis packed his bag. The Bag. The one he promised himself he wouldn't, unless dying felt like a more pleasurable alternative than staying.

At 03:39 am, the letter was written.

At 04:15 am, it felt like there was nothing left to do.

Still, for the last two hours, he's been waiting for her to wake up. He's lying in his bed, shaking with anticipation and from the cold. Apprehensive. He is well aware of the anti-climax of the whole situation and it deeply frustrates him: after years of waiting, he still has to wait some more. He is vibrating, but he doesn't leave his bed. He has obviously considered seizing the opportunity of being the only one awake in the house to leave; forced himself to see her unusual morning absence as a sign to just escape already. But this strategy, running away like a scared rat, in the middle of the morning, is a tad too similar to his father's method: his joke of a resignation from a marriage that had already lasted for far too long; too fed up; too tired to even bother waiting for the dawn. Climbing out of his window while his mother is still sound asleep seems pretty close to a validation of his father's decision for Louis’ taste. Louis doesn't support cowards, so he waits. Mornings are for hope, for tea and for beginnings, anyway; he can at least wait until she leaves for work. It's only decent.

But fuck decent. It is not about politeness, no matter how many times he swears it is; no matter how much he wishes it was. It is about love. Louis loves her endlessly. Always will. His need is only fair. He has to look into her eyes one last time; marvel at seeing all that he is, reflected back at him, as if her eyes hold the key to his universe. He needs to memorize all of her features, so similar to his own. The same delicate mouth, the button nose, their starry eyes. He needs to admire her watered-down fierceness, still burning, still blazing after all those years, underneath that sadness. He has to pay his respects to the woman who made him who he is, without knowing if he will see her again. He cares about her too much, in a way she can't understand; it's a lot when it's not mutual. He wants to worship her mind one last time, her challenging mind, the uncontrollable, the secret; he will thank it for all the ways it molded who Louis is; how it made him who he is. He wants to miss her while still feeling her near. Just once. It's vital for the rest of his life. He needs to be looking at her while reciting, silently, his goodbyes. At least once, their isolation from one another will be useful; the walls of her mental palace too high for her to listen to what Louis is shouting from his mind. She won't know, but she will later understand. In the silence that they will soon share, in the looks they will soon exchange, she will comprehend that Louis asked for her forgiveness; asked for her understanding and for her patience, and for all of the things he couldn't write down in the letter. She will later find out that in that moment, he forgave her; he loved her; he thanked her. And that is all that matters.

For now, he lies on his bed, anxiously staring at the flaking ceiling paint. He is not going to back away, he simply knows it this time. This is the day where he leaves and the feeling of certainty drips like ice water on the bottom of his spine. Louis convinces himself that it is the freshness of freedom. A bit of anticipation chills. He's been trying and failing to get his breathing under control. He tries closing his eyes only to immediately open them again. It must be the coffee. And the vodka. And the last couple of sleepless nights. Either way, he can't risk falling asleep, not now. Louis feels trapped in the weirdest mix of boredom and anxiety, fidgety and extremely tired. A shaken can of alcohol and Red Bull. He feels sick. He turns on his belly. At least in this new position, he will stop staring at his father's lousy job with the room's painting. Trying to find something to do while he waits, Louis lets his hand wander in the space beneath the bed. As he knew it would, his hand ends up bumping into his Bag, the emergency one. Louis opens the zipper without thinking and grabs the folded sheet of paper he knew it was there. It was only strategic, keep all the going-away-stuff together. An adventure bundle; Louis loves the idea. Before he knows it, he's sitting in his bed, cross-legged, opening the paper sheet. He hates himself for knowing all along that he was going to reread the letter again. There's no such thing as a wandering hand, he was looking for it specifically. He needs to read it once more. Seventh time's a charm.

Mom,

I don't blame you, ok? Need you to know that.

I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand. I'm sure you will.

Please, take care of yourself.

I love you, mom.

I'm so so sorry.

L

And that is it. That is the best he could do. After 23 years of living in each other's pockets, that is how Louis officially says goodbye. He is just keeping it short, that's what he tells himself. Or maybe his fluency was clouded by the emotions and, honestly, no one's really prolix when leaving a goodbye letter. It is, without a doubt, the second hardest thing Louis has ever done. The hardest was not having done it sooner. He admires his ugly handwriting - "bad calligraphy, Louis" - and wonders if there's much to say after all. It's pretty much all there. All the guilt. All the apologies. She will understand. It's always been a relationship of few words, he comforts himself. There are not enough words in the English language to express how he feels, anyway, so he hopes they meet in the silence between them. He hopes they meet again. The thought makes something dirty stir in the bottom of Louis' stomach and he quickly shoves the letter into the bag. The fact that the bag is packed, by itself, it's already a sign: he has never gotten this far before. Today is the day. Louis stands up from his bed determined and is about to go looking for another pack of cigarettes when he hears a noise from the kitchen. He drops everything on the floor near the armchair. It's goodbye time. Fucking finally.

He leaves his room like a tornado and climbs down the stairs as a boy on a mission. He can't remember the last time he slept, he's a ball of fire. Energetic. Determined. But just as his right foot hits the floor, he slows down. Something is different. It feels like a different atmosphere. All in slow motion. Louis feels as if he passed through a portal. The first floor is warmer, more comfortable than his room somehow. Cozier. Their house is never warm, especially at this time of the year; the heating bills way too expensive. Louis slowly makes his way to the kitchen. Gently. Lazily. Time seems to pass slower down here. It feels gravity-less. Entering the empty kitchen, Louis feels calm. He can't remember the last time he felt this way. In his mind, he breathes for the first time in three days. Louis can't detect the source of noise he heard before, but does that even matter? There's a pleasant atmosphere around him; Louis feels immersed in a serenity bubble. He takes a look around the kitchen and notices that on top of its table sits an open Styrofoam packaging. He can easily see, from where he stands, the Beany Mug's logo, the cheap cafeteria across the hospital his mother works on. He can also see that there are pancakes inside the packaging. Their food is usually greasy and rubbery but it's affordable and that is what his mom's appetite seems to care more about. Price rather than taste. An economic stomach. For Louis, it doesn't matter. He doesn't care about food at all. Or rather, he cares about it obsessively. Unhealthy. He approaches the table anyway, expecting to find the usual tasteless mess, but instead the pancakes look like they would taste delicious. It all seems to match the cozy kitchen atmosphere. The soft white curtains are half-open and the sun’s candid light seeps through the windows, bathing the kitchen in a comfy shade of yellow. The cold from his room is gone. In its place, a warm fuzzy feeling, so heated that it is almost unrecognizable. The house is absolutely silent, serene, and the sunlight hits the center of the kitchen table, right where the pancakes sit, now all tempting and untouched. For a second, the sweet smell, previously undetectable, the soft light and the undisturbed quietness make Louis feel like he hasn’t woken up, like he is still in a dream, inserted in a rare, peaceful moment of silence and almost, almost, happiness. In a moment like this, separated from reality, lost in time and space, when he feels like the only person that exists in the world, even the pancakes seem like a good idea. They look like they would taste warm, fluffy and sweet. Louis guesses that maybe, just maybe, they taste like something more. Maybe their taste is acceptance, approval, or maybe it's just normality. He would give anything for normality. Maybe they taste like joy. Feeling giddy and lucky, willing to make a bet, Louis approaches the table and the warm sunlight heats his face. He grabs a small – always small – piece and takes a bite. They just taste like calories. And, of course, they do. What was he even thinking?

The disappointment and regret seem to wake him up from his delicious state of inertia and, for the first time since climbing down the stairs, Louis feels cold. He feels as if his serenity bubble burst, leaving behind not sadness, but reality. Which, in some ways, is way worse. He settles for beginning his daily process of making tea, setting two teacups on the table when he hears a creak coming from the living room. He can hear her steps before he can see her and the anticipation of seeing her hurts just the same as it did all the days before this one. The fear of the disinterest in her eyes. A moment later, she appears, adding up to the painful process of returning to the real world. It should be ridiculous that she looks this good with bed head, on a pinkish nightgown paired with a dark blue overcoat and red slippers, but Louis is used to it by now. He attributes it to the disinterest magnetism; the charm she carries due to always appearing unreachable. A model. She looks delicate, disinterested, made for fashion campaigns. The dark blue overcoat is probably the reason why she went to the living room in the first place; there is where she keeps all her winter coats, in a rack by the front door.

- Oh, Lou, you scared me. Up so early, sweetie?

Although Louis finds it unsettling that, before her mention, he had lost his real sense of how early it in fact is, at least for his sleepless weekend patterns, he chooses to simply focus on his mother’s face. She looks at him with concern, which is a strong indicative that she may be more present than usual. In moments like this, where she expresses troubling emotions towards him, Louis wonders guiltily if her fast-paced aging is his responsibility somehow. If she is just too shocked with what she sees in him when she actually gives him her attention. Her eyes travel from his face to the pancakes and, as she notices the small missing bite, a tiny cautious smile takes over her lips. Sometimes she acts as if it's a secret between them, Louis' thing. Sometimes she just forgets all about it. She's unpredictable like this and Louis never knows what to expect.

- Yeah, just couldn’t sleep, mom.

In a blink of an eye, the small smile vanishes and her expression turns sour. She really is listening, then. It is one of those moments where she is here with him, only floating in her mind's secret ocean; floating, not drowning. She is on the surface. Good. Unexpected, but good. At least it makes Louis' goodbye more meaningful. He will be saying goodbye to the real woman behind all the haze. Good. Louis can do that. Her expression is still sour and her eyes flash with concern. Louis secretly loves this feeling, the feeling that blossoms in his heart when she acts as if she's responsible for him. It's his guilty pleasure. In all honesty, her heartbrokenness is nothing new. Louis used to play a game of guesses in his head when he was younger, trying to pinpoint the causes that led his mother to be so intensely taken by melancholy. Young Louis’ plan was to find a way to destroy all of them, eliminating all the reasons for sadness. Unless he was involved. It was a different story, if that was the case. If his mother was sad because of him, it meant an amount of interest, responsibility and care that Louis just couldn't give up. He never made her sad on purpose, obviously not, but it felt so warm when she worried about him. When she actually cared enough to worry. Those occasions were rare, though, and he had way too many opportunities to play his guessing game. During his childhood, Louis’ guesses were: a load of dirty hospital clothes, washed in the late hours of night, made his mother extremely sad. As well as, inexplicably, the 20th of each month. The unwanted wisdom eventually came and, with the passage of years, Louis has come to realize that the dirty clothes meant another patient lost at the hospital and the 20th was the day to wait for the money that – just like his payer – never came. His mother looks at him now with a face she carries once in a while, a face of an impotent woman, faced with much more than she can handle or change; a woman faced with a destiny she does not want and does not deserve. He understands why she doesn't particularly enjoy returning to reality. Louis guesses that it was with this resigned frustration, with this barely-successful attempt to silence a panic that hasn’t yet exploded, that she looked at his father on that fateful day. Better yet, looked at his father’s back, disappearing out of sight, without signs of hesitation or regret. Louis strongly hopes that was not the expression she had on her face during his birth.

- What happened, baby? Nightmares again?

Louis should have never told her that. It was a long time ago and it wasn't even that bad. She always remembers the wrong things about him, it is deeply annoying.

- No, mom, actually I just…

- I see you’ve taken a bite of the pancakes. Do they taste alright?

She asks as she does not know the answer. She asks like the fact Louis would rather set himself on fire than touch any food is something she is not aware of. Always unpredictable. The bite – the unfulfilling, already regretted, bite – was only meant as a celebration for the previous shaky moment of almost happiness. It was meant as a celebration for the special day ahead. Today is a special day.

- Today is a special day, mom.

Somehow, her look of concern intensifies.

- And why’s that, sweetie?

She asks - curiously, attentive - as she pulls the chair to the kitchen table.

Louis has this theory, it's almost a scientific law for him, tested and proven, that his mother's brain works in a compensatory way. She is aware that she isn't really in the present most of the time. She knows about her detachment from real life. She still doesn't regret it, that's not what Louis believes. What he believes, better yet, what he knows is that when she is, in fact, present, she tries to compensate. At least she does with him. As if she has a need, an urgency, to be submerged into something, whatever it may be; if it can't be her mind, then let it be reality. She needs something else beside herself. For her, the silence is deafening. In those compensatory outbreaks, she asks about everything there is to ask, as if she were an old distant relative who hasn't visited for years. She goes into this frenzy of questions like a student in an unmissable class by an amazing teacher, writing everything down on her brain. She doesn't write it down, though, and all the information is lost when she disconnects again. All the answers wasted. It is sad. Louis' body usually goes rigid when she enters this state of compensation just because it is as unpredictable as the rest of her mind is. Once, a couple of years ago, sitting on the same chair she is sitting now, she stared out the window for hours. Louis was happy to keep her company, sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone. Suddenly, as if she just snapped out of her reverie, her eyes left the window and landed on his face. She stared at him for a long moment. Attentively, lovingly, amazed. And then she whispered, most to herself, impressed: "You grew up so much. You grew up so beautifully". She began sobbing in the next second. Her uncontrollable crying lasted the following hour and Louis hugged her through it. It only stopped when she left him again, snuggling into her mind's cocoon. To this day, Louis wonders how long she had been seeing him as her faceless son. Unimportant. Banal.

Now, contrary to all his usual reactions, he feels himself relaxing. Even if they are clearly experiencing another compensatory outbreak, he decides to simply let go and, happily, eagerly, feels the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. He will try to enjoy her company while she is here, while he is here.

- Louis, are you listening?

- Yes, mom. I'm listening.

He says in a bored voice, he can't help it. He turns his head to send a smile her way and finds that she is already smiling fondly at him. Ignoring all previous experiences, Louis lets his mind free. In moments like this, he feels as if she isn't a tourist in his world anymore, as if she is here to stay, a permanent resident in reality, not going anywhere else. He feels selfish for wanting to lock her up in his world, but he allows himself the pleasure of daydreaming with her completely recovering her sanity and with they both living a loving, happy, normal life. At least the daydreams he deserves. Louis smiles at her for a second longer and turns around to finish setting up their tea.

- You won't be lonely, will you, Lou?

Maybe she is only overcompensating and asking questions about hypothetical futures she fears she won't be here to witness. Dead or away. Same thing. Still, she asks as if she knows all about Louis's plan, as if she knows he is leaving, and his heart skips a beat. She doesn't know. There is no way she could have found out. For a second, Louis wonders if she has a clairvoyant heart to match her travelling mind. Or maybe it is a trait of all mother's hearts to simply know when it is about to be hurt. Reaching the future before anyone else. Louis always suspected mothers had some sort of witch powers anyway.

- No, mom, I won't. I'll be fine by myself.

She takes a deep breath as an upset child would. There's a pout on her lips. She is all emotions when she is like this. Here. It is almost cute to watch.

- Don't want you to be alone, Lou.

He finishes both their teas and turns to the table, sitting on a chair while passing her the tea he made exactly the way she likes it.

- Then, I won't. I’ll marry a man who knows how I take my tea, my coffee and my alcohol and knows when to make which.

She laughs loudly and in her laugh, he can taste her goodbye. She looks happy like this, in the soft morning light. Well-rested and present. He will make this one chuckle his souvenir for harder days. If they had nothing else, they had this. It's more than enough for Louis.

- Promise me you will go on romantic dates by the moonlight.

They both giggle now.

- Oh yes, mom.

Louis confirms it ironically as he raises his teacup for a toast. His mother joins him.

- May the full moon heal us all.

She is smiling again, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her laugh this time is almost not there. It is as if she is beginning the passage to her mind palace again. Louis will let her go. In a second. He isn't ready yet; just needs her here for a moment longer.

- Will you, mom? Be lonely?

- Oh, Louis…

There are pinches of sadness in her eyes, but they almost disappear in the sea of condescendence. She looks at him as if she is the queen of loneliness and he is nothing but a peasant in her kingdom. She may be right. Those blue eyes, so similar to his own, judge him for his stupidity in asking a question whose answers he cannot understand. Maybe his mother's kingdom is her mind. The loneliness fortress. Louis feels pressured to bow and apologize, wishing a long life to the queen. The coldness he prepared himself for is not what he receives, though. When she speaks again, her voice is tender and loving. A mother teaching her son a lesson; giving him life advice. Louis is avid.

- You know, your grandfather used to say that living is like licking honey off a thorn.

- I see…

- There's always pain and pleasure, Louis. It's through the wounds that the light enters you.

- You already have enough light, mom.

He thinks twice before complementing his phrase. His motivation to do so is the uncertainty about when will he see her again. The uncertainty about whether she will see him then.

- Time to lick the honey and heal those fucking wounds.

There's no anger in his voice. He speaks as calmly and as affectionately as she did. It is the only way she will absorb anything he's saying. He knows she hasn't healed, he can tell by how sad she is. He doesn't know about the causes, though; not enough. She always kept her cards close to her chest, her locked treasure chest, when it comes to topics that truly matter. Beyond that, there are too many traumatic experiences to choose from. All Louis knows is that something is not right. She is hurt and her pain radiates. Louis fears that by licking her wounds alone, she is simply keeping them open; prolonging the suffering. He wished she would have let him help. He wishes for the key to her impenetrable mind kingdom so he could help the queen fight off the dragon and face her feelings, healing in a happy ending. Louis, the dedicated peasant; the brave knight; the loving son.

She keeps looking at him for a moment. Nine heartbeats pass. She finishes her tea with an approving nod and delicately sets the teacup on the table. A small smile appears.

- Life is too short to spend it at war with yourself, Lou.

She then proceeds to slowly lay back, like she usually does, tilting the kitchen chair until it hits the wall behind her. At this inclined angle, she takes both her feet off the ground. Eyes closed. A dangerous habit, in Louis' father's opinion. Louis wished his father had taken all his opinions with him when he left. Instead, he left them all floating around the house like ghosts haunting the already abandoned. Double penance is always unjust. Objectively, it is a dangerous position. The chair may slip anytime. Somehow, they both know it won't.

- So you just let it go?

She nods. Close-eyed, inclined, foot off the floor.

- You empty yourself and let the universe fill you.

Although it really isn't, it sounds prophetic. It sounds deep. Sitting here, now, with her, it feels like Louis received a life philosophy. And an instruction. It must be the warmth or the soft morning light. Again, Louis feels that inexplicable coziness. An subt pleasure coming from somewhere undetectable. The serenity bubble is back, yay! Louis watches his mother for a long moment: close-eyes, inclined, foot off the floor, relaxing. He feels tempted to do the same. The wall behind him must be at approximately the same distance that his mother's chair is from the opposite wall. It's going to work. Louis lays back until his chair hits the wall. Trusting the warm feeling in his belly, he takes his foot off the floor. He tilts his head back. Only then, he closes his eyes. He starts breathing slower, deeply. You empty yourself and let the universe fill you. It feels like she confided to him the secret he begged for all his life. Finally. It's like she handed him a key. It feels perfect. In the kitchen silence, Louis feels like they are meditating. Together.

He can't tell for how long they stayed like that, immersed in a pleasant soft haze, but when Louis hears the doorbell ring, it is like he was waiting for it for a long time. Hoping and longing for it. Without knowing - or maybe knowing it deep down inside - that sound is everything he ever wanted. He opens his eyes as quickly as he can. He feels finally awake. Ready. His mother, on the other hand, does not acknowledge the doorbell, which is strange. The sound usually acts as an alarm, as a whistle, capturing her back to reality. She even answered the door before. Not anymore, though. Louis wonders if she just got tired of answering the door to undesirable guests or to anyone who’s not his father. He wonders if she’s so deeply traumatized to never go to their front step again; speculates if that’s why she always uses the backdoor while leaving silently to her shifts at the hospital in the middle of the night. Quietly, alone, in the dark. The perfect opposite of the departure of the loud, unforgettable man who’s never coming back. Unlike his mother, Louis does not hold any grudge towards their front door and the small space of concrete and wood only gains his attention in the few moments when the food delivery arrives. Then, and only then, Louis gets as far away from the front door as he possibly can. Now, though, he only wants to get closer.

His chair hits the floor with a thump and he stands up as a lightning. That seems to get his mother's attention as she delicately lets her own chair hit the kitchen floor and looks at him with curious eyes. He can't help but laugh. Her eyes morph from doubt to concern. He somehow understands, only now, that the sound of the doorbell is also the sound of freedom. As he begins to leave the table, her eyes grow larger and she tries to reach him, stretching her arm without standing up, trying to hold him back one last time while still ignoring the wonderful, wonderful sound. Her voice drips with a concern Louis wished to hear for many years. He barely notices it now.

- Louis, where are you going?

Louis does not have an answer. It should worry him and it would, if it wasn't for the passionate feeling that he simply has to go. The sooner, the better. He already waited too long for it.

- Out.

He feels like running. He is already out of the kitchen when he softly hears her murmur, sounding way more distant than it actually is.

- Lou, just promise you’ll eat something.

He doesn't have time to think about it now. Not now. As he starts to climb up the stairs to his room the doorbell seems to be getting more incessant, as eager as he is. He decides, then, that there is no need for wallets nor phones. Unimportant details. All he needs to do is get to the front door. He turns all the way around from one step to the next and climbs down the stairs in a blink of an eye. He flies by the kitchen and is just about to reach the living room hallway when his right foot gets stuck beneath a fake persian carpet his father left behind. The carpet is extremely tacky, clearly a knock off, and Louis always avoided stepping on it when he was younger, as if it was too ugly to deserve to be a part of young Louis' path. Young Louis was wiser. Louis should have followed his rules. Now, with a foot stuck in an ugly left-behind carpet, Louis trips. He tries to balance his weight and before he knows it, he is falling. Backwards. It is not beautiful. The fall lasts a total of two embarrassing seconds. The part of his body that first makes contact with the floor is the top of his head. It hurts. He can hear the loud thump his head makes when it hits the floor and that is all he hears for a while.

When he comes back to his senses, he comes back to only part of his senses. Firstly, his eyes are closed. No sight. Secondly, he can't hear a thing. He feels like his ears are clogged, as if he is stuck in a soundless bubble in the middle of his living room floor. No hearing. After discarding the possibility of being dead - he must spare the world from the impossibility of recovering from the loss of a wonder boy like Louis Tomlinson - he gives himself a couple more seconds to enjoy this limbo post-fall before opening his eyes. There's the living room ceiling. Hey, living room ceiling. It's your boy, Louis. Nice. He isn't dead yet. No persian knock-off carpet can kill him easily like this. Maybe a Versace can try next time. Louis snorts. It's all funny. His fall must have been hilarious to watch. If it had been recorded, Louis would already be famous on Youtube. The falling celebrity. Oh, the pleasures of having a shitty dad that leaves his shitty carpets behind. Louis snorts again. It should hurt everywhere, or at least on his head, but all Louis feels is an uncontrollable desire to laugh. So he does. Loudly. His laugh is the first sound he hears after the terrible thump between his head and the floor. Isn't life wonderful? Look at that upgrade. Started from the bottom, now he's - well, still at the bottom, literally lying on the floor. Louis laughs harder. Everything's funny. It all feels lighter, simpler. Even his laugh sounds lovely to him. And as if things couldn't get any better, he hears it. The doorbell rings again and the sound is prettier than his own laugh. Once again, it feels long expected and freeing. Louis stands up immediately, glares at the ugly carpet and rushes to the front door. The doorbell rings once again before Louis reaches it, seeming just as eager as he is.

When he gets to it, he doesn't take his time to fix his hair nor to catch his breath and just opens the door, ready to greet whoever is on the other side. When his eyes land on his guest though, his welcoming words die on his lips and Louis doubts his ability to elaborate sentences altogether. Louis might as well have forgotten everything. Everything but this private universe, looking at him with wide, scared eyes from his front door. Staring at the boy in front of him, Louis feels as if everything he has ever lost came back to him. Everything he sees, everything he smells; the height, the curls, the now gentle smile and the green, green, green eyes, so kind and confident. In front of Louis, stands a boy who must be a king. It is, without a doubt, so much more than Louis could ever deserve. The boy, looking just as intrigued as Louis, beams and blinks slowly, seems to be carefully choosing what to say. Feeling eager, Louis beats him to it. The king's name flows out of Louis' mouth with immense tenderness. It is already Louis' favourite name; Louis' suspects it always has been.

- Hey, Harry.

Louis' voice seems to bring the boy back from his state of reverence and absolutely bliss. As his eyes uncloud, Harry has the courtesy to look shy, even if it is just for a fraction of a second.

- Hey, Lou.

And, without missing a beat:

- Have you eaten yet?

Louis rolls his eyes immediately.

- Oh, not this again, curly. I thought you were taking me somewhere special.

- And I am. Right after breakfast.

The way Harry smiles after sassing Louis, like he is somehow proud of his ridiculous answer, brings a matching smile to Louis' face. Standing still, focused on Louis, Harry's eyes shine with unbreakable certainty that he is the only person in the world capable of convincing Louis to do something he refuses. Harry clearly thinks he can persuade Louis into, essentially, anything. Louis would mock him for it, if he wasn't so dangerously close to the truth.

Louis is about to answer when his mother's voice pierces through his ears like a disturbing alarm clock, waking him up from the dream that is Harry.

- Louis, are you still there? What was that noise?

The last thing Louis needs is for his mother to disturb this wonderful, wonderful exchange or, even worse, somehow destroy Harry's very secret, special plans. Harry is for Louis' eyes only. No one but Louis gets to experience this private, breathtaking universe that is Harry, Louis' king. Directing his attention back at Harry's face, Louis sees a small trace of wariness passing through his eyes. Quick. Fleeting. It would be impossible for anyone else to notice, but Louis is nothing if not a Harry specialist. His boy looks tense. As Louis easily tracks his mother's voice as the source for Harry's tension, the boy seems to be getting more and more insecure, suddenly deeply interested in his own shoes. And that just won't do. Louis would burn London to the ground if that was what it would take to make the boy smile. The easiest decision Louis ever took was leaving the house, silently shutting the front door, and grabbing Harry's hand, pulling him away from the doorstep. Unapologetic, Louis feels free.

When the sun hits Harry's hair, in all its chestnut glory, as soon as they leave the covered porch, Louis feels a tightness in his chest, the good type of tightness. He is so lucky it is unfair. His hand is still holding Harry's; Harry who has been a constant in Louis' life. Louis' compass star. They are always so in sync, Louis suspects Harry might as well be a mind reader. He hasn't managed to test this theory yet. Harry knows everything there is to know about Louis - well, almost everything; the good, the bad and the ugly - and not only stuck around, but still acts as if Louis is the most fascinating sight he has ever seen. Like Louis is a complex puzzle or a renaissance painting that deserves attention and worshiping. Harry acts like Louis hasn't lost his charm after all those years, like Louis hasn't become dull. He makes Louis feel cared for, putting a stop to the loneliness. He makes Louis feel real. Alive. And is there anything more marvellous than finding someone who makes you feel alive? Louis is so lucky it is unfair. All these thoughts are not something Louis is just realizing now while he admires the sunlight hitting Harry's mop of hair in just the right way. It's something he always knew, part of who he is. He would have exploded if he didn't have Harry. Harry slipped under his skin, invading his mind and seizing his heart a long time ago; there's pretty much nothing he can do about that now. It was inevitable and permanent. That is probably the only thing in the universe that he and Harry haven't discussed and may also be the only blind spot to Harry's - thank God - flawed mind reading skills: how catastrophically in love with Harry Louis is. Harry doesn't suspect which is great since his pity will probably kill Louis and in the great scheme of things, it doesn't matter. There's no need for a happy ending if he is happy right now. Really. It will pass. Louis is already getting more than he deserves with the whole best-friends-for-life deal. When he first looked at Harry standing by the door, he felt as if they were old friends who have just then met. As if everything is both new and familiar; exciting and comfortable. There's no risking this kind of connection. Also, with the exception of the whole catastrophically in love thing, Harry feels the same. Louis just knows it. He also makes Harry feel alive. Young. Loved. It's his pleasure. So, Louis will deal with the extra feelings himself. For the rest, Louis just accepts. He learned that magic like this cannot be explained, only experienced.

While they pass towards the small, abandoned garden in front of Louis' house, Louis decides to share his triumph on making the perfect escape and saving their plans for the rest of the day. Louis realizes then, turning on his side to get a better look at Harry, that wide green eyes have followed Louis' every move cautiously since the piercing sound of his mother's calling. Now, they seem particularly fixated on Louis' hand, in the space where their fingers are tightly tangled. For no easily explainable reason, finding apprehension where he expected to find excitement makes Louis deeply irritated. Secretly, it makes him slightly apprehensive as well.

- Are you going to be looking this shitty the whole time? You in pain, mate?

Harry's eyebrows shoot up his hairline as he frees his hand and turns his whole body to Louis. He seems affronted by Louis' tone and while he makes no effort in hiding his exasperation, Harry still chooses to answer as diplomatically as the best world leaders probably should.

- I simply believe it is polite to answer our parents when they ask us questions. She seemed worried.

He enunciates every word slowly, like Louis is a stubborn child that does not understand the lesson he is being taught. Louis does not appreciate it in the slightest and narrows his eyes in a way he hopes will make Harry realize he is entering a dangerous zone.

- Is that what they taught you at your posh school for boys with good manners?

Harry takes his time considering his answer and takes a deep breath before, with eyes focused on Louis, drawling:

- Actually, yes. Yes, it is.

Harry still sounds offended, but now also seems serious. Very serious. It is only then that Louis realizes that maybe he is not making a joke. Maybe he is, in fact, telling the truth. Louis' laugh comes out as brash as he wished it did. Oh, the perks of being loud, loud, loud.

- Oh, fuck! You actually went to one of those fancy boarding schools, right? Those shitty pretentious ones? Where they teach you the right way to pee, the correct way to… to fold your sheets? The proper way to fuck?

Louis notices that Harry is - adorably, if he may say so himself - blushing and pouting simultaneously. That just won't do. Louis decides to change strategies.

- Stop pretending you aren't glad I didn’t answer her.

That, somehow, is what makes Harry smile. He smiles in disbelief; probably surprised at the brashiness, at the cockiness of Louis' tone, probably surprised at how perfectly well Louis knows him. Still, it is a smile. Louis counts it as a win. Deep down his heart murmurs dumbly: "it would destroy me to have you just a little".

- From now on, curly. I'm gonna teach you how to survive in the streets. All gangster and shit. Wanna learn how to be a bad boy, yeah?

Harry does not answer, simply stares at Louis with eyes shining and mouth apparently stuck in a lopsided-smile. He also does not move, Louis realises.

- Oh my god, you've got so much to learn. Come on, curly. Take me somewhere special. We don't have all the time in the world.

With that, the smile Louis knows Harry saves only for him appears. The king is smiling his Louis-smile before muttering, in a low but sure voice:

- Yeah, we do.

❥

As they begin to leave Louis' front yard, Louis takes his time admiring the autumnal weather and, in the distance, he sees his favorite tree and the pile of fallen leaves it creates every year, strategically placed next to his bedroom window. In another life, he could be a spy whose specialty is escape. Undetectable. Harry doesn't really approve of Louis' method of getting out of the house, but that's probably because he's too scared to jump. Poor baby never makes the most out of those long legs of his. Silly. The autumn wind blows Louis' fringe out of his eyes as he turns back around and takes in the view in front of him.

The street Harry takes, the one Louis has not set foot on in such a long time, looks different than he remembers somehow. As they stroll through it, Louis wonders - although he is far too aware of his reasons - why he does not savor his mornings this particular way. His AM hours are mostly dedicated to unconsciousness, spent either in a marijuana haze or under bed sheets, dreaming of somewhere far away. Now, those untouchable fantasies, whose existence Louis still has trouble admitting to himself, seem so close he can almost taste it. In this windy and warm weather, in a street in the middle of nowhere, Louis feels like he has finally arrived. Where? He does not know.

Louis' eyes inspect his surroundings, as far as they can reach, only to confirm what he already knows: he and Harry are the only ones here. His mother probably chose - as much as poor people can in fact choose anything - such a remote part of town as an attempt to keep Louis' dad further away from his usual temptations. Obviously, addictions are way more tricky than that. As a result, Louis' childhood was dedicated to exhaustingly trying to keep the same blank, tedious scenario interesting. Alone, Louis had to keep creating ways to transform the rough, violent neighborhood into the perfect stage for his last superhero story; for the newest adventure of his courageous and lonely knight. There has never been a doubt, nor then nor now: Louis only had himself. Himself and his rich rich creativity, the only trait he genuinely appreciates. He may be kind of bratty, sure, a little stubborn and probably better described as an apocalypse rather than a boy, but his imagination has always been impeccable. He would not have made it so far without it.

Still, indifferent to Louis' power, there was always reality. Always unbeatable, always invincible. Ruthless. The real world, the most damaging villain to any story Louis could ever put together, used to crush his each and every dream. And, as Louis snaps back to reality, he is surprised to be unexpectedly faced with one of his most notorious childhood enemies. It is no wonder why he does not take this particular street anymore. Tall and proud stands the bar where Louis' father drank his livers away. Louis has its faded out colors and its crooked sign forever burned in the back of his eyelids. Could easily draw it to its minimal details after so much time spent staring at it angrily, urgently pleading for his father to pop up through the bent entrance door. Mini Louis learned, through his mother's words, that the bar was slowly killing his father. Louis would think of it as a greedy monster, a gradual killer that, not satisfied with its slow murderer, would spit out, at the end of the day, an angry, violent man, unrecognizable to Louis. The silly thought that the bar had been listening to his whole daydreaming monologue scares him for a second, as if it would follow Louis wherever he went, only to prove to him that it is still there. Still stronger than him, still invincible, still more deserving of his father's attention.

During his childhood, Louis determined that such a powerful enemy required Louis' most powerful weapon: his angry stare. With a scowl, Louis would spend hours glaring at the bar, trying to make it either disappear or throw up his father, whatever came first. Now, as if the last ten years have never existed, Louis feels tempted to do the same. He is sure that his angry eyes must have gotten pretty intense with age. Maybe now, the hideous building would finally explode. Louis has barely begun turning his head to the left, when Harry's voice calls him by his right.

- Don't even look at it, Lou.

Louis was not planning on looking at Harry. Actually, the plan was disobeying Harry's advice altogether and taking his chances against the bar. He was pretty confident in his improved angry-stare abilities. It is the wind that changes everything, bringing a smell to Louis that he simply cannot ignore. He was already preparing himself for the smell of beer a couple of meters ahead, closer to the bar, added to the pungent smell of spilled alcohol, old cigar smoke and piss, the same classical foundation of every shitty pub. Instead, what he smells is magnificent. For a split of a second, it feels new, different from everything Louis has ever felt before, unique. Immediately after, he remembers how familiar it is; remembers how he has always known this smell, how it has followed Louis his whole life, always present in his favourite dreams. In his head, it received the label "Harry's smell" and Louis has never tried to describe it any further, knowing how pointless it would be. Louis spends more time than he cares to admit wishing he had the abilities of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, if only to eternalize such treasure. For Louis, Harry's smell is simple: it smells simply of love.

Turning his head slowly towards Harry's voice, Louis decides right then and there that he absolutely needs to write an ode to the wind, or poetries, or sonnets, if it is going to keep ruffling Harry's hair like that. Harry is looking straight ahead, with a serious expression, probably due to their growing proximity to the bar. For once, Louis is glad that Harry is not retributing his looks, is glad that his glances are one-sided and that Harry does not see Louis' expression of wonder while examining the boy's profile. Louis' eyes, helplessly sincere when faced with whatever kind of hurricane is Harry Styles, would give too much away. Harry looks like an out of place lion, on his way to conquer the world like it did not already belong to him. The wind keeps tangling Harry's brown mane, creating a messy frame for his masterpiece of face. Louis needs to take him to windy places more often or at least came up with a strategy to admire him without getting caught. Harry's smile is growing slowly, morphing itself into a debauched grin, but all Louis sees are curls, curls and curls.

- I'm considering cutting it, you know?

Harry's smug tone makes Louis sure that he knows exactly where Louis' thoughts were, all tangled up in that mess of a hair. Louis decides he does not care. Morphing his expression from fondness to annoyance, Louis answers him with the exact amount of distaste that the absurd proposition requires.

- Harold, that is simply unacceptable.

Harry simply laughs, unbothered, like he has not just made a deadly threat to Louis' mental health. He starts walking a couple of steps ahead and Louis suspects that the little swing on his hips is completely unnecessary, serving the only purpose of making Harry's hair move more. Harry turns his head slightly, coyly, making sure that Louis' eyes are still on him, like they would ever be anywhere else. Harry loves the attention, but is too shy to openly ask for it. From Louis, he will never need to ask. Considering all the range of addictions Louis had to face in life - his love for destruction, his father's alcoholism, his mother's obsession with a love she did not own -, Louis supposes that being addicted to Bambi legs does not seem so bad.

Harry's loud laugh, barking in the silence, snaps Louis out of his reverie. Louis quickly understands that the laugh - now, a giggle - is due to Harry almost tripping over his own feet. As Louis' smile begins to grow in realization, Harry's laugh starts again. He is such a dork, Louis thinks, laughing adorably, with silky curls bouncing on his shoulders. In the morning light, in an empty street, Louis realizes he feels happy. Harry is not a bad addiction at all.

- I won't cut it, if you don't want me to.

Harry says, still smiling, and that is way better. Hope flashes into Louis' chest on the thought of getting to admire - or, maybe, if he is lucky, even touch - the most beautiful hair on the most beautiful boy. Louis is about to ironically thank Harry for being considered in such an important decision when Harry adds up:

- All you have to do is say that you like it long, like a lion's mane.

Louis' laugh gets as loud as Harry's. Still, he replies indignant:

- Shut up, you do look like a lion.

- Yeah, I know you think that.

- But not like the king of the forest type of thing, not the big, strong, scary ones. You're like... a lion cub!

- Uhm, I see. And you're like a bear cub, you know, right? Boobear.

Louis almost squeals.

- That's a forbidden word and you know it, Styles.

Harry's smile is slow and defiant.

- Just used it.

- Oh, is that right?

- Yeah, I guess so... boobear.

- I'll tell you what's going to happen, curly: I'm gonna give you three seconds to start running. I know it will be hard with all your Bambi coordination and shit, but try not to fall, yeah? When I catch you, I'm gonna tickle you. Hard. Until you beg for my forgiveness.

Harry's eyes widen momentarily, but he strongly tries to keep his impassiveness. He changes his almost perfect straight face to one of disdain, raising one eyebrow.

- I'm not ticklish.

- One.

Harry lets out a laugh that can be better described as a desperate bark and starts running, as clumsy as ever.

Louis takes his time to start running, choosing to give Harry some advantage while simultaneously admiring him from a distance. In the morning light, Harry's mop of hair turns to a light brown shade, perfectly matching the whole view around them. Harry seems to perfectly match Louis' whole life. Remembering the lonely times, alone with his imagination, Louis thinks that Harry may be the piece that was always missing. His own perfect puzzle piece. In the same old street, Louis reevaluates: maybe this is a good place to be, a place that belongs only to him and Harry. As Harry turns around, with stars in his eyes, Louis, who never felt safe before, feels protected, secure, warm. Maybe this is what happiness feels like.

It is only when they turn right in a street Louis swears he has never seen before, Louis too invested in chasing Harry down, that Louis realizes he has not even seen the bar pass them by. It feels wonderful. Louis feels free. Through this new road, they go.

❥

Louis does not know how long it takes until they reach the chalet, all he knows is that he lost himself in a Harry haze throughout the way. Harry kept him entertained with stories about his childhood filled with really lame jokes - it does not matter if Harry calls them "the best of humour", they were simply horrible - and complained to Louis about a book he really wants - "need, Lou" - to read but can never find. Harry presented his opinion on the most diverse topics, from antique literature to advancing technology, from the valentine days' industry to viable actions on climate change, always laying his political views on the table, unashamed. He also spent a long time narrating to Louis, with the utmost fondness, the last adventures of his disobedient cat, named Cat. Louis was enamoured. This talkative, opinionated Harry just adds another depth to the boy who already owns his heart. It's everything he has always known, everything he has always wanted, but it always feels new somehow. Still intriguing. Captivating.

Louis knows that Harry does not have this kind of space anywhere else; a space to simply expose his points of view, being able to talk about whatever topic he chooses to, without being interrupted. Harry is a shy, self-conscious boy. Louis is all ears.

- So, the bakery is going to be a thing, then. Are you excited?

- Yeah, kind of. It's like a job, really. It was my dad's idea since... all the free time.

And, okay, they are going there, then.

- You do not have free time, Harold.

Louis knows pretty well about Harry's exhausting routine, filled with appointments and classes and events, no time to rest. The boy doesn't exactly spend his days chilling by his house.

- Well, I'm not going to college, am I?

Harry takes a deep breath then and Louis decides to let the silence comfort him before making a comment. He could go to college. He really could. Harry speaks again before the silence or Louis can do anything about his mood.

- I am not bitter.

Harry says it bitterly, with a bitter expression. Louis decides to let this one go.

- So, you're going to be a baker.

Harry rolls his eyes at the same time he lets out a small smile. It's slightly endearing.

- It's an internship, Louis.

- Yeah, an internship to become a baker.

It's Louis' turn to roll his eyes. Harry doesn't complain. Good. Harry's learning.

They keep on walking as Louis begins to imagine Harry surrounded by bakery goods. He imagines Harry charming all the customers and actually learning how to bake, donuts and croissants and cakes, cheeks dirty with flour. Louis imagines Harry's mop of curls contained by a small hair net, curls escaping everywhere, and imagines Harry in a cute apron, which leads to imagining Harry in nothing but his cute apron and this is an extremely dangerous road for his thoughts to take, a road that should never be encouraged or even acknowledged. As a decent man, Louis will only allow himself to explore it later, respecting the perfect day he's sharing with Harry until he reaches the privacy of his own bedroom. See? Noble. Honorable. And desperately eager. Only then, alone in his bed, Louis will allow himself to get lost in a mess of flour and sugar and curls. Urgently deciding to stop his train of thought, Louis comments:

- Bread is so fucking good, man, I could probably eat an entire bakery in 20 minutes or less.

Harry has a cocky smile on his face when he answers, his voice a long-drawn-out murmur.

- I know. I wish you would.

Little bitch.

- I'm not gonna respond to your insult, Harold, which means what I wanted to say was too mean and I decided to let you live.

Harry laughs out loud.

- Well, thank you, your highness.

- Don't make me regret it, Bambi.

Harry has the decency to laugh a little quieter this time.

The more they walk, the warmer it gets and Louis feels on the verge of breaking a sweat, which he never does. Never. The autumn weather gets increasingly more comfortable to the point where Louis can pretend this is almost summer. Considering how cold his fingers always are - "little ice sticks" - and how his cheeks hurt to the point of turning pink with the cold wind, summer is like paradise to Louis. His favorite season, no doubt. In the middle of nowhere with Harry, they share an almost summer. It's perfect.

It takes Louis by surprise that his brain is really considering this place as the middle of nowhere. Louis looks around trying to spot exactly where they are, but the whole scenery is absolutely strange to him. They are still relatively close to Louis' home and still he's not sure he's ever been here before. Harry usually mocks Louis' abilities on remembering directions - "aren't bear cubs supposed to come with a good sense of direction? Doesn't it get dangerous for you and your other bear siblings in the woods?" - so Louis refuses to ask. The only thing left to do is to return his attention back to Harry.

- We should rob the bakery.

Harry's eyes shine but he scolds his expression pretty well. Louis is impressed.

- We're not gonna rob the bakery, Louis.

- Oh, right. What I meant was you should rob the bakery as I wait for you in my bed, resting, and then after you should give me all the profits of your looting.

Harry's smile is slow.

- You'll be waiting for me in bed, then?

Louis is sure he turns red. Purple. Harry doesn't comment.

- Shut up, you perv.

Harry laughs and Louis isn't back on earth yet when, after a small shared silence, Harry adds:

- You know, you've got to be the only one who knows who I really am.

Louis can't really focus on anything after that.

- I wanna thank y-

- It's my pleasure, curly. Really. Always.

And Louis can't really focus on anything but Harry after that.

So it is no wonder why Louis does not know how long it takes them to get to their destination, does not know which streets they took, who they crossed on the street. All Louis knows is that they arrived. Surrounded by tall trees, at the top of a small hill, stands a brown and red chalet; made out of wood, with wide windows, a chimney and an inviting door. It seems like a cozy and quiet place, charming. The sign reads "Whipped: books, coffee & music". Only Harry would bring him here. It is probably the place where wonderful, rare, quiet kids like him reunite. Maybe it is their headquarters.

Harry looks at Louis excitedly:

- Shall we?

Vaguely, Louis wonders how is it possible that this beautiful, beautiful place exists so close to his house, at walking distance at least (since time has a thing for getting pretty relative and confusing when he's with Harry), and he has never seen it before. It feels surreal. He internally curses the fact that he will have to ask Harry for the directions later. His sense of direction is perfectly fine, thank you, his pride after that though may not be.

He pushes the door right after and Louis is hit with the amazing smell of coffee, pastries and new books, all combined. The place, even busy, remains quiet. There is a huge wood counter and a staircase leading to the second floor, where rows of bookshelves are lined up, organized by genres. From where Louis can see, there is still a third floor, but its display is hidden from view. The coffee bar is warm and elegant, of utmost coziness. It is exactly the place where Harry would feel at home and if it makes Harry feel good, Louis approves it.

While Louis examined the place, finding more details to add up to the quirkiness of the place, Harry got himself in line to order. The clerk gives them only one menu to choose from and they both share it. Louis' illusion that Harry understands that there is no way Louis will be eating anything is shattered when Harry starts ordering enough breakfast food for a batallion.

- We'll have the breakfast special, two, please. With pancakes. Two mochas and french toast with strawberry jelly.

- I. Do. Not. Like. Jelly.

Louis intentionally enunciates it. Angrily. The only response he gets is a simple "You tell me stuff like I don't already know them" and no further explanation, no attempt to change their order. Louis is livid. Harry insists on paying for it all, leaving Louis with nothing else to do but wonder why on earth there are dollars on the small tip box instead of british pounds. He assumes it is made on purpose, aiming to enhance the place's eccentricity while still keeping it classy. As Harry gets his credit card, Louis catches the clerk eyeing Harry weirdly, even if only for a second. Louis expected this unconventional coffee to be the last place on earth where Harry would be judged. He does not have a clue about what the clerk may find even the slightest bit threatening about Harry, with his doe eyes and sweet smile. Maybe it is his long and somewhat tangled hair, paired with his light pink polished nails. Maybe she can see, as much as anyone else in the room can, the way Louis looks at Harry. As if Harry should be worshipped, as if Harry hung the moon and stars in the sky. Louis likes to think he looks at Harry exactly the way Harry deserves to be looked at; he is extraordinary, the best, exceptionally wonderful. Maybe the clerk is just a homophobe. Thankfully, Harry does not seem to notice; simply collects his receipt and turns around, immediately holding Louis' hand. Before Louis can overthink it, Harry starts to delicately pull Louis further into the room. Holding Harry's hand, Louis feels like he is sliding sunshine into his pocket.

As they infiltrate the chalet, Louis notices that the quirkness of the decor continues, exactly how he imagines Harry will decorate his own house in the future. Louis deeply hopes he gets a chance to see that for himself someday. The thought makes his stomach flutter. There are vinyl records decorating the walls; only the best, Zeppelin, The Clash, The Doors, The Smiths. To their left, a whole wall dedicated to a spray painted art of David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust form. Louis cannot stop trying to take it all in. As they reach the bottom of the staircase, Harry turns around.

- Wanna show you upstairs.

Harry says it with a look that probably translates to "wanna show you everything". Louis absolutely adores it. Louis looks behind himself quickly, suddenly curious to see if the clerk is still eyeing Harry weirdly. Harry must confuse it with hesitation, must believe that Louis is worried about their order being called without them being around, because he quickly says:

- Oh, don't worry, Lou. They gave me this pager.

Harry shows him a small plastic box. It's black with some red dots.

- It's going to start vibrating and lighting up when the food's ready. It's how they do around here, so that the place stays quiet.

Oh.

- Oh. Nice. Does it work upstairs?

- Yeah, always does. And they have my number, anyway, but my phone's not really- Yeah, the pager always works just fine.

Louis feels a light, unjustifiable, ping of jealousy. He does not have Harry's cellphone number. Maybe the clerk was checking Harry out because she is interested. Louis can sympathize. He understands, probably better than anyone else in the world, the infinity of details, the constellation of freckles and all the smiles that make Harry splendidly attractive. Louis gets it. Harry, though, is still looking at him fixedly, trying to make sense of Louis' expression.

- What's with the face?

- I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

First, Harry gapes at him. Then, he blushes to the tips of his ears, looking completely at loss for words. He eyes Louis curiously, like he is testing the veracity of the words. Whatever Harry finds makes him bite his lip slowly and lower his eyes to the floor, even shyer than before. Louis decides to save him.

- Don't fret it, curly. It's called a compliment, you know?

Harry furrows his eyebrows.

- But you think I'm a lion cub.

- You know that I think you're so much more.

Harry raises his eyebrows and, after once again confirming Louis' sincerity, looks exasperated.

- I can't believe you're gonna be like that here.

- What's the problem with being like that here?

- There are too many people around.

The implications of that answer make Louis dizzy with want. Louis can not move. Harry takes his time looking at him intently, seeming to be attentively memorizing the exact shade of Louis' eyes, the exact placement of his freckles. Louis does nothing but stay still. Harry takes a deep breath, still sounding slightly annoyed, and heads for the staircase, pulling Louis behind him. Louis has no choice but to follow.

The mahogany staircase takes Louis to the most charming bookshop Louis has ever put foot on. Harry stops them at the second floor, a mezzanine, that receives more sunlight than the coffee bar downstairs. Its pine shelves must contain at least a thousand books. Louis' eyes track the genre labels in each bookcase - poetry, philosophy, romance, drama, adventure -, trying to guess which one Harry is going to attack first, which one will Louis help him to explore. When he turns his head, ready to make his guess, he finds Harry already looking at him. The words escape his mouth before he can stop them:

- Thank you for taking me to your special place, H.

Harry's eyes soften.

- Oh no, Lou. Yeah, this place is special, sure, but it's not my special place. It's just the place we're going to eat.

Louis makes a disgusted face.

- And before you start complaining, my plan is to distract you with some really nice books until the food's ready and then, you will have no choice but to eat it all up.

Louis' face does not change.

- Unless you want me to force-feed it to you. I can get into that.

Harry's smile grows and he sounds so ridiculous. He says it like what Louis has is not alarming, like it is not a dangerous condition. He talks about it like Louis' terrible eating habits, if they can even be called that, are nothing but a private joke between them. And maybe now, in a charming coffee-book-music shop in the middle of nowhere, somehow it can be. Harry is smiling quietly, looking at him expectantly, like this is what he wanted Louis to get all along. Harry's eyes seem to hold all the reassurance Louis needs. Maybe it is indeed just a joke. It all feels like a story Louis keeps telling himself, "That's what the past is, Lou, just a story". A story he could stop, could refuse to tell, anytime he wanted. He has got to give it to Harry, he knows Louis better than anyone else.

- Now, if you're over your little internal monologue, would you please help me find some Bukowski?

Louis absolutely hates this boy.

❥

They start the exploration off together. Louis, an enthusiastic admirer, observes as Harry goes straight for the biography's section of the library. Louis' eyes follow Harry's hands pulling different titles out of the book rack; follow Harry's smile creeping in while he takes in the provocative book covers; follow Harry's eyebrows furrowing while he tries to fit every book to its correct place in the correct order, ever so polite. Instinctively, Louis feels like he would really like to keep following Harry anywhere. Absurdly, he knows he will. Each title taken off the shelf gets a singular, special reaction from Harry. Churchill's biography gets a look of slight aversion and concern. "Into the Wild" puts a flash of desire for adventure onto those green eyes. Alan Turing's biography fills those kind green eyes with such a warm tenderness that Louis feels, once again, as if Harry's soul is the same age as the universe. Harry radiates the type of soothing energy that can only be achieved by cute grannies, in their little aprons, baking some muffins on a cozy Sunday morning. He radiates this aura while packing a supermodel body and a masterpiece of a face. The boy is a mystery in itself. Apparently, "Lou Reed: Transformer" is the selected one and Harry gives Louis a small smile before turning around and proceeding to the price checker.

Instead of following him, Louis decides to take an alternative route. He cannot remember the last time he had the chance to be in such a fancy bookshop, tempted with so many good options for the next book to read, so close to the touch. He just has to make the most out of it. Louis keeps walking through the halls, fascinated with the different titles his eyes catch and that he can easily recognize, until he finds himself in front of the drama bookcase. Perfect. That's exactly where he was planning to go. It can be considered cliché, sure, and he was aware that he wasn't nearly as cultured as Harry, but what can he say? Sappy romances are simply a guilty pleasure that Louis won't deny himself. After one pause for appreciation, he starts exploring. Just like the others, this one is a perfectly organized book rack: in each shelf, all books in perfect condition; all the titles in alphabetical order. It is only when Louis spots "To Kill a Mockingbird" that the flashbacks start. They can be better described as childhood dreams, seeing that there can't be a flashback of something that never existed. Something that never got the chance to exist. Louis can see himself, years younger, before his family lost all their savings during the crisis, before his father found his shelter in the bottom of an empty bottle; before being forcefully taken to the middle of nowhere, abandoning friends, dreams and futures. Louis has always been poor, sure, but he was smart. Really smart. Book smart. Not only creative, bright. "The unprivileged part does not matter, Louis", one of his teachers said. "You're going to get a scholarship". Louis was supposed to go to King's College, one of the best. Louis used to admire the college's library from afar and could barely contain his excitement when he understood that soon, if he just kept being a good student, he would get the chance to experience it all. All the books, all the knowledge, everything he could ever dream of, all of it in the palm of his hand. Until this day, when the sun is almost rising and he's been up through the whole lonely night, Louis likes to pretend it's time for him to get ready; to put on his private school uniform; comb his hair; have his healthy breakfast with his loving mom and present dad and head up to that massive, now unreachable, library. At this point in the sunrise, he usually takes another drag on the night's tenth cigarette and waits for sleep to take him. Louis already accepted that the building's exterior design will always be fresh in his memories and that he will always be wondering about all the secrets that the King's College library will never reveal, at least, not to him. Now, lost inside this charming bookstore, he almost feels like he got a second chance. He will have to remember to thank Harry later.

Louis moves away from the drama bookcase - enough with the flashbacks - and slows down on his exploring, walking lazily through halls, trying to memorize the name of the authors he had never heard about and mentally selecting interesting titles he would have read in another life. His expedition leads him to a different bookcase, not only in color but also in style, separated from the others. The peculiar bookcase is completely painted in rainbow colors and carries a flashy sign on its top shelf: "Donation Bookcase: Spreading Knowledge & Poetry. Take one, it's free! (leave one if you can)". Well, Louis really can't leave one, he has nothing on him right now. But, isn't that amazing? Rainbow things are always the best things! Realizing that this was the perfect bookshelf for him, especially considering that he won't have to ask Harry to pay for him, Louis wastes no time in diving in all. This is just great.

❥

Louis may admit that he might, maybe, have lost track of time. And also lost track of Harry. But it's ok. In compensation, Louis managed to, simultaneously, find, in the rainbow section, the book Harry was looking for - "Love is a dog from hell" -, a book for himself - Stephen King's "Misery" - and explore the philosophy section. And lose track of Harry, sure, but still he deeply appreciates his efficiency. It's the time to find the lion cub, then.

It takes about 10 minutes for Louis to discard the idea that Harry is hiding from him on the second floor. Harry is slow, slower than him, and also too tall to fit behind the bookcases. Besides, that chestnut mop of curls would give him away in an instant. Louis starts to feel just a little anxious in the bottom of his stomach and he tells himself that it's silly and that Harry would never leave him behind like that. Harry is a gentleman, for Christ's sake. But even though Louis knows this on a rational level, it still feels like going through abstinence, like if without Harry around, Louis doesn't feel real enough. The feeling should probably worry Louis, but it just makes him needier to see Harry right away, knowing that once he does, everything will be ok. It is that desire that makes Louis return to the mahogany staircase and climb the stairs to the third floor. Not that he should be expecting anything different, but the third floor - the music one - is also breathtaking. Just as the bookstore's style on the second floor, the use of wood is of an impeccable taste. The main differences are the lower shelves, allowing a better view - at least for someone as tall as Louis - of the whole floor; the vinyl discs on the walls and the vinyl record players sitting on a counter by the window. By that counter, also stands Harry, closed-eyed and headphones on, and Louis can feel himself visibly relaxing, releasing all the air his lungs were desperately holding on to. There he is, his little lion cub. Louis' heartbeat changes its rhythm, as if the mere sight of Harry is capable of slowing it down, bringing it back to the sync only the two of them share. Louis wonders if Harry also feels synced. If he knows that Louis just entered the room. If he knows that Louis can't keep his eyes off of him. Louis hopes he does.

As Louis starts to approach the counter, without taking his eyes off of Harry, obviously, he notices something spectacular. Spectacular! He doesn't know if Harry needed it for examining the books earlier, he thinks that is probably why this masterpiece is standing before him, but the reason is the least important thing at the moment. Harry is wearing glasses. Full on hipster glasses. Really nerdy glasses. Oh my God. Isn't that just the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen? It makes Louis change his mind. He was going to offer Harry the book as an apology gift for disappearing in the bookstore. Now, seeing that Harry has abandoned his backpack a couple of feet away and that Harry is peacefully keeping his eyes closed like the world belongs to him - which, yeah, it does -, Louis goes for a surprise. He grabs a pen that is just lying atop of a shelf, opens "Love is a dog from hell" on its first page and starts writing. "Dear bambi, here's the fucking book you've been looking for. Hope your life is even more poetic than every cultured shit written in these pages. Thank you for showing up today. Also, thank you for wearing those glasses, I don't think I will ever recover. Honestly, I will never be the same". Louis stops writing, afraid that he will give too much away and that Harry may feel overwhelmed in a bad way. There wouldn't be enough paper in London for Louis to write everything he wants to say to Harry. He hasn't decided if this is a bad thing or not. Now, he starts to feel ridiculous, paralised in the middle of a music store, staring at Harry, wondering about his platonic (yeah, right) feelings, while contemplating what should be just a friendly note on a gifted book. He decides to give himself just one more paragraph: "We're on the same wavelength. We're connected that way, even if I'm away from you. L xx". Yeah, this is good. This is okay. When he finishes, he closes the book without looking at it twice and just drops it - together with the book he got for himself - into Harry's bag and it's all good to go. Time to annoy Harold. God, it's been so long.

Louis can't help himself from staring at Harry just a couple of seconds longer before startling him. Harry is standing really close to the window and on the outside, the sunlight is really warm, highlighting all of his colours. The chestnut of his hair. The pink of his cheeks. The red of his mouth. Louis misses the green. Harry's features are so close, his expression so relaxed; Louis feels as if he's visiting a museum and somehow tricked the guards to get a chance to admire their most beautiful piece all by himself. It feels like a private exhibition. Louis would make the museum run out of tickets. Looking at Harry now, Louis realizes that he, maybe, doesn't want to look at anyone else in the same way for a very long time.

- Aren't you just too beautiful for your own good?

Instead of cutely startling like Louis expected him to, Harry, while still keeping his eyes closed, just lets a small smile spread out across his face, like the sun rising, slowly, brightly. It's more damaging to Louis' heart than a bullet.

- Hey, Lou.

He still enunciates his words slowly, like he isn't in a charming coffee-book-music shop in the middle of nowhere. Harry speaks like he just woke up and isn't alarmed to find Louis there with him. Like Louis is allowed to see him at his most vulnerable state. Louis wouldn't mind the pleasure nor the privilege.

- How do you know it's me, love? I bet any guy; or girl, for that matter; in this place agrees with me on that one.... Just too beautiful.

Even if it feels like teasing, it is not teasing. Louis has no idea where he's getting all this courage to be so explicit about Harry's physical aspects like this. Probably it's just because Harry is keeping his eyes closed and it is making Louis feel brave. Or maybe it's just because Louis is a strong believer that Harry must feel beautiful every second of every day; beautiful and loved. Yeah, that's probably it. Louis is just the carrier of a consensual message from the world.

- Not interested - Close-eyed Harry says with so much confidence that it feels like he already knows where this bantering is heading.

- Oh yeah? But you haven't even seen them all. How do you know your soulmate is not just- Do you believe in soulmates? Someone who's your other half?

- Soulmates aren't just lovers, Louis - Harry says impatiently, like this is a topic that was teached through kindergarten and Louis was such an impressively lazy child that he managed to miss all the lessons. Louis is absolutely sure Harry even rolled his eyes. Louis is so offended. Also, what does that even mean?

- Of fucking course soulmates are lovers. That is a romantic word, Harold. It is not in a friendshippy kind of way. When it is about friends, you call it BFF, dumbass. Soulmate is about love.

Louis cannot explain why he feels all wrong with Harry rejecting his idea of soulmate. He feels misunderstood, something he has never felt when he is with Harry. Somehow, Harry defending that soulmates are about friendship translates to Louis' stupid heart that he and Harry are about friendship and… Ok. It doesn't matter. It is not about him and Harry, that's ok. Who even cares what Harry thinks? He will probably just end up marrying a super hot bikini model in the next 5 years. Dumb as fuck. Yeah, she can have his babies. All blond curls and shit. Yeah, super hot dumb blonde bikini model can be Harry's soulmate for all Louis cares.

Harry opens his eyes slowly, irritated, like this is a serious topic of conversation and he needs to make himself clear. Maybe for him, it is. Ok, maybe for Louis it is too.

- What I meant to say, Louis, is that soulmates aren't just lovers. They are the whole package. They are the friendship, they are the love. They are everything - Harry puffs when he finishes his sentence. He stares at Louis for one second longer than necessary and closes his eyes again.

Oh, okay. That's better. Louis can start breathing in a normal rhythm again while Harry goes back to his music paradise, closing his eyes. Well, at least they agree on that. That is good. Harry's eyebrows are still slightly furrowed so Louis decides to go back to the previous conversation, just to cheer him up, fill up the silence. What is Harry even irritated about? Christ.

- So, since we agree on that, who is to say your soulmate is not just hanging around here, somewhere really close?

- He is, but he's being an ass about it.

Louis' brain freezes. Harry on the other hand, seems way more relaxed, like he just won a game Louis wasn't aware they were playing. He also seems to be expecting some kind of reaction out of Louis and Louis gives all he can at the time, with a frozen brain and a boiling heart: jokes. Oh, Louis is nothing if not a professional at diversion.

- Hey! Who taught you that language, young boy?

Harry does not seem disappointed, but also does not respond. They stay in a loaded silence for a couple of minutes until Harry, in a lower voice, breaks it.

- Was thinking about you, you know. That's how I knew it was you.

Louis stays in silence.

- When you arrived earlier.

- So, whenever you think of me I show up? Is that it, curly? Am I that wrapped up around your finger?

Harry laughs for the first time in the last hour and something in Louis' chest untangles.

- Not exactly like that, no. But, ahm... I do have a theory.

- Let's hear it, Bambi.

- I never told anyone, though I think I should tell you.

- Getting curious over here - Louis wouldn't normally rush Harry. Louis knows he needs his own time to formulate all his ideas correctly, but this time he just has to know.

- It's basically: if I miss him hard enough, he will show up.

Louis stays quiet for a while. He knows exactly what Harry means.

- I think I really missed you today.

- Yes.

- More than anytime before.

- Yes.

More silence. It feels like a big moment, an important one. Louis feels it in his bones, in his heart; the weight of what they are discussing. At times like these, more than any other moment, Louis feels like their hearts have known each other forever and their minds are just now catching up.

- I will always show up for you.

- I know.

- Always.

Harry doesn't answer. Instead, he opens his eyes slowly and takes off his headphones. Instead of putting them back onto the counter, he takes two steps into Louis' way. It seems stupid, but that is enough to make Louis eager from head to toe. As he approaches Louis, he murmurs really low:

- Can I? Wanna show you a song. Wanna dedicate it to you, actually.

With the smallest hint of a nod, Harry puts the headphones into Louis' ears. The whole ambience sound of the coffee-music-book shop is gone. Louis is immersed in complete silence, except for Harry's voice, really close, closer than it has ever been, whispering: "It's going to start soon". Softly, the instrumental of "Pale Blue Eyes" fills the empty space. Harry is close enough to hear the music escaping from one side of the headphone and when Lou Reed's voice makes its first appearance, Harry's hands sit - slowly but surely - on Louis' waist.

Sometimes I feel so happy

Sometimes I feel so sad

Sometimes I feel so happy

But mostly, you just make me mad

Baby you just make me mad

Louis is completely involved by the music, by Harry's arms, by Harry's smell. Irrationally, he thinks "big hands, I know you're the one". Harry holds all of Louis now, completely glued to his body and starts to slowly sway them; Louis has never had a better first dance.

Linger on your pale blue eyes

Linger on your pale blue eyes

- You love it here. Why haven't you brought me here before?

Louis isn't bothered that Harry has not brought him to Whipped before. He is actually glad that he had the experience today, he wants to thank Harry in more ways than he can imagine and that right here is the problem. Louis only asked the question so he can give his brain something else to think about. Harry is standing too close, just too close; which is unacceptable. It's not only that Louis can feel the little curls bumping into the nape of his neck; nor it's the fact that all of Harry's torso is glued to his back. It's not only the smell; not the size difference. It's all of this combined, added up to the fact that Louis feels safe and he never feels safe. He loves the song; he worships the boy. He wants it too much, that's the problem. It's too dangerous, it's too much. He can never afford to lose Harry, he would go crazy. He feels like he might combust and delirious with desire, he whispers:

- Small in your hands.

Harry's body stutters, like he was going to act on Louis' words and decided against it on the last second. Louis has yet to decide how he feels about Harry's resistance. Harry holds Louis tighter and, instead of answering Louis' previous question, he just gives a small, small kiss, a peck, on the nape of Louis' neck. Louis combusts.

Thought of you as my mountaintop

Thought of you as my peak

Thought of you as everything

I've had, but couldn't keep

I've had, but couldn't keep

Louis tries to get his breathing under control, but it seems pointless. Harry stays completely still until the moment he lays his head down onto Louis'. Harry puffs after he does, like he is tired; like this is a demanding activity that is consuming all his self-control. Well, good. And as for Louis, he never felt like this before, he feels like a supernova, he feels greedy, he wants Harry all for himself. He's not tired, not at all. He wants to drown in everything that is Harry and if there's a small chance that Harry may want him back… Louis can barely finish the idea without getting so giddy he could explode. Louis tries to turn around suddenly and Harry holds him, restricting his movements. What is this? He tries again, harder, and Harry's grip just gets even more intense. Louis can feel Harry's breathing in the back of his neck and it's getting stronger; it's really distracting. Louis tries to turn around on last time and Harry nearly bends him against the counter, trying to stop the movement. There's no one near the vinyl records and they are probably the only ones on the third floor. No one is watching their interaction, if that's how Harry wants to call it. Still, as if to apologize for the passion of the movement - he did almost bend Louis in half - Harry rights them almost immediately. The first thought Louis has after being put on the vertical again is that he will probably jack off to this until the day he dies. The second thought is that maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe Harry made a mistake and now he does not know how to get out of it. Maybe that's why he is so strongly preventing Louis from turning around.

Linger on your pale blue eyes

Linger on your pale blue eyes

Before letting the cold that's beginning to grow in the bottom of his stomach consume all his body, preventing further rational thoughts, Louis has to try one last thing. Just one. Just to see how far can his imagination really go; maybe he even imagined the kiss. Wouldn't that be a disaster? Louis starts slowly, almost imperceptible, as if he's not even a little bit interested nor invested in their current position. Getting to the tip of his toes, Louis pushes his bottom backwards. Just a bit. Harry's reaction is immediate. He tightens his grip and leans forward. He starts to whisper at the base of Louis' ear. He sounds so worked up that Louis can't contain the shiver that runs through his whole body.

- I know what you're doing. You're like a combined mean angel and a kind devil.

Louis smirks. He doesn't care, right now, about the real meaning behind this. Even if Harry doesn't want him in the same way that he wants Harry, at least Harry wants him in some way. That's way more than enough. Yeah. He will think about that later. Louis is about to start his successful movement again - he knew it would work, yay! - when suddenly there is such an unexpected sensation that he almost screeches, scaring Harry in the process and jumping closer to the counter, away from Harry. The headphones hit the floor at the same time he leans into the counter. What the fuck?

When he turns around, still unsure of what happened, waiting for an explanation, heart beating fast, he finds Harry staring at the pager, looking as pissed as Louis has ever seen him. His cheeks are pinker than usual and his hair is all messy, eyebrows all furrowed. He looks amazing. When Harry catches Louis looking at him, his eyes soften.

- Hey, I'm... I'm sorry. Ahm... The food is ready. That's what you probably...Yeah, they are calling us, letting us know. So, the pager vibrated. Sorry for that. For... Well, all of that.

Harry turns really shy through the end of his sentence, like he is remembering his past actions as unacceptable and is deeply ashamed of them. His head starts to lower, looking more and more to his own feet. Louis can't stand it. He shouldn't push Harry's barriers. They are there for a reason. Harry is Louis' golden boy, his king, he never wants Harry to feel uncomfortable in his presence. Never. What was he even thinking? Harry is already turning around when Louis grabs his hand.

- Curly, hey. That's okay. It was my fault, you know. It won't happen again, promise.

Harry looks at him quizzically. Louis has no idea what he is thinking; they are not in sync right now and Louis hates it. Harry ends up giving him a sad smile.

- Food time, Lou.

- Hey, you know that just won't happen.

The rejection doesn't hurt as much as Louis thought it would. No, no. It hurts way more. He will cry about it during his Harry-free time. Now, all the efforts are directed to not making it awkward. If Louis doesn't fuck it up, Harry can still be his person. His special person. And go marry that dumb bikini girl. It's already way more than Louis deserves, anyway.

❥

When they get to the first floor, Harry, climbing down the stairs in front of Louis, turns around suddenly. He still looks sad, but now irritated, an angrier version of when he explained to Louis about his concept of soulmates. Louis is confused. Maybe he already fucked it all up. Thanks universe, it was an amazing ride.

- Let me know when you're ready to pay attention to me.

Harry's voice is so firm, not rude, but strict, that it interrupts Louis' mind flow. Now that he thinks about it, that was probably Harry's intention. As Louis begins to move his head slightly, to face Harry in the right way, he sees that the clerk from before, the one who is probably waiting for them to pick up their breakfast, starts to do the same; starts to stare at Harry.

- What the fuck is she looking at?

- I don't care.

Harry sounds impatient. Louis forgets about the clerk.

- I am paying attention to you.

- I am going to get us our breakfast. Could you please pick a table? I would like to talk to you, if you wouldn't mind.

He sounds so formal. So stiff. Louis hates it.

- Why are you talking like you're typing an email to your boss? What is the fuck with that, Harold? Yeah, I'll pick the table. Yeah, we'll talk. Stop acting like you're still in your posh boy school. I'm not your posh boy friend.

Harry gives a small smile.

- No, you're not.

With that, Harry turns around and heads for the counter, where the clerk was still fucking staring this whole time. She at least appears to be apologetic when Harry turns around. Louis wants to set her on fire. Instead, he heads up to the comfiest booth he can find, away from the coffee shop counter. He picks on his nails, trying to distract himself, pretending he isn't nervous about what Harry wants to say to him. It isn't possible to have a break up without having had a relationship first, right? Ha ha. So funny. Louis loves humor. He also loves flowers and puppies. He loves hanging out with Harry, yeah, but who knows, right? Don't we always need such-

- I can hear you thinking from across the room.

Harry brings a tray with enough food for an army. The breakfast special consists of fried eggs, fruit bowl, bacon, buttered toasts and sausages. Whipped must be the only place in the United Kingdom that does not serve mushrooms and pudding, thank God. Harry also ordered pancakes, mochas and strawberry jelly. Louis wants to kill him.

- So you came to rescue me from my thought, oh brave knight?

Harry has the indecency of rolling his eyes. Louis suspects Harry gets this habit from him. He will have to discipline Harry later. Ha ha. Here comes humor again.

- I wanna talk to you about something uncomfortable. Actually, just tell you something uncomfortable. So I figured you might eat while I say it.

- You figured I might eat?!

- Yeah, so we can both be doing uncomfortable things at the same time.

It is not fair the way Harry has ruined Louis' heart for anyone else. Completely unfair. Making a quick calorie math, Louis grabs the fruit bowls and, with a disgusted face, starts to suck on the bottom of a strawberry. Harry's eyes linger longer than necessary.

- So?

- Do you not like the other fruits?

- I do not like any food, Harry.

Harry furrows his brows.

- That's not true and you know it. Do you prefer strawberries?

Louis takes a deep breath.

- Yes, Harry, I prefer strawberries.

Harry nods determinedly and immediately presses down a red button on the underside of the pager. When a different clerk from before appears (a young bloke named John, according to his name tag), Harry merely points to the fruit bowl and then to the strawberry. Harry smiles politely at the bloke when he nods and Louis does nothing but watch Harry's actions. Five minutes later, the first clerk, the nosy one from before, appears with a tray. She avoids Louis' eyes, good for her, and settles the tray on their table. In it, there's a bowl filled only with strawberries. While Louis stares at the delicious redness of it all, he wonders how Harry can be real. Harry interrupts Louis' thoughts right after. He looks concentrated, like this is an important moment, and really, is there a moment with him that isn't special? While Louis tastes the sweetness of the strawberries, he lets himself be immersed in this new moment Harry has created for them.

- That music upstairs. I wanted you to listen to it, because it reminds me of you. I didn't mean to upset you in any way. I just wanted to tell you some things, some quotes, some of my favorite quotes, that also remind me of you. Is that ok?

Louis just nods. Almost half of the strawberry is gone by now.

- Okay, so. Here we go. Yeah, ok. This one is from Kafka, you know him, right? It goes like "I mustn't look at you too much, or I won't be able to take my eyes off you at all".

Harry is looking at him with intent and getting redder by the second. Again, Louis just nods. He has to make sure there is enough air going into his brain otherwise he will just pass out in the middle of the coffee shop, in front of the nosy clerk, and that just won't do. Harry takes his nod as a sign to continue.

- This one is from Pablo Neruda, he wrote "but my words become stained with your love. You occupy everything, you occupy everything".

Louis' mind is a constellation in explosion. He can feel himself gaping, but he simply cannot help himself. Harry just goes on as if this is an acceptable conversation to be having with Louis' fragile heart.

- Ahm... And I thought it was a good idea to finish with Dickens: "you are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read".

Harry looks at him with a bad-concealed expectation in his eyes.

- Does it bother you... that I feel this way?

- NO! - Louis almost chokes on strawberry - I mean, it does not bother me, Harry. No.

Harry smiles his "Louis smile". It is almost perfect. There's just a little bit of self doubt that needs to go.

- It's just... It felt like it bothered you. Before. Upstairs. I wouldn't blame you, I know that I have all those problems and that I'm not-

- Curly. Would you please look at me?

Harry looks like a deer - ha, Bambi - caught in the headlights. He looks at Louis as if Louis held his whole world in his hands. Louis wonders if that is how he looks at Harry during these important moments.

- You know, some days I don't want to live another hour.

Harry immediately starts to shake his head at that.

- But I'd live a million years with you, yeah? You're my favourite, favourite thing.

Harry is sitting across the table completely still, like any movement could disrupt the place where they are going now. He doesn't understand yet that nothing can disturb them. But he will, soon. He will understand that they have each other and the rest is just noise. For now, Harry's eyes are fixated on Louis with so much attention and wonder that Louis feels warm everywhere. When he looks like this, all apprehensive and golden, he puts the sun to shame.

- There's one quote from Kafka that I like too. "I usually solve problems by letting them devour me". And, don't get me wrong, you're not a problem. You never will be. But I will let you, okay? I will let you devour me.

Harry's eyes have grown three times their size, his mouth is the reddest it has ever been and it seems like he isn't breathing. Good. Harry nods his head slowly.

- So don't worry, ok, curly? I'm not going anywhere.

Harry seems to be collecting all of his thoughts together. He takes a deep breath, swallows and states, with utmost sincerity:

- I think I might be obsessed with you.

Louis does not miss a bit:

- Good, it's mutual. I'm glad we discussed it.

It's only when it's time to go that Louis realizes that the fruit bowls are completely empty. Harry hasn't touched them, it can only be his own work and it feels surreal. Deep down in his mind, Louis thinks he should worry; thoughts about his body, his weight, his worth, come all rushing in. But he, somehow, in a way he never managed to do before, blocks those thoughts out. For now, the empty bowls just makes him want to laugh out loud; healthy and free.

❥

Saying goodbye to Whipped's cozy atmosphere, just makes Louis sure that he wants to come back soon. He needs to ask Harry for directions later, considering how distracted he was during the way here. Harry's fault. When they do get out of the coffee shop, the weather is even nicer than before and Louis is glad. It's really hard to get such a lovely day at this time of the year. He is just about to express his complex meteorological analysis to Harry when the boy, instead of going back into the road that they came from, starts to turn around, going to the back of the coffee shop. Louis, like a sunflower, can't help but to follow his sun.

- Harry? I swear, if this is you attracting me to a desert place so you can finally murder me, I promise I will haunt you forever.

Louis can hear Harry's voice before he can see him, humming.

- Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me... oh and I rush to the start....

When Louis rounds the corner, he sees Harry kneeling down next to a bike rack. He has a couple of keys and a padlock on his hand and Louis can see where this is going. Harry looks up at him from the ground, with a quiet smile on his lips, and Louis' crazy brain starts to take mental pictures of how his perfect marriage proposal would look like. Just for future reference, you know. Just in case. He finds out that his only criteria is to have a Harry Styles involved. Once again, as if he is an evil witch capable of reading all of Louis' thoughts, Harry's smile starts to slowly turn cocky. Louis must stop it right now.

- Nice to know you think my murder is a joke, Harold.

- I simply believe you would be a beautiful ghost.

- A beautiful ghost? Oh my god, I would definitely haunt you!

Harry has a small smile dancing on his plush lips. He acts as if Louis is a distraction, preventing him from getting the work done, but he doesn't really mind.

- All I hear is a promise of you following me wherever I go. Honestly, that is fine by me.

Louis would start mocking him again, but it feels like an opportunity to tell Harry something important, just to let him know.

- You know that I don't need to be a ghost for that, right?

- Uhm?

- Wherever you are in the world, I swear I will find you.

- What if-

- I will find you again.

Louis enunciates it like he is a poet in the 18th century; like Harry's heart is the only treasure he will ever need and like his owner is a damsel in distress whose life Louis would die for. If it hits too close to home, that is Louis' problem and Louis' problem only. Right now he has to attend to his damsel. Harry pays attention to Louis' sentence, like he is absorbing it in. Then, without any apprehension, concludes:

- Wouldn't go anywhere too far away from you, Lou.

Just then, Harry seems to have finally selected the right key, because the padlock finally unlocks. But, instead of a normal bike coming out of the rack, it's an abomination that pops up.

- This is simply ridiculous.

Harry looks like he has been expecting this reaction out of Louis, which only serves to make him even more stubborn about this decision of not getting on this bike. Never.

- The special place is not very near, Louis. You would just complain the whole way there.

- A two seater bike, Harold? Really?

- Especially after that amazing breakfast....

- Oh, so many strawberries! I think I will taste them forever.

- Now that you mention, you probably do taste like strawberry. Juicy, right? Naturally sweet. Unapologetic.

Louis knows what Harry is trying to do, he is not stupid. He also knows that he must be blushing to the tip of his ears. So, if Harry thinks that he can sweet talk Louis’ way into his bike... well, he's absolutely right.

- So, just let me take care of you for a while, yeah? You can focus on the landscape. It is really beautiful, I promise. We will go into the woods for.... maybe... an hour, if that is okay with you...

Harry is a king, inviting Louis into his castle; into his fortress. How could Louis even say no? Of course it is okay with him. He will even stop complaining about the bike - it is actually kind of nice, in a vintage, lonely boy way. Well, not so lonely, since it has two seats, but still, the thought remains. Louis is way too aware of Harry's power over him; too aware of the fact that he is incapable of naming one thing he would deny Harry. Instead of feeling weaker, though, he feels stronger.

- There's nothing else I'd rather do, Harold my boy, than explore all the world with you.

And as Harry helps Louis climb onto the bike and starts pedaling, Louis feels like they are breaking the space and time barrier. He feels like they are in control of a spaceship, the vintage bike, heading to an universe that belongs only to them. It should seem lonely, but it seems absolutely perfect. The universe of the astronauts in love. Entering into the woods and wishing that the time would slow down, Louis knows that he won't struggle with the lack of gravity; Harry will keep him grounded.

❥

- John.

- Jasmine!

The sunlight makes everything more intense and the warmth, in combination with the highlighted colors, create a unique feeling. The view goes beyond the dark green of the trees, beyond the multitude of colors from all the flowers everywhere; goes beyond the most beautiful blue sky. It's an amazing blend of it all. The view, here, in the middle of the woods with Harry, becomes a feeling. Louis can't see Harry's face right now, but he doesn't have to, to know that it looks just as beautiful as the spectacle around them.

Harry stopped once along the way, around ten minutes ago, at a small lookout. While Louis watched him climb out of the bike, Louis came to a very important conclusion. It has been deduced based on the perfect amount of evidence and it might as well just be considered a scientific fact from now on. The thing is, Harry is just like a rose. The most beautiful one. How could Louis have not seen it before? It's everywhere; in Harry's light pink lips, all plush; in the way he carries himself lightly, delicately. It's in the way that he seems to grow towards Louis, all eagerness, wanting Louis to see the world through his eyes; waiting to captivate Louis and be admired by him. Yeah, Louis is pretty sure about his new secret fact.

Turns out that the stop wasn't meant to admire Harry, which sucks, but actually meant for Louis to see the city, far away now that they are approaching the top of the hill. Everything is really beautiful. Not as much as Harry, sure, but still. Louis feels kind of bad that he can't, no matter how much he tries, recognize anything about the city from this far. Shit, maybe he needs to start wearing glasses again. He doesn't want Harry to think that he has no sense of direction, or no 3D perception of the city buildings or anything, so he doesn't say anything about the distant town. Instead, he focuses on the sound of the woods, of the birds passing by, of the trees dancing in the wind. Before he notices, it's time to go.

- James!

- Jafar!

They have been riding - well, Harry has, at least, Louis prefers to bet more on his moral support abilities rather than on actual pedalling skills - through the woods for at least an hour. Louis thinks that must be about right. It's probably 1pm or something like it. Harry hasn't complained once about Louis’ lack of participation in their double-pedalling activity. Harry's such a sweetheart. They should be arriving into the special place soon, but Louis doesn't really mind the ride. Doesn't really mind the view nor the boy, to which Louis has firmly attached himself as soon as the first bumps on the road appeared. He is aware that he looks like a baby koala, strongly holding onto the back of a big lion. Of a lion cub, shit. He can't mix it up in front of Harry or the boy's ego will become unmanageable. It's already hard as it is; cocky bastard. Louis knows that Harry is the biggest fan of their height difference. Well, the second biggest. The first place belongs to Louis himself, not that he will never let Harry dream about that. So, he goes; a koala with its lion cub in the middle of the woods.

- Julia.

- Jacob.

They have been playing this game since the lookout. Pick a letter and exhaust all possible names starting with it. There have been five rounds. Harry has won all five. Louis is sure he is cheating, he just can't prove it right now.

- Jacqueline.

- Ahm... ahm... Jade!

- Jacques.

- What the fuck, Harry? We're not in France! English names only; you lost.

- I did not lose, Louis. - The way he enunciates Louis’ name, clearly pointing out its french roots, makes Louis want to jump out of the bike just to see Harry fall. But he is trying hard to be a polite boy to Harry throughout this little trip; also, causing any damage to that precious face is just too much of a risk. Still, he can tell that Harry is smiling. Cocky smiling. Louis hates it. - Besides, I do not remember hearing the names Jafar and Jasmine anywhere but fresh out of a Disney movie. And Jacob, right? Edward's best friend? So, if you would just admit defeat, it would be easier for the both of us.

Louis poutes.

- I hate this game.

- You chose it.

- Whatever. Aren't you going to pick the next letter? Afraid, Styles?

Harry laughs like just the thought of being afraid of Louis is a joke in itself. Louis decides he is going to push him off of the hill. Fair's fair.

- No, actually... we arrived.

After they ride through a thin trail that Louis suspects Harry made for himself years ago, the road begins to get steeper. They stop by a huge pine tree, with a slim but firm trunk. Harry takes a chain out of his bag and locks the bike to the tree.

- On foot from now on, yeah?

Louis has no idea how can a place in the middle of the woods be this special to Harry. Besides that, Louis also has no idea where he is. If a wolf shows up and tries to chase him, he will probably just have to spend the rest of his life living like a Mogli, hiding in the woods, forever afraid. He would make a terrible Mogli. Also, Harry would probably try to domesticate the murderous wolf and it would become Harry's little puppy. Harry would be the perfect Mogli. Louis is disgusted. As they push up the hill, the pines tickle his arms and the trees start to slowly fall away and become sparse, giving way to the tall grass. There's a tender brush of the grass against their clothed legs and, in the afternoon breeze, all the trees sway and swish gently. Harry always turns around to check on Louis and, seeing that he is okay, smiles like the sun. It smells like earth and nature, birds singing and passing by over their heads. Louis feels warm and a little cold all at once. Harry gently grabs his hand and they trot up to the highest point, where one lone pine shoots up into the sky like an arrow. There, at the hill's highest point, with the whole world stretching out endlessly before them, there's a glade, a dell. In another moment, Louis would like to stay in complete silence, just staring straight ahead at the skyline. He imagines the most beautiful mornings in the world must happen here; he can see the way that the hills that surround the town curve around it, meeting together in a gradual, steep line. In the mornings, it would reveal a convex dip of sky, purple on the horizon and then a slow pink gradient would blend with the purple, rising up and flowing over onto the hills like a paint spill. There will be another time for mesmerized silence, luckily, a whole lot of other times; right now, he just needs to let Harry know that:

- This is amazing, H.

- Told you it was a special day. I was saving it for my special person.

When Louis turns around, he is taken by a feeling, by some sort of instinct that he simply cannot explain. There's something he needs to do. He needs to run. There's sunlight coming from everywhere; he feels happy, he feels free. He passes Harry by, running, laughing, in the search of something he knows it's there. He feels like he has done this a thousand times before, like it's a habit, an old joke between them. He finds what he was looking for exactly where he thought he would and it's lovelier than he could have ever imagined. At the end of the glade, further from the city view, there's a hollow. Around it, there are more kinds of flowers that Louis has ever seen in his life. Daisies and gardenias. Lilies and orchids on the trees. Roses, tulips and sunflowers. Due to the wind, the hollow is filled with all the flower's petals, looking like the most beautiful and the most colorful mattress. A very inviting mattress, indeed. Louis can feel Harry following him, in his own rhythm, obviously, but he does not hesitate. He feels like Harry already knows what he is going to do, he feels like Harry has seen him do this different times before. They are in sync. Louis simply cannot contain himself. He jumps into the hollow and the fall is a well-cushioned one, comfortable, and it smells really good. Louis feels like a snow angel, shaping petals instead of ice. He can hear Harry approaching and so he decides to stop moving and just enjoys the moment, breathes it all in. And here, lying in a mattress made out of flowers, close-eyed, feeling the sunlight hitting his whole body, Louis believes he has found his peace.

- Never have I seen anyone look more beautiful or more at home amongst a thousand flowers.

Louis opens his eyes slowly. He feels warm from head to toe, only due to the feeling that Harry is watching him.

- Like what you see, Bambi?

- You look like a prince.

If Louis blushes, he will deny it for the rest of his life.

- You said before that I would never survive in the wild. Look at me now. Don't I look like Mogli?

- You look like an angel.

Okay, now Louis definitely blushes. What even is this kid? Jesus.

Harry is still standing close to the hollow, muscles all relaxed, happy tilt of a smile on his mouth. He looks confident and relaxed, like bringing Louis here is the only thing that will restore the order to his universe. Harry looks delighted. Louis doesn't think he has seen him more at home, more at his element anywhere else but here. Not even at Whipped. It's clear that this is the special place. When Louis looks at Harry again, he's brighter than the sun, shining his starry eyes at Louis, like he's memorising the whole scene. It's understandable. Louis is doing the exact same thing.

- I made us a bed.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

- Oh, you made us a bed.

- Yeah, a flower bed.

- You made us a flower bed.

- Yeah... Aren't you going to try it?

Harry gives Louis a sad smile and starts to walk backwards, away from the hollow.

- Nah. I'm sorry, I'm not into these Mogli things you like.

Louis should see it coming, but he didn't. When Harry falls, centimeters away from where Louis lies, half of the petals fly out in the air and they are surrounded by a flower storm. It's raining petals and Harry is laughing.

When they both lie down, one next to the other, it's Harry's voice that breaks the silence, melodic like a symphony.

- This is where I wanted to take you first. When I thought about us, you know...

Harry swallows and blows air out of his nose. Louis doesn't rush him. They do have all the time in the world.

- I'm aware that I know you since forever, it's just… Like... I think I would have liked to meet you here.

- Oh yeah?

- Is this weird?

- Seems perfectly fine to me, kid.

- Oh, okay. Good.

A couple of moments of silence fall between them where there's just them and the smell of the flowers; just them and the melody of the birds; just them; just them. Louis has never been happier.

- So, I brought us a couple of things in my bag and-

- Excuse me?

Harry's glance to Louis falls into the "irritated-confused" category.

- I brought us some cereal-

- My mom taught me not to talk to strangers, sir.

- Strangers...?

- Well, obviously. Never seen you before, have I?

Harry is looking at Louis like he's speaking in greek. Louis takes a deep breath.

- But this seems like a really good place to meet someone for the first time, doesn't it?

Louis gets a cheeky smile on his lips when he extends Harry his hand, aiming for a handshake. Harry grabs it with a kind smile on his face.

- Louis Tomlinson, nice to meet you.

- Harry Styles.

- Nice to meet you, man, you're all my heart ever talks about.

❥

After they get out of the flower hollow, they approach one specific part of the glade where there are a couple of stumps the perfect height for seating and admiring the view. They seem to have been put there on purpose and Louis wonders if he underestimated the amount of time that Harry spends here. It's all very calm and peaceful. Harry is happy. They sit on stumps right in front of each other and, to Louis' right, a family of butterflies seems to evaluate whether he deserves to be here. Only him, not Harry. Harry is already part of it all.

- So, this is my special place.

- Amazing, Bambi. How did you find it?

- Actually... I kind of stole it.

Stole it. Can Harry even get more interesting; more charming? Louis briefly wonders if the amount of fascination he has for his little thief will ever be enough. For a second, Louis feels proud of himself because Harry's all his to explore; the other people have no clue what they are missing. In his next thought, Louis feels sorry for the world; for never getting to see Harry like this; for never getting to see Harry. A Harry-less life would be, for Louis, a wasted one.

When Harry starts speaking, he does so slowly, with reverence. Louis never wants to take his eyes off of him.

- It was my uncle's. Chuck. He used to come here in the 70's, when he was around our age... Trying to escape my grandparent. Trying to escape this city, in my opinion. Everyone was... really unkind. So he came here to hide and have fun, I guess. At least that's what he told me. But yeah, he's not around anymore, and he gave it to me. It's my hiding place now.

Harry goes on about how the glare - "We called it the Refuge" - was a secret between him and his uncle and how Chuck only showed it to Harry. Harry says he never brought anyone else here. Louis is speechless and simply cannot relate. No one ever made him a refuge; he never had a secret place, he never had no one. Louis can barely remember how everything was before Harry showed up. So, he tries to let Harry know that he is listening by commenting on the only topic he knows how.

- Oh, that part about him not being around anymore... I get that. My dad fucked off too, a couple years ago. At least your uncle left you something amazing, dad won't even help mom with the bills.

Harry, whose eyes were alternating between the skyline and Louis, turns his head quickly; eyes larger than usual, their color matching all the grass around them.

- Oh no... Chuck didn't. Well, cancer... Yeah.

Louis is about to start apologizing, having completely misunderstood Harry's whole relationship with his uncle, when Harry continues his story quickly; apparently trying to redeem Chuck's memory, feeling guilty for ever creating a bad image of Chuck for anyone, ever. Shit. Harry is shaking his head when he starts again.

- He was honestly such a nice guy. And he didn't have it easy, not with him being the way he was.

Harry's silence is loaded, like he is considering carefully his next words.

- My mom tries to hide her homophobia, I know she does, but my grandad didn't. He absolutely hates gays. Still does, to this day. So Chuck was always, like, getting into trouble and having to get away from the house for a long time. He had this portable radio... I have it now, it's in my room. I'll show you sometime! It's like a relic!

Harry speaks with proud eyes about the radio and Louis wants nothing more than to hug him. Harry is such an amazing person. So kind. So pure. Louis loves him more than his own skin.

- And he took it everywhere! Especially here! He used to lay here, listening to Bowie and Iggy Pop. He listened to The Smiths, The Cure, all of them.

Harry is smiling so bright. Louis wants to kiss him.

- In 1972, he was obsessed with Harvey Milk. It was like a popstar to him, but like a popstar defending human rights and treating people with kindness. A popstar defending something worthy, you know what I mean.

- Yeah, Harold. I too am a slut for equal rights.

Harry laughs loud. It's the best sound of the world.

- He listened to Harvey being elected right here!

- Right here?!

What? Louis can't contain his excitement and he's pretty sure his eyes must be the size of the moon. Don't mind him, every gay kid knows what Harvey Milk represented back in the day. Louis is fascinated.

- Right here, Lou.

Harry says it with finality and a proud shake of his head. Louis has never heard Harry talk so long uninterrupted about the same topic. He isn't one for loquacity, not like Louis is. Harry prefers to use less words and express more meaning, Louis gets it. Harry is wise. It's perfect either way. But now, seeing this happy, excited, can't-stop-talking Harry, Louis knows that Chuck must have been a person worth knowing. The only person Louis would speak about with so much respect and enthusiasm is the one seated right in front of him. In the future, Louis will have to make sure that Harry knows that Chuck is proud of him, proud of all that he is. Silently, Louis grieves the lost chance of meeting Chuck. But, for now, Harry awaits.

Louis stands up.

- Holy fuck! You took me to a fucking monument of gay history, Styles! I feel like I should pull out my phone and play us some Britney!

Harry's laughing, what else matters?

- You wouldn't dare. It's a sacred place, Lou.

Louis narrows his eyes, playfully.

- Are you really implying that queen Britney is not sacred? That wasn't very gay rights of you, Styles.

Harry stands up, still laughing and now, shaking his head, like he cannot believe the amount of nonsense that is coming out of Louis' mouth. Oh, he is in for a long ride.

- I mean it, what kind of gay are you?

Suddenly, Harry stops and brings his gaze back to Louis. Harry's eyes grow, like he's slightly alarmed that Louis said a thing like that so blatantly loud and unapologetic; like it's nothing wrong, like it's not something that should be hidden. Maybe Harry was just thinking about his uncle's struggles and it's too soon to talk about the topic with so much carelessness, but Louis tries his best to convey, through his eyes, how completely okay that is. How, honestly, more than okay that is.

Louis must be able to transmit to Harry at least some kind of reassurance, because when Harry's answer comes, it is nothing like what Louis was expecting.

- Only Beyoncé is sacred, Lou. Maybe some Lady Gaga...

Harry says it and smiles big right after, like he just passed a test. Like he just allowed himself to be as free as Louis. And, here, living in Harry's world, Louis does indeed feel free. It is the best feeling.

- Ooooh, what was that, my little cultured indie boy?

Harry has been approaching Louis for the last minutes, slowly, deliberately, and Louis will hate himself in the future for not noticing the surprise attack.

- Only reads Bukowski but loves yourself some Single Ladies? Some Bad Romance?

- Only single boys. And good romances.

Harry grabs Louis out of nowhere, trying to tickle him. Louis screeches so loud even he is ashamed. He tries to run and falls, which only increases Harry's laughter. It's terrible. Louis will kill him as soon as he gets the chance. Didn't no one teach this kid that we don't laugh when people fall anymore? If someone laughs, it's bullying. We just stay quiet and mind our own business, it's common courtesy. Why is Harry so impolite, God? Harry, still laughing, mind you, captures Louis while he is still helpless from his fall. It's barbaric. Harry simply raises Louis from the ground, holding him from his waist, and starts to take Louis wherever he wants. It's the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to Louis. Louis will dedicate his life to escape this giant man's arms. It's only during one of Louis' successful attempts at trying to run, when he finally manages to escape what Harry's been calling the "Bunny Trap", for Christ's sake, someone needs to stop him, that he gets the joke.

- Oh my fucking god!

Is there any reason to fight with such a dorky kid? He will never make a good joke in his life, poor thing. Louis might as well let him believe that he can capture Louis. With that, Louis lets - yeah, that's right, he lets - himself be captured and toppled to the ground. He happens to fall on top of Harry's backpack, which seems like a comfortable enough pillow. Harry falls right next to him, chest falling and rising from the chase and from his laughs, that still haven't stopped. Louis considers that Harry's chest would probably be an even better pillow than the bag, but Bambi does not deserve Louis' love if he's going to keep laughing at Louis' screech like that. Louis was scared, ok? The bravest animals scream to scare away their predators, Louis is sure of it. It happens with the best.

Harry's laugh starts to slowly die down. The silence is good, too, when combined with Harry's smell like this. Louis can perfectly feel when Harry starts to get closer, cuddling up to Louis. Louis can feel all of Harry's body behind him. All of Harry's nice little body. Life's a paradise and Louis is the paradise's master. Louis waits until Harry has reached the most comfortable snuggle position, spooning Louis perfectly.

- Don't want you here.

- I'm sorry, Lou, I shouldn't have laughed when you fell.

He laughs at the end of his sentence and Louis wants to punch him.

- I should have taken better care of you. I know. Beautiful things are fragile.

- I. Am. Not. Fragile. Also, yes. I've mistaken you for a posh boy, but I was wrong. You are a bad-mannered, disrespectful, rude and inelegant lion cub.

Harry laughs quietly, softly, only in his throat. Louis can feel the vibration everywhere. It's pleasant. Really really pleasant. The grass is comfy, the day is warm and he is completely embraced by Harry's arms. Louis can't even remember how early he woke up today; he has all the reasons in the world to feel sleepy.

- So how can I make it up to you, my highness?

- Don't let any wolf try to eat me while I sleep.

- For you, literally anything.

- Also, no more tickles.

- Sorry, can't do that.

Louis' laugh escapes him, way louder than he expected, overflowing with love.

- You're so full of shit.

Louis can tell that Harry is getting sleepier by the way he's breathing more evenly with arms more relaxed around Louis. It all feels like a dream and, for a second, Louis is scared that falling asleep will lead to an opposite effect, making him end up in a Harry-less life, far away from this private universe made out of love that they built. Feeling his eyes heavy, Louis considers that, if that is the case, if he wakes up alone and far away from here, he's still safe. He will always find his way back to Harry. "If I miss him hard enough". Always. Harry's voice sounds huskier than usual, rough, when he breaks the silence, as if he was already sleeping, but just needed to leave Louis a little message before being taken by his dreams.

- You remind me of all the things I forgot I already knew.

Louis also has something to say, then.

- Harry.

- Uhm?

- I read something once. Somewhere. Wanna say it to you, yeah?

- Uhum.

Before Louis allows himself to get insecure, he reminds himself that Harry is partially asleep and probably won't even remember this when they wake up from this nap. Yeah, it's all good. He just wants to spoil Harry a bit, yeah, with all the thoughts he carries around in his heart about the boy. It's all good.

- It says: "Life was but a sad dream; and I was but a sad breath; but you're something like sand when sunlight hits the sea". Reminded me of you. Of us, actually.

Harry holds him stronger, tighter, and for the second time, gives Louis a kiss at the nape of his neck.

- Shh, baby, I'm yours, you're mine.

That is how they fall asleep. In a warm afternoon, in the middle of the woods. A secret place, where only birds, butterflies and lovers are allowed. And if Louis starts to hum into the silence, really quietly, the melody of I Will Survive, it's just because he needs to hear Harry's laugh one last time.

❥

Louis opens his eyes slowly, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the warm afternoon sun. He is still on his side, but Harry's bag - better known as Louis' pillow for the last half an hour - isn't where he left it and, as far as Louis can tell, has been replaced by a rolled up sweater. A rolled up dark orange sweater. It obviously belongs to Harry, not only it feels bigger and softer than all of what Louis got in his closet, it also smells strongly of its owner. The smell that Louis recognizes from all of his happy memories. Louis can't remember the last time he woke up in such pleasant circumstances.

Still in a slow pace, Louis starts searching for Harry. He feels like he can't help it; like it is a simple natural response of his body to consciousness. I am awake, ok, now where is Harry? Louis is always going to look for that face, he has already accepted his fate. Turns out, Louis doesn't have to try hard. Harry sits below a big oak, staring straight at Louis with a small smile on his face. There's an aura of melancholy surrounding him. He smiles like he's a model from a renaissance painting about heartbreak. People write songs about sadness as painfully beautiful as this one. He is glowing in the sunlight, it is the first thing that Louis notices. The second thing is the smile that doesn't sit quite right on his face. The smile seems like it is just a temporary reaction, brief, from observing Louis waking up. If Louis could observe him without getting caught, he is sure the smile wouldn't last. Would probably disappear as fast as it came into sight, existing only in Louis' memory like a relic. In this light, in the middle of the woods, Harry looks like a sad angel.

As if Harry can feel Louis overthinking, he grabs Louis' attention with an unspoken signal between them, using the connection that only the two of them have. In sync. Harry's eyes guide Louis' to a couple of objects, all lined up in a tree's fallen truck that, for what Louis can see, Harry's been using as a makeshift table. Well, that is new. Louis stretches and stands up. The objects, Louis can tell now, as he starts to approach Harry, are a couple of granola bars, two clementines and two water bottles. Healthy snacks. Healthy snacks that Harry bought, brought all the way up here and presented as if they were a fancy lunch, reserved only for the two of them. Louis' mind repeats, dumbly, madly, the echo of Louis' heart: "I will never forget you ".

Louis' eyes slowly turn to Harry, giving themselves time to prepare for being again assaulted by such beauty. Instead of the calm, sad, boy from before, they find Harry almost fidgety, clearly anxious. He is acting like he does when he needs reassurance, when he needs Louis. Louis sustains Harry's eye contact for a second longer before opening his arms. This seems to be all the invitation Harry was waiting for. In less than a second, Harry stands up and jumps into Louis' spread arms. It's a bear hug. Louis knows how much Harry needs it and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. There was a show, when Louis was a little boy, about one guy and his secret magical watch. Since then, Louis has always wondered how dangerous it would be if he could control time. He always thought he would mess everything up: he would cheat on exams; he would steal fancy food and attend concerts which tickets he would never be able to buy. Louis thought he would cause chaos. But now, squeezed by Harry's strong arms, he knows that if there was a moment in which he would freeze the time, this one would be it. In an alternative universe, Louis would be forever surrounded by Harry's smell, by Harry's arms, by Harry. Louis envies that universe's Louis. In this universe, though, Louis knows that he needs to let Harry go. Louis' voice is sleepy, still filled with incomplete dreams, when he whispers in Harry's ear:

- So it looks like you made me a banquet. A proper feast are we having, yeah?

Harry's laugh is slow and satisfied. Only a purr.

- I like it, Styles, wine me, dine me and sixty nine me.

There's no laughter this time, but Harry does hold Louis tighter before letting go. Okay, Louis gets it. Not in a good mood. Immediately, Harry turns around, as if he could hear Louis complaining about his mood, and grabs Louis' hand. Then, Harry proceeds to guide Louis into two makeshift stools that are conveniently standing beside the makeshift table. Louis starts to wonder how much time has Harry spent preparing this whole furniture while he was asleep.

Later, at night, when he is alone, Louis will wonder why he attacked the clementines. He ate not only one, but both. All the clementines that Harry brought. Maybe it was shame: Louis didn't want to ruin a special moment for Harry. Maybe it was because the sad smile Harry gave him before looked like it would taste like clementines and Louis was craving it. Maybe it was just hunger. The point is that, sitting in a makeshift stool in the middle of the woods and looking at Harry, Louis forgot, for the first time in his life about his eating disorder.

Before starting what would be his most nutritious lunch for the past years, he thought it was fair to mention, once again, how wonderful it all was; even if it was just to give Harry another second-long smile.

- I feel like you should make a speech before we start, curly.

Harry lets out a bitter laugh. Self-deprecating. It wasn't exactly what Louis was expecting. Louis forgot: bad mood, bad mood.

- I'll probably have to, you know? This weekend.

- That's this weekend already? Shit.

Harry is talking about the engagement party of his older sister, Gemma. The second one. She plans to throw one party a month until the wedding date. It's going to be a fancy occasion, extravagant venue and cocktails, where Harry is expected to give a speech about the happy couple. Not that Harry mentioned, Louis just knows.

Harry chews hard on his granola bar; his eyebrows are furrowed and he's got an angry look on his eyes. He takes a deep breath before adding:

- She doesn't even love him, so what's the point?

Louis knows that Harry isn't really in the mood for jokes right now, but the last thing Harry needs is a serious conversation. He will just have to make do with Louis' humor, which, come on, it is simply the best humour in the whole United Kingdom. Smart jokes, quick ironies; yeah, Harry will be fine.

- I would get married solely for the dress and the attention.

Harry laughs through his nose and looks at Louis with, simultaneously, wonder and reprimand in his eyes; like he is offended that Louis is making jokes in a time like this.

- You don't even care about fancy clothes.

- Yeah, that's probably true. If I could, I would wear nothing but underwear and a crown all day.

Harry eyes him like he is too tempting to be dealt with right now; like Louis is testing his patience with every sentence. Still, he answers.

- It would be a daydream.

They finish their "meal" in silence. Louis has never felt fuller than he does right now and he is about to let Harry know when Harry suddenly lays back into the grass, falling off the makeshift stool, closing his eyes and letting out a puff. A loud puff. Almost a small roar. Harry looks like a stressed lion that is about to be caged.

- So is it time to go already?

- Unfortunately.

Harry does not seem surprised that Louis knows about his appointment. Harry only seems stressed. Stressed and sad.

- We'll come back here, yeah?

It sounds a lot like "You're not gonna disappear after today, yeah?".

- Whenever you want, Bambi.

The trail on the way back takes way less time than Louis wishes it did, sadly. Through the whole way, Louis simply attaches himself to Harry's back and lets the wind pass them by. Before he knows it, they are passing by the Whipped. Louis, already feeling the effects of the Harry-abstinence that is to come, simply holds Harry even closer. Just for a second. Just one for the road. Then, as they approach the Whipped, Louis tells Harry that he can take it from here. Harry seems entirely displeased with the idea.

- No.

- Harold, please.

- Then describe to me how you're gonna get home.

- Harold, I'm older than you!

- I don't care.

- I've lived here since forever, you arse!

- I don't care.

- Tosser. You're gonna be late!

- Well, I might as well skip it.

- Harry!

He's being stubborn and aggressive in a way he only gets before appointments like this. He gets rude with anticipation. They got off the bike and are now standing in Whipped's parking lot, waiting for Harry to finish his little tantrum.

- I'm gonna take a right then take the second turning on the left, okay? Is that good for you, you twat? Then there's that fucking bar and you will just have to take my word for it that I can get home from there.

Harry nods determined, looking at the ground. A caged lion. Louis feels guilty.

- You gotta relax, Bambi. There's a french poem that said that by the time we learn to live, it's already too late.

Harry's looking at Louis like he is the only source of light in the darkness. A candle shining with hope. A lighthouse. A star. Harry is looking at Louis like Louis is his north star, guiding him back to the earth. Louis's eyes are the only color in the universe and Louis' voice is the only sound worth listening to.

- I know it's a bit of a sad quote, but reminded me of your eyes.

Harry's eyes just grow larger.

- I know how it is and I know you don't wanna talk about it and that's fine. Just want you to know that you deserve to be loved, curly, without having to hide the parts of yourself that you think are unlovable.

Louis says it all in one breath. He knows he is right, it doesn't matter if he may have given a little too much away or exposed himself a little too much. That's completely okay. Honesty, yeah, such a good virtue. Only brave and noble men are honest. Louis is such a brave man. Such a noble man. Harry should be proud. Instead, Harry stays in silence, contemplating. Louis is not nervous at all. Harry keeps gazing at him for a couple of moments before he smiles, slowly.

- Thanks, Lou. I'll see you later.

Harry's hug is delicate this time; nothing like the bear hug from before. It's less urgent, more inviting and secretive. The weight of the lion cage is still there, weighting somewhere in Harry's heart. Louis smiles quietly, thinking to himself that Harry is the king and the lionheart. But even with the sadness, the hug is provocative; like Harry learned all that he needed to know from Louis' little speech from before and now he is ready. Ready for what, Louis does not know. He kisses Louis on the cheek. Once. It's magical. And as Harry begins to climb on the bike again, Louis can't help himself to scream:

- Send me nudes when you get home so I know you're safe.

Harry laughs, loud, and starts to pedal. Louis' eyes follow him until he disappears out of sight.

Now, alone, Louis has no idea where he should go. He almost can't believe that he managed to trick Harry with the false directions. Right then take the second turning on the left? How could Harry even fall for that? Deciding to start his journey home, Louis starts to walk away from the Whipped and closer to what he believes to be the right way. He almost reaches 100 meters before it starts to rain. Heavily. As if Louis wasn't cold already. Such a lucky boy. Louis quickly pulls up his hoodie and starts to run; he is already completely drenched and can barely see a palm in front of him. Isn't this excellent? Still running, Louis turns whenever he thinks he should, left and right, with the noise of the water in his soaked socks following him all the way. Louis hates soaked socks. Feeling his humor getting increasingly bad, Louis tries to summon up positive thoughts and the only idea his mind can come up with is that for lonely people, the rain is a chance to be touched.

Not even 20 minutes later, Louis is exhausted. Sweaty. Heaving. He stops running and pulls the hoodie off of his eyes, silently praying that he has at least a minimal idea of where he is. For Louis' surprise, he is right at the beginning of his street, his house just a couple of meters ahead. He thinks about Harry and how he wishes Harry could hear him say: see, Harold? Check out my fucking GPS system, baby. Who's the clueless one now? And thinking about Harry does give Louis a temporary happiness, always will, but it is only temporary. When the happiness ends, and it passes by in a blink of an eye, all it leaves behind is an empty space in the shape of a tangled-mane lion cub.

Louis, trembling with cold, approaches his house, climbing up the stairs to the front door. Its whole facade seems pretty graceless without Harry to complete the picture. It all seems to be in black and white; colorless; lifeless. Louis wonders briefly how dangerous it is that he feels the most alive when he is with Harry. Right after, he wonders how to stop feeling so dead. Louis moves the old vase, the hidden one, made by his mom in a pottery class long forgotten, in a time when his mom still found pottery classes funny. The last time this vase has seen any flowers was before Louis' dad left. Louis found a sunflower plantation in a nearby street and stole four flowers: one for his mom, one for his dad, one for himself and one for someone that Louis hadn't met yet. The whole idea sounds funny now. Funny and slightly depressing. Below the old vase, it's Louis' key. A secret spot no one knows. Louis unlocks the door and enters his house. For his desperation, it seems to be colder inside than it is outside and hearing the thunders and the sound of the rain, Louis is secretly glad that the weather reflects his humor. He feels petty. He doesn't care. The house is empty, as it usually is. Louis climbs the stairs to his bedroom slowly. It was a special day. It's no one's fault if Louis feels lonely and cold already. It was a special day and still Louis wanted more. Always greedy. Still, in this cold, his teeth are cackling and he misses Harry's warmth. Without thinking twice, Louis decides to change his path. Who needs sleep? He is going to drown himself in the hottest water until his body turns numb, until he stops missing Harry so damn hard, until he feels Harry with him again. He sits down on his bed for only a moment, only to take his wet shoes off. He doesn't know how, but he ends up falling asleep in less than a minute.

❥

It is already late when Louis wakes up. All his muscles are sore and there's drool on his pillow, but he will deal with that later. He makes an effort to open his eyes, inexplicably heavier than usual. He is met immediately with his mother's figure, perfectly recognizable even in the dim light from Louis' bedside lamp. She is sitting in his armchair, uniform and ponytail, staring out the window with longing in her eyes. Louis doesn't actually remember the last time she's been to his bedroom, which makes the whole scene a bit awkward. Guiltily, Louis realizes that here, in his bedroom, she loses her status of "tourist'' in reality and earns one of "intruder". Despite the guilt, Louis can't really help the feeling of invasion. The last time she's visited his room must have been short after his father left, when she tried to comfort him and Louis ended up being the one comforting her instead. "Sometimes people leave, mom", he said. "Sometimes you do too ", he thought but never voiced it out loud. Maybe he should have. Seeing her in his room makes Louis feel like something bad happened, something they must talk about or, better yet, something he must talk about, carefully, in the correct way, as he comforts her. The feeling gives him a small amount of anxiety, even when everything else seems normal. She looks distracted and slightly sad, the usual, and it's only when he sits up on the bed that she turns around, surprised.

- Look who's finally up. How are you feeling, Lou?

Louis can feel the coldness on his bones and it bothers him deeply, so he will later blame his bad mood on how uncomfortable his own bed feels after a day spent a world way, on the summertime with a flower prince. Harry managed to ruin not only his heart but the comfiness of his bedroom and this seems slightly unfair. To add up to this bad mood, there's his mother's intrusion into his safe space and the anxiety it already triggered. There are enough reasons that justify how rude his answer is. He still feels bad for it after.

- Just took a quick nap, mom. Can't you leave me alone for a second?

She doesn't flinch. She barely reacts. Considering the alternative options, it's probably for the best. If Louis' answer had been directed to his father, the end result would've been extremely different. Equally painful, though.

- You've been sleeping for so long, Louis…

And this comment irritates him even more because it's probably just another signal of how increasingly distant from reality her mind is getting. She can't even pay attention to normal routine activities. At the same time that Louis wonders how he even thought that leaving her was a good idea, he regrets not having done it sooner. The comment is expressing in words, vague and senseless ones, how she is losing her sanity, how he is losing his mother to herself. He slept at best for an hour and here she is, in his room, slightly concerned - which warms Louis' heart a bit, but not enough to erase how bad he feels for not having a normal mother, for not having a chance at being properly loved by a family. He closes his eyes instead of crying.

- Is this about your problem, Louis?

Louis freezes.

- We can talk about it... I haven't seen you this weak in a long time.

Because he took a nap?! Where is this even coming from?

- Don't you wanna eat?

She's so unpredictable Louis wants to explode. He actually wants to get as far away from the explosion as possible. Peace. Tranquility. He should have left. He knows it. He should have left and taken Harry with him. That's a good plan.

- I already ate.

Close-eyed, he makes an effort to taste clementines and strawberries and when his mouth waters, it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels magical. He wants to fall asleep again.

- Louis…

- I already ate.

It's the first time in a long time he means it.

She doesn't seem to believe him, which is fair, but she also seems to have had enough. She lets the air flow out of her mouth tiredly and Louis doesn't feel guilty. He closes his eyes when she stands up.

- Glad you woke up. Didn't want to leave you here like that, all by yourself.

He knows she is standing by the bedroom door and reluctantly opens his eyes.

- I have a shift in two hours, I'm on call until the morning.

- Have fun, mom.

She doesn't answer. He waits until she closes his bedroom door to stretch, to get out of his blanket cocoon and to let the coldness surround him completely. It's painful, but it makes him feel something. It's way better than the numbness that was threatening to take over. "This is self punishment and it isn't good for you". It isn't. Self punishment, Louis means, it isn't. It's… adventure. Feelings. He stands up and his teeth don't chatter and he doesn't really shiver, but it's a close call. His wet clothes, now only a bit damp, cling to his body and if he tries hard enough, there's a quiet smell of flowers. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the icy weather until he can't take it anymore. In the dark, alone, he shivers and his stomach growls and it's enough. Since his favorite source of heat isn't available at the moment, he will have to settle for the hottest bath possible, the one he promised himself earlier. May the burning water heal us all, he thinks, before locking the bathroom door.

❥

Getting out of the shower and returning to his bedroom, Louis decides that he's had enough of this house for the day. Too hollowed, too empty. He needs a breath of fresh air. He eyes the colorful mountain made out of blankets that he built in order to keep himself warm and can't help a small smile. He touches them with his fingertips as he sits on the bed to put on his shoes. The blankets are all way less cozy and way less soft than Harry's dark orange sweater, but still, they feel right on Louis' skin, like they belong. The blankets belong to Louis, they are real and they are here now. Touchable. What difference does softness make if it cannot be felt, if it cannot be touched? Unreachable softness. In times like this, immersed in a moonlight-bathed loneliness, all by himself, Harry feels simply like a distant dream; a childhood memory from better times, calling from a happy place way out of reach. Louis wishes he was far away as well.

In order to keep his running-away-desire at bay, Louis is going to follow the same steps he does almost every night, getting as far away as he can, giving his dreams a little taste of freedom. After their little rendezvous, Harry got him thinking about Harvey Milk and, secretly, about how maybe California is a good place to start over. All those beautiful parks to explore, the Golden Gate, Disneyland, Alcatraz. Way different from Doncaster, sure, but isn't that exactly what he is looking for? Louis has probably had plans to escape before he could walk. A curious baby, his mother used to say and, in the beginning, it was indeed out of curiosity. His grandmother promised him, more than once, that they would travel the world together and Louis would go crazy on the afternoons they spent together. "Nana, can we do Egypt?". "And France, granny, please?". "Let's go to Mykonos!". She never once said no. Louis misses her most at night. He already dreamt about meeting new people and getting to know new places before things got bad at home. Curiosity later became a vital need. That wish has only gotten stronger in the last years and that is why Louis gets a strange feeling on his chest right now. Standing on his feet, next to his bed, prepared to make his way to the door, Louis stops. Hidden below the beat up armchair he's got since he was a kid, he can see a couple of bag straps peeking out. They belong to Louis' emergency bag. Emergency bag, that's how he decided to call it. Louis remembers packing up all he could carry and that was... yesterday, he thinks. The day before, maybe, although it feels further away than that. When he packed his emergency bag, Louis had decided he was ready to go, that was it, he was going to escape. He even wrote his mother a letter, left a bit of money inside, she would understand. He can see the envelope from where he stands. Louis would never admit to the amount of time he spent contemplating and hating the irony of following his father's steps. It isn't about genetics nor character. There's no need to brood over it. Instead, he made a plan and was about to stick to it but apparently all that urge, all that need for going away, has, since then, almost disappeared. Louis is a burnout candle. He is a powerful speedboat that suddenly ran out of gas. A deflated balloon. He stares at the bag straps astonished at himself. He still wants to leave, yeah, sure, but... someday. It doesn't feel urgent. It feels like it is something for the future. The strange feeling weighting in Louis' chest comes from the realization that since meeting Harry this morning he hasn't thought about the bag once. Harry seems to have unwillingly ruined Louis' escaping plans and that is simply too much to think about right now. Louis is too cold and too alone for that. On his way to the door, he kicks the bag further under the armchair. He will deal with that later.

From the hallway, Louis can see that the house is completely dark except for one trembling light coming from the kitchen. His mother is probably having her mandatory cigarette, then, accompanied by candle lights. She must be leaving soon. The candles were meant as an affectionate gesture for baby Louis, aiming not to bother him with the flashy kitchen light. Now, Louis suspects that his mother simply enjoys the sad vibe that the candles create; the abandoned wife smoking her sorrows away type of thing. In the first months following his father's departure, Louis used to sit on the stairs, out of sight, watching her watch the road. It was the closest they got to a proper quality family time. Louis still does it sometimes and lately he has begun to wonder if the love for the loneliness aura is a genetic trait. Maybe his mother needs her candles and her cigarettes; maybe Louis needs his stairs and his sad mother. We all build our sadness with different parts, in different ways. Today's melancholy, though, is not meant to be shared. Louis turns around to his room and goes straight for the window. It is a trick he mastered years ago. One foot after the other, holding tight into the foliage. The perfect spy. Louis knows exactly where he must fit in his feet, it's all part of the adventure. He begins to climb down his window. When he gets closer to the ground, he jumps into a mountain of leaves he built there exactly for this reason. A small jump and the perfect atterrissage, Louis is free.

He turns towards the same way he always does and begins to walk the same path he's walked a thousand times before. That is one thing he knows; got it perfectly memorized. Could probably do it with eyes closed. Just down the street, passing by that reddish ugly house. Then, it's just a couple of fences to jump, really quick, no one's gonna see it. It's really not far from his house, but it's secret and it's only his. He realizes now that it is probably what Harry would call Louis' special place. It's a good name, if Louis would say so himself. It's Louis' special place. Less than 10 minutes after climbing out of his window, Louis approaches it. It stands tall as ever, alone in the same old wasteland. Louis' own water tower. Or, as it is written on it's base, "Tozier's Water Tower - 1867". Who cares, it is clearly Louis' now. Louis takes a moment to greet the old thing as if it was a good old friend and, in some ways, it kind of is, and starts climbing the spiral staircase around it. It may be due to the weather or maybe due to shit materials used to build it, but the stairs look like they melted at some point along the way. All crooked in some steps. Louis spent a good amount of his childhood believing that the water tower's staircase was actually really soft and would tense up whenever he touched it. He spent an even greater amount of time testing that theory. Louis is not proud of it.

Usually, the higher he climbs, the colder it gets, but now, maybe due to the anticipation of being once again close to the stars, it almost gets warmer, more inviting. Reaching the top before he knows it, Louis notices that he is almost in a good mood. Must be the water tower effect. Louis lays down immediately, next to the center, where he usually does. It feels good to be back here and Louis can feel it in the air. There's a breeze; there's absolute silence; and there's nothing else. Just Louis and the sky, exactly how he likes it. Louis has always preferred the nighttime, especially on pleasant nights like this. It feels like everything is calmer, quieter; peacefully waiting for good things to happen. The daylight is usually too brash, too flashy. It makes sense that nighttime is the natural state of the universe, that is how it should be. The daytime is only caused by a nearby, radiating ball of flame. If the ball of flame would excuse him for a second, Louis believes that his natural state is also the nighttime. Maybe Louis is a bat. Another theory to put to test later.

The sky looks amazing. The moon knows that Louis is admiring her, like a song he can't get tired of listening. The sonnet of the lonely lover. Louis wonders if it should bother him that he has seen more of the surface of the moon with his own eyes than he has of the earth. He promises himself he will change that someday. Here, in his secret place, in what feels like a summer night, so close to the stars, it all feels possible, achievable. It is a good place, Louis should bring Harry up here sometime. He admires the moon one second longer and is just about to close his eyes when he hears it. The lowest noise, barely audible, a hardly-there footstep. Shit. That's it. Louis is about to be murdered. Louis is about to be murdered in his hiding place. It wasn't even such a good life and he's probably too old to die young by now. Shit. Louis shouldn't have gone too far, what was he thinking? Alone, in the middle of nowhere, out of sight? Now that's a good idea, you twat. Petrified by fear, Louis curls himself into a ball and glares at the top of the stairs. At least his murderer will see how pissed Louis was at being killed.

Louis waits.

Waits.

And, suddenly, a chestnut mop of hair appears, followed immediately by a loving, kind, smile. Louis is well aware that he isn't reciprocating said adorable smile. He does not regret it. Instead, he is shooting daggers with his eyes at Harry, who simply finishes climbing up the stairs and stands on the top of Louis' water tower, looking at Louis expectant. Louis, who is still a ball of fear on the floor. Harry's smile does not waver. Louis hates him.

- Damn, those eyes can easily break a heart.

Louis is going to kill him.

- How, Harold?

How did he get here? How did Louis not listen to him before? The staircase is pretty noisy, especially with those Bambi legs of his. How did he know where to find Louis? How did he manage to escape his curfew? Just...how?

- Don't be so impressed, I always know where to find you.

Louis is very, very impressed.

Harry makes his way towards Louis, who is slowly absorbing the shock and, worst of all, trying to deal with the realization that, when confronted with a mortal threat, his basic instinct is the same of a possum. In case of imminent death, Louis plays dead. That's it, Louis is a scared possum.

- Louis. Is there enough room for me here?

Louis, the possum, just turns on his side, grumpily, long enough for Harry to lay down next to him and then proceeds to plop down on top of Harry's chest. Harry doesn't seem to mind; especially if his right hand, which is now surrounding Louis' waist, is something to go by. In all honesty, it was already a good night before this, sure, but it feels complete now somehow. Warmer enough to feel like a whole different place. It's a warm night and the sky is full of stars; there's nothing else Louis could ask for.

- So, how was it?

- How was what?

- You know it, Harry. The doctor's appointment.

Harry takes a deep breath, swallows and looks up at the sky before answering.

- I am stable enough.

Apparently, "stable enough" is the new concept to which Harry is going to hold on tight to. That's okay, Louis gets how he needs it. Before this one, the concept was "episode". "It's nothing permanent, you know, it's just an episode. It may never happen again". The last one was "uncertain diagnosis". "It's not bad news, exactly. See, it can be anything". "Stable enough" should be a new good concept for Louis and it would be if Harry hadn't said it in that tone. The bitter tone that they both know way too well. It's the tone Harry doesn't use for anyone but himself. And he uses it only in secret, where no one can hear him. After all the fake smiles aren't needed anymore, when he doesn't need to pretend to be calm and can really vent about what he goes through on a daily basis, that's when the tone shows up. Louis suspects that this may be the only topic that Harry feels way too uncomfortable to discuss with Louis, which is an irony on itself. The topic makes Harry feel vulnerable, like it's painful for others to be around him. Doesn't matter how many times Louis explains to him the particular type of pain Louis feels deep down on his chest when he can't see Harry, when he can't feel Harry close. Louis doesn't really explain, but he knows that Harry knows. Even so, Harry feels fragile and worthless, doesn't matter what he says to everyone else. Louis knows the truth. It's almost like he believes that by discussing it with Louis, he would appear to be just a little too broken, beyond salvation, and it would scare Louis away. Harry is stupid like that. Doesn't get the concept of soulmates at all.

- Have you been taking your meds?

If Harry's body tenses up, it's almost imperceptible.

- Louis...

- I know, you don't like to talk about-

- Neither do you.

And, well, that's an accusation that Louis can't neither confirm nor deny. It's not here nor there, it is just sad. That's all. Louis doesn't mind discussing it, he hates to see Harry struggling and he knows how Harry feels about his "condition". "Condition" is how Harry decided to call it in his head and Louis hates it. It's not a condition, it's just a situation, just a thing, a Harry's thing, that has to be dealt with. Faced. Harry knows how Louis feels about the whole thing; knows how Louis encourages Harry to face it and not run away from it. It is not Louis' battle to fight, though. He can only watch and hope for the best.

The silence settles in for a moment between them. Louis can feel the wind but it isn't cold. Protected by Harry's body the night seems to be even warmer. Louis feels safe again, like he could finally rest. His body starts to relax and he can feel everything that surrounds him. The hard chilly floor from the water tower rooftop; the texture of Harry's shirt; the heat from Harry's body contrasting to the night's freshness. Louis feels comfortably surrounded by it all. When he speaks, several moments passed by - Louis barely notices it, too immersed in that hazy feeling of belonging - his voice is nothing but a whisper.

- I was going to run away.

- I know.

Louis isn't surprised. In situations like this, Louis enters with the questions and Harry with the answers. They make a good team.

- Why didn't I?

It seems silly to ask, but he has to. Harry takes another deep breath. The slow cadence of Harry's chest is way more comfortable than it has the right to be. Louis is almost getting sleepy with the rise and fall from Harry's chest. The mesmerizing cadence of it. Falling and rising, rising and falling. Harry bends his head down to get a better look at Louis.

- Maybe I just needed you here a little longer?

Harry finishes the sentence with a sad and apologetic smile and lays his head back down. That seems to be as good of a response as any. And it's a fair point. If Harry needed him, Louis would move heaven, hell, and everything in between to get to him. It's kind of an unspoken agreement. Harry moves around a bit, settling on the hard floor, trying to get more comfortable. He ends up getting even closer to Louis in the process. Louis approves it. Standing this close to Harry's warmth, it's simply the perfect position for Louis to start contemplating all of the universe's secrets in a pre-sleep haze. And that is what he does.

Louis can't tell how much time has passed when Harry starts to move. Annoyingly. Louis was almost sleeping, fucker. Harry seems to be trying to get to his back pocket and it's kind of disturbing. Louis is about to complain when he feels an earbud being gently placed into his ear. A second of silence and then the melody is soft, beautiful, with synchronized drum plates in the background. Louis could sing it in his sleep. Just like honey - by The Jesus and Mary Chain - starts to fill all of their surroundings. Louis immediately knows that this song, and this place, are both forever ruined by everything that Harry is. Probably not ruined, more like blessed. Sanctified. Louis must confess - ha - that he feels kind of divine since meeting the Bambi boy, whenever that was. Holy. He's probably just ruined for anyone else.

Listen to the girl

As she takes on half the world

Moving up and so alive

In her honey dripping beehive

Beehive

It's good, so good, it's so good

So good

- Loved this song, curly.

- Figured you would. It's sweet just like you... honey.

- You did not just call me that.

- Problem, hotstuff?

- I feel embarrassment for you, Harry.

- I'll stop if you say something nice to me, honeybee.

- Jesus Christ, where do you even come up with these?

- Come on, sweetcheeks. Something nice.

- Fine! You're not always terrible to be around.

- No, muffin, involving the song.

- What the fuck, Harry? That's cheating!

- Come on, sexy pants.

- Oh, God!

Walking back to you

Is the hardest thing that

I can do

That I can do for you

For you

- Okay, fine. You must have a honeycomb for a heart, how else could a man be this sweet?

They are looking at the sky, so Louis can't see Harry's facial expression. Still he can feel Harry's smile right in his chest. It makes his heart somersaults.

- Figured I'd have a lionheart with all that talk about me being a lion cub.

I'll be your plastic toy

I'll be your plastic toy

For you

- Yeah, you're probably a lionhearted king.

- Oh, am I a king now?

Just like honey

Just like honey

Just like honey

Just like honey

Just like honey

- You sure look like one.

- Gonna call me your highness from now on?

- Ha! You wish!

Probably yes. It's really sexy. King Harry. Yeah. Most definitely yes. That's how Louis is going to call Harry from now on. On his dreams, obviously. Not to Harry's face, no, never. His ego would just skyrocket and he would go looking for prettier boys to hang out with. Louis can't afford that. Louis likes to hang out with the noble boys. Give him some royalty. That's fine.

Harry's breathing is the only sound among all the silence.

- I'll still be a lionhearted king, though, yeah?

- Obviously, your highness.

Louis shouldn't be surprised when Of Monsters and Men starts playing right after the first song is over. He really shouldn't. Louis should find it sappy instead of adorable, but it's hard to tone down his affection near Harry. Does the boy really need to be so endearing? Where did he even come from? How can Louis be lucky enough to find him in this world? King and Lionheart flows through the earbuds, linking them together through music.

Howling ghost they reappear

In mountains that are stacked with fear

But you're a king and I'm a lion-heart

A lion-heart

- You are so sappy.

- I am not sappy.

- You're cliché.

- You love it.

- Do not. You're a little too much for me.

- Well, and you are much too little for me.

Louis kicks him. He deserves it.

- God, you're so violent.

If Harry really wanted to pull off a disapproving tone with the violent stuff, he should have tried way harder. There's laughter in his words.

- Well, you're sappy and cliché.

- I'm your favourite cliché.

- Yeah, got me there, big boy.

Harry's completely at ease. Louis should have brought him here earlier. Maybe the secret water tower could be their secret castle. Harry just keeps building the perfect music selection. Troye Sivan and The Cure. Pixies and Cigarettes after sex. 1975 and Queen. Coldplay and The Police. Louis dozes off through the songs, feeling peaceful and calm around Harry's serenity. Every time Louis opens his eyes, he is even more comfortable than before, if that is even possible, Harry's smell is even better and he can feel Harry stargazing. Every time, no exception.

- Gonna make a wish, Bambi?

Harry is startled that Louis is awake but recovers quickly. He answers in the same low voice that Louis used, almost whispering.

- Already wished for you.

Louis feels himself being drawn closer to Harry. It's an urge, a need to be nearer, like Harry is a gravity Louis cannot avoid.

- You're so lucky to have all this for yourself. I'd be here all day if I could. Admiring the moon...

- I think the moon would really like seeing you here everyday.

"I know I would", Louis thinks but doesn't say.

- And the stars...

- Like being close to the stars, curly?

- Oh, yeah. Love it. They granted me my wish, yeah? They are kind to me. No one is ever kind.

Louis gets a sudden flashback of Chuck's story and feels a knife ripping through his heart only to imagine that Harry isn't being treated in the way he deserves.

- No one but you.

Louis gets an unexpected kiss to the top of his head.

- You're my little star, yeah? My little north star.

Louis nods quickly.

- Always guide you back to the earth, love.

Harry doesn't try to hide his smile.

- I don't think that's how the north star works, Lou.

- Shut up, you know nothing - Louis says as he hugs Harry tighter.

The rhythmic rise and fall from Harry's chest begins to, once again, lull Louis to sleep. He closes his eyes and, right before losing consciousness, Louis can hear a low murmur that clearly belongs to Harry: "I think you're my favourite part of me". After that, Louis surrenders himself to sleep. It's a small nap but it's the best sleep he's got in a long time. It's peaceful. The only reason he wakes up is because Harry starts shaking too much. He opens his eyes slowly only to realize that they are not in the horizontal anymore. In front of him, Louis can see the water tower's staircase. Only then does he realize that Harry is, absurdly, carrying him. It's ridiculous. It doesn't even feel romantic. Louis feels like a misbehaved sheep that somehow managed to escape from the farm and is now being carried back to his sheep-family by the cute farmer boy. Harry falters again, from one step to the next.

Louis feels drunk. He can't really hear nor feel the impact that Harry's feet are supposed to make on the water tower's stairs and it gives him something close to a floating sensation, like they are both suspended on thin air. Extremely dangerous. Louis isn't exactly afraid. Harry's big hands are squeezing his sides hard even if Louis can barely feel it. Holding on to Louis' waist, Harry's fingers are the exact temperature of the warm night breeze and everything feels comfortable. It all feels like one. He's Louis' personal furnace. Ignoring the floating sensation and pretending not to notice the unusual warmth coming from Harry's body, Louis decides to focus on the more urgent matters at hand (that being his imminent death, obviously). It's been a strange day after all.

- Harry, listen closely. If we fall, I'm going to kill you.

Harry laughs an easy laugh, a loud laugh, like it isn't the middle of the night and as if carrying all of Louis' weight is a minimal effort. It's plenty offensive. Louis should sue him.

- Shh, close your eyes, baby. We're almost there.

If Louis only closes his eyes to avoid Harry from seeing him blush with the pet name, no one needs to know. Louis simply obeys.

The next time Louis wakes up, he is already in his bed, which isn't cold as it was before, being tucked in by Harry. It's honestly a dream coming true. Louis orders his mind to start working on fantasizing about alternative scenarios, parallel realities where Louis was bolder, greedier, and asked Harry to stay. For this Louis, having Harry in his bedroom is already enough emotion for one day and he feels too sleepy to keep Harry entertained tonight. Oh, he would keep Harry entertained-- He must have been smiling too hard. Or maybe Harry just did that weird thing where he guesses exactly where Louis' thoughts were going. Harry has stopped tucking Louis in and is just staring at Louis with big doe eyes, the only thing visible in the room's gloom. Louis wants to kiss him.

- I want you to, you know.

Louis really wants to kiss him.

Harry chuckles and shakes his head.

- Probably wouldn't be able to stop, though.

He gets closer to Louis and Louis can barely breathe. Another chuckle. Harry's voice is low and raspy and he's giving Louis bedroom eyes. All traces of the innocent curly Bambi boy are gone. The man before Louis is all grown up; seductive; inviting. He looks like all of Louis' wet fantasies morphed into one; one messy-haired, green-eyed lad, looking at Louis with an expression that can only mean that he is just as affected as Louis is. He wants this as much as Louis. Louis might as well have won the lottery.

- Not a good idea for tonight, yeah?

Louis stops his track of thoughts before it gets out of hand again. It's a slippery slope. For his efforts, Louis is rewarded with a forehead kiss. He is the luckiest. Louis is just about to close his eyes again, this time for a long night of sleep, when he hears Harry's farewell.

- Goodnight, Lou. And... ahm... Thank you for showing up today. I've been waiting for a long time.

Louis isn't the slightest bit upset about the lack of dreams that night; he has already dreamt all day.

❥