Archive of Our Own

Prologue: July 2020

Harry saw Louis again, for the first time in one year, six months and five days, on a Friday in July. For a long time after, he would obsess over the details. First, the ones that allowed such a chance encounter to even happen: The fact that his author had chosen that café as their meeting place. The fact that the original meeting was postponed a day. That Louis’s friend had insisted on the same spot (for some reason, he found it even more fascinating that neither of them had chosen the place; they had both just gone along with it). The fact that Louis’s friend had been late. The fact that Harry chose to stay on for half an hour after the meeting ended even though he was supposed to hurry back to the office. The fact that he stopped by the counter to purchase a coffee to go, even though he normally only allowed himself three in a day and this would be his fourth. That he turned around while waiting for the barista to finish his order. That Louis was sitting right in his line of sight. The fact that even though his hair was longer, and he was wearing glasses, and his face was covered with a light stubble, all of which was new since the last time they had seen each other, he was as instantly recognisable as Harry’s own reflection. And that when he looked up, he immediately recognised Harry as well, and didn’t try to hide it. It really shouldn’t have happened — and yet it did.

The details of the encounter: the way Louis’s hair had framed his face, the colour of his jumper, the way his «good, yeah» dragged out a moment too long when Harry asked how he’d been. And what Harry found most fascinating of all, what would in years to come transform into an amusing anecdote he whipped out from time to time when meeting new people and telling the story of how they met, was the detail that he somehow failed to notice.

After he’d approached Louis at the table, and after they’d fumbled their way through a promise of meeting up for coffee and a catch-up the following week, and after he’d left the café feeling like something that had been lodged in his chest for nearly two years had finally come loose, he phoned Niall. He recounted those details: the length of his hair and the shape of his glasses, how his jumper had made his eyes stand out, the way his right thumb had been stroking the rim of his teacup — perhaps a new habit or perhaps one he’d had all along that Harry had failed to notice. But even though he was, after a conversation that lasted maybe three minutes, able to regale Niall with a plethora of details, there was one that he somehow missed.

Some people didn’t believe him when he told them. Gemma saw it as yet another example of his sometimes infuriating inability to take in what was right in front of him. Nick found it hilarious. Louis, when he didn’t get too lost in his own head and spent too much time speculating on what could have happened had he noticed, suggested Harry had simply become too distracted by his perfect face (which honestly was the closest thing to an explanation there was). But either way, Harry had missed something. Somehow, Harry failed to notice the wheelchair.

Before: September 2018 - March 2019

«You’re a shit dancer», Louis yells into Harry’s hair. He probably aimed for his ear, but the combination of a very crowded dance floor and the two shots they shared at the bar a few minutes ago makes mouth-ear coordination a bit difficult. Harry throws back his head and laughs. It wasn’t that funny, but Louis is that cute. He places his hands on Louis’s hips and guides him away from the worst of the crowd, until he’s got him up against a wall. There’s a twinkle in Louis’s eye as he looks up at Harry, as if he’s daring him to take it even further, which makes his head spin. 

«Do you want to get out of here?» Harry says, leaning in so close his lips are nearly touching Louis’s ear, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the music. He feels Louis nod against him, grins and grabs his hand. «Follow me.» He leads them through the crowd and past the bar, out the front doors and into the evening, where the unseasonably warm September air has made jackets redundant. Repeating his moves from inside, Harry presses Louis up against the brick wall and kisses him hard. As far as first dates go, this one has gone exceptionally well.

«Where do you live?» Harry asks as they break apart, Louis’s arms still twined around his neck.

Louis makes a face. «Wood Green. You?»

«Fulham.»

«Right then. Fulham it is.»

They hail a taxi, and the only thing keeping Harry from pulling Louis into his lap is the pleading look the driver gives him as they climb into the back. The drive is spent mostly exchanging more details about each other, occasionally interrupted by quick kisses. Harry’s never brought a Tinder date home on the first night before, but all he wants is to get out of this car and take Louis upstairs to his flat, get him naked and into bed. Louis seems to share his enthusiasm, and stops them halfway up the stairs to the second floor to demand a proper snog, seeing this as his turn to shove Harry up against a wall. He’s got one of his legs between Harry’s thighs and Harry’s about to suggest they just get their kits off and have sex right then and there, but he manages to conjure up some willpower at the last minute and hauls Louis up the remaining steps.

«Right», he says, as they tumble through the doorway of his flat. «Shall I give you the grand tour, then?»

«Oh my god, shut up», Louis groans, trying to take off his own shoes and wrestle Harry out of his jeans at the same time. It isn’t going very well. «Will you get these off?»

Harry can’t help but laugh. «Jesus, slow down», he says, grabbing both his hands and pulling Louis up so they’re face to face.

«I thought», he says, stopping every few words to kiss Louis in a new spot, «that the whole point», his neck, «of coming here», behind his ear, «was to avoid», his throat, «having to rush it», his mouth. «But by all means, if you want to do it up against a wall I don’t mind stepping out into the stairwell again.»

Louis finds his nipple and gives it a pinch. Harry laughs and kisses him again, unable to resist. This whole evening has been something out of the ordinary. He can’t remember the last time he was so direct with someone the way he’s been with Louis all evening, how easy it’s been to go after what he wants. And right now, what he wants is Louis in his bed.

The effects of the drink he’s had tonight are starting to really kick in as he fumbles them across the living room and over the threshold to his bedroom, and it’s a relief when he falls into bed, Louis on top of him.

«So hot», Louis mumbles as he gets his hands underneath Harry’s shirt and pulls it up to reveal his chest and abdomen. «Christ, look at you.» He’s straddled across Harry’s thighs, and now he bends over to place a kiss right in the middle of his chest, then moves up his body until they’re face to face, his hands either side of Harry’s head. He leans in for another kiss, this one slow and deep. Harry can’t stand that there are inches of space between them, so he twines his arms around Louis’s waist and tugs until he’s lying directly on top of him, their bodies touching everywhere.

«So demanding», Louis says between kisses, and then presses his thigh against Harry’s groin, whether to punish or reward him he doesn’t know. Harry finds Louis’s bum and gives it a squeeze, making Louis groan into his mouth. He’s still dizzy, but now it’s a mixture of alcohol and Louis taking over all his senses making him feel that way. In one swift move, he rolls them around so that now he’s the one on top, and he delights in the look that crosses Louis’s face as he realises that Harry’s taken control of the situation. Harry’s bigger and broader than Louis, and with his arms bracketing either side of Louis’s head, he’s essentially got him pinned to the mattress. «This okay?», he asks, waits for Louis to respond before continuing. «Yeah», Louis says, his voice halfway between a whisper and a groan, and the palpable lust in his eyes is all the confirmation Harry needs to release the tension in his muscles holding him up and sink down fully on top of Louis, kissing him with determination while doing so.

«I thought I told you to take these off», Louis mumbles between kisses, his hands having found their way underneath Harry’s body and his fingers fumbling with the button and fly of his jeans. «So bossy», Harry breathes, «hang on, then.» He presses a bruising kiss against Louis’s mouth before sitting back up, his thighs now straddling Louis’s, ensuring that he’s still got the upper hand here. His shirt’s over his head and on the floor within seconds, and then he sits there, breathing hard and about to wrestle Louis out of his top when he lifts his right hand and starts tracing a finger around the outline of Harry’s butterfly tattoo. It tickles a bit and makes his breath catch in his throat, Louis’s fingers so gentle and careful as they work their way around the right wing, then the left, before he moves on to the fern on the left side of his body and starts tracing that, too.

«Do they mean anything special?»

«Not really», he shrugs. «Some of them do, some of them don’t.»

«Let me guess — some of them really weren’t planned at all?»

«What are you insinuating?», he asks, pretending to be offended, but Louis just laughs, clearly seeing right through him.

«I mean, some of them are really quite stupid», he says, grabbing hold of his left upper arm and giving it a twist, pushing his thumb lightly into the skin of first the coat hanger, then the «Hi». «I mean, honestly», and then he laughs again, a short and sweet thing that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Harry’s never been so endeared by someone openly mocking him and his life choices before.

«All right, all right, smartarse», he says, and then grabs Louis’s wrist and pushes his right arm up over his head, holding it in place. «Let’s see what you’ve got under your clothes, then». Louis wriggles his eyebrows, clearly enjoying being manhandled around a bit, which Harry definitely doesn’t store away in a folder marked «for future use», before grabbing a hold of the hem of his top and yanking it up and over his head. It joins Harry’s own in the pile on the floor, and Louis looks up at him with anticipation, and the way his breath hitched as Harry gave the shirt a final tug to get it off him makes him feel a little unhinged. He’s got a quip on the tip of his tongue, a dumb joke about how dare Louis call his tattoos stupid now that he’s got him shirtless underneath him with proof that Harry’s not the only one who’s made questionable tattoo choices in his past, but the joke dies before making its way out because he doesn’t have time for jokes right now, he needs to feel Louis’s skin against his own and it’s urgent, suddenly, how much he needs it.

He’s off the bed and stepping out of his jeans and boxers within seconds, and Louis catches on quickly, starts unbuttoning his own trousers while Harry’s getting undressed, but he’s too slow and Harry doesn’t have the bloody time, so he takes over and drags them down Louis’s legs and has them both naked in what must surely be record time. And then he’s on top of Louis again, but this time there’s nothing between their bodies — not fabric, not air, not even a single molecule of it, and Louis’s skin is so warm, and his hands are in Harry’s hair, and he can feel that they’re both hard and rubbing against each other, searching for friction. In the end, it happens quickly. Harry guides his hand down and wraps it around Louis’s cock, who gives a shout after a few quick tugs and then holds Harry by the nape of his neck and kisses him through his own orgasm while using his other hand to send Harry over the edge barely a minute later.

After, they lie completely still, arms and legs intertwined and coming down together, Harry’s face half-buried in the crook of Louis’s neck. After, Harry feels so heavy and dazed that he can barely remember his own name. After, Harry knows he has to get up and find something to wipe the mess from their thighs and stomachs or he’ll regret it tomorrow morning, but he hasn’t got the brain power to move, let alone think about moving. In the end, it’s Louis who manages to extract his left arm to open the drawer of Harry’s nightstand, rummaging around and finding a packet of wet wipes Harry had forgotten were even there. «Just throw it on the floor, I’ll get it in the morning», Harry says when Louis has wiped them both down, so he does. It’s been a while since the last time he went to bed with someone on the first date, and he’s not sure what the expectations are  —  is Louis spending the night? Does he want to spend the night, or is he waiting for Harry to provide the hint that now would be a great time for him to get up and pick his clothes off the floor? Harry wishes he had the energy to mull these questions over, but as it is he’s having enough trouble staying awake, suddenly bone tired by a mixture of post-orgasmic bliss and the aftereffects of the alcohol. And then Louis starts playing with his hair and he doesn’t stand a chance. The last thing he thinks about before the world disappears around him is whether he remembered to buy eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning.

*

There’s something tickling Harry’s nose, and he experiences a few seconds of utter confusion wondering whether he got a dog and forgot about it, before it comes back to him. Hair. Human hair. Soft, shiny. Warm body next to him. Louis. He blinks his eyes open and takes in what he sees. He’s on his side, his face pressed up against the side of Louis’s head and his right arm slung across Louis’s chest. He can’t feel his left arm at all, which suggests he’s fallen asleep on top of it. Carefully, without moving around too much, he rolls onto his back and reaches across the bed for his phone. 09.14. Which means not a lot of hours of not very good quality sleep. The light pounding in his head is also a testament to this. Deciding it’s too early to get up, he returns to his side and studies Louis some more. He’s got even more tattoos than Harry had realised last night, and some of them are really quite dumb, which Harry finds annoyingly endearing. The morning sun lighting up the room makes his skin look almost golden — he’s probably one of those people who walk around all year with a permanent tan. It’s so, so incredibly tempting to touch him, so Harry does just that. Gently, while keeping his eyes on his face, he starts drawing little circles on Louis’s chest, and then slowly, slowly, he starts moving his hand further down. When he reaches his bellybutton, Louis starts to stir, and when his fingers start to trail down the sensitive skin below that and his hand slips below the sheet, Harry watches as his eyes open, squinting into the harsh sunlight at first, then roaming around the room until they fall on Harry’s face.

«Morning», Louis says, slowly, lazily, his voice raspy from unuse.

Instead of answering, Harry leans over and kisses him, while his right hand reaches Louis’s cock and gives it a light squeeze. Louis moans into the kiss, and one of his hands finds its way to Harry’s hair, starts tugging slightly. The pace and the mood are the complete opposite of last night’s frenzy — where Harry last night felt like a drowning man in search of dry land, when it felt like the world might end if he didn’t get his hands on as much of Louis as soon as possible, he now takes his time, using his hand to give Louis’s cock long, slow tugs, occasionally stopping to squeeze the base or swipe his thumb over the slit. He can feel his own cock twitching against his thigh, but he can wait — right now, he’s finding more than enough pleasure in the noises Louis makes as his orgasm builds; the needy moans that Harry captures with his lips and the whimpers that escape as he comes with a shudder over Harry’s fist. He plants a firm kiss on Louis’s lips with a smile, then reaches over him for the nearly empty pack of wipes on the nightstand. After cleaning him up, he leans back on his elbow and watches Louis, who’s staring dazedly up at the ceiling. He feels a bit like an artist admiring his finished artwork for the first time: it’s thrilling to know that he has the ability to have such an effect on other people, and particularly someone like Louis. He doesn’t know what, exactly — hasn’t known him for nearly long enough to say — but there’s something special about him.

The image that made him swipe left a week ago wasn’t of the kind that usually ensured a match amongst London’s horny gay single males — also known as Tinder catnip photos, as Nick likes to call them. In fact, Louis’ profile only contained three photos, and none of them were of the variety Harry had become accustomed to during his months-long Tinder safari. There were no shirtless beach pictures — or shirtless pictures at all, really — no gym photos, no hiking or sightseeing or anything of the sort. They were just pictures of Louis looking like a regular human being — albeit a very, very gorgeous human being. The first one, clearly taken at a festival (Reading last summer, Louis had told him yesterday), showed Louis in a pair of denim shorts and white t-shirt, beer in hand and sunglasses on top of his head, squinting slightly against the sun («Why didn’t you just wear the sunglasses?», Harry had asked somewhere between beers number two and three last night. «I forgot they were on my head at the time», Louis had said. «Also, my research shows that 90% of guys with sunglasses in their tinder profile pics are dickheads»). The second one was taken at a wedding and showed Louis in dark grey formal trousers and with his shirt unbuttoned at the top, so clearly a couple of hours into the party, at least. He was standing outside in a garden of some sort, the low evening sun kissing his skin, with one of his arms around the shoulders of a shorter woman. It didn’t tell Harry that much about his personality, but it did prove that he cleaned up nicely. The third and final photo was Harry’s favourite. It seemed candid and unplanned, and was the only photo taken inside of the three. Nothing about what he was wearing in the photo was exceptional: dark blue jeans and a soft-looking, pastel green jumper. His hair was slightly tousled and he was standing next to a table, leaning on it with his right hand. He was looking at someone just outside of the frame, and he was smiling at them. And it was that smile, that genuine, warm smile, that sent sparks of interest down Harry’s spine. He was smiling with his entire face, and he looked so kind — a week on and it’s still the best word Harry’s come up with to describe it — that he had no other choice but to swipe right. They matched, chatted on and off for a week and met up for the first time yesterday, and now Harry’s seen that smile — he’s been the reason for that smile — a number of times in the last 12 hours and he’s starting to wonder if he can ever come back from it.

«Jesus christ, Harry», Louis says, breaking him out of the trance he’s been in for god knows how long.

«What?»

«Are you having a stroke?»

«What?»

«Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?»

He looks at Louis, who has turned on his side facing him and is now wearing a very cute and very concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows, and feels like an idiot. «No», he says sheepishly, «Sorry, I was in a different world.»

«Different planet, more like», Louis says, the wrinkle smoothing out and disappearing. He stretches an arm out from underneath the duvet and tucks one of Harry’s stray curls behind his ear. «What were you thinking about?»

He swallows, because there’s no way he can say «I was thinking that your smile might be my new favourite thing in the whole world» to someone he met for the first time yesterday, and instead goes for the last thing on his mind before he fell asleep last night. «I was thinking about what to make for breakfast.»

Louis snorts, then looks confused when Harry doesn’t break character. «Wait, you’re serious?»

«Yeah?»

«So «breakfast» isn’t, like, code for «my cock» or something?»

Now it’s Harry’s turn to snort. «Absolutely not.»

«So you’ve been lying here for several minutes, staring at me and thinking about…breakfast?»

«Yes.»

«Right.»

«Breakfast’s really important, you know», Harry says with a faux-patronising tone. «Most important meal of the day, actually.»

«Oh god», Louis groans, «I didn’t realise I went home with bloody Nigella last night».

«Hey», Harry pouts, «No shit-talking Nigella in my bed.» He circles Louis’ wrist with his thumb and index finger, gives it a small squeeze. Louis wrestles his wrist loose and uses his now free hand to boop Harry’s nose. «You’re weird, you know that?» He’s smiling as he speaks, though.

«You’re a grown man who just booped my nose, and you’re calling me weird?» Louis smiles into the pillow and shrugs, and then they just lie there, looking at each other and not saying anything for a little while. It’s not an awkward silence though — not at all, in fact.

Harry is the one to break it. «So, what do you want for breakfast?»

«So it definitely wasn’t a joke, then?»

«I never joke about breakfast.»

Louis seems to think it over for a little while. «What do you have to offer?»

«Oh, anything. Sweet, savoury, eggs, pancakes; whatever you want.»

«Really?»

«Really. I think I’ve got all the pantry staples to make whatever you want.»

Louis just looks at him, and Harry can’t quite decipher the look on his face. «Who are you», he eventually says, sounding amused.

«I’m a man who takes his breakfast very seriously. Now, what would you like?»

He ends up making a bit of everything: pancakes, toast, scrambled eggs. They eat their eggs and toast, Harry wearing nothing but an apron and Louis with a blanket around his waist, at Harry’s tiny kitchen table, then end up taking the pancakes and a bottle of maple syrup back to bed, where the syrup eventually ends up not just on the pancakes. They both come twice more: first during a round of extra-sticky blowjobs, and again during lazy handjobs in the shower trying to wash off the sweat and syrup and other bodily fluids. Out of the shower, Harry throws his bedsheets in the washer and «accidentally» throws the pile of his and Louis’s clothes in with them, which results in Louis hanging around even longer while waiting for them to wash. While they wait, they pile up on the sofa and watch old episodes of Taskmaster with half an eye, but they mostly just kiss. Harry transfers the load from the washer to the dryer and then orders pizza for a late lunch, which they eat in front of the TV, Louis’s legs splayed across Harry’s thighs, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. When the dryer pings around five, Louis checks the time on his phone and looks at Harry apologetically.

«I really should get going», he says, before pressing a short kiss to Harry’s lips. «I’m meeting some mates around six and it’s practically on the other side of town.»

«Okay», Harry says, trying to ignore the growing lump in his stomach. «Yeah, you should probably leave then. I’ll go get your clothes.» He desperately wants to ask when they can meet again, but he’s suddenly shy and can’t get the words out. He’s also dreading the answer if it’s not what he wants to hear, can’t bear the thought of Louis thinking this just a fun romp while he’s been practically writing serenades to his smile in his mind. Just as he gets up to leave for the bathroom, he feels Louis’s fingers around his wrist. «Hang on», he says, then stands up so they’re face to face. He looks uncertain, which is odd — Harry doesn’t think Louis could be anything but confidence personified. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and looks up at him. He hasn’t thought much of their height difference until now — it’s not that much, anyway — but right now, with Louis so clearly having to crane his neck to meet his eyes, it makes his stomach do flip-flops.

«I’ve had a really good time», Louis says, «Both today and yesterday.»

«Me, too», Harry says. «Really, really good.»

«You wanna do this again sometime?», he asks, and it might just be Harry’s imagination but it sounds like he’s speaking a little too quickly, as if the courage to ask would fail him if he spoke in his normal tempo.

«Yeah», Harry says, smiling. «Yes, please.»

«Cool».

«Yeah. Alright.» Louis gets up on his toes and kisses him, slow and sweet, and Harry can’t help but hum into it, his arms meeting in the small of Louis’s back, pressing him just that little bit closer to him. Louis breaks the kiss, again checking his phone with a guilty look on his face. «I don’t mean to be an arse, but I do have to get going.»

He follows Harry into the bathroom and changes into the freshly washed clothes, and then Harry follows him to the door, where they waste another two minutes kissing before Louis manages to extract himself from the situation. They agree to meet up again on Tuesday, the first evening they both have available, and as Harry closes the door he’s got the biggest, stupidest smile on his face. Best. First date. Ever.

*

Harry’s been seeing Louis — he’s not quite certain they’re officially dating, as it’s not a conversation they’ve had yet — for three weeks, when he’s called into the office of his supervisor. Mr. Hammond, or Dan, as he’d liked to be called, even though Harry and all the other junior employees still call him Mr. Hammond behind his back, is sitting behind his desk when Harry knocks and enters his office. His desk is about the size of Harry’s bed. He’s never been called into his office before, and he wonders what he’s done wrong. Has he not been efficient enough? Not thorough enough? Has his computer been hacked because he hasn’t been careful enough and now a dozen unpublished manuscripts are in the hands of strangers? He’s worked himself into a bit of a frenzy by the time he sits down at the opposite end of Mr. Hammond’s monstrosity of a desk.

«Harry», he starts, smiling so wide that Harry is sure he’s getting fired and this is just the tactic he uses in order to make his victim as unsuspecting as possible. «Or should I call you Mr. Styles?»

«No, no, Harry’s fine. I mean, you’re the boss, right?» He laughs nervously.

«Harry it is, then. Now, you’ve been with us for two years now, right?»

«That’s correct. Um, it was two years last month, to be precise.»

«And how are you finding it? Are you happy here at Bloomsbury?»

«Oh, very happy, Mr. Ha — Dan. Really, I love it here.»

«Good. That’s wonderful to hear. Now listen, Harry, I’m not going to keep you on your toes any longer. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in today.»

Harry can only nod, his mouth now so dry with nerves that he probably wouldn’t be able to utter a word even if he wanted to.

Mr. Hammond leans forward. «It’s really quite simple: a new position has opened up, and I want to offer it to you.»

For a moment, Harry can’t speak. Then he says the only thing that pops into his head:

«I’m sorry, what?»

«I know you’ve done a great job as Catherine’s assistant, and I know she’ll be sorry to see you go. She told me as much this morning when I told her of my plan to offer you this position. But I also know that you don’t want to be an editor’s PA for the rest of your career, right? It’s a great start, but it’s not why you spent four years obtaining a master’s degree, is it?»

Knowing he’s not got the ability to form proper sentences at the moment, Harry just shakes his head and decides to stick to one-syllable answers. «No.»

«I thought so. Which is why I want to offer you a paid internship as a junior editor in our general fiction department. What do you say?»

«I’m —»

«Actually», Hammond interrupts, «Before you answer, there is one more thing I should tell you. The job is in New York.»

The details of the internship emerge as the meeting goes on, and after the initial double shock of first not being fired, and then being offered his dream job — or rather, the next step on the ladder towards his dream job — Harry is able to take them all in. The position had originally been offered to and accepted by someone else — a Julie that Harry remembers seeing around the building, but has never really spoken to as she works for a different division. She’d worked as a PA to Mr. Hammond himself for a year and a half before starting as a junior editor in the London office six months ago, and was all set to start the New York job placement. Except three weeks before she was supposed to start, which happened to be yesterday, her husband received a cancer diagnosis and they’ve had to cancel all plans of moving across the Atlantic. So now the New York office is in dire need of someone to fill the position, and they reached out to Mr. Hammond for a replacement, because according to some in-house rules that Harry only half understood, this specific job was earmarked for someone from the London office. Something to do with cultural exchanges. All in all, this means two things: one, the job’s already been cleared with HR and there’s a flat ready for him in New York should he choose to accept the offer. And two, he has less than 12 hours to answer. The New York office needs his reply by the end of their operating hours, which is eleven p.m in London, and Harry doesn’t have time to talk it through with his closest friends and family, doesn’t have the opportunity to sit down with Gemma or Niall or his mum and draw up a list of pros and cons. He just has to figure this out for himself, and he has to do it now. Of course, he knows what he’s going to have to do.

He calls his mum with the news first, who even before congratulating him makes him promise to come home for Christmas. Then he calls Gemma, who’s overjoyed not only on his behalf but on her own, as this means she has an excuse to visit New York more often. He invites himself over to Niall and Sophie’s that same evening and tells them over dinner, and he informs Nick and the crew in their group chat, with a promise of a big goodbye bash before he leaves. He found most of these talks enjoyable, because he got to share some really exciting news with the people he loves, and he knows that these relationships will stand the test of both time and long distance. Which is why he dreads having to tell Louis — because he knows this probably means the end of what they’ve been doing.

They already have a date planned for Thursday, which is two days after Harry both received and accepted the job offer, so he decides to wait until then to tell him. It would be a shitty thing to do over the phone, after all. He means to tell him right away, but then Louis greets him with his crinkly-eyed smile and a kiss and Harry falters a bit, and then he starts talking about how excited he is about the evening ahead, and Harry doesn’t want to ruin it for him, so he decides to wait until the gig has finished. It’s a special kind of torture, talking to Louis and kissing Louis and touching Louis all evening while knowing that it’ll all end soon. It’s even worse knowing that Louis has no idea, and Harry feels like the worst person in the world. He should’ve just cancelled the date, or at the very least told Louis up front. The band leaves the stage at ten, and Louis goes to the bar to buy drinks while Harry secures them a table. His guilt weighing him down, he barely lets Louis sit down before he breaks the news.

«I’ve been offered a new job», he says. Louis’s face breaks into a wide smile.

«Congratulations! Well done, you! Is it a good one?» Harry wishes he were less enthusiastic, as it would probably make this easier.

«Yeah, it’s really good, it’s, um — junior editor, actually.»

«Oh, that’s bloody amazing! That’s what you’ve wanted, right?» Louis’s earnest excitement over this is a little too much for Harry, and he doesn’t quite manage to look him in the eye as he continues, instead finds a spot on the wall behind him to focus on.

«It’s — yeah, it’s great.»

Seemingly catching on to Harry’s mood, Louis’s enthusiasm falters a bit. «You don’t sound too convinced», he says.

«The job’s great. It really is.» He pauses, takes a deep breath. «But it’s also in New York.»

Silence for a beat, then: «Oh.»

«Yeah. And it starts in less than three weeks. I’m leaving in two.» Harry feels completely rotten, and the idea of putting off telling him seems increasingly worse as the seconds tick by.

«Oh.»

«And I’ve already accepted it.»

«I see», Louis says, and Harry has a hard time telling whether he sounds angry, or hurt, or disappointed, or worst of all — indifferent.

«I’m really sorry», Harry says, finally managing to look directly at Louis.

«What for?», Louis says, sounding genuinely puzzled. He doesn’t look mad, which is a relief, but it doesn’t stop Harry from feeling like he needs to apologise.

«For springing this on you like this», he says.  «I swear, I only found out about it two days ago, and I had to give them an answer right away, and I meant to tell you sooner but I wanted to do it in person and —»

«Harry», Louis says, taking one of his hands in his.

«What?»

«It’s okay», he says, and it sounds like he means it. «We’ve known each other what, three weeks? Of course I’m not the first person you run to with the news, you idiot.» He smiles at Harry, a genuine, warm thing that somehow manages to make Harry feel both better and worse about this whole situation all at once.

Harry laughs, feeling relieved to have the worst part over with. «Well, when you put it like that.» Louis laughs too. «Well, I am very wise.»

«But I am sorry too. For, you know —» he gestures between them, «for ruining this.»

Louis looks down and smiles a half-smile, not quite reaching his eyes. «Yeah», he sighs. «I have to say that kind of is a bummer.»

«I’ve had so much fun with you», Harry says. «Christ, that made it sound like you’re an amusement park. I mean —»

«I know what you mean», Louis says. «These past few weeks have been just…good.»

«Yeah?»

«Yeah», Louis smiles. «Really, really good.» Harry’s been absentmindedly playing with Louis’s fingers while they’ve been talking, and it suddenly feels a little too affectionate, a little too intimate considering the situation.

«So», he says, bursting the little bubble that seems to have formed. «We both agree that this — is the right thing to do?» He doesn’t want to use the phrase «breaking up», because that’s not what’s really happening, they never really got to that place, but he’s also afraid of being too vague, resulting in him and Louis leaving with two different versions of what really happened.

«What would be the option?» Louis asks.

«Well, we could keep in touch I guess, but I don’t know if it’s…I mean, if it’s something you’d want?»

«You mean, like, long-distance?»

Harry shrugs. It looks like Louis thinks it over for a second or two, then shakes his head.

«No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.» He doesn’t look entirely convinced, though. «Do you?»

It feels as though the ball is suddenly completely in his court, and for a moment he does consider it. But then he looks at Louis, who’s probably expecting him to agree, and he doesn’t want to seem weird. Because it would be weird, right? Trying to go long distance with someone he’s not officially in a relationship with?

«No», Harry says. «I don’t think so either.» So that’s it, then. It’s decided that this is it, and even though it’s what Harry knew would be the conclusion before they even started having this conversation — what he knew the moment he accepted the offer — it still hurts. He really, really, really likes Louis.

«So here’s a suggestion», Louis says. «You’re gonna go to New York, and you’re gonna ace the job, and you’re gonna have an amazing time, because you’ll be in New York. And you’re not gonna think about me, because again, New York — you’re gonna be too busy for that anyway. And then, if you come back—»

«When», Harry interrupts. «I’m probably not gonna stay there forever — the internship’s only for a year, but with the opportunity of staying on longer if they’re happy with me.»

«Okay», Louis nods, a little impatiently. «So when you get back, whether it’s in one year or two or five, we’ll get back in touch. And if we’re both single and it feels right, we can always pick back up where we left off, right? How’s that for a plan?»

It’s probably not going to work out. Too much time will have passed, and they’ll probably both meet other people, and life will almost undoubtedly get in the way. Still, the idea of not having to say goodbye to Louis for good makes something lurch in his chest, so Harry agrees that it’s a good plan.

«How about now?», he asks.

Louis looks a little confused. «What do you mean?»

«I mean, I don’t leave for another two weeks, so we could still hang out, or — you know what I mean. But I don’t know if that would make things, I don’t know, more difficult?» He kind of desperately hopes Louis doesn’t think it’s a terrible idea, because he realises that he’s not quite ready for tonight to be it, after all. Louis looks at him, seemingly weighing the options.

«I mean», he says, chewing on his bottom lip. «We’re both adults, and we both know what we’re doing and how it’s going to end, right?» He sounds both hopeful and unsure, a mix of feelings Harry recognises only too well. «So I think we should have some fun. I mean, it wouldn’t be the world’s most terrible idea?»

*

While probably not the worst idea in the world, it’s not a great one either. It’s not that their time together in the two weeks leading up to Harry’s departure is horrible — quite the opposite, actually. Which is why it was a bloody stupid thing to do, because Harry starts having doubts about whether this whole New York thing is a good idea, after all. On his final Sunday morning in England in who knows how many months, he spends a good twenty minutes just looking at Louis lying next to him in bed, wondering, not for the first time, if he’s giving up something special. He had his farewell party last night, thrown together hastily but expertly by Nick and Niall, and even though nearly all his best mates were there, and there was cake and balloons and a dumb but heartfelt speech by Niall that had him tearing up, he also couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over so he could leg it back to Louis’s flat and spend the night with him. He didn’t bring Louis along to the party for the obvious reason; that it seemed pointless to introduce him to his mates when they were more than likely never to see him again, but also because some part of him was afraid that someone would see right through him, that they would be able to tell that Harry was fully in the process of falling for him.

He has no idea how Louis feels about it, whether he, too, feels their little experiment backfiring into a mess of feelings that weren’t supposed to be there, not so quickly, not so intensely. He doesn’t know, because he doesn’t ask. He’s afraid of the answer, he realises, no matter what it is. Afraid that Louis will feel the same, making everything more complicated, and afraid that he doesn’t share Harry’s feelings, which is even worse. They don’t end up seeing each other more than half a dozen times between their «break-up» and Harry’s departure — not for lack of wanting on Harry’s part, but more because he has quite a lot of people to see before he leaves, and he also has to pack and move out of his flat and somehow also find the time to drive up north to unload his things in his mum’s garage and spend a couple of days with her. After getting back from Cheshire, he spends his last night in London on Niall and Sophie’s couch, his suitcase squeezed into a corner and his heart more than a little heavy.

Early Friday afternoon, on his way to Heathrow, feeling both brave and stupid, he very nearly calls Louis and asks him to meet him at the train station. He stares at the number on his screen for nearly a minute before he returns his phone to his pocket. Not because he’s changed his mind on wanting to see him, but because it would be unfair to Louis. They said goodbye on Sunday, the day before his drive back home, and it felt final. He doesn’t want to disrupt that, doesn’t want to make things unnecessarily complicated for Louis because he suddenly has some feelings he doesn’t quite know how to handle. Instead, he decides to make this as easy as possible. After finding a seat on the airport express train, he fishes his phone out of his pocket. Then he goes through the apps where him and Louis have connected: Instagram, Snapchat, Tinder — they never made it to Facebook — and deletes and unfollows. He again looks him up in his list of contacts, thumb hovering over the delete button for what feels like ages. He sighs and puts the phone down, Louis’s number still there. He closes his eyes and feels the train speeding up.

*

His first three months in New York are over before he has time to really process it all, and suddenly it’s the day before Christmas Eve and he’s sitting on a plane back to England. Through hard work and overtime and a little bit of sucking up, he’s managed to get the entire week between Christmas and New Year’s off, and he doesn’t have to be back in the office until January 2. He means to spend the time well: flying into Manchester, he’ll spend the first five days with his family, and then travel down to London to finish his holiday, capping it with a massive New Year’s blowout at Nick’s. At one point, although he’s yet to decide when, he’s also planning to get in touch with Louis.

Even though the first couple of weeks in his new job were insanely busy, he had still found plenty of time to think about him. His little stunt on the way to the airport didn’t work, obviously. Deleting Louis’s presence from his digital life didn’t delete him from his thoughts, and he had to apply a good amount of self-restraint in order to stop himself from going back and adding him again on Instagram. While the mental presence of Louis isn’t the only reason he’s been in New York for three months without dipping his toes into the city’s dating pool — he’s been working insanely hard to prove to everyone that he didn’t get the job just because the first option fell through — it has probably played a more substantial role than he’s been willing to admit. Has Louis thought about him too? Or did he jump right back in, accepting what they had as a month of fun, but nothing more significant than that? He both wants to know, and he doesn’t.

Gemma picks him up at Manchester airport and drives them to his mum’s house, where just the three of them spend the next two days cooking up a storm and not changing out of their pyjamas once. On Boxing Day, a flood of aunts, uncles and cousins descend upon the house, filling it up with even more food, presents and probing questions about Harry’s life choices — the latter mainly courtesy of his nosy great-aunt. After most of the family has driven back home, except for those who are spending the night in the guest room, he helps his mum clean the kitchen, which is when she corners him. He’s mostly surprised she waited this long.

«I wanted to ask you», she says, while handing Harry the plates for him to dry. «What happened to that boy you were seeing before you left?»

«Who, Louis?»

«That’s the one. You never told me.»

«You never asked.»

«Don’t be cheeky», she says, smiling her mum smile. «I just wasn’t sure if asking would upset you. You seemed to really like him, didn’t you?» Honestly, what is it with mums and their eerie way of just knowing?

«I did» Harry says, accepting another plate. «He was — is — really great, but it wasn’t going to work out. I mean, we only knew each other barely a month, it would be impossible to try to make it work after I went to New York.»

«Why?» Always with the bloody questions.

«Well, because», Harry says, a little impatient, «because it wouldn’t.»

His mum just looks at him. «I’m not sure you answered the question, love.»

«Christ», Harry says, «Because we didn’t really know each other, okay? You don’t do long distance with someone after a month. You just don’t. And it would be so unfair of me to ask him to wait for me when I don’t even know how long I’ll be in New York. That’s why.»

«All right», his mum says, using her less soapy hand to push a lock of hair out of his face. «All right, love. I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just curious.»

«I’m not upset», Harry says, knowing it’s not true, and knowing his mum knows it, too. «And anyway, I’m going to see him when I’m in London.»

«Really?»

«I mean, I haven’t talked to him yet, but we agreed that we’d be in touch when I was back, just to see if we wanted to meet.»

She wipes her hands and turns to fully look at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

«Oh Harry», she says, a tone of concern creeping into her voice. «Are you sure that’s a good idea?»

He isn’t sure. Not at all, really. But that doesn’t stop him from typing out a text to Louis three days later, on the train down to London. It takes him a full half hour, but he ends up with something he think sounds appropriate.

Hi stranger, it reads. Just fulfilling my end of the deal here. Back in London for a couple of days and I’ve got some time on my hands. Thought I’d see if you were up for meeting some time. Coffee or a drink - what do you say? Harry xxx

Not too desperate, but not too restrained, either. His thumbnail’s almost entirely bitten off by the time Louis replies.

Welcome back :) I’m back in town tomorrow, wanna come over to mine for a drink? X

Sounds good! What time do you want me there? X

Is seven okay? :)

Perfect! Want me to bring anything?

Maybe some food? Driving down with a mate around lunchtime, so won’t have time to make anything :)

I can do that! Anything in particular?

Surprise me :)

Just after seven the next day, armed with a bag full of Thai food, he turns up at Louis’s flat nervous as all hell. What on earth is he doing, really? He’s going back to New York in two days and he knows from recent experience that Louis has the ability to turn his decision-making capabilities into that of a drunk shrimp. The last time they slept in the same bed, he contemplated foregoing New York and staying in London, so God only knows what he’ll be considering after whatever the hell it is they’re doing tonight. In the seconds that go by before Louis comes to the door, some primal part of his brain is telling him to chuck the food into the nearest bush and make a run for it while he still can, but then Louis opens the door with a crooked smile, gets up on his tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek, and Harry wonders if Louis would be okay with him holing up here until his flight leaves.

«Merry Christmas, I guess», Harry says as Louis shepherds him inside and closes the door. «I hope Thai’s okay?»

«Thai’s brilliant», Louis says, taking the bag from Harry. «I physically could not eat another Yorkshire pudding even if you paid me.»

Harry laughs. «Good Christmas, then?»

«Yeah, it was all right», Louis says, then carries the food over to the small corner of the room that makes up his kitchen and starts unloading the take-out boxes onto the counter. Harry can’t help it; watching him from behind, observing the muscles of his upper back move underneath the t-shirt as he lifts out box after box, he physically feels like he can’t not walk up to him and wrap his arms around his waist. It feels terrifyingly intimate, doing this to someone after not seeing them for more than three months, and not knowing at all whether they’re on the same page. Louis seems to be though, as he only leans into Harry’s touch, pressing his back against Harry’s front, then turning around and throwing his arms around Harry’s neck.

«Am I allowed to say that I missed your face?», Louis asks.

Harry pretends to think it over, putting on a thoughtful face. «Only if you plan to follow up your words with some action.»

Louis grins. «Oh yeah? Like what?»

«Like…» He moves his hands around to the small of Louis’ back, runs them down until they reach his bum, rests them there. «Like that?»

«I see», Louis says, his voice a touch rougher than it was just seconds ago. He pushes his mouth against Harry’s, the kiss instantly deepening, and God, it’s like no time has passed between them at all, like New York never even happened. Now Louis’s hands have moved to his hips, and he’s slowly but determinedly walking them both backwards until the backs of Harry’s knees hit something soft but firm, and soon he’s lying on his back on Louis’s tiny sofa, his hands moving up and under the hem of Louis’s shirt. Their chests are pressed flush together, and Louis has a knee in-between Harry’s thighs, and his hands seem to be everywhere at once; in Harry’s hair, now unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, now pushing a stray curl out of his eyes. They are never going to make it to dinner.

«Fuck, hang on», Louis suddenly says, crawling off Harry, who immediately misses the weight and warmth of him. He looks at Louis upside-down from his vantage point and sees him closing the curtains of the giant bay window leading to the street outside.

«We nearly gave my neighbours a really good show», Louis says, returning to the sofa. This time though, instead of throwing himself back on top of Harry and getting back to where they left off, he seems more deliberate in his movements, kneeling across Harry’s thighs and placing both palms on his lower belly, where his shirt’s ridden up. The sensation makes Harry shiver all over. He runs his hands up Harry’s torso, underneath the fabric, then down again, until he reaches the waistband of his jeans and starts unbuttoning it. Harry feels a deep pull at the bottom of his stomach and notices that his breath changes, quickens, tries to not let his voice betray how much Louis’s touch affects him as he quips, «Someone’s in a hurry.»

Louis looks up at him through the hair that has fallen into his eyes, says nonchalantly while getting to work on Harry’s zipper, «You’re the one who demanded action, aren’t you?» His teasing tone is maddening to Harry, makes him want to roll them both off the couch and rip off Louis’s clothes in an instant. Instead he laughs softly and shifts his hips, allowing Louis to easier pull his jeans over his bum. His boxers go with them, and he lets out a low hiss as his cock springs free and is exposed to the air. The sensation only lasts a few seconds, and then Louis lowers himself down and takes the tip into his mouth, maintaining eye contact with Harry all the way, and Harry is going to die right here on this couch. Louis squeezes the base of his cock and Harry is going to die. Louis licks a stripe down his cock and Harry is going to die. Louis locks eyes with him as he swallows the entire length of him and Harry is going to die, going to die, going to die. He comes embarrassingly quick, gripping the back of the couch with one hand while trying to control his hips from bucking too much while Louis swallows every drop of him. Then he sits up, still straddling Harry, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins. His face is flushed and his lips are wet, and he’s sitting there grinning filthily at Harry in a stupid Christmas jumper and it’s all so bloody unfair. Fuck New York, he thinks. Fuck New York if it doesn’t give me Louis looking like that in his stupid fucking jumper, looking at me like that. Then Louis tucks Harry back inside his boxers and crawls up his torso, grinning into it as he plants a wet kiss on Harry’s lips, and his mind goes temporarily and pleasantly blank for a while.

They come up for air later, after lazily kissing with their limbs entangled for more than an hour. Harry’s lips feel nearly rubbed raw, and he whimpers a bit as a piece of chili from the now-cold pad thai hits a particularly sore spot, making Louis giggle into his noodles and give him a consoling kiss on the cheek. They stay on the sofa for a while, Louis on Harry’s lap, alternating between nuzzling his cheek sweetly and filthily sticking his tongue down Harry’s throat, until he suddenly gets up off the couch, takes one of Harry’s hands in his own and leads him into the bedroom.

The mood has shifted slightly as Louis pushes Harry down on his bed and crawls up his body, crowding him as he starts leaving bruising little kisses down the column of his throat. Harry gets it — he does. They can’t afford to be sweet to each other any longer, not with New York and his departure looming on the horizon. They can’t talk about it either, even though they both know it’s there — at least Harry’s pretty certain it’s there for the both of them, judging by the intensity with which Louis is now trying to yank off his shirt. They don’t talk about it as they enter a more intense, physical territory because it’s easier than having to confront what they’re actually doing. So they exchange kisses that almost hurt, and Harry rolls them over and pins Louis’s arms to the mattress a little too forcefully, and when he removes their clothes he does it efficiently and without care. And when he opens Louis up, first with one finger, then with two and then with three, he covers Louis’s mouth with his own to try to catch the whimpers that escape him, because he can’t have Louis being vulnerable underneath him, not here, not now, not with what’s about to happen. And when he enters Louis with a groan and starts moving in and out, he finds he has to look away from Louis’s face, because he doesn’t want to see what’s written there. And when Louis comes with a cry and Harry follows soon after, he finds himself unable to follow it with a kiss like they used to do, instead choosing to collapse next to Louis on the bed. And they don’t talk about it, because they don’t talk. And Harry knows what he should do now — knows it’s better for them both if he gets off the bed, picks up his clothes from the floor, calls a taxi and goes out the door before it’s too late. But he doesn’t. So they sleep. But they don’t talk about it.

When Harry wakes up the next morning — New Year’s Eve, he reminds himself — he’s alone in Louis’s bed. It’s quiet at first, but as his ears adjust to being awake, he picks up on noises coming from the kitchen area: a cupboard door softly closing, a drawer opening, the rustling of cutlery. Then, a drawer being slammed shut, something clattering to the floor, and finally Louis groaning «Fucking hell.» He takes it as his cue to investigate, hops into last night’s underwear and pads out into the living room, where Louis is standing in front of the stovetop with his back to him, furiously stirring something in a frying pan and muttering to himself. Harry very nearly gets up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, but stops at the last second, instead sidling up next to him and peering into the pan.

«What’s that?»

«Good morning to you, too», Louis says, bumping his hip into Harry’s. «It’s scrambled eggs.» He stirs some more and wrinkles his nose. «Or at least, it was supposed to be scrambled eggs, I dunno what went wrong.»

«Can I?», Harry asks, not waiting for an answer before he takes the wooden ladle from Louis and pokes around. He’s right: it’s not scrambled eggs any more, it’s dried-up egg crumbs. «Too much heat», he diagnoses, before opening the cupboard beneath the sink and emptying the contents of the pan into the rubbish bin. «Got any more eggs?»

«No», Louis groans, «Those were the last four I had.»

«That’s okay, it’s not as if I was expecting some fancy breakfast anyway.»

«I know», Louis sighs, «I just wanted to…I don’t know, do something special today.»

«Why?» Harry asks, amused and hopeful, though he shouldn’t be.

«Because you’re leaving tomorrow and it’s the last time I’ll se you in God knows how long, and I just…» He doesn’t finish the sentence, just shrugs and looks deflated. And Harry knows what he decided last night: no more sweetness or this whole thing will become even more unbearable, but he can’t help it, not when Louis is being so adorably upset over fucking up his scrambled eggs, so he reaches around Louis, places his hands under his bum and hoists him up. Louis yelps, but catches on quickly, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and his arms around his neck, their lips meeting in a kiss that deepens instantly. When Harry’s arms start to ache, he turns around and puts Louis down on the only available space on the counter, and then they kiss some more, this time with Harry having to crane his neck up a little bit as Louis is suddenly an inch taller, and the new angle is exhilarating. As he tries to leave, Louis just squeezes his legs together, holding him in place, and continues kissing him. «Where do you think you’re going?», he mumbles against Harry’s lips, his voice now a little rough.

«Well, someone has to make the breakfast around here», he says, and then manages to dart out from between Louis’s legs while his focus is momentarily elsewhere.

«You absolute shit», Louis says, throwing an oven glove after him. «I tried!» He reaches out to swat at Harry, but he’s put too much space between them, so his arm just ends up flailing at the air. Harry laughs, moves in quickly to press a kiss to his cheek, says «I know, and it was a good effort. You can stay right there and be my assistant.» Louis pouts, but stays put on top of the counter, his legs dangling, and Harry’s in such dangerous territory right now that one wrong move will see him careening off the edge of a cliff marked «DANGER: MAJOR FEELINGS AHEAD». But he can’t help it.

In the end, he finds flour, butter, sugar and some milk that hasn’t gone off at the bottom of a carton and whips up a small batch of scones. While they wait for them to bake, he wipes down the counter and ends up cleaning half the kitchen with absolutely no help from Louis, who’s still perching on his throne, every now and again reaching out to pull Harry towards him for a kiss. They eat them fresh out of the oven with jam but no cream sitting down at Louis’s small kitchen table, and by the time Harry swipes up the last crumb with his thumb, the mood has shifted. It’s nearly noon, and they’re approaching the inevitable.

«What time do you have to leave?», Louis asks, his voice surprisingly neutral.

«I promised Nick I’d help with the food and decorations, so probably not too long. What are your plans tonight, anyway?» He realises he hasn’t asked what Louis is doing for New Year’s Eve, and right then and there he decides to invite him to Nick’s, because this can’t be the last time he sees him in forever — it can’t. But then Louis replies and Harry’s heart plummets into his stomach.

«Brighton», he says, and he sounds excited. «One of my uni mates moved down there last year, so he’s invited a bunch of us down to spend the night. He’s got two bloody spare rooms — he’s got a whole bloody house. That’s what happens when you move out of London, I guess.» Harry only hums in reply, has to spend all his energy on not letting what he really feels show on his face. Within the span of a few seconds he had started imagining things: Louis coming with him to Nick’s, the two of them coming back here after the party to spend Harry’s last night in England together, maybe even Louis accompanying him to the airport tomorrow. But obviously that isn’t happening, because Louis has plans and he has a life and he’s not shaping it around Harry. When Harry shortly goes out his front door, Louis will return to his normal life and he will be fine. Harry suddenly can’t stay there any longer, needs to get out before he spirals further, so he takes his plate and puts it in the sink, then walks to the bedroom while speaking to Louis over his shoulder. «I think I’m gonna have to start getting ready or else I’ll be late.»

«Okay»,Louis replies from behind him. «Thanks for breakfast!»

In the bedroom, Harry dresses quickly, scans the room for anything he might have missed. His phone’s in the kitchen and his wallet and oyster card are in the pocket of his coat; except for the bag of takeout, he didn’t bring anything else over last night. He goes to the bathroom, takes a piss and washes his hands, splashes some icy cold water on his face, looks sternly at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and says «get a fucking grip» to it. Louis comes out of the bedroom as he exits the bathroom, having put on a pair of joggers and a hoodie. For a second, Harry thinks he might be planning to walk him to the tube stop, and his heart does a funny thing in his chest, but then he realises that Louis probably doesn’t want to stand in the doorway wearing just his pants and a flimsy t-shirt. It’s December, after all. Neither of them say anything as Harry puts on his shoes first, then his coat. Louis is standing with his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall next to the door, just looking at him.

«Do you have everything?» he asks as Harry finishes wrapping his scarf around his throat.

«Yeah, I think so — no, hang on, my phone’s on the kitchen table.» Louis walks over and grabs it, puts it into Harry’s hand, looks up at him.

«So», he says, flashing a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. «I guess that’s it for now.»

«I guess so.»

«What time’s your flight tomorrow?»

«Two.»

«Heathrow, right?»

«Yup.»

«Are you excited to get back to New York?»

Absolutely not, Harry thinks. I fucking hate New York for taking me away from you.

He says, «Yeah, I guess so.»

«Do you know when you’ll be back next?» Harry thinks Louis sounds hopeful, but that could just be projection.

«The internship lasts until September, but I’ll definitely be back for a visit during the summer. My cousin’s getting married in July, so probably around then.»

«Okay», Louis says, then swallows. «Do we still have a deal?»

«You mean…Will I get in touch next time I’m in town to see where we are?»

«Yes.»

«If you want to.»

«I do.»

«Then yes, we still have a deal.»

«Good», Louis says. «That’s good.»

«I should —» Harry starts, but doesn’t get any further before Louis throws his arms around his neck and pulls him in for a hug. He’s swallowed up by Harry’s winter coat, but he can still feel his heartbeat through the many layers of fabric separating them. There are so many words on the tip of Harry’s tongue. Please wait for me. Let’s try long distance. I think I’m falling in love with you and I’m terrified. Please don’t fall in love with someone else while I’m gone. He doesn’t say any of them, though. Then Louis releases him, pushes up on the balls of his feet and kisses his cheek. «Have a good flight», he says. «And Happy New Year, I guess.» Harry takes that as his cue to open the door and step outside. Before he loses his nerve, he turns around and kisses Louis. He doesn’t know if it’s the last time he’ll get to do it, and the thought of it hurts so much. He knows if he stays there a minute longer he will start to cry, and he doesn’t want Louis to see that, doesn’t want to make this even more difficult than it already is, so he whispers «See you» against Louis’s lips, presses his mouth to his forehead, then turns around and walks down the steps and out into the street with a determined stride, not looking back once. He gets to the tube stop in one piece, then has to sit down on a bench outside the station to catch his breath and try to control his thoughts. If this were a movie, Louis would come running down the street now, yelling «Harry, wait! There’s something I need to tell you!» But his life is not a movie, so he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He enters the station and descends the escalators, but at least he manages not to cry.

New Year’s Eve is miserable. Nick’s party, seen from an objective point of view, is excellent: the food is delicious, the music great, the general atmosphere amongst the guests is impeccable, but Harry’s in a wretched mood and only barely able to put on a happy face, determined not to ruin this night for anyone else. He manages to stay up until 1 a.m, then slinks off to bed claiming travel anxiety. On January 1^st, he stays in bed in Nick’s guest room, buried underneath the duvet and feeling sorry for himself, for so long that Nick eventually starts hammering down the door, yelling that he’ll miss his flight if he doesn’t get up soon. Good, Harry thinks stubbornly. I hope I miss my stupid flight to stupid New York, but he does get up. If Nick has any suspicions about why Harry’s acting like a moody teenager he doesn’t say anything, and Harry is grateful. They eat breakfast mostly in silence, and then Nick walks Harry to the station, where he gets on the Piccadilly line that will take him all the way to Heathrow. In line to check in and later for the security check, he again entertains the idea of Louis rushing after him, jumping over suitcases and underneath rope barriers in order to catch him before he boards. After all, he did ask him what time his flight was and what airport he was travelling from. But of course he doesn’t show up, because that’s not how life works. And so Harry eventually gets in line for boarding, finds his window seat and watches the safety demonstration with disinterest. It’s a clear day, and as the plane ascends east over London before making a turn in the direction of New York, he peers out the window, at all the little people and little cars and little houses thousands of feet below him. Somewhere down there, Louis is, he thinks. And I should be there with him. Just before he drowses off in his seat, he has a thought. It’s the sharpest, most lucid thought he’s had in a long time: I think I just made a huge mistake.

* 

Winter in New York is much harsher than Harry had prepared for, to the point where he’s almost indignant that no-one warned him properly. It’s much colder than London, and they actually get substantial amounts of snow. They even have actual blizzards, and more than once during January, Harry arrives home with chunks of snow tangled up in the ends of his hair. What makes the season even more miserable is that he misses Louis even more than he did last time. On the one hand, it doesn’t make much sense, seeing as they spent barely a day together this time around. But now he’s convinced that this could be more than just a flirt, and had he never left London when he did, they could have something very real. But it’s not fair, to neither him nor Louis, to keep it lukewarm for so long. He has nine months left of his internship, which he truly does enjoy more and more for each day that goes by, and he can’t ask Louis to wait for him. He just can’t.

But with the promise of spring that creeps up on the city in late March, so does a new and unexpected opportunity. One Tuesday morning, just when the snow seems to have disappeared for good and the sun’s rays are starting to actually give off warmth, he’s called into the office of the head of the general fiction department. The size of her desk and the nervousness he feels as he steps across the threshold gives Harry the feeling that he’s been in this exact position before. Is he fired? Will he be demoted? Claire Williamson, technically his boss’ boss, whom he has spoken to a total of four times since he arrived, is sitting behind her desk, and with her is a man Harry’s seen before, but can’t quite place. He doesn’t think he’s seen him in New York. What in the world is going on?

«Mr. Styles», Claire smiles as he enters, standing up to shake his hand and indicating for him to take a seat opposite her. «Is it okay if I call you Harry?»

«Sure — yes, I mean, Ms. Williamson», he says, clearing his throat.

«Oh, please, call me Claire», she says. «And I’m not sure whether you’ve met Rupert Jones before?» She nods to the mysteriously familiar stranger, who leans in across the desk to shake Harry’s hand.

«Rupert here’s the head of our YA literature division, and he’s got an offer for you.»

Half an hour later, Harry nearly tumbles out of the office, his head spinning. The gist of the meeting was this: although he’s scheduled to stay in New York until September and finish his internship program, a new position has opened up — a position Harry’s been recommended for, in fact. As it turns out, his head of department here in New York has been so impressed with his work that when she heard there was a new role being created, with the purpose of bridging the gap between YA and new adult literature, and that they were specifically looking for young people with at least two years’ experience from publishing, she put Harry’s name forward and then the ball started rolling. He has to interview for the job, but if he gets it, he starts on June 1^st. He also has to move back to London, as that’s where the job is.

When he gets home that evening, he finds a notebook, opens it up to a blank page and starts jotting down words in two neat columns: For and Against. Underneath Against, he writes not finishing what I started, won’t get to spend a whole year in New York, give up opportunity of an even better job after internship (?), won’t get to travel the US. In the column under For: actual adult job (not internship), better pay, exciting to try something new, family, friends, proper chips, and, finally, Louis??? He reads the list twice while eating cold leftovers over the kitchen sink, then pulls up his phone and types out an e-mail to Claire: I would very much like to be considered for the position. Best regards, Harry E. Styles.

The interview’s the following Friday afternoon, in a conference room-turned-office with Rupert (whom Harry now recalls having seen around the London office) on the other side of the desk, next to a huge computer screen where the shoulders-and-up of his old boss is Skyping in from London. He has a good gut feeling as he exits the room, and celebrates with an ice cream cone on his way home, the weather finally permitting for such things. On Wednesday, he is summoned into Claire’s office and told, rather unceremoniously, that the job his his. He is to continue with his internship until mid-May, which is a month and a half away, which means he has about two weeks after that to move himself and his stuff back to London and hopefully find somewhere temporary to stay until the new job starts. The first person he calls is his mum, who’s ecstatic to get him home and for this new opportunity, then Gemma, who’s happy for him but a bit annoyed she only got the chance to visit once. Then Niall and Nick get a call, before he sends a group text to his favourite former-soon-to-be-current London workmates containing only the words Guess who’s back, followed by three sunglasses emoji. In comparison, he puts a hell of a lot more effort into the text he eventually sends Louis, typing and retyping and saving it to drafts at least four times during the day before he finally sends it from his tiny foldout bed whilst eating stale cookies, a Drag Race episode he’s seen at least twice providing enough background noise that his own thoughts don’t make him overthink everything.

Louis,

I’m guessing you didn’t expect to hear from me right now, but something very exciting has happened and for some reason (just kidding, I know exactly what reason), you were one of the first people I wanted to share it with. I’ve been offered a new job in London — not the one I had, but a much cooler one (I hope), and I’m starting on June 1^st. In other words, I’m not staying in New York until September. I don’t know where you are in the world or in your life right now, or if something has happened to make you change your mind since New Year’s, but in case you haven’t, I was hoping you might want to meet when I get back to town and see if we can’t pick up where we left off. I hope I’m not embarrassing myself too much by saying this, but I have thought about you a lot these past few months. Hope all is well. Harry xxx

When the episode ends twenty minutes later without a reply, he puts on another one and waits. He checks the time — 10.15 pm in New York means it’s time to leave work and go home in London. Maybe Louis is caught in rush hour traffic, or stuck on the tube deep underground, or maybe he’s still at work, frantically working towards an end-of-the-day deadline with no time to check his phone. Another twenty minutes go by, then another. Valentina is eliminated. He doesn’t stop the the next episode from autoplaying, tries very hard not to check his phone every ten seconds. Maybe he’s changed his number? Or maybe he left his phone at work? Or maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to reply. He waits up until midnight, then decides enough is enough and heads to the bathroom. Nothing has happened in the seven minutes he was away, so he puts his phone on silent, double checks that the alarm for tomorrow is set, puts the phone screen down on the nightstand and eventually falls into a restless sleep.

When he wakes up ten minutes before his alarm, there’s a message from Louis waiting for him.

Hi Harry, it starts. I’m sorry I didn’t reply sooner. To be honest I needed some time to figure out what to write to you. I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to meet with you when you get back. I met someone a couple of months ago and it’s serious. I’d suggest trying to stay friends, but I’m honestly not sure it’s something either of us would want. I’m really happy for you about the new job, though, and I hope it goes well. You deserve it. Again, I’m sorry. All the best, Louis x

Well, Harry thinks. All right then. That’s that. Nothing he can do. It’s fine, he tells himself, while the feeling of being punched in the gut says something completely different. It wasn’t meant to be after all. It’s funny, he thinks, that even though Louis was at the literal bottom of the list, was the most uncertain element (he even followed his name with three question marks, for fucks’s sake), Harry suddenly can’t seem to remember what else he listed as in favour of going back to London.

Present - July 2020

Twenty minutes after his meeting has finished, Harry still hasn’t moved from the sofa in the corner of the café. He’s not exactly dreading going back to the office, but he’d just rather stay here, where the cushions are soft and the air condition keeps his skin from feeling clammy. He enjoys summertime, but could do without working during a never-ending 30-degree heatwave in a city where the infrastructure collapses once the temperature surpasses 25. Sighing, he peels himself off the seat and stuffs his laptop into a canvas bag. He makes his way to the counter, rounding the bookshelf that divides the room in two, and orders an iced coffee to go, even though he really shouldn’t have more caffeine today. Another way of postponing the office, he supposes. He turns to have a look out the windows, and his heart skips a beat.

They haven’t seen each other in a year and a half, and he’s on the other side of the room with his face half buried in a book, but Harry is one hundred per cent sure that Louis is sitting behind a table not fifteen metres away from him.

His body’s reaction is a surprise, and a bit of a betrayal. It’s been eighteen months and he’s kissed more people than he can count on one hand since the last time he kissed Louis, and yet the sight of him feels like someone’s let loose an army of bees inside his chest.

«Your coffee, mate», says the barista from behind him, shaking him out of his reverie. He takes it, thanks her, and before he’s had any time to really think it through, he’s striding across the floor in the direction of Louis’s table. He looks up from his book before Harry makes it all the way over, recognition showing on his face.

«Hi», Harry says, having stopped in front of the table. «I, um, thought I saw you from over there». He points to the counter.

«Hi», Louis replies, something reminiscent of amusement colouring his voice. He’s put the book down, and Harry recognises the cover. The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Klay. He’d recommended it to Louis once, and the realisation causes the bees to flutter around a bit. Stupid traitorous body.

«Christ, it really is you», Harry says. «I mean I thought it was, but then again — what are the odds?»

«Yeah», Louis agrees, «Small world, I guess. Have you been here long? I didn’t see you come in.» Harry waves in the direction of the corner sofa he’d been occupying, hidden from view by the enormous bookshelf.

«I had a work meeting over there, I came in around noon.»

Louis smiles, a brief little thing. «That explains it then», he says. «I only got here ten minutes ago. I think I would have noticed you walking past.»

«I’m not forgettable, then?» Harry says, instantly regretting his choice of words. He didn’t come here to guilt trip, or to flirt, or to whatever it is his brain has decided on. Louis just smiles again, though it seems to be more to himself than to Harry. «No, definitely not».

A silence stretches out between them, not exactly awkward, but not wholly comfortable either. Harry looks at Louis’s fingers curled around his cup. It’s filled halfway with a light brown substance. Tea, he supposes, knowing Louis. Which he really doesn’t, not very well, not anymore.

Louis clears his throat. «So», he says, «you’re back in town?»

«Yeah, for about a year now.»

«New York wasn’t that great, then?»

«No, it was», Harry says, somehow feeling like he has to defend it, the city, the move, everything. «But I got a really good job offer here, and eight months over there felt like enough, at least for now.» This exchange makes no sense to Harry — why are they both acting as if this is news to Louis? As if the text he sent explaining it never existed?

«Congratulations», Louis says, again smiling. It looks genuine. «And welcome back, I guess.»

«Thank you». Now it’s Harry’s turn to smile. «Although it feels a bit weird hearing that, now.»

«Yeah, sorry about that». Louis looks down, face twisted into a small grimace. Harry doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Is he apologising for the text, the new boyfriend, their shitty timing? The silence returns, seemingly weighted down by the question Harry realises is sitting on the tip of his tongue but that he can’t make himself ask. Instead he says nothing, his gaze again lingering on Louis’s fingers, his thumb now rubbing the rim of the cup.

«So listen», he says, at the same time as Louis starts to speak. They both let out a little laugh, and Louis gestures for him to speak.

«I should be getting back to work», he says, and then, before his courage fails him, «But would you maybe want to grab a coffee some time?»

«You mean like, catch up?» Louis asks. Harry nods, biting his lower lip. Old nervous habits die hard. «Sure», he says, sounding anything but. There’s a question in his eyes, one that Harry can’t make out. Is he holding back from asking the same question Harry’s been keeping in, or has he anticipated what Harry so desperately wants to ask and is trying to think of a way of letting him down gently?

«Are you available this weekend?» Harry asks. Too eager? Definitely too eager.

Louis checks his phone. «Sunday?» Maybe not too eager at all.

*

After exchanging numbers again (a pretence on Harry’s part, as he never actually deleted Louis’s number), they had agreed on hashing out the finer details over texts. On Friday afternoon, Louis texts him the address of a coffee shop near Wood Green station along with a Sunday at noon? Harry replies with a thumbs up and a smiley face, spends the rest of the weekend trying not to think about it too much, and fails spectacularly. As he gets off the tube stop on Sunday, he very nearly phones Niall just so he can have someone tell him there’s no need to be nervous, but he doesn’t. He told Niall about the encounter on Wednesday, but not about today. He doesn’t want to make it into a bigger deal than it is, and he doesn’t want a bunch of well-meaning but annoying questions in case it all goes tits up. Also, he suspects his closest friends got their fair share of Louis talk in the first couple of weeks after the rejection. So he only has his own thoughts for company as he makes his way to Coffee Break.

The entrance to the café is on a corner, meaning he has to walk past its long row of windows before entering. He glances in to see if he can spot Louis, and stops, dead in his tracks. Louis is already there, waiting by a table with his back halfway turned to Harry. From his profile Harry can see that he’s not wearing the glasses he wore last time. He’s in dark blue jeans and a green t-shirt. He’s also in a wheelchair. Harry pictures himself as one of those old-timey cartoon characters when they see something shocking, can picture his eyes literally popping out of his head. He briefly wonders if rubbing them will somehow alter the scene in front of him. He thinks back to Wednesday, tries to remember what kind of chair Louis was sitting in then. He was sitting behind a table the whole time, and Harry stood directly in front of him. He can not remember noticing anything out of the ordinary. Surely he would have noticed a wheelchair? How could he not? Did something happen in the five days since they saw each other? Maybe it’s an old injury that has flared up, one that Harry never knew about before? He realises he won’t ever find out standing here on the sidewalk, and then a small voice inside his head wonders if he even wants to find out. For the briefest of moments, barely half a second, he sees himself turning on his heel and walking back to the station, texting Louis an apology, maybe a sudden migraine, and then never texting him again. He tells the voice in his head not to be such a gigantic arsehole, and walks into the coffee shop.

«Hello again», he says as he approaches the table and slides out a chair. Louis makes no move to get up and greet him, but returns the hello with a smile. Harry forces himself not to stare at Louis’s lap as he sits down, noticing that from this vantage point, sitting directly across from him, there’s no way of telling that Louis isn’t sitting on the same kind of rickety wooden chair as himself. The potential for him to have missed something rather huge on Wednesday is definitely there.

«I’m not too late, am I?» he says as he sits down, nodding at the cup of tea in front of Louis.

«No, not at all», Louis says, «I just got here a little early. There’s table service, by the way», he adds, nudging a laminated menu across the table for Harry to look at.

«Any recommendations? Assuming you’ve been here before?»

«The cappuccino’s decent, although I usually just have tea. And the scones are lovely, if you haven’t already eaten.»

A waitress comes by, taking his order of a cappuccino and a scone. Louis looks at him as she leaves, an amused expression on his face.

«I hope you didn’t feel compelled to order that», he says, a smile in his voice.

«Well, at least I have someone to blame if it tastes like shit», Harry quips, earning him a small laugh from Louis. Are they flirting already?

«I take it you still live around here then?»

Louis nods, taking a sip of his tea. «Same flat as before. You didn’t mind coming up here?» Harry realises that for all Louis knows, he still lives in Fulham.

«Wasn’t that far, actually», he says, «I’m in Archway now.» Then they chat for a few minutes about his new flat and why he chose North London, and then Harry can’t hold in the questions any longer.

«I’m sorry», he says, just as the waitress comes over with his coffee and scone on a tray. He waits for her to place it on the table before he continues. «I’m aware that what I’m about to ask might sound completely and utterly mental, and I apologise, but…the last time I saw you, on Wednesday.» Louis is giving him a puzzled look over the rim of his teacup, clearly wondering where he’s going with this. «Were you in a wheelchair then?» He winces as the question is asked, knowing how daft he sounds. For a few seconds, Louis says nothing. Then his eyes seem to widen, and he places the cup down on the table.

«Harry», he says, and Harry can’t quite figure out the tone of his voice — is he offended? Hurt? Angry? Amused? «Harry. No way. No.»

«Should I take that as a yes, then?»

«Oh christ», Louis says, «oh my God», and then he buries his face in his hands and his shoulders start shaking. It takes a few seconds for Harry to realise that he’s laughing, and then he starts laughing too, relieved that he apparently hasn’t caused any offence and struck with the absurdity of the whole situation. The laughter peters out, and Louis looks at him again, his fingers fiddling with the cup.

«You really didn’t notice? How could you not?»

«I don’t know», Harry says, shrugging. «I guess I was a bit stunned to see you again? I think my mind didn’t take in all the details.»

«You know, I did find it a bit odd», Louis says, resting his chin in his hand.

«What?»

«That you didn’t, you know, ask any questions about it. It’s usually the first thing people do when they meet me these days.»

«Well, now you have your explanation. I’m officially the world’s least observant person.»

Louis laughs a little, and peers into his cup. «So the answer to your question is yes, I was in a wheelchair the last time we met.» Harry tries to meet his eyes in the silence that follows, but Louis is still looking down. He’s not quite sure where to take the conversation from here. He’s got a million and one questions, but also the social intelligence to know that it’s not his place to ask all of them, at least not yet.

«You’re probably wondering why», Louis says from across the table, his voice more quiet than before.

«Well…yes», Harry says, «but I also completely understand if you don’t want to answer a bunch of personal questions. I mean, it’s not really any of my business, is it?» He thinks he can hear Louis let out an almost silent laugh as he says the last part, but he can’t be sure.

«It’s fine, Harry», he says, meeting his eyes. There’s a small, almost tired-looking smile on his lips. «I don’t mind.»

«Okay», Harry says, drawing a breath. «I mean, when? How long?»

«February», Louis says, «End of February, last year.»

«Two months after we…»

«Yeah.»

«What happened?»

«Car accident. I’d borrowed my mate’s car to drive up north for a weekend, see my family. Didn’t make it that far, obviously.» The obviously is followed by a low chuckle that sounds all wrong to Harry’s ears, as if Louis has trained himself to tell this part of the story self-deprecatingly in order to make the person on the other end — in this case, him — feel better. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Louis to feel like he has to perform for him, and how preposterous is that, for him to feel like he has any right to the real Louis when they haven’t spoken in eighteen months, don’t really know each other anymore, if they ever really did. He wants to convey all of this to Louis somehow. 

«God, that’s awful, Louis», he says instead. «So, is it? I mean, how…Sorry, I don’t know how to ask about this.»

«How bad is it, do you mean?» Harry can only nod. «Pretty bad. I’ll spare you the boring details, but I woke up in hospital two days later and was told I’d never walk again.» Harry had anticipated that, but still can’t help the sharp little intake of breath at the words.

«I’m so sorry», he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. While he’s been talking, Louis has been absentmindedly tearing a paper napkin into little pieces, and Harry’s filled with an urgent and sudden need to reach across the table and cover his hands with his own. He doesn’t, though, just meets Louis’s eyes and offers what he hopes is a sympathetic smile.

«Hey, it’s fine», Louis says, again smiling at Harry in a way that is clearly meant to make him feel better. «Things happen, and you adjust, and you move on.» Harry doesn’t believe for one second that it’s that simple, but he also guesses that Louis isn’t about to share his innermost thoughts and feelings with someone who is, in many ways, a stranger these days, so he allows him to set the tone for the conversation. He asks him about how long he spent in hospital, and Louis tells him about the month in the actual hospital and how the utter boredom of the weeks of not being allowed to move made him a connoisseur of daytime soaps. He talks about the four months in physical rehabilitation and about how he faceplanted the first time he tried to get into the wheelchair on his own, and about his friends who worked pretty much day and night for a week straight to get his flat fully accessible in time for him to move back home. He tells Harry about the car with hand controls he finally got after months of applications and back-and-forths with various council officials, of the stupidity of having to prove that he was disabled enough to qualify for it in the first place. He talks, and Harry listens, and even though he asks him a whole bunch of questions, there are some that he doesn’t find the courage to ask. In part because he’s afraid of the answers, but also because he realises the sheer selfishness of them. Why didn’t you tell me? he wants to ask. Why didn’t you let me help you get through this? Because it no longer concerned you, you self-obsessed twat. Because he’s got people in his life more suited for that than someone he used to shag for a month. Because he moved on, even though you clearly haven’t.

Suddenly, two hours have flown by. They’ve gone from talking about Louis’s accident to Harry’s time in New York, his new job, and the many reasons why London is the superior city.

«I wouldn’t actually know», Louis says, «I’ve never been.»

«You’ve never been to New York?»

Louis shakes his head. «Nope. Never got around to it.»

«You sound like it’s too late.»

«I’ve heard that it’s not exactly wheelchair friendly, so…» Louis shrugs. Harry realises that, during the past hour or so, he’s completely forgotten about that. He wonders if Louis ever does, if it’s something that’s even possible to forget.

«Is London?» he asks, genuinely curious.

«Ha!», Louis exclaims, «God no, it’s awful.»

«I haven’t ever thought of that before.»

«Well, I mean, you don’t have to», Louis says matter-of-factly. «No one ever does until they’re forced to.»

«I’m sorry», Harry says. He doesn’t know what he’s apologising for, exactly.

«Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault.» Louis sounds a little annoyed, like he’s tired of repeating himself. He’s probably said this numerous times before, to countless other people. «I didn’t think about it myself either, not until, well.» He gestures to himself, then looks at his phone.

«Christ, I didn’t realise we’d been here so long.» Harry hasn’t either, he realises.

«This was nice», Louis says, «Really. But I’ve actually got to get going soon, I’m sorry.»

«Oh yeah, absolutely», Harry says, practically feeling his heart sink. He doesn’t want to stop talking to Louis, doesn’t want to stop looking at him. Coming here today, he was well aware that his feelings for him had never really gone away, but he’s still a little surprised with how quickly they’ve resurfaced, how they’ve gone from dwelling somewhere in the recesses of his mind to being at the forefront. He doesn’t know where they go from here, whether this was just a one-time catch-up and now they’ll go back to coexisting in the same city without talking to each other. He doesn’t know what Louis wants, doesn’t know if he’s still seeing someone, if the boyfriend is still in the picture. It’s the one question he’s been most dying to ask, but he doesn’t know how, and now time is suddenly running out.

«Got any exciting plans?» he asks, because he can’t find it in him to be any more direct.

«Just dinner with my sister», Louis says. «I wouldn’t normally need to leave three hours in advance, but I’m doing the cooking today, so.»

«That sounds nice», Harry says, meaning I’m so glad you didn’t say dinner with my boyfriend. «I don’t remember you being into cooking.» He thinks of the last time he was in Louis’s kitchen and the scrambled egg disaster.

«Never too late to try something new, I guess.» He fishes out a credit card and looks around for their waitress. In a couple of minutes, they’ll be out of here. Realising that time is running out, Harry decides it’s now or never and summons up the courage to ask. The worst that could happen is a no, right?

«So listen», he starts, trying to formulate the question in his mind. Louis’s eyes move to his face. «I was wondering if, maybe…» Jesus, he’s fumbling already. «If I could ask you a question.» Oh christ, this is going badly. I was wondering if I could ask you a question? He groans inwardly. Louis puts an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, looking a little puzzled.

«Sure», he says, a little skeptical. «What’s up?» Harry lets out a breath, flashes a look up at the ceiling and then down again.

«Are you still, um…Are you still seeing someone?» It comes out a bit rushed, but clear enough that he won’t have to repeat himself. Louis looks a bit taken aback. It was clearly not the question he expected. He hesitates for a bit before answering.

«No», he says, dragging out the o. «No, I’m not.»

«Okay», Harry says. «Good. I mean, not good, but…Okay.» Louis still looks at him like he’s not quite sure what’s going on, and Harry doesn’t entirely blame him. «So then my next question would be, um, would you maybe want to do this again?»

«What, coffee?» Louis asks.

«Could be a coffee», Harry says, lifting up a shoulder in a half shrug, «Or lunch, or dinner, or a glass of wine even?» Louis swallows, but says nothing, so Harry rushes on. «I mean, I don’t know if you’re interested, or if you want to, but I would. Like to see you again, that is. And we did have deal, once upon a time, so…» He finishes the sentence with another shrug and a hopeful smile at Louis, who seems to be digesting what he just said.

«You mean like, a date?», he says, sounding a little too incredulous for Harry’s liking. Was this a really terrible idea? He nods. Louis looks down at his hands, briefly, before meeting Harry’s eyes again. «You want that?» he asks.

«I do», Harry says, «but I get it if you don’t. I mean, it’s been, what, almost two years? And things have changed, and you don’t have to feel like you have to just because we met up for a coffee, but —»

«Harry», Louis interrupts, «You don’t have to…», he pauses, swallows, «I mean, sure. I’d like that.»

«Yeah?», Harry says, unable to stop a smile stretching across his face.

«Yeah», Louis says, returning the smile. «Let’s do that.»

*

They agree on dinner on Wednesday, it being the first evening they both have available. Louis suggests an Italian place in Belsize Park that Harry’s never heard of, but has great reviews online, and they decide to meet at seven. Again, Harry avoids mentioning it to his friends, without being entirely certain why. Some of it’s down to fear of being judged, he supposes. Nick in particular would be extremely wary of him getting involved with someone from his past, although that’s mainly due to him projecting his own catastrophic romantic history onto Harry. Also, because some of his friends are still mildly offended he didn’t let any of them meet Louis the last time around, they’ll be demanding to be introduced the moment he tells them, and he doesn’t want that. Not until he knows whether it’s going somewhere this time. He leaves work half an hour earlier than normal and rushes home, spending his commute on the tube mentally going through his wardrobe to put together an appropriate outfit. It’s still unbearably hot today, but not too humid, so he settles on a pair of linen trousers (after coming to the conclusion that shorts are not date appropriate) and a pale yellow short-sleeved button-up, leaving the top two buttons undone.

The nerves don’t rush in until he exits the tube and heads up the road from the station, google maps showing the way. Louis hadn’t seemed quite as enthusiastic about the idea of a date as he’d hoped. Sure, he’d smiled, and said yes, but there was something in his eyes that Harry now, three days later, still can’t figure out. Did he really want to, or did he agree because he felt he had to, or because he didn’t want to upset Harry? He’s replayed the conversation countless times since Sunday, looking for clues. Was he too pushy? Did he put words in Louis’s mouth? Did he read the situation wrong? His phone pings with a text notification.

Already here, it says, window table to the left when you come in :)

The smiley face, stupidly, manages to reassure him a little, and as he enters the restaurant and sees Louis smiling at him as he makes his way to the table, his doubts all but disappear.

«Hi», he says, leaning over the table to give Louis a quick hug. It’s a little awkward, mainly because he has to stoop a little and nearly knocks over a candle in the process, but Louis only laughs and presses a hand between his shoulder blades, and his nerves melt away.

«This is lovely», Harry says as he sits down, looking around the restaurant. The room is appropriately dark, but not in an oppressively gloomy way, and each table is draped in a read and white gingham tablecloth, a flickering candle in a makeshift wine bottle candlestick at the centre. The wall opposite him is covered with paintings of what he assumes is the Italian countryside, and soft piano music plays in the background.

«They might be trying a little too hard with the whole rustic Italian theme», Louis says, «but the food’s amazing.» Harry looks at him and feels something warm spread inside his chest. He looks so lovely Harry can barely believe it. The warm light of the early evening sun outside and the light of the flame make his skin look almost golden while softening his features. His hair is lightly tousled, and the neckline of his maroon jumper offers a glimpse of his collarbones and even more of that gorgeous, tan skin. Harry wants to eat him up. Harry can’t believe he allowed himself to go nearly two years without looking at him. Harry has clearly done a ridiculously, horribly bad job of getting over him.

They both order pasta and talk about what they’ve been doing since last time while they wait for the food. Louis, who still works for the same company but now mostly from home, tells a story about a Zoom meeting with a client from hell that’s so funny Harry nearly extinguishes the flame because he spits out his water laughing. Sympathetic to tales of impossible clients, he shares the latest e-mail with objections to his edits he got from his most demanding author, making Louis snort-laugh by reading out loud some of the most ridiculous parts. They continue to share work horror stories as the food arrives, and spend nearly half an hour finishing their meal because it’s impossible to eat and laugh at the same time. Harry’s amazed at how smoothly the conversation flows, how comfortable he feels in Louis’s company, how quickly they’ve returned to this place. It feels like it used to before, when they stayed up all night talking after their third date and didn’t realise how much time had gone by until they became hungry and realised it was almost time for breakfast.

«Early start tomorrow?» Harry asks as a waiter clears away their plates, nodding at the opened bottle of wine and Louis’s still unused wine glass.

«Not really», Louis says, «One of the perks of working from home. I drove here though, so probably wouldn’t be a good idea to drink.» He sends Harry an apologetic look. «Sorry, I probably should have told you before you ordered an entire bottle, shouldn’t I?»

«No, no, it’s fine», Harry assures him. «I should have asked. So you haven’t, um, stopped drinking?» Louis sends him a quizzical look.

«What, because of my injury?» His tone is a little sharp, and Harry shrugs, regretting the question. He still hasn’t quite figured out what is okay to ask.

«You think I can’t have a drink ‘cause I’m in a wheelchair?», Louis continues, and Harry winces, an apology on his lips. But then Louis’s face softens, and he smiles. «Relax, I’m joking», he says, and Harry exhales. «Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a prick. Just a…defence mechanism I’ve developed against stupid questions.»

«I take it that was a particularly stupid question», Harry says. Louis tilts his head. «Actually», he says, «In the history of stupid questions I’ve received in the past year or so, that wasn’t even in the top five.» Harry laughs, feeling himself relax completely. He wants to ask what the top five actually are, but he doesn’t think they’re quite there yet, and he’s afraid of ruining the good mood, figuring Louis might not want to relive those questions.

«Is it easier to drive than take public transport?», he asks instead. Louis flashes a quick smile, a hint of bitterness to it.

«If by «easier» you mean «the only viable option most of the time», then yeah, sure», he says.

«What about the, like, step-free access and stuff?» Harry asks, thinking of the signs he’s passed endless times at various tube stations. Louis laughs again, and Harry feels a bit stupid, like there’s a joke he’s not getting.

«Less than a quarter of the tube stations have so-called step-free access», he says, the last phrase in air quotes, «And a lot of them are not actually step-free, and on some you need like, someone to operate a manual ramp, which makes it pretty much impossible to travel on your own.»

«But Belsize Park has elevators?»

«Sure», Louis says, «But to access the elevators from the platform you have to walk up something like twenty steps, right? Most of the stations with elevators put them there because there’s not enough space for escalators, not because of accessibility.»

«I hadn’t even thought of that», Harry says, again feeling like an ignorant twat. He knows absolutely nothing about this, he realises. Louis looks at his expression and sighs, shaking his head. «I’m sorry», he says, «This is so boring to listen to, I know, I just can’t seem to stop when I get going.»

«No, not at all», Harry assures him, meaning it. He realises he wants to know about this, wants to learn. Because it’s important to Louis. His right hand finds Louis’s fingers across the table and gives them a light squeeze. «It’s not boring at all.» Louis glances down at their hands, then up at Harry, a wary look on his face. Harry suddenly worries that he’s moved too fast, that Louis is about to draw his hand back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his palm up and allows Harry to intertwine their fingers completely. Warmth floods Harry’s belly, and he has to look down to hide the massive grin erupting on his face. He’s got butterflies in his stomach and they’re just holding hands. God, Louis makes him feel like a teenager again.

«So, is your interest in accessibility issues on London public transport a recent one?» There’s a playfulness in Louis’s voice that wasn’t there before, one that Harry relishes. It seems like every minute they spend together brings back more and more of what it was like before.

Harry pretends to think it over. «Yes, fairly recent, I’d say.»

«So, what, five minutes?»

«Something like that, yeah.»

Louis laughs. «Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that I have a bus rant as well.»

«I’d love to hear that», Harry says, finding every word to be true. «But I also can’t believe I didn’t know any of this stuff. I feel so ignorant.»

Louis shakes his head. «I told you, it’s not something anyone thinks of before they suddenly have to. It’s not your fault, you’re just…privileged.»

Harry moves his thumb in circles across Louis’s palm. «I want to learn, though.» Louis just looks at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. «Do you want to order dessert?», he asks.

Over tiramisu (Louis) and affogato (Harry), talk eventually turns to what happens next. If it were up to Harry, he’d see Louis again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that as well, but he can’t come on too strong or he’ll probably risk Louis running for the hills.

«Got any plans on Saturday?», Harry asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Louis hums around his spoon, seems to think it over. «I’ve got an appointment at noon, but nothing in the afternoon or evening. Why?»

«I was wondering if you maybe wanted to come over to my place and I could cook for you? I’ve got this new recipe that I’ve been wanting to try.» He doesn’t, but he’ll figure out what to make later.

«I have missed your cooking», Louis says. «Remember that stuffed chicken you made? With the crispy skin and all those herbs? God, I thought about that for ages.»

«Is that a yes, then?»

«Sure — no, hang on. How do you live?»

«What do you mean?»

«I mean what floor do you live on, does your building have step-free access, a lift, stuff like that. Basically, will I be able to get in?»

«Oh, fuck», Harry says, the realisation dawning on him. «I live on the second floor, no lift.»

Louis makes a face. «Yeah, that’s not gonna work.»

«I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.» Louis suddenly looks tired, but he puts on a smile. «It’s fine. It takes a while for it to become second nature to think about these things, anyway. Two of my mates planned an entire stag weekend for a mutual friend of ours and were genuinely puzzled when I said I probably wouldn’t be able to join them whitewater rafting and zip lining.»

«Christ», Harry says, «When was this?»

«Last month! So you’d think they had a year to prepare. But anyway, I’m sorry you can’t cook for me — I was already starting to look forward to it.»

«Well, I still could», Harry says, cocking his head.

«How?»

«I could just bring some stuff over to yours and cook for you there?»

Louis looks skeptical. «You mean you’d cook for me…in my own kitchen? Wouldn’t that be weird?»

Harry shrugs. «Not really? And anyway, why should that matter?»

«I mean…», Louis says, «I’d be daft to say no to your food, wouldn’t I?»

«You would», Harry agrees with a grin. «So should I come over, say, seven?»

*

On Saturday, he shows up at Louis’s door with a bulging Tesco bag fifteen minutes too early. The food shopping didn’t take as much time as he’d planned for, and while he did consider wandering around the shop for an extra ten minutes in order not to seem too eager, he ultimately decides to drop it. He is eager to see Louis again, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he lets him know that. Louis still lives in the same flat as he did two years ago, occupying the first floor of a red brick house in a row of identical houses tucked away on a quiet side street close to Wood Green station. It looks pretty much identical to how Harry remembers it, except the two concrete steps leading up to the front door have been replaced by a ramp.

After knocking three times and briefly wondering whether he got the time wrong, he hears a shout of «coming» from inside, and ten seconds later the door swings open. He’s about to apologise for being early, but instead bursts into helpless giggles the moment he sees Louis. One half of his face is clean shaven, while the other half is covered in shaving foam. He looks up at Harry, and there’s murder in his eyes. Harry has to put the shopping bag down out of fear he’ll drop it, he’s laughing so hard.

«I’m sorry», he manages to get out, in between helpless gasps, «I’m really really sorry.» Louis is unable to keep a straight face any longer, and starts laughing too, and then they’re both looking like idiots to the rest of the street, front door still wide open.

«God», Harry says as the laughter winds down, «I‘m sorry.» He shuffles fully inside and closes the door while wiping away tears from the corner of his eyes. «I should’ve told you I’d be a bit early.» He turns and looks at Louis, causing another giggle to escape. «But I haven’t laughed this hard in weeks, so maybe not.»

«What, this?» Louis gestures to his face. «You mean you don’t like my look for the night?»

Harry grins. «I love it, obviously. Did it take you long?»

«Oh, fuck off», Louis says, but he’s smiling. «Who shows up early anyway?»

Harry shrugs apologetically. «I wasn’t sure how long I’d need at the shops, so.» He picks up the bag of groceries. «Want me to get started on the food?»

«Yeah, I’m just gonna go finish», Louis says, waving in the direction of the bathroom. «You get started, I’ll be back in five.» Harry watches as he grabs the wheels and spins around, then rolls across the floor and through a doorway. He’s just toed off his shoes and turned towards the kitchen when Louis pops his head back out. «Oh, and don’t be afraid to like, adjust the counters», he says. «You won’t break anything.»

At first, Harry has no idea what he means, but as he plops the bag down on the table and takes a look at the kitchen, he notices that the counters are placed significantly lower than in his own kitchen. He snoops around a bit and eventually finds a group of switches placed low on the wall. Two of them look like ordinary light switches, but the last one is comprised of two halves; one is marked with an arrow pointing up, the other with an identical arrow going down. Gently, he places a finger on the one pointing up and pushes. There’s a mechanical whirr, and then the entire kitchen counter starts moving up. It’s fascinating to watch, and makes Harry wonder what other gadgets there are spread around the flat. Then he wonders if gadgets might be an offensive term, and decides not to use it when he asks Louis about it later, just in case. When the counter reaches a suitable height, he takes his finger off the switch and starts unloading the groceries, then has a look around.

On the surface, the inside of Louis’s flat doesn’t seem to have changed much either. In addition to the bathroom and the bedroom, located behind the two doors on the wall opposite, the flat consists of a living room and a kitchen, combined in one big room. Apart from the kitchen corner, which comprises about one third of the room, there’s the same small red sofa as before, and across the room from it a TV mounted to a bit of wall sticking out. Between the couch and the TV is a huge bay window facing the street, and behind the protruding wall is the front door. The rectangular kitchen table which he finds himself standing next to functions as a sort of divider, separating the room between kitchen and living room. There’s no table in front of the couch, and there are no rugs in the flat either, but he can’t remember if there were before.

Louis comes out of the bathroom and over to where Harry’s standing. Now that his face is free of foamy white goo, Harry can finally do what he had planned on doing when he walked through the door, and bends over to kiss him. It’s short and sweet and seems to take Louis by surprise, judging by the little noise he makes.

«Hi.» Harry pulls away, just a few inches, and looks at him.

«Hi», Louis says, smiling, which Harry decides is permission to go in again. He gives him a quick peck on the lips and straightens up, placing a hand on Louis’s shoulder.

«You okay?»

«Yeah, fine. Especially now that I no longer look like a yeti.»

Harry giggles and squeezes his shoulder. «Sorry about that. Again. Can I make it up to you with some food? I came prepared», he says, gesturing towards the groceries in an exaggerated manner as if he’s showing off the crown jewels.

«I can see that», Louis says, rolling up to the counter. «What is all this?» Harry begins moving some of it over to the table. «You’ll have to wait and see», he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

«You bought flour?» Louis asks. «You know, I do have flour. And eggs. I told you, I have become a person who cooks now, it’s not just cereal and beans on toast around here anymore.»

Harry shrugs. «I don’t think a bag of flour and a carton of eggs will ruin me financially. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll check in on your pantry staples before I do the shopping next time.» He hears the assumption of next time as it leaves his mouth, and doesn’t dare turn around to look at Louis’s face. He thinks they’re on the same page, but he could be wrong. Louis doesn’t say anything, so Harry starts measuring up the ingredients for the pie crust.

«Want me to do anything?» Louis asks. Harry puts him to work dicing some onions and mushrooms for the filling, while Louis orders him to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses. Harry moves his work station over to the kitchen table as well, and soon they’re drinking wine and chatting while preparing the food together.

«So did your friends do the kitchen as well?», Harry asks as he rolls out the dough.

«Yeah, they did everything.»

«That’s incredible.»

Louis looks up from what he’s doing with a small smile. «Yeah, they’re pretty great. I don’t know what I would have done without them, honestly.» Harry feels a pang of the same jealousy he felt the day Louis first told him about the accident — that selfish, completely irrational envy of not being one of the people who was there for Louis when he needed it. He forces it back into the ugly place it came from, instead says «They sound like amazing friends. You’re lucky.» Something flashes over Louis’s face at that, so quickly Harry barely notices it, but definitely there. He senses that a change of topic might be good.

«What do you think of Cavalier and Klay then?»

Louis’s brow furrows. «Did you go snooping around the flat without me noticing?»

It startles a laugh out of Harry. «No, Jesus! I noticed you were reading it last week, when I ran into you at King’s Cross. Did you start it because of me?»

«Pretty presumptuous of you», Louis says, but there’s a teasing quality to his voice. «I actually did buy it a few days after we talked about it, but I was reading another book at the time. And then I tried picking it up after you’d gone to New York, but then…Christ, this is a little embarrassing, but reading it actually made me so miserable I had to stop.»

«Really?»

«Yeah. It only made me think of you.»

«Oh», Harry says.

Louis looks like he’s contemplating whether to continue or not. «I know we agreed not to, but I thought about calling you about a million times after you left.»

«You did?»

«Christ. Yeah.» There’s a pause. «And when we said goodbye at New Year’s I came this close to suggesting we try long distance.»

«Why didn’t you?», Harry asks, heart beating faster. It’s weird, hearing Louis voice the same thoughts he had all those months ago.

«Dunno», he shrugs. «You seemed excited to go back, and I didn’t want to make it harder for you. Plus, we had an agreement, so…» The so hangs in the air for a beat.

«I almost did that too, you know.»

«Yeah? Why didn’t you say something?»

«I guess…Well, I guess the same reason you didn’t. I didn’t want to overcomplicate things. And I thought you preferred the…whatever we had going on.» He rubs the pads of his fingers over Louis’s wrist while he talks, finds it hard to meet his eyes.

«God», Louis sighs, «What a pair of absolute dimwits.» Harry can’t help but agree.

«Do you think things would be different? If one of us had said something, I mean?»

«Different how?»

«Just like — everything, I guess. Do you think we would be sitting here right now?»

Louis seems to think it over, drawing circles on the table with his right hand. He’s about to say something when the timer goes off signalling the oven’s ready, and he jumps, then laughs at himself.

«I think I need some food in me if I’m going to be pondering your pseudo-philosophical questions tonight.» Harry again senses some deflection, and again he doesn’t push him, figures Louis will talk about these things when he wants to.

After they’ve eaten and cleared the table, Harry goes to the bathroom. When he comes back out, Louis has moved over to the sofa. He looks up from his phone and smiles. «I left my wine glass on the table, do you mind?»

Harry opens a new bottle and fills up both their wine glasses, feeling the effect of the alcohol a little bit as he crosses the floor. Louis has tucked his left leg underneath him, while his right dangles off the edge of the couch, and Harry has a flash of a memory of sitting on a park bench with Louis in the surprisingly warm September sun and teasing him because his feet almost didn’t touch the ground. He sits down to Louis’s right, leaving around two inches of space, and hands him his glass.

«Thank you», he says as he grabs the glass from Harry, their fingers touching around the stem. He turns fully toward Louis, folding his left leg so his knee rests on Louis’s thigh. Wine glass in his left hand, he places his other one on Louis’s hip, leans in and kisses him. Louis’s lips are soft against his, and he opens his mouth and allows Harry to press his tongue in, gently at first, then more insistent. Louis presses his glass of wine against Harry’s chest, like a signal, please take care of this. Harry gets it — he simply does not have enough hands to be able to touch Louis in all the places he wants to touch him and at the same time worry about spilling wine all over them. He places both his and Louis’s glass on the floor and goes back to kissing him. One of Louis’s hands comes to rest on his waist, the other cradles his cheek, and it’s so nice Harry lets out a pleased little sound. They make out slowly, lazily, only pausing for air, relearning each other’s rhythms, the taste of each other. Harry feels 24 again, and also 13, that rush of hormones that made him think he was going mad, and 16, kissing a boy for the first time, how everything slotted into place and just felt right; yes, this is what you’re supposed to be doing, this is how it’s supposed to feel. Louis tugs on his shirt collar, draws him even closer, his fingers curling around the nape of Harry’s neck. His body is a dichotomy under Louis’s touch, feeling warm and heavy, like he’s been in the sun all day, yet light and energised at the same time. Louis’s hands are like magnets, pulling and pulling and pulling him in; he finds himself straddling Louis, Harry’s knees bracketing his hips, one hand on its way down the front of Louis’s shirt, the other gripping the back of the couch in order to steady himself. Whether it’s the sudden change of position or kissing Louis that makes him the most dizzy, he has no idea.

«Wait», Louis says in-between kisses. Harry pulls back a little, shifts his weight so his bum’s resting on Louis’s knees, his hands loosely resting on his shoulders. There’s no more than five inches between their faces, but it suddenly feels like way, way too much.

«What’s up?»

Louis looks up at him through his lashes; his hair dishevelled, the neckline of his shirt pulled, his mouth a red, blurry mess. He looks lovely, lovely, lovely, but that distance Harry sensed earlier has returned, resting behind his eyes and in the set of his mouth.

«It’s just…» He chews on his bottom lip, seems to struggle to find the right words. «God, Harry. I don’t know what your…expectations were, coming over here tonight, but I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna meet them.» His breath comes out hard at the last word. Harry moves his fingers along Louis’s collarbone, gently pushes his chin up and places a quick, gentle kiss on his lips.

«Listen», he says softly, stroking the pads of his thumbs along the line of Louis’s jaw. «I didn’t come here with any expectations — I was hoping», he says, cutting off Louis’s protest, «for something like this, yeah. Of course I was, I’m not a complete idiot.» Louis smiles a little at that, so Harry gives him another quick little kiss. «But honestly, truly, I’m happy with whatever you’re comfortable with giving»

«Whatever?», Louis asks. He doesn’t sound like he believes Harry.

«Course. I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time, and that whatever we had was short, so if you’re not sure about this, if you don’t know if those feelings will come back or if you need time to think, I get that, Louis, I really do.»

Louis squeezes his eyes shut before Harry’s finished talking, heaving out a sigh that tells Harry he definitely didn’t say the right thing. «No», he says, «it’s not that, Harry, it’s…» He starts playing with Harry’s bracelet, doesn’t look him in the eye. «I’m not unsure about you, about whether to…I’d love to continue this and see where it takes us. But I need time.»

«I told you, I’m fine with giving you —»

«I need time about the physical stuff, I mean.» He’s resolutely looking everywhere but at Harry. «I need us to take it slow, and I don’t know how slow, because I’ve never done this before.» Finished with what he needed to get out, he drops the bracelet and starts fidgeting with his own shirt. Like a curtain being opened, realisation starts to dawn on Harry.

«You mean you haven’t…been with anyone…?»

«Not since the accident, no».

The pause when asked if he was still seeing someone. The shadow crossing his face when they talked about his friends who helped out after. His new boyfriend probably couldn’t deal with it, didn’t stick around when things got hard. Of course. It explains so much. He feels a flash of anger flaring up somewhere deep inside him. That complete and utter prick. He untangles himself from Louis and swings one leg back so that they’re again sitting side by side, his knees bumping against Louis’s right thigh. This needs to be said right, and he somehow feels like it will carry more weight if he doesn’t say it while halfway to riding Louis.

«Look at me.» The fingers of his right hand find Louis’s left one, tangles them together. He looks up, and it could be a trick of the light but Harry’s sure his eyes are a little wet. «I think we’ve established that there’s something here that somehow hasn’t gone away, even though time and distance have tried their best. And I would hope that it’s become very clear in the last week, and certainly tonight, that I very much enjoy spending time with you, especially the bit where we kiss a lot.» Louis smiles briefly, but still doesn’t look wholly convinced. «I’m not gonna pretend I’m an expert on this stuff, but I don’t think this is something that happens all the time, and I haven’t found it with anyone else since you. And I have tried. So if you say you need time, and you need to take it slow, I say okay. Let’s do that. Because I just really, really like your face a lot, okay?»

«Just my face?»

«Okay, and your hair too. And your voice, and your body, and your laugh, and your jokes, and—»

«Yeah, fine, point taken.» Louis’s smile is genuine now, and growing, and doing funny things to Harry’s stomach. «Slow, yeah?»

«Slow», Harry nods, kissing him very, very slowly. «As slow as you want. It’ll be fun. We can pretend we’re very chaste teenagers with strict parents.»

Louis grins, his hand back in Harry’s curls. «God, you’re weird.»

«Weird and slow, just the way you like it.»

It’s nearly two in the morning when he lets himself out and walks down the road to catch a night bus home. His lips are rubbed raw and his shirt’s rumpled beyond recognition from hours of lazily kissing on the sofa, but there’s a lightness to his step and a familiar, warm feeling bubbling in his chest, and he thinks if this is how taking it slow feels, he’s perfectly fine with that.

*

Before his next date with Louis, he decides to tell his mum and Gemma. The phone call with Anne goes very well: she’s very happy for him, doesn’t ask too many guilt-tripping questions of the «why didn’t you tell me sooner» variety, and manages to include no more than three references to how she had a feeling Harry wasn’t done with Louis yet. In terms of pure mum-ness, the conversation is at least an 8 on the scale. It isn’t until they’ve hung up that Harry realises he never told her about Louis’s accident. It never came up naturally, and for some reason it didn’t feel right to crowbar it in somewhere. There’s a small, nagging thought at the back of his mind that he left it out intentionally because he’s nervous about her reaction, but he pushes it away at once. It’s not something that needs to be approved or scrutinised — it’s not as if he’s started dating a Tory — and either way, his mum’s the most open-minded and loving person in the world. Not that this is something to be open-minded about, per se, it’s just something that is, a medical fact: Louis is a paraplegic. He wonders if he would’ve been doing the same kind of mental gymnastics if Louis had been a diabetic or suffered from a severe peanut allergy, then decides it’s an unproductive and annoying train of thought and shuts it down as best he can.

Gemma’s first reaction is more along the lines of what he had expected.

«I fucking knew it!», she hisses, slamming her palm down and making the next table over turn their heads to stare at them. «I knew there was something going on with you!»

«Jesus, calm down», he laughs, a little startled too. «How did you know?»

«Harry, I love you, but you’re terrible at low-key», she grins. «First of all, you’ve cancelled on our plans, not once, but twice in one week. Both the original plan and the follow-up plan meant to compensate for the first one. And then the one time you so graciously deigned to spend time with me, you spent half the time looking off into space, and the other half looking anxiously at your phone and leaping for it with every notification. It wasn’t exactly hard», she shrugs. Harry adores his sister, but she can be a little direct at times.

«If you knew something was up, why didn’t you just ask?»

Gemma rolls her eyes at him, ever the older sister despairing over her hopelessly clueless little brother. «For one, I knew you’d never give me an honest answer, just some made-up nonsense, ‘cause I could tell it wasn’t something you were ready to talk about. And also, I figured it’d be fun to see how long you’d last.»

«I hate you», Harry sighs. Gemma splashes some droplets of water on him using her straw.

«So, tell me everything», she says, leaning forward excitedly. «How did you even meet up again?»

He starts at the beginning, telling her about the chance encounter at the coffee shop nearly two weeks ago, then follows it with the café, the restaurant, the date at Louis’s place. He tells her about the evening turned to late night on the sofa, but leaves out some details, such as the fact that they at some point kissed for so long without a proper break for air that he’d felt so lightheaded he thought he might faint and fall off the couch. Gemma eats it all up, and looks so earnestly delighted for him that it makes him feel like a teenager regaling his cool older sister about his first proper hook-up.

«Holy fuck, Haz, this is so…bonkers! It’s like the plot of a super cheesy romantic comedy. I’m not even sure I’d like to see it, I’d probably think it was too far-fetched.»

«I know.» He knows he’s got a huge, dopey grin on his face, but he can’t seem to wipe it off. He loves a cheesy romantic comedy.

«So what’s he like? Still the same Louis that even the boys of New York couldn’t make you forget?»

«I mean, yes and no, I guess? It’s not as if we met as teenagers and reconnected after a decade, so neither of us has had, you know, a complete personality transplant. We’re both still fundamentally the same.»

«I don’t know, people can change a lot in a short time.»

«Yeah. I guess things have changed more for him than for me, though.»

Gemma cocks her head, seems to sense a revelation of some sort coming up. «What do you mean?»

«Well, a little over a year ago — about two months before I moved back from New York — he was in an accident.»

«Christ, was he okay?» she asks, brow furrowed in concern.

«Well…no. I mean, he’s home and back to work and life goes on and all, but he was hurt pretty bad and in a permanent way, I guess you could say.»

Gemma’s eyes go wide at that. «How?»

«Well, I don’t know all the details, I mean I haven’t sat down and quizzed him about his medical history, so I don’t know the…terminology and all that, but he’s paralysed.»

«What?»

«Yeah.»

«Paralysed, as in…»

«You know, as in his legs don’t work and he’s in a wheelchair and that’s never going to change. As in that kind of paralysed.» Gemma’s face seems to be frozen in a permanent state of confusion, her mouth slightly open and her eyebrows seriously furrowed. It only lasts a couple of seconds, before she gives her head a light shake and throws her hands up.

«Bloody hell, and you didn’t think to lead with that?»

He doesn’t like that at all, as if all the things he’s just told her about the connection that’s still there and the wonderful time they’ve spent together over the last two weeks has meant nothing.

«Jesus, Gem, it’s not that important.»

«Not that important? Harry, c’mon — this is life-changing stuff! You can’t just pretend it’s not a big deal.»

«Well, it isn’t! It’s not life-changing for me, and even if it was for him, the worst of it’s over. He’s accepted it, and he’s moving on with his life and I want to be a part of that — is that not okay?»

She just looks at him as if what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. «Harry. Of course it’s okay, but he’s not over it.»

«How do you know?»

«I mean, it wasn’t that long ago. What did you say, a year? You don’t get over something like that in a year.»

«I didn’t say he was over it, I said he’s accepted it and is moving on.»

«Do you know that?»

«What?»

«I mean, how does he seem to you?»

«I cannot believe I am having this conversation.»

«Harry —»

«And with you of all people? Fucking hell, Gem, I didn’t think you’d be like this.»

«Like what?»

«So judgemental!»

She sighs and drags a hand over her face, her posture changing with it.

«Listen», she says calmly, «I’m sorry if I’m overreacting, I honestly don’t mean to sound judgemental.»

«Well, you are», he says, glaring at her. He can’t remember the last time he glared at Gemma. He also can’t remember the last time she acted like a complete arsehole.

«I’m sorry. Really. I’m just saying—»

«What?» He nearly spits it out, he’s so furious with her. This is exactly what he feared, he realises. He just didn’t actually think it would come from her.

«Will you let me finish?» He nods. «I don’t think it’s a problem that you’re dating someone in a wheelchair. I really, really hope you believe me when I say that, because I’m not that much of a wanker, and you know that. And I’m also not saying that’s the most important thing about him, and I’m sorry if it came out like that. I was just surprised, honestly. What I am concerned about is you going into this relationship thinking it’s not going to come up or be an issue, ever. Because it’s going to be.»

«I didn’t say that.»

«Okay, you didn’t. Because yes, it’s been more than a year, and the physical scars have healed. And like you said, he’s moving on with his life and I’m sure he’s on his way to acceptance or maybe he’s even most of the way there. But these things take time, Haz, and they don’t just disappear. I’m sure he has good days and bad days, and I just want you to be prepared.»

«God, Gemma, of course he has good days and bad. We all do! He’s a normal human being.»

«I know, I’m just saying that just because you haven’t seen him struggling, doesn’t mean he’s not. I mean, you’ve just started dating again, and fuck knows we all do our best to hide our imperfections when we start seeing someone new — it’s not as if I’d lay it all on the table about my anxiety and depression two weeks into a new relationship.»

He knows there’s some truth to what she’s saying, but it still feels unfair that she’s sitting here and judging Louis before they’ve even met.

«Okay, yes, you do make some points. But he’s not a disability attached to a person.»

«Christ, I know that.»

«Because I wanted to meet you to tell you about this amazing guy I’m seeing that makes me feel like I’ve got glitter coming out of every pore, and so far you’ve kind of obsessed over that one tiny part of him, and it kind of sucks.»

She looks down at his hands, takes them in her own.

«I’m sorry, love. Really, I am. I didn’t mean for it to go like this, and I am so, so happy for you and your sparkly pores.» He can’t help but laugh at that. «Have you told mum?»

He nods. «Yeah, but not about the accident, actually, it never came up. But now that I’ve seen how you reacted, I’m kind of scared.»

Gemma smiles and squeezes his hands. «Don’t be, honestly. She’s a much better person than I am.»

*

The first time he stays over at Louis’s, it’s pretty much an accident. Neither of them manage to stay awake during the movie they’ve put on, and when they wake up, bleary-eyed and disoriented to the credits rolling, they can hear the distinct sound of rain hitting the bay window, hard.

Louis hides a yawn behind his hand, looks at Harry. «You wanna stay over?» He has to fight the urge to shout «YES!», instead leans in and kisses him softly. «I’d love to, thank you.» He is 26 years old, after all. There’s no need to lose his shit over a sleepover at his crush’s place, and yet. And yet they’ve been taking it slow, and it’s been wonderful, mostly — Harry’s forgotten how much fun kissing can be — but he’s also secretly hoping that sharing a bed with Louis will maybe, possibly, lead to something a little more. Louis tells Harry to use the bathroom first while he cleans up the kitchen, to which Harry protests, but he is quite insistent and Harry does not want to start an argument and have Louis change his mind about him staying the night. He splashes his face and uses the toilet, the handlebars still making him feel like he’s sitting on a fancy toilet throne even though he’s been in Louis’s bathroom many times now. He’s about to brush his teeth and remembers he has no toothbrush when there’s a knock on the door and Louis comes in, apparently having had the exact same thought.

«Sorry, I just remembered, I don’t have a spare toothbrush.»

«That’s okay.»

«I’m really sorry.»

«Hey, it’s fine, I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way», Harry says, making a brushing motion with a finger. «You can come in now, I’ve just got my teeth left anyway.»

«It’s okay, you finish up first, I’ll wait.» Two years ago, they brushed their teeth together and did a lot more in the bathroom after only knowing each other a couple of weeks, but things are different now and Louis has his reasons, he knows. He just can’t help feeling a little pinprick of sadness at the thought that Louis doesn’t trust him with everything yet.

Louis is at the kitchen table when he comes out, pretending to wipe down the surface although it’s clear he finished cleaning a while ago. Harry doesn’t comment, just grabs his phone from the table and tells Louis he’ll meet him in the bedroom.

The last time he was in Louis’s bedroom was New Year’s Eve, the last time they saw each other in their shared past. They spent a lot of time in Louis’s bed in those days, which is maybe why Harry immediately realises that this is not the same bed. It’s lower, closer to the floor, and looks sturdier somehow. On the side closest to the doorway there’s a handle, meant for gripping when transferring, he presumes, but the detail Harry focuses on the most is that there’s only one pillow on the bed. He goes rummaging in the wardrobe — built especially, he guesses, due to the complete lack of shelves or drawers above chest height —  but then stops, wondering if he’s being rude, before giving up and going back to the living room to steal one from the couch. The Louis of two years ago was more prepared for overnight guests, that’s for sure.

At home, in his own bed, he usually sleeps naked, but he figures that might go against the whole go slow-deal, so he settles for sleeping in his boxers and places the rest of his clothes in a neat pile on the floor. The mattress is unusually firm, but luckily Louis’s duvet looks big enough to share, so he tucks his legs underneath it, props the pillow he pilfered from the living room against the headboard and leans back against it, killing time while waiting for Louis by scrolling through Twitter. You do not have any expectations for tonight, he thinks to himself. You’re going to be a decent human being and respect the boundaries of your boyfriend. Hang on, is Louis even my boyfriend? Oh God.

The door creaks open, and Louis comes in, thankfully putting an end to Harry’s train of thought before it has a chance of going completely off the rails.

«You’ve settled in comfortably, I see», Louis says teasingly as he approaches the bed.

«I didn’t know if you had a spare pillow, so I took this», Harry says, showing him a corner of it.

«Oh crap, I forgot that too. I have a spare set, but it’s in storage in the shed. Sorry, I’m an awful host.»

Harry smiles and rolls over on his side. «Hey, it’s absolutely fine. I’m not a pillow snob, I’ll survive one night.» He props himself up on one elbow and pats the space next to him. «Now, please come to bed so I can kiss you.»

A mix of emotions seem to flash across Louis’s face simultaneously; hesitancy, worry, doubt. He manoeuvres the wheelchair so the wheels are parallel with the bed and there’s only a very small gap in-between, then stops, looks at Harry, then straight ahead. When the seconds go by and he doesn’t move, Harry begins to understand something.

«You’ve never transferred in front of me before», he says gently; not an accusation, just an observation.

«No», Louis says. «I haven’t.»

«I don’t think I really thought about it until now, but when I think back over the last month or so, I can’t recall a single time.»

Louis swallows, then looks at him with a small, tired smile. «No you can’t, because I made sure it didn’t happen.»

Harry sits up, the duvet pooling around his waist. He moves closer to Louis so that his knees are only inches away from the edge of the bed and the chair. «Why?» He thinks he knows, but he wants to be sure.

Louis makes a sound; a short, frustrated almost-laugh. «C’mon Harry, don’t be daft.»

He’s a little taken aback by the tone of his voice; it’s unlike anything he’s heard before coming from him. «I’m not being daft, I just don’t get it», he says, pressing on.

«It’s just…» Louis sighs impatiently, like he can’t believe he has to spell it out to Harry. «It’s when I feel most vulnerable, all right? When I’m in the chair, it’s like ‘all right, this is my mode of transportation, it lets me do things, I’m getting around’. And when I’m, say, sitting on the couch or in bed, it’s in many ways invisible, I’m just sitting on a piece of furniture like any other person. But in-between those times, when I have to transfer, that’s when it…» He stops to look down at his hands, which are fidgeting around with the fabric of his sweatpants. Harry kind of desperately wants to reach out and cover one of his hands with his own, but he doesn’t want to disturb him, is afraid that any wrong move might cause Louis to stop talking, stop opening up. «That’s when I feel the most disabled, and that’s when I look the most disabled. It’s the thing I hate the most about all of this, and I didn’t want you to see it, not yet.» He finishes with a sharp outburst of breath and continues to look down at his lap, very much not looking at Harry. On some level, he knew this, had maybe subconsciously suspected it a while ago, but it still pains him to see Louis so vulnerable about something like this, to hear him voice these concerns. Very slowly, he slides forward on the bed and sits down on the very edge of it, so that his knees are almost bumping into Louis’s.

«How long were you planning on avoiding it?» he asks quietly.

«Don’t know», Louis sighs, «As long as possible I guess», which isn’t exactly an answer.

«What did you think was gonna happen when you did it?»

Louis doesn’t answer this time, just shrugs.

«Did you think I was gonna leave?»

«It’s not funny», Louis says.

«I’m not laughing. But did you?»

He looks at Harry then, and he doesn’t need to say anything — the answer is written clearly on his face. «Oh fuck», Harry whispers, «Oh, Lou.» He does the only thing he can think of, the only thing he wants to do, has been wanting to do all night. He leans his entire body forward, gripping the tops of the wheels for balance, and kisses Louis deeply, with what he hopes is enough feeling and conviction to rid him of those stupid thoughts. Louis is a little hesitant at first, but soon he’s kissing Harry back, soon his hands are on Harry’s neck, soon his fingers are tangled up in Harry’s curls, and Harry knows it’s not done in one night, but he still does his best to kiss those awful feelings away. He leans back to allow for some space between their faces, but keeps his hands in Louis’s lap, finds his hands and twines their fingers together.

«Look at me», he says to Louis, and when he does, Harry looks into his eyes and hopes he’s able to sound convincing. «I know that some of these thoughts are irrational, and that maybe you don’t believe me right away, or don’t believe all of it. Maybe it’ll take time for you to really, truly believe me when I say this, but: I don’t care. It’s not gonna scare me away, if that’s what you’re afraid of, because it’s not scary. Sometimes it’s like you’re worried I’m gonna wake up one day and be like hang on, Louis is in a wheelchair? He never told me! But I need you to trust me on this: I may not always act like it, but I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions, and I know what I want, and right now I want to spend time with you, because I like you so much that I honestly don’t know what to do with myself half the time. Now can you please, please, join me in this surprisingly uncomfortable bed of yours so I can keep kissing you?»

The little speech must have worked, at least for now, because Louis laughs, and it sounds and looks genuine, albeit a little wet, and then he pulls Harry in by the neck for a bruising kiss. «Okay, yeah», he whispers against Harry’s lips, «Thank you.»

Harry sits on the edge of the bed to give Louis space, and then he watches as he transfers himself from the wheelchair to the mattress. He begins by making sure the wheels are locked, and then he bends over and grabs hold of both legs, one hand around each calf, and pushes so that both his feet glide down from the footrest to the floor. Then he grabs the top of the wheels and uses his arms to lift his bum off the seat a little, the movement making his arm muscles strain against the fabric of his T-shirt, and scoots forward so that he’s sitting right on the edge of the seat. Next, he readjusts the position of his legs so they’re closer to the bed, and with his right hand he grabs the handle attached to the bed frame while repositioning his grip on the wheel with his left. Then, in one quick motion, he uses his arms to lift his upper half, and suddenly he’s sitting on the edge of the bed instead of the wheelchair. He straightens out his legs, which have become a little tangled in the transfer, and uses his arms to scoot his bum a little further onto the mattress. The whole process took less than 10 seconds, and Harry is amazed, thinks it was like watching a magic trick. Louis looks at him, and there’s still some hesitance behind his eyes, like he’s just performed and is waiting for his grade. Harry quickly closes the gap between them, so that they’re sitting side by side, their thighs touching, and twists his torso so that he’s facing Louis, and leans in to kiss him again.

«See?» he says, his mouth so close to Louis he feels the warmth of his own breath. «Nothing to be afraid of.»

Louis nods, blinks, and with it a tear escapes, which he quickly wipes away with the sleeve of his thin jumper.

«Oh, love», Harry says, tucking a lock of Louis’s hair behind his ear. «Hey, c’mere». He draws Louis close to him, kissing his forehead and using his left thumb to stroke along the back of his neck.

«It’s okay, I’m really proud of you», he continues to murmur in-between forehead kisses. He feels Louis breathing against his throat, hears the sound of his wet breathing interspersed with a few sniffles. There are no full-body sobs, only silent tears, and he’s still not sure if they’re mostly happy tears, relieved tears or something else, but he stays there, holding and touching and kissing Louis for a long time, and even if they don’t do anything other than fall asleep next to each other, Harry’s arm slung over Louis’s stomach, Louis’s hand curled around Harry’s bicep, Harry feels like something very significant happened anyway.

Harry wakes up almost exactly as he fell asleep — on his left side, body lightly curved around Louis, his left hand under the pillow and his right arm where he left it across Louis’s chest and stomach. The contrast between them is almost bizarre: he’s naked except for his boxer briefs, Louis slept in sweatpants and a long-sleeved jumper. He feels the softness of the thin, treadless material under his palm, watches as his hand moves up and down with the rhythm of Louis’s breathing. It hasn’t been that long since Harry woke up with someone, but he hasn’t been content with just lying there and watching someone sleep since…well, since the last time he shared a bed with Louis, really. He has a flashback to that Sunday morning in September, when lying in bed next to Louis and watching him sleep had Harry for a moment considering giving up New York. The fact that he still ended up here in his bed two years later almost makes him believe in fate.

Louis stirs and turns his head toward Harry, so that their noses very nearly touch. They’re so close he can count his eyelashes, see every little detail on his face. Harry wants to touch every inch of it, wants to run his fingers along his jawline and feel the texture of his day-old stubble underneath them, wants to kiss the tiny wrinkles around the outer corners of his eyes. His hand moves up Louis’s chest, and then Louis opens his eyes and looks right at him. He looks confused for a few seconds, then he closes his eyes and lets out a quick laugh.

«Did I spook you?» Harry asks.

Louis looks at him, smiles. «No, just confused me for half a second.» His voice is raspy and warm from sleep. «But I’m all caught up now.»

«Thank God», Harry says, «Then I can finally do this.» He leans in and kisses him, softly at first, then more insistent as Louis starts kissing him back. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Harry cups Louis’s cheek with his palm, his thumb stroking his cheek as the kiss grows deeper. Louis places a hand on Harry’s chest, and the point of contact feels like an electric current running through his body, like the skin where Louis is touching him is much warmer than the rest of him. It’s the first time Harry truly feels like his agreement to take things slowly might be in real jeopardy, and Louis is so very responsive under his touch, seems to be as hungry and needy for this as Harry feels. Then Harry lifts himself up on both elbows, his torso hovering over Louis, effectively caging him in, and Louis makes an involuntary noise at the back of his throat, which jolts Harry out of his thoughts.

«You okay?» he asks, pulling back to look at him.

«Yeah», Louis says, but there’s a strain to his voice.

«You sure?» Harry’s threading a delicate balance here, between honouring Louis’s wishes and respecting his autonomy. At some point, he needs to trust that Louis is a grown adult and take him at his word, but taking last night into consideration, he also suspects Louis might push his own boundaries in order to please Harry, which does neither of them any good. «You can tell me if you think it’s moving too fast, you know.»

Louis lets out a frustrated sigh. «That’s just the thing, isn’t it? Because by all accounts we aren’t moving too fast at all — it’s been a month and we’re still just kissing. If anything, we’re moving way too slow!» Harry senses there’s more, so he waits, leans on one elbow and rests his hand on Louis’s stomach. When Louis doesn’t say anything more, just looks unhappily up at the ceiling, Harry gently says, «That’s not what I asked, though.»

Louis turns his head to look at him. «I know.»

«I don’t care about where we’re supposed to be according to some hypothetical, average relationship-timeline — I care about how you feel. So tell me what you’re thinking.»

«All right.» Louis laces their fingers together, draws a breath. «I feel like…like this, what we’re doing right now, it feels right. It feels so good and so right. But I’m worried that I’ll let myself get carried away by how good it feels and push myself into doing something I’m not ready for yet, you know? ‘Cause it feels like we’re right on the edge of something now, and one part of me just wants to keep pushing, but the other part is scared. God, I’m not making any sense, am I?»

«No, you are», Harry reassures, rubbing his thumb along the knuckles of Louis’s hand. «But can I ask you something?»

Louis nods. «Course you can.»

«What are you afraid might happen? If we go further, I mean.»

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at Harry with a searching gaze, chewing on his bottom lip. «I’m not sure», he finally says, his voice almost a whisper. «Christ, I’m so fucked up, aren’t I?» He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.

«No, you’re not», Harry says decisively, keeping a firm grip on Louis’s hand when it feels like he’s going to pull it away. «You’re not fucked up, don’t say that.»

«No?»

«Absolutely not. You’re…processing. And you’re working through things, and you’re allowed to do that at your own pace. I don’t need a calendar and a set date for when we’ll be taking the next step» — here he tries to do air quotes, but since both his hands are currently occupied it turns out to be more difficult than anticipated —«I just need to know that you’re comfortable and happy and that you don’t feel pressured into doing something you don’t really want to do. Okay?»

«And what if I’m not sure about what I want?»

«Then you let me know about that, too. Okay?»

Louis cups Harry’s cheek. «I really don’t deserve you, you know.»

«Yes, you do», he says, kissing him, careful and gentle this time, without tongue, without wandering hands. «So do you know what you want right now?»

«I want to kiss you for a long time», Louis says, looking into his eyes. «But can we keep our hands above the duvet for now?»

Harry smiles into the next kiss. «Yes.»

«And can you maybe…put on a shirt?» He blushes as he says this. «It’s just…Fuck, you’re so bloody hot and it’s incredibly distracting.» Harry lets out a big, honking laugh at that, but presses a sloppy kiss to Louis’s cheek and jumps out of bed in search of a shirt. He’s only got the silk blouse he wore last night with him, which doesn’t exactly scream ‘Saturday morning cuddles in bed’, so he raids Louis’s wardrobe for something more appropriate and returns to bed pulling a soft blue T-shirt over his head. He climbs back in and is about to huddle underneath the duvet with Louis when he has another idea, and instead lies down next to Louis but on top of the covers instead.

«This should keep us both safe from temptation», he says as he settles down, making Louis laugh and jokingly swat him on the shoulder. He kisses him again, and then he doesn’t do much else for the rest of the morning.

*

Two days later, on the sofa, Harry can’t keep a lid on some of his thoughts any longer.

«I don’t know exactly where we are», he says. They’re slumped side by side, touching from their shoulders all the way down to their hips, Louis’s legs halfway draped over Harry’s lap. At one point they were watching an old rerun of Midsomer Murders, but Harry hasn’t been paying attention for the last fifteen minutes, at least.

«What do you mean?», Louis asks.

«I mean…Okay, it’s like there’s two timelines? Because one the one hand, we’ve been seeing each other, or dating, or whatever you’d like to call it, for just a month, right? But at the same time, we’ve known each other for much longer. But it would be wrong to say we’ve known each other for two years, wouldn’t it? Because that ignores all that time we spent not talking to each other, not getting to know each other.»

«And this matters…how?»

«I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t? But there are times when I’m wondering if things are appropriate — like, «does this feel right considering we’ve been dating barely a month?» — and then I have to ask myself it that’s correct, ‘cause the timeline doesn’t add up. Like, it’s not the same as if I was seeing someone I’d met for the first time a month ago. This is more than that, I mean, you’ve been on my mind off and on for two years.»

There’s a pause in which neither of them speaks.

«Things like what?» Louis finally asks.

«What?»

«You said you were questioning whether things were appropriate — what things?»

«Oh, um. You know, like, questions. Or feelings. Stuff like that.»

«That’s a seriously obtuse answer, even for you, Harry», he says, the hint of a smile in his voice.

«Okay, well, questions. What is okay to ask and not — where does the line go, or is there even a line; are there things you only talk about with those closest to you, and where do I belong in all that?»

«You mean questions about my accident, my injury, that sort of stuff?»

«Yeah. I just… I don’t want to be rude, or say or ask things that are hurtful to you.»

Louis looks down to where their hands are touching in his lap, takes one of Harry’s in both of his and squeezes it. «You can ask me whatever you want. I mean that. Yes, there are things that I find…difficult to talk about sometimes, and there will probably be days where I won’t want to talk about them, and then I’ll let you know. But I know that you would never say or do anything hurtful on purpose, even if we all say stupid things sometimes. And I really don’t want you to feel like you have to walk around on eggshells around me. Have you ever felt that?»

«Not really, no. I mean, there have been times when we’ve been talking and it’s like…I can see something coming over your face and it’s like I can sense that we’re approaching something that’s difficult. And maybe, on a couple of those occasions, I’ve steered the conversations in other directions when a part of me wanted to continue digging, or you’ve changed the subject and I’ve let you, even though I didn’t want to. But that’s on me, really, not you.»

«I want to be one of those people that can talk about all their pain and the shitty stuff with ease, but I’m not there yet. Maybe I’ll never be, who knows. But ask me. I promise I won’t bite your head off.»

He can’t help the impulse to grab one of Louis’s hands and bring it up to his own face, softly kissing the back of it. He’s so open, even when he clearly thinks he’s not, and the fact that he’s allowing himself to be so vulnerable with Harry makes his heart clench.

«What was the other thing you mentioned? Feelings?»

Harry’s cheeks grow warm, something like embarrassment curling its tendons around his gut. He didn’t exactly plan to have this talk now. But then again, he’s the idiot who started the conversation.

«Um.»

«Are you having inappropriate feelings, is that it?» Louis looks like he’s trying really hard to hold back a smile.

«Oh God», Harry says, covering his eyes. «That didn’t really…come out very well.»

«C’mon, talk.»

«Well, I mean, I’ve been wondering what I should call you.»

«My name is Louis. Should I be worried about your mental state?»

«Stop it», Harry groans, «You know what I mean, don’t you?»

«You mean, like, what to refer to me as when you’re talking about me to someone else?»

«Yeah.»

«What do you want to call me?»

Harry feels the tips of his ears going red. «I want to call you my boyfriend.» He turns his head to look at Louis. «Are you?» Louis opens his mouth to speak, and Harry’s expecting another joke at his expense, but instead he simply says «I want to be», his voice unbearably tender. «I want that so much.»

«Yeah?»

«God, yeah.» Harry leans in and kisses him so hard he nearly disappears into the sofa cushions.

*

A week later, they have their first date out of the house in over a month. Since the dinner at the Italian restaurant, they’ve kept to the comfort of Louis’s flat every time they’ve hung out, partially out of comfort, since it’s easy for Harry to swing by Louis in the evenings after work and his sofa makes for a very good make-out spot, but also out of necessity, since London is a bit of a horror show in terms of accessibility and planning a night out can be quite a complicated process for Louis. So far, Harry hasn’t minded at all, mainly because watching TV with Louis pressed up against his side, only interrupted by lengthy intervals of snogging, has quickly turned into his new favourite pastime, but now he wants to go on a proper date. He’s officially got a boyfriend he’s absolutely crazy about, and he wants the world to know. And if he can’t shout it from the rooftops, he can at least snog him and hold his hand in public. Also, Niall’s playing a small gig at his local pub and Harry promised him ages ago that he’d come, and he figures it’s about time he introduced Louis to some of his friends.

At 19.17, Louis is officially seventeen minutes late, and Harry is beginning to worry a little bit. He’s changed his mind about going out, or he thinks it’s too early to be meeting each other’s friends, or he doesn’t want to see Harry anymore and this is his way of letting him know. His phone pings with a text from Niall.

You on ur way mate? Was hoping to grab a pint before the gig x

Harry texts back while looking around for signs of Louis.

Yeah, just waiting for Louis outside the pub, he’s running a little late.

Awesome! Cant wait to finally meet him! X

At 19.21, Harry’s phone rings, and it’s Louis, and he presses ‘answer’ so quickly he nearly drops his phone on the pavement.

«Sorry sorry sorry», Louis says, «I’ve been driving around for ages looking for a place to park, and I couldn’t call you before I found a place to stop because I need both hands for driving, and it turns out finding a place for your car in Islington is more difficult than bloody brain surgery. I’m so sorry!»

Harry laughs with relief, smiling into the phone. «It’s fine, don’t worry. Where are you?»

«I think I’m two streets away?»

«Want me to come meet you?»

«No, it’s fine, see you soon!» Louis hangs up, and Harry’s left feeling a little embarrassed about his minor panic attack. Of course Louis wouldn’t just ghost him like that. Of course there was a very rational, very sensible explanation. He’s a bit of an idiot.

A couple of minutes later, Louis rounds the corner, and Harry’s helpless to stop the stupid smile on his face. He’s wearing dark jeans and an olive-green, wide-necked shirt under a washed-out denim jacket, and Harry saw him only three days ago but it feels way too long.

«Hey», Louis says as he stops in front of Harry. «Sorry again about everything.»

«It’s okay», Harry repeats as he bends down to kiss him hello. «I’m just happy to see you.» He holds the heavy front door open for Louis and walks in behind him. Harry was here only yesterday, on a reconnaissance mission for Louis to find out whether the place was accessible. It wasn’t something Louis had asked of him, rather something he offered to do when he heard a note of doubt creeping into Louis’s voice when he invited him to the gig. He thinks he did an all right job and checked for the things Louis asked him to, but he still feels a little nervous, like this is a test of some sort. There’s also the real implications of him doing a poor job, like Louis having a miserable time and not being able to enjoy the evening because he didn’t report back well enough. Harry’s amazed anew every day of how incredibly ignorant he was of all these things up until a month ago.

They find a table quickly, Harry removing one of the chairs to make space and going to the bar to get them drinks. He gets a pint of lager for himself and a non-alcoholic beer for Louis, and as the bartender pours their glasses, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and there’s Niall next to him, grinning and slapping him on the back.

«You made it!», Niall says.

«I said I’d come!», Harry says, hugging him with one arm.

«Yeah you did, but then you went and got yourself a boyfriend and pretty much ditched your friends for a month, so you can’t fault a man for having his doubts.» He’s joking, but Harry still feels a little guilty. It’s not exactly untrue, what Niall is saying.

«So where is he? Where is the mysterious Louis you’ve kept a secret from us for two bloody years?» He waggles his eyebrows at Harry.

«First of all, it’s not been two years», he says, rolling his eyes. «Second of all, you’re the first out my friends to meet him, so please don’t embarrass me.»

Niall looks almost affronted. «Embarrass you? When have I ever —»

«Oh shut up, Niall», he says, but he’s laughing, and soon Niall is too.

«All right, all right, I get it. So no stories from first year at uni, in other words?»

«I’ll fucking murder you», Harry says, levelling Niall with a stare. He grabs their pints and heads to the table, beckoning Niall to follow him.

«I met Niall at the bar», he says upon reaching the table, placing Louis’s glass in front of him and squeezing past him. They shake hands, and Niall sits down opposite Louis, looking expectantly between them. He’ll be gloating to the rest of their friends that he was the first to meet Louis first chance he gets, and Harry will have to suffer through Nick’s pouting about it for days. Still, he’d probably have chosen Niall to be the first even if tonight hadn’t come along. Niall’s great at meeting new people: he’s funny and warm and open-minded, good at making people feel at ease. When Harry arrived at university, freshly out only to his mum, Gemma and his best mate from back home, Niall was the first of his new uni friends he came out to, and he’s been an important part of his life for the last eight years. So Harry’s just going to have to forgive him for looking like he might literally jump out of his seat with all the questions burning up his tongue.

«Harry never told me he had famous musician friends», Louis says, making Niall grin and shake his head self-deprecatingly.

«Nah, I’m not famous, me, just something I like to do in my spare time», Niall says.

«So what do you do for a living?»

«I’m a sound engineer, so, working with bands and artists in a recording studio.» Niall launches into one of his favourite topics, telling Louis about the day-to-day aspects of the job, and to Louis’s credit, he looks genuinely interested, nodding at the appropriate moments and asking questions that at least sound like he wants to know the answer. Niall looks happy too, as he always is when he gets to talk about music, and so far, this is going very well.

«So, you two met at uni?» Louis asks when Niall’s finished describing how you can tell when a recording is good. Harry sends him a warning look across the table.

«We sure did», Niall grins. «Became friends during fresher’s week and been stuck with this twat ever since.»

«Oi», Harry exclaims, «I’m an excellent friend, thank you very much.»

«Sure you are», Niall says, before turning to Louis. «So what do you do, then?»

Louis takes a sip of his beer before answering. «What, Harry hasn’t told you anything about me?»

Niall shrugs. «Not really, he’s been annoyingly mysterious about the whole thing. To be honest with you mate, some of us thought he might have made you up before he left for New York.»

«You what?» Harry says, watching Louis snort-laugh into his beer out of the corner of his eye.

Niall looks half apologetic, half gleeful. «I mean, it was a bit suspicious, you have to agree. You’re seeing this guy for a month, and none of us get to meet him, and before we even get the chance you’re moving halfway across the world? And he didn’t come to your farewell party? It was all a bit too convenient.»

«My friends are arseholes», he says to Louis, «I’m sorry you have to meet them.» Louis only laughs and squeezes his bicep, then turns to Niall and says «Well, now you can tell the nonbelievers that I am, in fact, real.»

«I never really doubted it», Niall grins. «‘Cause if it was all made up, I doubt he’d spend so much time and energy talking about how much he missed you.»

«Niall», Harry groans, but Niall continues, either oblivious or fully aware and just not giving a fuck. «Did he tell you how he kept me up nearly all night the night before he moved to New York?»

«No», Louis says, looking positively delighted. Harry should have waited another month before introducing him to his stupid friends, or better yet, kept him away from them forever.

Niall starts speaking in a voice that is clearly meant to be Harry, lowering his voice half an octave and slowing down the speed substantially so it sounds like he’s speaking in slow motion. «Oh God Niall, what am I going to do? I don’t know when I’ll see him again and I think I’m going to die.» Louis’ mouth is half open in glee at the impression. «Oh Niall, should I have asked him to try long distance? Should I call him? Should I change my flight? Niall, please tell me what to do.» At the end of it, Louis throws his head back and laughs, exclaiming «That sounds exactly like him!» while Harry simultaneously mutters «I do not sound like that.» In truth, he’s only pretending to be indignant. Most of all, he’s delighted that his boyfriend and his best friend seem to be getting along splendidly, although he does wish they didn’t have to bond over the death of his dignity.

«Is it true?», Louis asks, turning to Harry, his eyes full of warmth.

Harry feels his cheeks starting to redden, shrugs half-heartedly. «I told you I had some…second thoughts», he says. Louis tangles their fingers together, seemingly having forgotten all about Niall for the moment.

«That’s adorable», he says, and leans in for a kiss. Harry meets him in the middle, keeping it short and sweet for Niall’s sake. Kissing and holding hands with his boyfriend in public: check.

«So», Niall says when they break apart, «I don’t think I ever found out the answer to my question.»

«Oh, right», Louis exclaims, «we got a little sidetracked. Jesus, sorry, I forgot what you even asked», he says with an embarrassed smile.

«What do you do for a living?»

«Graphic design.»

«Wicked», Niall says, «So you, what, design websites and stuff?»

«Nah, mostly it’s corporate and editorial stuff, so like logos, ad campaigns, book covers, you know? I usually end up doing all kinds of stuff.»

«So do you get a lot of mates asking you to design stuff for free, then?»

«God, yeah», Louis sighs, rolling his eyes. «I don’t know how many bloody party invites I’ve been asked to do as a ‘small favour’, as if I haven’t got better things to do.»

Niall nods sympathetically. «Try being a music producer with a bunch of amateur musician friends.»

«Yikes», Louis says.

Niall puts on a south English accent. «Just one Sunday afternoon in the studio Niall, pleeeeease? You’ve got access to the studio and nobody’s using it right now anyway, right?»

«God, people are the worst», Louis mutters.

Barely twenty minutes into the evening and they’re already bonding over their shared grievances? This could not have gone any better if Harry had planned it himself.

«I should head backstage and get ready», Niall says, draining his glass. «Was great meeting you, Louis — you two’ll stick around for a pint after as well, right?» Harry looks at Louis, not wanting to decide for him.

«Sure», Louis says.

«Brilliant», Niall grins, «I’ll see you two later then.»

«I’ll walk with you to the bar», Harry says, pointing to his empty pint glass. «You want anything, babe?»

Louis smiles and shakes his head, so Harry follows Niall across the room to the massive bar desk, indicating to the server that he’d like another one.

«So», Niall says beside him, «He is real, after all.»

«Oh, do fuck off.»

«Relax», he laughs, «I’m only taking the piss. Really mate, he seems great.»

«Yeah?»

«Yeah, I like him. And you sure seem to like him a lot, too. Jesus, the way you look at him. They should hang a warning sign around your neck; massively smitten idiot incoming.» Harry feels himself start to blush again, has to look down at his shoes for a bit. He’s never been with Louis around other people who know him before, so it’s a bit new, being observed by other people, and the realisation that the way he feels isn’t private anymore. And while he suspected that he might not have hidden it completely, he didn’t realise he was being that obvious.

«Can I ask you something, though?» Niall says.

«Sure.»

«What’s the deal with the wheelchair? If that’s okay to ask?»

«You noticed, huh?»

Niall looks at him like he’s worried about his sanity. «I mean…yeah, it was right there. How could I not?»

«Er», Harry says, then decides to save that story for another day. «It happened while I was in New York, but I don’t want it to become, like, a whole thing. I can tell you the details later.»

«Sure», Niall says, nodding, «I get that. I didn’t mean to make it into a big deal or anything, I was just curious.» Harry feels a sudden rush of violent affection for Niall so strong he wants to hug him, but settles for clasping his upper arm.

«I’ll see you later, yeah? Good luck with the show, you’ll be great.»

Niall smiles, gives his shoulder a squeeze. «Thanks mate, I’ll see you in a bit.»

Harry returns to the table with a new pint and a whole lot of love in his heart for his best friend. Louis looks up at him, grins. «So what did you two talk about?»

Harry leans in to kiss his cheek. «Oh, nothing, Niall was just telling me about how much he liked you.»

«Really?» Louis sounds half doubtful, half hopeful.

«Really. I can tell when Niall is only pretending to like someone, and trust me, he was not faking it this time.»

Louis smiles, so big and genuine that Harry’s heart flutters. «Well, I really liked him too.»

«It’s impossible to not like Niall», Harry says.

«I see what you mean», Louis agrees. «So is he actually any good, or are we just here because you’re a really good friend?»

Harry laughs. «No, he’s really good, honestly.»

Louis drinks, looking thoughtful. «Is he looking to try to break through? I’d guess he has a lot of contacts in the business, right?»

«Nah», Harry says, playing with Louis’ fingers. «He’s perfectly happy as long as he gets to write songs and do his thing, I don’t think he wants to, like, become huge. Plus, he sort of has stage fright, so I don’t know how he would handle a sold-out Wembley.»

«Really? He’s got stage fright?»

«Yup, it used to pretty bad. I remember before his first time playing in front of a crowd, it was an open-mic thing during our final year at uni. He was so nervous me and another one of our mates had to stand guard outside the backstage area to make sure he didn’t make a run for it.»

«But he still did it?»

«He had to down half a bottle of vodka before he made it to the stage, but yeah, he did.» Harry smiles at the memory. Niall had thrown up in a bin backstage immediately after the gig, swearing never to do it again, and yet, here they are. «He’s gotten a lot better with the years, obviously.»

«Still», Louis says, «He keeps on doing it even though he’s afraid. He’s either really brave or an idiot.»

«I think it’s a little bit of both», Harry says, grinning. Louis doesn’t smile back, instead looking contemplatively at Harry, like he’s working something out in his head.

«I think I’m gonna try to be a bit more like Niall», he finally says.

«In what way?» Harry asks, running a hand through Louis’ hair. «You’re gonna start swearing and drinking more?»

Louis smiles and rolls his eyes, wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist and places their hands on the table in front of them. «No, I’m serious», he says, looking into Harry’s eyes, which must take a bit of effort. Over the past weeks, Harry’s not been able to avoid noticing Louis’s tendency to look away when things get serious. «I’m gonna try to be braver.»

Harry looks quizzically at him. «What do you mean?»

«I’m gonna try to get better at doing things that scare me, or things that I think I can’t do.» He swallows.

«Okay», Harry says, not wanting to yell out of fear of ruining the moment, but having to raise his voice a little bit because some idiot just turned up the volume of the speakers. «And what are you afraid of?»

The reply comes quickly, as if Louis has prepared for this. «Letting you in, I think.»

Nothing outside their little corner of the pub is important right now. Harry knows he has to ask, but can’t quite seem to find the right words. «And…do you have any ideas about how you might become…less afraid of that?»

«I guess…exposure therapy, isn’t that what it’s called?» He says it dryly, obviously trying to mask the earnestness of what he’s trying to say with humour.

«So what does that mean, exactly?»

Louis squeezes his hand before answering. «It means that I want to ask you if you want to come home with me tonight, after the gig.»

Harry blinks. It’s not what he was expecting. «Are you sure?»

«No.» Louis shakes his head. «But I think that’s why we should do it.»

«You really don’t have to —»

«Harry», he interrupts, placing a hand on his knee. «I know. But I’m asking you anyway.» He hears the implication behind his words, sees it in his eyes. Louis doesn’t need to be babied, to have his every decision questioned. Right now, he needs Harry to trust his decision.

«All right», Harry says.

«All right, what?»

«All right, yes, I would love to go home with you.»

«You want to?»

«God», Harry says, leaning in close. «Of course I want to, are you daft?» He kisses Louis, hard, feels Louis’s hand coming up to curl around his neck, and he wasn’t ever going to say no.

The problem, of course, is that before they can leave, they still have to stay for the gig, and because they’re a pair of morons who agreed to have drinks with Niall after the show as well, they can’t sneak off once he leaves the stage. It’s an excruciating hour, and not even the fact that Louis and Niall truly get on like a house on fire is enough to compensate. Finally, after two rounds, Niall announces that he should be getting back home to feed the cat as Sophie’s out of town for the weekend, and they hug goodbye with the promise of a dinner invitation and a double date in the near future. They go out into the mild August evening and make their way to Louis’s car, which is where it first hits Harry that Louis is stone cold sober while he’s had four beers, and he wonders whether that’s going to affect the outcome of the evening. He’s about to walk around to the passenger side of the car when Louis stops him with a hand on his hip.

«Hang on», he says, «I need your help.»

«Sure», Harry says, «What’s up?»

«If you’re gonna be in the passenger seat, which is usually where I keep my chair, then I need you to put it in the boot.»

«Okay», Harry says, «I can do that.» He’s had four beers, but hopefully placing a wheelchair in the back of a car doesn’t require world class levels of hand-eye-coordination. He watches as Louis transfers into the car, just as smoothly as last time, and bends to pick up the chair.

«Wait», Louis says, one leg inside and one still on the ground. «You need to take it apart first.»

«Right», Harry says, looking at it as if it’s suddenly sprouted wings. The thing is, it doesn’t look like something you can just take apart. «How do I do that, exactly?»

«Jesus, c’mere», Louis says, sounding a bit like an exasperated preschool teacher. He grabs the seat of the chair, twists it a little while reaching for something underneath the seat itself, until suddenly it detaches from the wheels.

«There», Louis says, «It’s too big to fit in one piece, but now it works.» Harry grabs the seat in one hand and uses the other to guide the wheels to the back of the car. He’s struck by how incredibly light it is as he hoists everything into the rather spacious boot of Louis’s car. Somehow, he always imagined wheelchairs as these sturdy, heavy things. Pleased with his contribution, he slides into the passenger seat.

«Thanks for the help», Louis says.

«Anytime», Harry smiles, kissing his cheek. He watches with great interest how Louis starts the car, reverses and drives out of the parking spot using just hand controls. It’s also a great excuse to just stare at Louis’s beautiful, slender hands.

«Did it take long to get used to?» he asks. «The driving with no feet thing, I mean.»

Louis tilts his head. «Not really. Kind of like getting used to driving an automatic car when you’re used to a gear stick, only a bit more to remember, I guess?»

«You’re very good at it», Harry says.

Louis laughs and steals a look at him before returning his focus to the road. «Are you drunk?»

«No», Harry says. «Maybe a little tipsy, but not drunk. Happy.» He turns his head fully to look at Louis. It’s a great vantage point for just…observing his face. He notices that whenever Louis needs to concentrate a little extra, like every time they get to a crossing or a traffic light, his jaw clenches a little, and when there’s an annoyance, like when a car in front of them takes ages to react to the green light and start driving, he scrunches his nose and taps the wheel furiously with his right thumb.

«What are you looking at?», he asks after a while; not annoyed, just curious.

«You», Harry says, because he’s nothing if not embarrassingly earnest when he’s had a bit to drink. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when they get back to Louis’s, if they both have the same idea of what tonight should entail, the same expectations. He doesn’t even know what his own expectations are, really. But he knows he’d be perfectly content to just drive around London with Louis for a while.

«Hey», Harry says after a while of driving in comfortable silence. «You didn’t hesitate at all before transferring in front of me tonight.»

Louis makes a thoughtful noise, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him until now. «No, I didn’t. You’re right. I didn’t even think of that.»

«I’m gonna take that as a good sign», Harry says.

Louis makes a sound of agreement. «Yeah. I think so too.»

They drive the rest of the way in silence, the radio playing low in the background, Harry mostly looking out the window at London by night passing by in order not to freak Louis out too much by staring him down the entire ride. When Louis pulls up outside his front door, Harry turns toward him and places a hand on his thigh.

«You still want me to come in?» he asks, fully prepared to catch a night bus home if Louis has changed his mind. Instead, Louis intertwines their fingers and leans in to kiss him softly.

«Yeah», he says. «I do.»

They repeat the process from before, only in reverse order, and this time Harry doesn’t even make an attempt at fixing the chair, just hands it to Louis and lets him take care of it. He follows Louis into the flat, wondering what happens now. Louis stops in the middle of the living room floor and twists the wheels so he spins around, facing Harry.

«Is it all right if I use the bathroom first?» he asks. As if he can read Harry’s mind, he continues. «I’m still working on some things, and I don’t think I’m ready for you to take part in…everything just yet. Is that okay?»

Harry bends down so they’re face to face, holding on to the wheels for balance. There’s some alcohol in his system, all right. «Of course that’s okay. I’m sorry if I made it seem otherwise. You go, I’ll keep myself busy.» He kisses him and watches as he rolls into the bathroom. Then, because he’s got nothing else to do, he plops down on the sofa and scrolls through Instagram. Niall’s posted a series of photos from tonight: two of him onstage, one where he’s smiling and one where he looks like a Very Serious Rockstar, and one taken from the side of the stage, where half the frame is filled with Niall in profile, and the other with the crowd. Him and Louis are very visible in the front row, Harry standing slightly to the left and behind Louis in the wheelchair, a beer in one hand and the other on Louis’s shoulder, one of Louis’s hands coming up to cover Harry’s. They’re both smiling, and they look very much like a couple, and Harry thinks that Niall has now saved him from having that conversation with quite a lot of his friends. At least the ones who follow Niall on Instagram, which is quite a few. He uses two fingers to zoom in on the two of them. Fuck, but they do look good together. The sound of the bathroom door opening brings him out of his little trance.

«All yours», Louis says, on his way into the bedroom. «Do you mind turning off the lights in the living room before you come to bed?»

«No problem.» Getting up off a couch is never his favourite activity, but now he all but sprints into the bathroom, knowing that Louis is waiting for him in bed. His heart skips a beat when he goes to the sink and sees what Louis has laid out for him: a brand new toothbrush, as well as the same T-shirt he wore last time he slept over, fresh-smelling and folded up. It’s difficult to brush his teeth without getting toothpaste all over himself when he can barely stop smiling.

In the bedroom, Louis is already on the bed, sitting on top of the covers with his back against the headboard. He’s changed into a pair of soft-looking, light blue pyjama pants and a loose tank top, and he smiles when Harry enters in his boxers and the shirt.

«Looks good on you», Louis says.

Harry grins and pulls on the hem, stretching the fabric. «Is this gonna become my standard uniform whenever I stay over?»

«If you want», he says, lifting a shoulder, a small, teasing smile on his lips. The subtext is clear: if you want to, this won’t be the last time we spend the night together.

Harry reaches the bed and crawls in, not wasting any time in getting close to Louis, crowding so close his knees bump against his thigh, before he leans over and kisses him. Louis is very responsive, his mouth opening and his tongue meeting Harry’s, his hands immediately disappearing underneath Harry’s shirt. Harry presses even closer, swinging a leg over Louis so his knees are either side of Louis’s hips. His bum’s hovering above Louis’s crotch, not quite making contact — he wants Louis to be able to set the pace, doesn’t want to push anything. Louis makes a keening noise and deepens the kiss, grabs Harry by the neck, rakes his fingers through his hair so hard he pulls it a little, which sends shivers all the way down Harry’s back. With the other hand, he pushes Harry’s hips downwards, so that he ends up sitting on his lap, and then, with the same hand, he touches the outline of Harry’s cock through his underwear, and Harry feels himself grow even harder under Louis’s touch.

«God», he breathes, their faces millimetres apart. «Jesus fucking christ, you’re gonna kill me, Lou.»

Louis responds by pulling him in for a deep kiss, while his hand continues touching his cock so gently it’s barely noticeable, like a breeze. It’s heavenly and absolutely maddening at the same time. He doesn’t know where all this bravado is coming from, but he can’t get enough of it.

«What do you want?» he asks Louis, voice barely above a whisper. «Tell me.»

Louis pulls away to look at him, his eyes a little dark, a little desperate. «Take off your clothes», he says, his voice shaky, a bit like he’s pleading. Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. In one quick motion, his shirt’s on the floor, and next he’s standing on the floor on Louis’s side of the bed naked, getting out of his boxers so quickly he nearly brains himself stepping out of them. He stands there, while Louis looks him over, as if he’s taking him all in for the first time. Louis places a hand on Harry’s hip, moves his thumb in little circles with a small, almost secretive smile on his face. Harry sits down on the edge of the bed, carefully brushes the pads of his fingers along Louis’s cheekbone.

«I want to see you», he says, while his fingers move along his jawline, down his throat, until his hand comes to rest above his breastbone. «Please.»

Underneath his palm, Harry feels Louis’s heart start to beat faster. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reaches for the hem of his top and pulls it over his head, then leans back against the pillows and looks at Harry looking at him. There’s a scar running down the middle of his stomach, starting about an inch below his nipples and ending at his bellybutton. Harry silently traces the entire length of it with the tip of his index finger, then bends down and presses a kiss to the top it it. Louis’s breath becomes shaky, and when Harry’s lips touch his skin, he feels him trembling a little.

«Give me a hand with this?» Louis asks, pulling at the fabric of his pyjama pants. Harry wordlessly gets up from the bed and places his hands either side of Louis’s hips, then slips his fingers inside the waistband and starts working his pyjamas and underwear down his body. It’s a little difficult at first, as the lower half of Louis’s body is not moving at all, and it becomes a little stuck under his bum, but once Harry gets the hang of it, it goes more smoothly. The fabric slips below his hips and Louis’s cock springs free. Louis lets out an involuntary sound when it happens, and Harry looks up at him, finds Louis watching him intently, probably looking for his reaction. Harry smiles at him, a soft smile, meant to be reassuring, then looks back down at his cock. It’s not erect at all, instead it lies soft, nestled against his upper thigh. He continues to pull the pants down his legs, revealing his thighs, knees, and finally his calves and feet. It’s a bit of a tangle to get his feet out of the pant legs, and he has to grab each leg by the ankle and tug a bit to get them free. The sensation of lifting Louis’s legs is a little strange, as the lack of response and resistance makes them feel heavier, almost floppy, as if he’s handling something inanimate, almost. Finally, Louis is naked and he throws the pyjama pants and his boxers on the floor, not really looking where they land. He looks down on him from where he’s standing at the edge of the bed, sees how his legs are noticeably skinnier. The lack of muscle definition means that his thighs are nearly as thin as his calves, and the way they’re bent, a bit haphazardly where they fell as Harry was getting him undressed, looks a little unnatural. Then he looks at Louis’s face, sees the sheer panic in his eyes, as if he’s just waiting for Harry to confirm his worst fear. He’s looking intently at Harry’s face because he thinks that after Harry’s appraised his body, he’ll find in his expression what he always expected: repulsion, disgust, rejection. He can’t stand the idea of Louis drowning in those thoughts one second longer, so he climbs on top of him, covering his entire body with his own, face touching face, chest touching chest, hips touching hips, skin touching skin touching skin touching skin.

«Hi», he whispers, his hands cradling Louis’s face. He kisses his cheek, his nose, his chin, his forehead. «You’re gorgeous. So gorgeous, Lou.» He watches as the fear leaves Louis’s eyes, feels his arms coming up to circle his back, Louis’s hand on the back of his neck, stroking the tender skin behind his ear. For a long time, they just lie there like that, saying nothing, just looking into each other’s eyes as their bodies reconnect.

«Remember the last time we were naked in bed together?» Harry asks after a while.

Louis hums, runs his fingers slowly up and down Harry’s spine. «Yeah. New Year’s Eve.»

«I was silently praying that the flights would be delayed so we’d have more time together.»

Louis breathes a laugh. «Me too. I also considered hiding your shoes so you couldn’t leave.»

Harry hides his smile in the crook of Louis’s neck. «You little shit», he says into his skin. Then, starting at the tip of his collarbone, he begins pressing slow kisses down Louis’s body. He does his chest first, then his sternum, then, returning to the scar, he lets his lips touch every little bit of it, moving along the same trajectory his fingers had earlier. When he gets to his bellybutton, Louis places a hand on his cheek, nudging him to look up. He finds Louis looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

«You don’t have to continue further down», he says.

Harry’s brow furrows. «Why?»

«That’s where it stops», he says simply.

«Sensation, you mean?»

Louis nods. Harry leans his weight on one elbow, splays the other hand flat on Louis’s stomach. With one finger, he draws a horizontal line across Louis’s belly, about an inch below his bellybutton. He’s softer than he used to be, not as toned, but his skin is warm and silky smooth.

«So you can’t feel this?» he asks.

Louis shakes his head, almost imperceptible. «Nope.»

«Where does it stop, exactly?» Harry asks, curious. «Is there, like, an exact point, or is it more…I don’t know, blurry?»

Louis looks at him, a mixture of amused and hesitant. Then he curls his hand around Harry’s index finger and guides it about half an inch up, to a point roughly one fingernail’s width below his bellybutton. «There», he says. Harry looks intently down at the little area of skin below the tip of his finger, gently pushes his fingernail into its softness.

«Do you feel this?» he asks.

Louis scrunches up his nose. «Yes and no. It’s a little difficult to explain.»

«Try», Harry says.

«It’s weird», Louis says. «Kind of like…a ghost is touching me?»

Harry giggles. «A ghost?»

«I told you it was hard to explain!» Louis says, swatting him on the shoulder.

«Okay, okay, sorry», Harry laughs. «Go on.»

«Right there, along the line, it’s like I can feel it, but also not. It feels more like a distant memory of touch rather than an actual touch. Does that make sense?»

«Kind of, but not really?»

Louis sighs. «It’s kind of impossible to understand unless you’ve experienced it, I think. That’s what my doctor used to say, that paralysis is completely inaccessible to imagine to anyone who hasn’t actually been through it.»

«I think you did a good job», Harry says, chewing his bottom lip. «And I actually think the ghost metaphor kind of works.»

«Yeah?»

«Absolutely», Harry says, bending down to place a kiss at the spot. He looks up at Louis with a grin. «And now you can tell people you’ve been kissed by a ghost.»

«Oh God», Louis groans, throwing his head back. «I fucking hate you.»

«No you don’t», Harry says happily. «But do you mind if I keep kissing you?»

«What?»

«I mean, I know you said there was no point ‘cause you can’t feel it, but I really like kissing you, so...is it okay if I continue?»

Louis tilts his head and looks at him with affection or amusement, possibly both. «You can continue», he says with a small smile. «I’ll just think back to what it used to feel like.»

He starts where he left off, dropping a line of tiny kisses along Louis’ lower belly, then continuing down his hip. When he gets to his groin, he gently pushes his right leg out so he can leave a line of kisses down his inner thigh. He stops when he gets to his knee and instead grabs both his legs and positions them so they’re in a straight line down from his body, then crawls back up and takes the duvet with him, covering them both from the waist down. Then he snuggles up next to Louis, arranges himself on his side and throws one leg over his, his head on the pillow next to him and one arm across Louis’s chest.

«You comfy enough?» Louis asks once he’s settled down.

«Yup», Harry says, his thumb drawing circles on Louis’s chest.

«God, you’re a bloody wriggle worm», Louis says, sounding exasperated, but fond. «I forgot that about you.»

«Yeah?» Harry says. «What about you, Mr. Faceslaps-When-He-Sleeps?»

Louis rolls his eyes. «That was one time.»

«One time is one too many», Harry says, faux-chiding, which earns him another eyeroll.

«You’re so annoying», Louis says, then kisses him. Harry’s chest expands with happiness, just lying there, kissing Louis, their naked limbs all tangled up underneath the duvet, enjoying the warmth of each others’ bodies. After a little while, he starts getting hard again, his cock pressing up against the side of Louis’s hip. He doesn’t think Louis has noticed, until he suddenly feels his hand curling around the base of it.

«Want a hand?» he murmurs.

«Only if you want do», he says.

«I do», Louis says, pressing his lips against Harry’s while tightening the grip of his hand, making Harry moan into the kiss. It feels indescribably good as Louis runs his fingers down the underside of his cock, from the base all the way to the tip, and he can’t help but instinctively start to grind against Louis’s side, seeking more friction. Louis runs his thumb across the tip, gathering the drops of precome that have started to leak there, and uses them to lubricate. Harry pants into Louis’s shoulder when Louis twists his grip and starts changing the pace, alternating between rough, slow pulls and featherlight touches to the sensitive area around his foreskin, and when he squeezes around the base followed by swiping his thumb over the slit, Harry groans and comes with a shudder all over Louis’s stomach. After, he lies there, breathing heavily and feeling absolutely boneless, while Louis plays with his hair.

«Hey», Harry says, finally mustering enough energy to push himself up on one elbow to look at Louis. «Want me to…do anything?»

Louis looks at him with a little smile, touches his cheek. «S’ all right. I’m good.»

«You sure?»

«Yeah.» He pushes a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear and tries to smooth out some stray curls that have taken on a life of their own. «Thanks for asking, though.»

Harry decides against pushing it further. Louis has already gone above and beyond his own insecurities tonight; he trusts that they’ll go further when he’s ready.

«At least let me take care of this», he says, indicating the mess he’s made on Louis’s stomach. He kisses his forehead and jumps out of bed, runs into the bathroom and comes out with a roll of toilet paper, and does his best to wipe up after himself.

«You brought a whole roll, huh?» Louis comments when he places it on the nightstand after finishing.

«Well, you know», Harry says, crawling into bed and repositioning himself at his side. «I’m planning ahead.» Louis laughs at that and then yawns, mid-laugh. Harry kisses his forehead, then rests his head next to Louis’s, watching as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sleepy too. It’s been a long and eventful evening, after all.

«Hey», he whispers. Louis opens his eyes and looks at him. «Thanks for the invite.»

«Anytime», Louis smiles.

«And thank you for trusting me.»

Louis brings Harry’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles softly. «You’re so lovely», he says. «Thank you for being easy to trust.»

They fall asleep like that, fingers tangled together on Louis’s chest.

Every time they spent the night together before, Harry used to wake up before Louis. The following morning is no exception, so when Harry opens his eyes and begins to stir, Louis is still very much deeply asleep. He has to pee quite badly, but Louis has his fingers curled around Harry’s wrist, so he decides to wait it out for a couple more minutes. It’s extremely mushy and his friends would no doubt laugh at him if he told them, but he wants to be there when Louis wakes up. Spurred on by his increasingly throbbing bladder and seeing that his boyfriend apparently has no plans to wake up on his own, he takes matters into his own hands, first by gently extricating his hand from Louis’s grip. When that doesn’t work, he begins slowly dragging his knuckles down Louis’s sternum. His mouth twitches, but he’s still fast asleep. Next, he trails a finger along what he’s privately started thinking of as his ‘ghost line’, but he must have missed the mark by a centimetre or two and done it below the level of injury, because he doesn’t show any signs of having felt it at all. Finally, starting to feel like Louis is ignoring him and wanting attention, he drops the plan of waking him up gently and starts blowing air directly in his face.

«Gnmg…», Louis says, sputtering awake. «What?»

«Good morning», Harry coos next to him. «Sorry, did I wake you up?»

«I was having the weirdest dream», Louis says, his voice groggy from sleep. «I dreamt that I’d gotten this new boyfriend, right? But turned out he was extremely annoying, so I had to kill him.»

«Huh», Harry says. «That’s weird.»

«Right? I’ve no idea where it came from.»

«No?»

«No idea at all, really.»

Harry is the one to break first, his mouth spreading out into a big grin, and he leans in and kisses Louis, smiling into it. «You’re funny», he murmurs against Louis’s lips, before fitting his face in the crook of his neck.

«Yeah? Should I quit my day job?»

Harry pretends to think it over for a bit, drawing circles on Louis’s chest. «Mmm, I’d hold off for a while.»

«Yeah?»

«I wouldn’t do it based on my recommendation alone, ‘cause apparently my sense of humour is hopeless.»

«Says who?»

«Well, amongst others, you, as I seem to recall.»

Louis laughs. «Sorry about that», he says, kissing Harry’s forehead. «It’s not terrible all the time, I guess.»

«Rude.»

Louis laughs again, and they’re so close Harry can feel the vibrations from his throat. If he could stay like this forever, nestled up in Louis’s bedroom, their bodies so close it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins, he reckons he could die happy.

*

In the weeks following that night, Harry starts staying overnight at Louis’s place more and more often. Harry loves covering his body with kisses, and he loves the way Louis’s hands feel around his cock, loves how good he is at anticipating what Harry wants, that he knows exactly how to move his fingers to make Harry come, gasping and moaning into his skin. Louis never wants anything from Harry after he’s finished, seems to be perfectly happy just making Harry come, and Harry doesn’t push or ask further, figures he will let him know when he’s ready. Besides, there’s so much more to explore, and he loves getting to know Louis’s body all over again in other ways, and in many ways, it feels even more intimate. For example, he’s discovered that other areas of his body have become more sensitive to compensate for the loss of sensation in his lower half. His nipples in particular have become extremely sensitive to touch, so Harry spends one Wednesday evening touching and kissing his chest until Louis has to practically shove him off or else he’ll «lose his mind». He doesn’t really want Harry anywhere near his own cock though, and when Harry one Sunday morning tries cheekily waking him up by sliding his hand inside Louis’s boxers, he yanks Harry’s hand away while gently saying «please don’t», and Harry apologises and doesn’t try again, although he keeps thinking of the way Louis had looked at him, something indecipherable in his eyes.

One night he stays over, Louis sleeps on his stomach, as he has to alternate his sleeping position to avoid pressure sores, and Harry sees his back for the first time. Because of the seriousness of his injury, he was maybe expecting something more graphic, but the only visible evidence that Louis is paralysed is the 15 centimetre-long neat, almost ruler-straight scar along his lower spine. That night, Harry lets his fingers brush along the entire length of it, up and down and up and down until Louis drifts off to sleep.

Harry discovers new things about himself, too. He’s always liked being the little spoon, but seeing as it’s difficult for Louis to sleep on his side, he learns that he’s just as happy tucked under Louis’s arm. It’s the feeling of being enveloped that draws him in, as if nothing bad can ever happen as long as he’s wrapped up in Louis. He also never thought he was particularly ticklish, until one early morning when Louis’s hands are exploring him and locate a spot on the backs of his thighs that sends him into hysterics. But the most important thing Harry learns over the course of those weeks is that he’s well on his way to falling in love with Louis. He might even be there already. It’s the most exhilarating feeling he’s felt in a long time. It’s also the scariest. The words feel too big for his body, as if they don’t escape soon, they’ll just continue to grow until they explode, and yet he can’t quite find the courage to say them out loud. He doesn’t know if Louis is ready to hear them, and even more than that, he’s terrified that Louis doesn’t feel the same way. Harry thinks he might, one day, perhaps not even too far in the future. But he doesn’t think he can bear saying them and not hear them repeated back, so he waits and hopes he’s doing the right thing.

*

In the middle of October, they have their first real fight. It’s a big one. It nearly ends them. Of all possible things, it starts with a discussion about something as innocuous as bananas. Harry’s made them both breakfast before he has to leave for work, but he’s done the unforgivable deed of putting banana in Louis’s porridge. It turns out to be a mistake.

«It’s just…wrong», Louis says, stirring the spoon with a look of disgust on his face. «I mean, you’re so lovely for making me breakfast, but…no.» He looks apologetically at Harry.

«But you like this», Harry says. He doesn’t understand. «I’ve made it for you before.»

«What? No, you haven’t», Louis says. His brow furrows.

«Yes, I have», Harry insists. «And you liked it.»

«Harry, if you had made me this before, I would have told you that I think banana in hot porridge is a travesty and that it makes the porridge look and taste like warm glue. Have I ever said that to you?»

«No.»

«So then you’ve never made me banana porridge before.»

«But…», Harry says, feeling the most confused he’s ever felt, probably. «I remember…»

«Are you sure», Louis starts gently, «That you’re not thinking of someone else? Maybe you made it for an ex?»

Harry opens his mouth to protest, then stops, thinks. Could it be?

«Well?» Louis smiles.

«Oh God…it was Ben.»

«Who’s Ben?» Louis asks without a trace of jealousy, just curious.

«Oh, we dated for a couple of months around…half a year before I met you? He was really into porridge.»

Louis laughs and shoves his bowl away. «Ben’s welcome to this.»

«I’m sorry», Harry says, a hand over his eyes. «I was so sure you liked it.»

Louis squeezes his hand across the table. «It’s fine. I’ll just have some cereal.» He makes himself a bowl of Honey Cheerios and they eat together in silence for a while, until Harry can’t stop himself from asking.

«I guess we’ve never really talked properly about that stuff.»

«What, foods we don’t like?» Louis says through a mouthful.

«No», Harry laughs, «I meant, like…exes.»

Louis swallows and looks into his bowl. «Oh, that.»

Harry stirs his porridge, considering his next words. «I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while, but…» Louis has stopped eating and is looking at him. He seems nervous, almost. «What happened, exactly, between you and your ex?»

«Which ex?» Louis’s voice is not quite steady.

«The one you met while I was in New York, who you told me about when I…» He feels a pang of lingering rejection and almost winces at the memory of himself, alone in his shoebox of a New York flat, reading Louis’s text and feeling so utterly miserable. «Well, you remember, right? When I told you I was coming back to London and you said you’d met someone.»

A hundred emotions seem to cross Louis’s face at once. He draws a breath, folds and unfolds his hands, chews on his bottom lip. He stares down at the table for what seems like an eternity, and Harry starts to regret asking the question. He had guessed it was a painful memory, but he didn’t realise how much it had affected and still affects Louis. He’s about to tell him to forget it when Louis finally looks at him and speaks.

«There never was someone», is what he says. It’s so far from what Harry was expecting to hear that he has a purely physical reaction and feels his body stiffen.

«What?» he says. «What does that mean?»

Louis exhales heavily. «It means that I hadn’t met someone. There is no ex.»

«What?» Harry repeats, beginning to feel like a broken record.

«Harry —»

«You mean you lied?»

Louis winces at the word, opens his mouth.

«Why?» Harry continues, finally finding the right questions. «I thought we were on the same page?»

«We were —» Louis begins, but Harry’s not done. He needs to understand this.

«You made up a boyfriend to get rid of me?»

«No», Louis says, sounding pained, «it wasn’t like that.»

«Then what was it like? I don’t get it.» He really should not be this upset. They’re here now, and things are so good, and whatever Louis thought then has obviously changed, but he still so vividly remembers reading that text over and over again, feeling so pathetically rejected. It had hurt, is what it had, but he had understood. He was in New York and Louis was in London and he was allowed to move on.

«It was…» Louis begins, then draws a shaky breath. He looks down at his fingers, curling and uncurling his fist. «When you sent that text, I’d been in hospital for about a month. You wrote that you were moving back to London, and for about five seconds I remember feeling so bloody happy. But then I remembered where I was and what had happened and I just…I couldn’t tell you. I figured no matter if I told the truth or came up with a lie, it wouldn’t change the outcome. So I decided to tell you that I had met someone.»

The kitchen is completely silent while Harry takes it all in. Then he asks in a small voice, «What did you think the outcome would be?»

Louis blinks. «Well, it would never have worked out.»

It’s what Harry was expecting to hear, but he still has to close his eyes. «You thought if you told me the truth I’d ghost you? Did you think so little of me?»

Louis looks pained. «No, not exactly.»

«Then what?»

«I didn’t want to put you in that position.»

«What position?»

Louis sighs again, as if he can’t believe Harry doesn’t get what is clearly obvious to him. «You’re wonderful, Harry. Really. You’re so kind, and you care so much, and you’d bend over backwards not to hurt anyone, and I think I knew that about you back then, too. I knew that if I told you the truth, you’d show up at the hospital when you got back, and maybe you’d even tell me that you wanted to try, because I think you’re the kind of person who would not want to break the heart of someone who’s just been told the worst news of their life. And I don’t think that would have been fair to you.»

He’s been looking at Louis’s face as he speaks, taking it all in. Louis seems to believe what he’s saying makes perfect sense. Harry thinks it’s bollocks.

«So what you’re saying is that if you had told me the truth, you’re afraid I would have dated you out of what, pity?» He know he’s being blunt, but right now he doesn’t care. He’s too hurt for that. «That’s complete fucking rubbish, Louis.»

«You don’t know that», Louis says. A hardness has crept into his voice.

«I think I know myself well enough, thanks.»

At that, Louis laughs. «You weren’t there, Harry. You have no idea how it was or how you would’ve reacted.»

«Yeah, ‘cause you never gave me the bloody chance! You concluded how I was going to react, and then you decided for me.»

«It wasn’t going to work.»

«How do you know that? And what are we doing now? Do you think I’ve spent the last four nights here out of pity? The last three months?»

«That’s different», Louis says. «And you wouldn’t even be here if you’d noticed the chair the first time.»

At that, Harry feels his heart start to beat faster. «What?»

«Do you think you would've been as eager to catch up if you had noticed my wheelchair the first time?»

«Of course», Harry says, but there must be something in his expression or his tone of voice, because looking at him, Louis’s face changes.

«I knew it», he says, as if only to himself. «But it’s all right, really — I get it.» He reaches across the table and grabs at Harry’s hand, who to his own surprise instinctively draws it away.

«How long have you been thinking these things?» Harry asks, startled by the sadness in his own voice. He’s suddenly exhausted, thinking of all the ways in which his boyfriend has been quietly doubting his commitment and his intentions all along. «Did you enter into this relationship thinking you had, what…tricked me?»

There’s a look akin to panic on Louis’s face now, as if this conversation has gone off the rails for him. Maybe he thought once he explained it to Harry, he’d understand, as if all he needed was a rational explanation, except this isn’t rational to Harry. And he can’t even be mad at Louis. He’s just sad — sad that his boyfriend thinks so little of him, but mostly that he thinks so little of himself. And now they’ve lost more than a year. Who knows where they could’ve been now. He’s angry, suddenly, and the next words come out of his mouth before he even has a chance to think them over. He regrets them the moment they’re out.

«How long are you going to do this? How long are you going to dwell on these thoughts and doubt that I know exactly what I want? Sometimes it’s almost as if you enjoy the self-pity.»

Louis’s face instantly darkens, and Harry knows he’s gone too far. Before he has a chance to apologise, Louis pushes himself away from the table.

«Please leave», he says, his face set and his voice scarily void of emotions.

«Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —»

«Can you please leave, Harry?» he repeats, his voice starting to waver. Harry doesn’t want to leave. He really, really does not want to leave, because he’s afraid he’s managed to fuck everything up, and if he leaves now, if he doesn’t fix this, he’s afraid it might be broken forever.

«I’m so sorry, please just—»

«Can you just go?»

He gives up, decides to give Louis some space. Without saying a word, he gets up from the table, picks up his satchel and goes to put on his shoes and jacket. He really wishes he could brush his teeth before leaving, but he’s sensing that Louis wants him out as soon as possible, and he doesn’t want to push him even further. He doesn’t think Louis looks at him once as he stumbles around getting ready, and when he turns and says «Please don’t let me have fucked this up» with tears in his eyes, Louis doesn’t reply.

He manages to get out the door and down the street to the tube stop without crying, fights back the tears as he descends on the escalator. As he goes deeper and deeper down underground, however, it becomes more and more difficult to keep his feelings in check, so when he finally steps inside the southbound Piccadilly Line train, he huddles against the door and lets the tears fall silently. The other commuters do their very best to avoid looking at him, and Harry’s never been more grateful to be living in London. This can’t be it, surely? It’s just an argument; couples argue all the time. The fact that they’ve made it this far without any disagreement is an achievement in itself. But the knot in his stomach tells him it’s not that simple; that he crossed a line with Louis. He sees the look on his face after Harry accused him of enjoying feeling sorry for himself and he winces, the knot tightening. It was an unbelievably horrible thing to say, but he said it.

As he exits the train at Holborn, he briefly considers turning around and going back, then he thinks of calling in sick and going home, maybe throw himself a little pity party of his own. In the end, he walks out of the station and down New Oxford Street, goes into work and pretends everything’s fine. He has a meeting with an author, does some revisions, has lunch with his colleagues and takes a conference call. When he leaves work a little after five, he’s texted Louis four times without a response. He calls him once on his way to the tube, and the minute he exits the station on his way back home. After two more texts and three calls without a word back, he decides to give hime some space and stops for the night.

His flat’s a miserable place to be tonight. Not only does he barely have any food in the house, as he’s spent the better part of the past week sleeping at Louis’s, but he’s not used to being alone in the evenings anymore. On the nights he’s spent not at Louis’s in the past month, he’s either been with friends or he’s been at home with Louis on the phone. He hasn’t gone a day without talking to him since July. Not knowing what else to do, he drinks half a bottle of wine with the bland take-home meal he picked up at Tesco on the way home and crawls into bed before nine.

He doesn’t speak to Louis (or rather, Louis doesn’t speak to him) for four days. By the time Friday and the weekend arrives, he’s a pathetic mess of a human who’s forgotten how to take proper care of himself. His colleagues must have noticed something was off when he arrived at work for the third day running with unwashed hair, but nobody’s said anything. They’ve been awfully sweet though, and for the last two days he’s been eating free cake for lunch. He doesn’t particularly want to think about just how miserable he must look when three strangers independent of each other offer him their place in line for coffee, so he doesn’t.

«Come on mate, it’s been ages», Nick had said when Harry declined to join him for drinks Friday evening. «What, you can’t spend an evening without your boyfriend for once?»

Harry’s stomach clenched at the word boyfriend, and he knew his voice would betray him if he continued talking to Nick, so he quickly made up an excuse and hung up. So now his boyfriend’s probably broken up with him and one of his best friends is mad at him and everything’s just shit, really. The one person he would normally open up to about this is Gemma, but things haven’t been quite the same between them since he told her about Louis, and anyway, now that she’s sort of been proven right about some things, he wants to speak with her even less. Louis had replied, after two days, but it was only to write Please stop, I need some time, so it doesn’t count. Not counting the first time Louis blew him off, this is actually the first time Harry’s been dumped, which means that not only is Louis the first boyfriend who’s ever broken up with him, he’s also the first to have done it twice. When Harry comes to this realisation late Friday night, he collapses into hysterical giggles that eventually morph into weeping, which means he’s now cried four days in a row. It’s a new record.

*

On Saturday morning, he’s had entirely enough of himself and decides to do something about it. No matter what Louis is thinking or what he decides, he cannot spend another minute lying on the sofa and watching his phone, willing it to light up with a sign of life from him. He goes for a punishing 90-minute run around Hampstead Heath, pushing his body nearly beyond its limits, and the resulting ache in his legs and lungs feels good — less painful than thinking about Louis, anyway. In truth, he’s been deviating from his usual fitness routine in the last three months, only going for his usual morning run on the days he wakes up at home instead of every day, like he has for the last five years. In part, it’s because staying in bed with Louis for an extra hour has been way more tempting, but it’s also, he realises, because he doesn’t want to do it in front of him. In a weird way, it would feel almost like he’s gloating if he were to come back to Louis’s, sweaty and sore after a run, almost as if he were saying «look at what my body can do that yours can’t anymore.» Which is, he knows, not a healthy way to think of it. He decides that if he hasn’t fucked up what they have beyond belief and there still is a future for them, he’s not going to continue depriving himself of what his body needs just because there’s a small chance that Louis would have an issue with it. Besides, he’s pretty certain Louis wouldn’t actually care — he was never into fitness before, even laughed at Harry the one time he asked him if he wanted to join him for a morning run back when they first got to know each other.

When he steps out of the shower, there’s a message on his phone. It’s from Louis, and it reads:

We should talk, can you come over to my place this afternoon?

No smiley face, no skirting around the issue, just that. We should talk. He thumbs out a reply with his hands still wet, doesn’t want Louis to think he’s been ignoring him.

Yes absolutely, when do you want me to come over?

He considers including a smiley face himself, but doesn’t want to overstep. His heart’s beating loud in his chest as he waits for a reply. The three dots appear on screen. Louis is typing.

I’ll be home around six, so anytime after that.

He’ll be home? Where has he been? A Tesco run or an overnight stay somewhere?

How about seven?

The reply from Louis is instant.

Okay, see you then.

Harry looks at the screen, at the clinical coolness of their exchange and wants to cry. He types out a reply quickly, but his thumb hovers over the send button, and he can’t actually summon up the courage to press it. He reads it over one, two, three times, and then deletes it.

I love you.

Furious with himself, with the situation, with the universe, he leaves the phone on the bathroom sink and goes to get dressed.

*

He decides to walk to Wood Green, reasoning that he can use the fresh air to sort out his thoughts. It turns out to be a less than ideal plan, as his mind goes into overdrive trying to analyse the messages from Louis before he’s even left his own street. By the time he’s standing outside Louis’s front door an hour later, he’s been through every possible interpretation: It’s a good sign that Louis asked him to come to his place, because that could mean that he wants Harry to stay over after they’ve made up. But actually, it’s a bad sign, because if he’s ending it he probably doesn’t want to do it in public out of fear that Harry would make a scene. It’s not a very good sign that he asked Harry to choose the time, ‘cause it means that he has no intentions of having him over for dinner, so he’s planning a short visit. Then again, maybe the decision to have Harry choose the time is his way of saying that he’s still interested in what he has to say? On and on like this he has walked through the streets of Northwest London, and now he’s exhausted from thinking and he hasn’t even knocked.

Louis opens the door less than ten seconds after Harry knocks, which means he’s been sitting there, waiting. Harry has spent the last three months in a state of constantly wanting to kiss Louis, and yet he feels as he closes the door behind him and looks at him that he has somehow never wanted or needed to kiss him more than right now. He’s in what Harry has come to know as his comfort outfit: medium grey sweatpants, light blue hoodie. He knows exactly how soft those pants are, has spent countless hours lying on the sofa to his immediate left rubbing Louis’s thighs through the fabric of them, trying to absorb the warmth of his skin through the threadbare cotton jersey. He has no idea what to say though, so he ends up trying to convey everything he’s feeling through a «Hi».

«Hey», Louis says, and it’s not devoid of feeling, unlike those lifeless texts. Whether that’s a good or bad sign, he has no idea. Louis just nods at the sofa, and Harry steps out of his shoes and sits down on the edge of it. Louis comes over, positioning himself so that their knees nearly touch, but not quite. Rationally, he knows that he came here to listen, that it’s Louis’s turn to speak, and yet he can’t help the words that come flooding out the moment their eyes meet.

«I’m so sorry for what I said, I shouldn’t have and I don’t know why I —».

Louis stops him with a hand to his knee. «Harry, don’t. Just let me say something first. Please.» He nods, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever is to come. «Yeah, yes, of course. Sorry.»

«Okay, so…» He stops momentarily and looks at his hand, as if he’s just realised where he placed it, and Harry is terrified that he’s going to pull it back, because that would not be a good sign, of that he is certain. Instead, Louis gives his knee a gentle squeeze, and Harry feels like he can breathe a little for the first time since he walked through the front door.

«I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these last few days», Louis continues, «About what you said, and about my reaction to it — why it was so extreme. I know you only said it because you were angry, and I know you said you didn’t mean it — but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.» Harry only nods. What he wants to do is take Louis’s hand, but he doesn’t dare to, not yet. He’s still not sure where Louis is going and where he’ll end up.

«One reason it hurt was because within that accusation was the implication that I must also then, on some level, enjoy being like this.» Harry starts shaking his head and opens his mouth to object, because he never ever meant that, but Louis cuts him off. «Now I know that’s probably not what you meant, but it’s what I heard — it’s what my brain conjured up. And while I’m getting better every day at accepting that this is what my life is now, no part of this has ever been what could be called enjoyable.» He continues on without stopping. «But then another reason why what you said hurt so much — and this is something that took me a while and some soul-searching to realise — is that there was some truth to it, as well.» Harry looks at him quizzically, and Louis removes his hand then, uses it to start fiddling with the fabric of his own sweatpants. Harry’s grown used to this move, the most prominent of Louis’s nervous habits, over the last few months, and that is when it hits him: Louis is nervous. Whatever it is he’s about to admit, he’s scared to say it. He takes a shivering breath before he continues speaking.

«I don’t mean the bit about me enjoying it, because as I said, there is nothing to enjoy. But I do think I’ve been using it as an excuse, or rather — not an excuse, that’s not the right word — I think some part of me has been waiting for you to fuck up on some level, for you to say or do something that I could then use to tell myself «See? That’s how he really feels about you, after all.» And so I think a part of me was almost relieved when you said what you did, because then I could use that to justify ending things between us, and then it would be over and I wouldn’t have to sit and wait for you to do it.»

He’s picking up momentum now, the words tumbling out at an increasingly fast pace, and the more he speaks, the more unsteady his voice becomes, and he’s worrying the fabric of his sweatpants so much that Harry can see a hole start to form in the middle of his right thigh. But as much as he wants to cover his shaking hands with his own, as much as he’s desperate to lean over and just hold him, he also recognises the importance of this moment, of letting Louis empty himself of these thoughts, and deep down Harry knows that if he does anything to interrupt his flow of words now, Louis might never get the courage back to finish what he’s saying. So he just nods, and allows him to continue.

«You see, I have spent these last three months wondering what on earth it is you see in me — I mean, have you seen yourself? And it’s not just the way you look, even though that’s ridiculous enough in itself, it’s the way you carry yourself, the ease and confidence with which you move through the world. And then there’s me, who just has…none of that, anymore. And you probably haven’t noticed, because people like you tend not to, because you’ve never had to worry about what other people think of you, but I’ve seen it every time we’ve been out together. I’ve seen it in the looks from people all around us; people we pass on the street, waiters and bartenders at restaurants and cafés, bus drivers, young people and old; I see the same question written all over their faces when they look at us, and it’s the same question I’ve been asking myself: what on earth is he doing with him? And so I’ve thought it’s gonna end soon, he’s going to realise that he could have anyone he wants, he’s going to realise that you’re just holding him back, but then two weeks went by and then one month and two months and then three, and you were still there, but the voice in my mind didn’t stop, in fact it only grew louder, and then of course the problem only grew bigger and bigger because the more time I spent with you, the scarier the idea of losing you became, and so when you said what you did, it’s like my brain finally saw an opportunity to end it before it was too late, and this way I could tell myself it would hurt less if I was the one to do it instead of just waiting for you to realise you were wasting your time with me.»

By the time Louis has finished talking, he’s full-on crying and the words are barely audible, and he’s using his right hand to cover his eyes while his left is digging into the skin of his thigh, hard enough to bruise by the look of it but Louis hasn’t even noticed. Harry has been left momentarily stunned and unable to move by this torrent of information,  but now he’s up and off the couch without even thinking, he’s moving on pure instinct and the only thing he can think of is that he has to stop Louis feeling and looking like that or else his heart is going to shatter into a million pieces. He covers Louis’s left hand with his own and gently lifts it, before sliding down into Louis’s lap sideways. With his right hand cupping the back of Louis’s neck, he envelops him in a one-armed hug, and Louis thankfully melts into him, burying his face in the hollow of Harry’s throat while both his arms circle his waist. He’s still crying and struggling to breathe through it, and Harry feels his chest expanding into his own as he tries to catch his breath in-between sobs, feels the front of his shirt getting wet from tears, but he’s in Harry’s arms now. At least there’s that. They sit like that for several minutes, Harry rubbing tiny circles into his neck with his thumb, planting kisses in his hair while murmuring comforting nonsense, mostly «It’s okay» and «I’ve got you» and «I’m here». After a while, the sobs subside and Louis’s breath returns to normal, but they stay there even longer, moulded together like some four-legged, two-wheeled creature, and Harry thinks, not for the first time but with more conviction than ever before, that he never, ever wants to let go of Louis.

Louis is the one to move first, getting one arm between their torsos and splaying a palm across Harry’s chest, a gentle signal that makes Harry lean back a little and look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and his face is covered in red splotches, but he’s still the loveliest thing Harry’s ever seen, he thinks. He moves his hand from Louis’s neck to his face, cups his left cheek in his palm and uses the pad of his thumb to trace up and down along his cheekbone. With the same hand, he gently forces his face up a little, so that he can look him in the eye. He needs Louis to really look at him for this next part, needs him to see him and believe him.

«I love you», Harry says, and he puts everything he has into those words, wills Louis to hear how much he means them. «I am so stupidly, ridiculously in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself, and I do not give one flying fuck what the waiters and bartenders and bus drivers of London think about it.» Louis makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob; he blinks, and a tear escapes and rolls down his cheek. «I love you, too», he says, his voice still thick from crying. «I love you and I think that’s fucking terrifying.»

«I’m not scared at all», Harry says, his thumb still tracing patterns up and down Louis’ cheek.

«No?»

«Not at all.»

«Is it okay if you’re brave enough for the both of us? Just for a little while?»

«Yeah», Harry whispers, «I can do that.» Then he leans in and kisses Louis, slow and gentle and soft.

«Take me to bed», Louis says. «Please». Harry doesn’t need to be asked twice, quickly has one arm under Louis’s knees and the other around his middle, lifts him up easy as anything as Louis twines his arms around his neck, kissing him as if his life depends on it. He can hardly see where they’re going, moves by memory and instinct towards the bedroom, through the doorway, and then he gently puts Louis down on the bed and crawls on top of him, and through it all Louis is kissing him with such urgency and need that Harry feels like a lifeboat in the middle of a storm.

«Hey», he breathes between kisses, «Slow down, love, slow down.» Louis’s hands are frantic and everywhere at once: in Harry’s hair, on his face, under his shirt. «Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.» He manages to grab one of Louis’s hands in his own, presses it against his chest. Louis stills, seems to calm down a little. The only sound in the room is their breathing: Harry’s steady and quiet, Louis’s louder and more ragged, but settling down into a more regular rhythm. Harry slides off him and comes to rest on his right side, places one palm on Louis’s left cheek and uses it to guide his face towards his own, their foreheads nearly touching.

«We’ve got all the time in the world, love. We don’t have to do anything right now, you know that, right?»

Louis closes his eyes, breathes out harshly. «I just…»

«Just what?»

«I just want you — all of you. And I’m ready, want to show you that I’m ready.»

«I want all of you too. I want that so much. But if you’re ready now, then you’ll also be ready tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Right? I don’t want us to rush it just because you feel like it’s something we have to do right now.» Harry never thought he’d ever turn down sex from his super hot boyfriend, but he knows now is not the right time. Neither of them is in the right headspace, and if he’s this emotionally drained from this evening he can’t imagine how Louis is feeling.

«Let’s just sleep, okay?», he says, nuzzling Louis’s forehead. «I’ve missed just sleeping with you. I’ve missed waking up with you. I don’t need anything else right now.» Louis nods, and lets Harry undress him. Crawling back underneath the duvet, both of them completely naked, Harry moulds himself to Louis’s side, one arm slung across his chest, his nose buried in the hair next to his temple. It’s going to get unbearably hot, sleeping like this, but he doesn’t care. He’s right where he belongs. «I love you», is the last thing he mumbles before he drifts off to sleep.

*

For the second time in his life, he wakes up alone in Louis’s bed. The last time it happened, his heart felt heavy and full of dread: it was the morning of New Year’s Eve, and he didn’t know if he would ever see Louis again after that day. This morning, he wakes up feeling lighter than air, something warm and fuzzy having settled in his stomach and his bones overnight. Yesterday, he told Louis he loved him and he said it back. What a difference one year and ten months make. Louis’s side of the bed is still warm, which means he hasn’t been gone long. He hears the sound of the toilet flushing, then water moving through the pipes from the sink, then the bathroom door opening. He looks towards the door and realises he’s excited to see Louis, even though he just saw him last night. Christ on a bike, I’m fucked.

«Morning», he murmurs when Louis appears in the doorway.

«Hey», he says, approaching the bed. «Did I wake you up?» He’s put on a pair of boxers, which Harry finds wholly unnecessary considering he was naked the last time he saw him.

«No», he says, burying a yawn in the pillow. «Think my body just realised you were gone and woke up by itself.»

«How touching.»

«Indeed. Are you coming back to bed?»

«So impatient», Louis tuts. «But yes, I was planning on it. Wanna give me a hand?»

«Fuck yes», Harry says, crawling over to where Louis is waiting and placing one leg on either side of him, so that they’re facing each other, Harry on the edge of the bed and Louis in the chair. He’s well aware that he’s naked, and Louis seems to be as well, judging by how his eyes seem to be drawn to a point well below his belly button.

«I see», is all he says, and the teasing tone of his voice is maddening. All right, Harry thinks. So this is how we’re going to play it.

«You know how you said last night that you were ready», Harry says, placing his hands high on Louis’s thighs and leaning forward so that their faces nearly touch.

«Uh-huh», Louis says, and it sounds like he has trouble breathing. Harry looks pointedly down at his own hands, makes sure Louis’s gaze follows his as he slowly moves them up, up and underneath the hem of Louis’s boxers. Louis’s breath hitches in his throat, but Harry isn’t done yet.

«Do you think», he says, voice low in his throat and his mouth so close to Louis’s ear he can see the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise, «That you still feel the same way this morning?» He feels Louis’s breath, hot against his cheek, senses rather than hears his nearly imperceptible «Yeah». He bends his head slightly and grazes Louis’s pulse point with his teeth, feels his cock twitch in response as Louis breathes out a guttural «Fuck, Harry», before he leans back slightly and allows Louis to pull him for a kiss that deepens instantly.

«How can I —», Harry says, realising he needs to get Louis out of this chair and into bed as soon as humanly possible or he is going to explode. Louis seems to be reading his mind, takes Harry’s hand and guides it to his upper calf. «Just lift it», he says, sounding as desperate as Harry feels, «Lift it up and put it down.» Harry does what he’s told, carefully lifting first one leg, then the other, from the footrest and down to the floor. «Okay, now grab the backs of my thighs and lift», he says, and Harry again complies, lifting as Louis uses the edge of the bed for support, and suddenly he’s sitting next to him, and they’re in bed together, which is great, but it’s not enough, nothing except having all of Louis is enough for Harry now, so he grabs his legs again and swings them over the edge, making Louis fall back against the pillows. «You good?», he asks, hovering over Louis, who just nods and again grabs Harry’s hand to guide it, this time to the waistband of his boxers. «Yeah, yeah, just get these off me, will you?» He’s exhilarated by Louis’s assertiveness, the way he seems to want and need this just as much as Harry, so he wastes no time rolling them Louis’s legs, and then they’re both naked, finally. He straddles him and sits down on top of his thighs, and has to take a moment just to look at him — this gorgeous, marvel of a human who’s now naked and eager and wanting underneath him, and he’s all his — all Harry’s — and it’s nearly too much for him to take in at once.

«What do you want?», he whispers, running his hands up Louis’s torso. «Tell me. Anything.»

«Want you», Louis murmurs, his fingers dancing along Harry’s hipbone. «Want you to fuck me. Want you inside me, even if I can’t feel it. I want to know that you’re there.» He’s looking straight into Harry’s eyes, and there’s so much openness and vulnerability there that it bursts his heart wide open. He loves him so much.

«God, I want that. I want that so much, babe. Want to make you feel so good.»

He starts by giving lots of attention to Louis’s chest and nipples, seeing as it is the most sensitive area on his body. He kisses and grazes the area until Louis is shaking and whimpering underneath him, before moving down the length of his entire body. He spends time on every part of him, including the areas that are no longer responsive to touch. He wants all of Louis, not just bits and pieces of him. «Christ», he murmurs, kissing his way up Louis’s body; his hipbone, his bellybutton, the faint outline of his scar. «You’re so gorgeous, Lou. So beautiful.» Louis’ eyes are wet when he comes back up to kiss him, and he pauses, his hand on his cheek. «Want me to stop?»

«No», Louis says, shaking his head. «Please don’t stop. Please. I want this so much.» He continues, moving down again and leaving a trail of kisses down Louis’s torso until he gets to his groin. Then he stops, looking up at Louis through the hair that’s fallen across his eyes. «How do we…», he starts, pauses. If anyone were to gain access to his Google search history over the last few weeks, they’d probably think him some kind of weird disability porn fetishist, but he’s done his research. Still, he wants Louis to lead the way on this, wants him to set the terms and the pace.

«Pillow», Louis says. «I think if you place a pillow under my bum it’ll be easier.» Harry grabs the one he’s been sleeping on and carefully helps Louis roll onto his side so he can place the pillow underneath him, then rolls him back. He was right; with his hips slightly higher, it’s easer for Harry to gain access. He crawls up Louis’s body and reaches across him to open the nightstand drawer, roots around for a bit before his fingers find something that feels like a bottle of lube and pulls it out. It’s unopened. He holds it in front of Louis’s face, asks with a hint of teasing to his voice «When did you get this?» He can’t be sure, but he thinks Louis is blushing. «About a month ago. I wasn’t ready then, but I had a feeling I might be soon, so I wanted to be prepared.» Harry kisses him — he can’t not do it — and opens the bottle with his teeth, applying a decent amount to his fingers.

«You ready?», he asks, making sure to look Louis directly in the face. If he’s changed his mind, if he’s not ready anymore, Harry doesn’t want to miss a single sign. «Yeah», Louis says, and he sounds and looks more sure than Harry’s ever seen him. Slowly, while still meeting Louis’s gaze, he moves his hand down Louis’s body and finds his opening, carefully pressing one finger in. He watches his face for any signs of change, any sign that he’s felt it, but there’s nothing. He starts moving his finger in and out, then adds another.

«Do you feel that?», he asks. Louis shakes his head. «No. But I know that you’re there, somehow. Tell me what you’re doing. Please. I want to…Want to know what you’re doing. Want to imagine what it’s like.» Harry leans in and kisses him, then starts to narrate his movements. «I’ve got two fingers inside you now, opening you up, and it feels so good — you feel so good, Lou. I’m moving them out now and adding a third, and I can feel you stretch around them, can feel you opening up for me, babe. I’m moving them in and out, widening them, and it feels so good, I think you’re getting ready for me now.» He takes them out while kissing Louis again, and he feels wetness on his cheek as he lifts his head, sees that Louis is crying now. «Keep going», he says, «Please. It feels so good, I’m ready.» He smiles, and even though there are tears on his cheeks, it looks real. «Please, H. I want you so much.»

«Okay», Harry says, kissing him once more before sitting up and positioning himself. He gives his cock a few tugs, but he’s achingly hard and ready, has been ever since he got Louis underneath him.

«Do you want me to…», he says, realising he isn’t wearing a condom. «I haven’t had actual sex with anyone since you.»

«You haven’t?» Louis says, sounding incredulous.

«No», Harry smiles. «Haven’t met anyone I liked enough. Have you?»

«No», Louis says. «No one.»

«Do you still want me to put one on?»

«No», Louis says. «Please don’t. I don’t want there to be…anything between us.» He blushes as he says it, but Harry gets it.

«Okay», he says, taking a steadying breath. «You ready?»

Louis nods, and Harry lines himself up. He grabs Louis’s right thigh and pushes his leg up and away a bit, giving him easier access, and with the other hand he steadies himself against Louis’s hip. Then he pushes in and all he feels is the warmth and tightness of Louis enveloping him. He pushes nearly all the way in, coming to hover above Louis, who’s looking at him with the most heart-stoppingly vulnerable gaze imaginable. His arms come up to rest on Harry’s shoulders. «You okay?», Harry asks.

«Yeah. Talk to me. Tell me what it feels like for you.»

«It feels…amazing», he says, starting to move in and out, finding a rhythm. «Fuck, Lou, you feel so good. So good.»

He pushes Louis’s leg a bit further up, allowing him to push all the way in, and then the rhythm and momentum starts building. «Christ», he groans, «You’re so tight, feels so good.»

His arms are starting to feel the strain, but he’s not far away now, and it has never felt this good before, not with anyone, not even Louis back when it all started, because then they were only at the beginning of their journey. But this Louis, the one underneath him right now, the one who looks at him with so much trust and openness, the one whose nails are boring into his shoulders, the one who’s whimpering as Harry pushes into him, again and again as he’s nearing the climax — this Louis has Harry’s entire heart, is more than he could ever want or wish for, and that’s why it feels so good, so incredibly, indescribably good.

The last time he fucked Louis, in this room, he couldn’t bear to even look at him, scared he wouldn’t be able to handle the emotional fallout if he did. This time, he can’t look away, wants to savour every look, every sound, every single second of it. He cries out as he comes, his arms giving out underneath him, and as he collapses on top of Louis he feels his arms enveloping him. He rests his head on Louis’s chest and feels his fingers carding through his sweaty hair, feels his kisses along his hairline, feels his breath coming out in hitches, hears him whispering «I love you» over and over against his skin. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep there, but everything is entirely too much, so he does.

Some time later — he has no idea how much, as the entire concept of space and time has ceased to exist — he comes to and feels Louis’s fingers moving up and down his back.

«Shit», he mumbles, feels the vibrations of Louis’s chest rumble underneath him as he laughs quietly. «Didn’t mean to fall asleep. How long have I been out?»

«Not long», Louis says, his voice warm. «Fifteen minutes, maybe?»

«Did you sleep?»

«Bit hard to fall asleep when you’re on top of me, squeezing the air out my lungs.»

«Fuck, sorry», Harry says, scrambling to get off him. Louis just laughs, takes his face in his hands. «Relax, I’m joking.» He kisses Harry, short and sweet. «Mostly.»

He wriggles around until he’s comfortable next to him, then looks at Louis. «Hey», he whispers. «Was that…How was that, for you?» Louis takes one of his hands, brings it up to his face, kisses each knuckle. «It was perfect.»

«Yeah?», Harry says, and he feels a huge, dopey grin start to spread across his face, can’t do anything to stop it.

«It was perfect. You’re perfect. Thank you for taking such good care of me.»

«Anything», Harry says. «I’d give you anything. You know that, right?»

Louis just smiles back, says nothing. Harry could stay here, in this bed, with him for the rest of his life and be happy.

*

By early December, Harry has practically moved into Louis’s flat. He spends more nights there than at home, and what started out as a toothbrush and a T-shirt has with time evolved into two drawers of his stuff: one in the bathroom, and one in the bedroom. He’s even got a spare key. He knows it’s early, but he’s started toying with the idea of ending the contract on his own flat and moving in. He reckons he’ll keep those notions private until at least after Christmas, because he’s not sure that Louis is ready. He’ll get there, though. Harry is sure of it.

London has been transformed into a shining Christmassy wonderland, and Harry becomes so inspired by the season that when he one day walks past a pop-up Christmas tree market on his way from work, he stops and buys one. He considers taking it back to his, but he hasn’t had a Christmas tree in his flat since before New York and so doesn’t have any decorations. Instead, he lugs it down to Leicester Square and gets on a train to Wood Green, where he forty minutes later tries to wrestle himself and the tree through the door of Louis’s flat.

«Lou, you home?», Harry calls out from behind the tree.

«Harry?» says Louis. At least it sounds like Louis. Harry can’t see him on account of the himself-sized tree blocking the view.

«I got you a tree», he points out, rather obviously, once he’s managed to free his hands by leaning the tree against a wall. Louis is by the kitchen table, looking between Harry and the tree.

«I can see that», he says. «Thank you?»

«I figured we could decorate it, put on a Christmas film, you know, really get in the mood?»

«Sure», Louis says, sounding less enthusiastic about it than Harry would have liked.

«Oh no», Harry says, «You’re not an anti-Christmas person, are you? Did we never talk about this?»

«I like Christmas!» Louis comes over to the tree, touches the branches. «It’s not that. I just…didn’t know we were at the buying Christmas trees together-stage yet.» He looks up at Harry, who feels his cheeks start to become hot. He starts to babble.

«Right, well, I can take it back to mine if it’s too much, it’s not that big a deal, I mean —»

«Christ, H.», Louis says. He reaches for Harry’s hand. «It’s a lovely tree, thank you. I’d love to do it up with you.»

«It’s not…too much?»

«No. No, not at all, not really. I was just…surprised, is all.»

«Surprised?»

Louis looks a little sheepish. «I guess I wasn’t quite sure where we stood.»

«You did give me a key to your flat, so…»

«I know, I know», Louis says while awkwardly shrugging. «I just…it’s Christmas, yeah? I always figured it was kind of a big deal.»

«Well, I mean», Harry says while crouching down next to Louis. «Do you want it to be a big deal?»

Louis looks apologetic. «I don’t know», he says, «Is it okay if we don’t do this right now? Can we just finish the tree and have a lovely evening and I’ll stop overthinking everything?»

Harry kisses his forehead. «‘Course we can.»

«Sorry, I know I brought it up, I just —»

«Hey», Harry interrupts, «It’s ok. You’re right, let’s just do the tree and have a lovely time and we’ll talk about it later, yeah?»

«Thank you», Louis smiles. «You’re the best.»

«Just wait until you’ve seen my tree decorating skills.»

They stay up until midnight decorating the tree, the delay partly caused by Harry spending way too much time looking for Louis’s box of ornaments in the garden shed, and partly due to the bottle and a half of wine they consume in the process. The end result is a surprisingly pretty, if not fully symmetrical tree, seeing that Louis decorated the bottom half and Harry the top, and when Harry does the washing up with Mariah Carey singing in the background, he feels thoroughly christmassed up.

It’s such a stark contrast to the same time two years ago, when there wasn’t room for any kind of decorations in his small Brooklyn flat and he spent so much time working and trying to impress everyone that he didn’t have time to think about Christmas. He spent that December thinking about Louis a lot, fantasising about what it would be like to see him again. And now he’s here, with Louis just in the next room and his favourite holiday around the corner. This is going to be the best Christmas ever.

*

Fuelled by the lingering cheer of the evening spent doing up the tree, they agree to catch more Christmas-based activities in the coming weeks, so the following Sunday, they go see a children’s choir singing carols at the Wood Green common whilst drinking obscene amounts of mulled wine. Three days later, Harry convinces Louis to join him for a Nightmare Before Christmas-singalong, and even though Louis claims to have a pathological aversion to mass karaoke, he admits he enjoyed himself. Harry’s high on chocolate and Louis and Christmas and begins scouring Time Out and Twitter for suggestions for even more stuff for them to attend, and suggests spending the next Saturday at Greenwich, where they can wander the market stalls and choose between no more than three Christmas concerts. Louis hesitates at first; he doesn’t usually venture outside North London unless he has to, and he’s worried about the distance, about finding parking, about the accessibility — about everything. The last thing Harry wants is to push him into doing something he’s not comfortable with, but in the end, he manages to convince him. On Friday evening, which they spend apart because Harry is behind on work, he sounds excited when they talk on the phone. Which is why Harry starts to become concerned the next day when it’s half an hour after Louis was supposed to pick him up and there’s still no sign of him.

He’s tried his phone twice with no answer when he starts getting nervous for real. Yes, it’s Saturday one week from Christmas in London so the traffic’s guaranteed to be a nightmare, but Louis always lets him know when he’s going to be late. And anyway, if he’s stuck in traffic somewhere he’s bound to have found some opportunity to put Harry on speakerphone and let him know by now. He waits ten more minutes, desperately keeping an eye out for Louis’s dark grey Golf, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Then he makes a decision and sprints in the direction of the tube station, jumps on a southbound train just about to leave the platform, pushes through the crowds as he changes at King’s Cross and is up in the chilly December air outside Wood Green station barely half an hour later. He checks his phone in case it’s lost signal while he was underground and Louis has tried calling him back — there’s nothing. Louis’s car is parked outside when he turns the corner into his street, which settles Harry’s nerves a little. At least he hasn’t been involved in another collision. Still, it’s been more than an hour since they were supposed to meet now and Harry is sure that Louis hasn’t just forgotten about it, because he doesn’t do that. His hands are starting to tremble as he reaches Louis’s front door and fumbles with the key.

«Hello?» he says, voice uncertain as he steps into the living room. Keys on kitchen table, empty beer bottle from last night, presumably, next to the sink, but no sign of any breakfast having been made or eaten. The lights are off. Harry’s heart starts pounding. Please have overslept, please, please. But it’s not likely. It’s nearly noon and Louis never sleeps later than ten. He used to, before, but not since he was injured — his back gets all fucked up if he stays in bed for too long, plus he says it’s as if he just lost his ability to sleep late after he got home from hospital and rehab. Something’s not right. «Hello?», he tries again, louder this time.

«Harry?» It’s Louis’s voice, but it’s also not, laced with something he’s not heard before. It’s coming from the bedroom, and he rushes in there, nearly taking the door off its hinges he’s in such a hurry to open it, and there Louis is, and it’s clear something is very, very wrong. He’s on the floor, on his back, next to the bed, but his wheelchair’s nearly over by the door, in such an unexpected place that Harry nearly runs straight into it on his way over to kneel next to him.

«Are you okay? What happened, what are you doing there? What the fuck, Lou, I tried ringing you but you didn’t pick up, I knew something was wrong, I knew it —» He’s rambling and he knows it, knows his hysteria isn’t helping either of them right now but he was so worried, and something is wrong with Louis and he doesn’t know what to do. Then two things happen almost simultaneously, which finally manages to shut him up: Louis curls his fingers around his bicep and tightens the grip, and the movement seems to cause his face to contort into a grimace of pain.

«I think you need to call an ambulance», he grits out between his teeth, and yes, Harry can do that. He can be helpful.

«What do I tell them?» he asks as he waits for someone to pick up. «I don’t even remember your address, I’ve never had to use it!» Helpful indeed. Suddenly there’s someone on the other end of the line, and she stays perfectly calm as Harry manages to rattle off that his boyfriend needs help and where to send the ambulance with assistance from Louis. 

«Is he awake?»

«Yeah, yes, he’s awake, I’ve talked to him.»

«And has he at any point lost consciousness?»

He holds the phone away from his hear and addresses Louis. «She wants to know if—»

«I know, I can hear everything ‘cos your phone’s shit. No, I haven’t.»

«Um, no he hasn’t.»

«Okay, that’s good. Now, can you tell me what happened, love?»

«Um, I actually don’t know, I got here and found him on the floor. Let me ask him.»

«Oh for God’s sake Harry, just put her on speaker, this is taking forever.» It’s obvious from the strain in his voice that Louis is in pain, and yet he’s still finding the energy to be exasperated with Harry.

«Okay, so he says he wants to —»

«It’s alright, pet, I heard him», the patient angel on the other end says. «If you can put him on speaker that’s quite all right.»

«Okay, here he is.»

«Louis?», angel lady says, «My name is Carla. I’ve understood you’ve had an accident, can you tell me what’s happened?»

«I fell out of bed and it hurts to move.»

«And where does it hurt?»

«My back. I tried to get up but I can’t.»

«Okay, now have you tried moving your fingers and your toes?»

Louis lets out a surprised laugh, a «Hah!», then pulls a face because laughing clearly hurts.

«I’m sorry», Carla says, «Did I say something wrong?»

«Oh, fuck me», Louis groans, then continues laughing, his eyes squeezed shut in pain.

«Um», Harry says, «Sorry Carla, no you didn’t, it’s just Louis is a paraplegic, so he can’t actually, um, you know, move his toes.»

«I see», Carla says, «Just for future reference, it would have been quite useful to lead with that.»

«Sorry.»

«No worries love, but it’s good to get the full picture. Now, is this a recent injury?»

«Two years», Harry says, because Louis still doesn’t look like he’s able to contribute much to the conversation. «I mean, it will be two years in February.»

«Okay, and now Louis, this is an important question.» Louis stills, and Harry angles the phone toward him. «The back pain that you’re experiencing now, would you say it’s in any way similar to the pain you experienced when you first were injured?»

«Yeah», Louis says, and it’s as if all the air is suddenly sucked out of the room. Harry can tell from the look in his eyes that the sarcasm and the sniping has just been a front, because Louis is terrified.

«All right, love, that’s good to know», Carla says into the silence that now blankets the room, and Harry realises that he’s stopped breathing for a second. «I can see that the ambulance is a couple of minutes away and will be with you shortly, and I’ve got another call coming in so I’ll be leaving you. Now it’s really important that you don’t try to move anymore, Louis, is that okay?»

«Yeah», Louis says again, and his voice is so small.

The call ends, and Harry sinks down next to Louis, wants nothing more than to comfort him but knows he shouldn’t be moved or jostled, so he ends up rather pointlessly stroking his hair away from his face, and when Louis turns his head slightly to look at him he shakes his head.

«Don’t do that, Carla says you shouldn’t move.»

«I’m scared.»

«I know, but you heard what she said, they’ll be here soon. You’ll be all right.»

«You don’t know that». A tear runs down his cheek, and Harry wipes it away.

«You’re right, I’m sorry. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here.»

«I’m such an idiot.»

«No, you’re not», Harry soothes, wiping away the tears that continue to escape down Louis’s cheeks. «Please don’t say that.»

There’s a loud knock at the front door then, and Harry feels relief flood his entire body. He’s never felt so helpless before in his life, but help is here now. It’s all going to be okay. It has to be.

The next couple of hours are, put simply, the worst of Harry’s life so far. The paramedics are quick and efficient and whisk Louis away in a hurry, but there’s no room in the ambulance so he has to wait for a taxi. The A&E reception, when he finally gets there, is chaotic and no one can really tell him anything, just direct him to the waiting area with the promise that they’ll call him up when there’s any news. Half an hour goes by, then another, and still there’s nothing. A young mum trying to wrangle a sniffly and screaming toddler is staring daggers at his fingers drumming a frenzied beat into the back of his phone, but the movement is the only thing keeping his nerves in check so he just looks at her apologetically but doesn’t stop. What could possibly be taking so long? Finally, after another forty minutes, Mr. Harry Styles to reception is called out over the system, and he rushes over, heart in his throat, only to be told that Louis is being prepped for surgery but that they can’t tell him anything else.

«I’m sorry, pet», the middle-aged nurse behind the desk tells him. To her credit, she does genuinely look sorry. «But I can’t divulge more detailed medical information to someone who’s not next of kin, and you are not listed as next of kin in Mr. Tomlinson’s health and care record, that would be a Miss Charlotte Tomlinson.»

Even though Louis is very close to his younger sister, Harry has only met Lottie once, as she lives in Paris with her boyfriend. She moved there the year before Louis’s accident when she got a job with Chanel, and did come back to London after he was hurt to be by his side. But when she a couple months in announced that she was moving back permanently, Louis wouldn’t let her, saying he was not going to be the reason she gave up her dream job in the fashion industry. She comes over from Paris quite regularly, but Harry only met her for the first time about a month ago, when he and Louis decided it was about time to properly introduce each other to their families. And now he has to call Lottie and tell her that her brother’s in the hospital again, and he can’t even tell her the details of what’s going on. That he’s even got her number is all her doing, as she insisted on putting it in his phone after dinner last month, saying «Just in case something happens to my idiot brother», and oh, isn’t that prophetic?

She picks up after three rings, and it’s obvious she can tell something is up — why on earth would Harry call her on a random Saturday in December, after all? After explaining what’s going on in a surprisingly calm manner, Harry’s treated to a long string of expletives before Lottie seems to go into full business mode.

«Let me talk to those fuckwits», she demands, and yes, she’s Louis’s sister all right. He walks back to the reception and hands the phone over to the nurse. «It’s my boyfriend’s sister — she’d like to talk to you», he says, before mouthing «Sorry». He can’t hear what Lottie’s saying, only watches the nurse’s face go through a whole cycle of emotions before she hands the phone back to Harry wordlessly.

«All right, I told them you were standing in for me until I get there and to tell you everything. I’m looking at flights to London now, I’ll text you the flight number once I’ve got it booked. Keep me updated, I’ll see you soon!» And then she hangs up. How in the world did Louis ever manage to talk her out of anything?

Being privy to more information doesn’t turn out to be that helpful after all, at least not at first, as the nurses at reception don’t actually know much more about what’s going on than what he was initially told. One of them is able to tell Harry that they discovered an anomaly on Louis’s scans which led them to send him off to surgery, but that’s about it. She promises to send over one of the consultants who did the initial examination as soon as they’re available, and then it’s more waiting.

Harry’s head won’t stop spinning. An anomaly? What the fuck does that even mean? Did he break his back again? Did they find a tumour — is it cancer? Is Louis going to die? He’s a fucking idiot to have thought that they could finally have some peace, but everything has been so good lately. He’s been so happy — they’ve been so happy. He was going to ask Louis to move in together. What’s going to happen now? He should call Lottie with an update, but he doesn’t want to make her as terrified as he is right now when he doesn’t have more useful information to share. He should call his mum and Gemma, but if he hears either of their voices right now he’ll just start crying and won’t be able to stop. He’s hurtling head first into a mental black hole when he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up into the eyes of a kind-looking doctor who looks a little bit like his mum.

«Are you Harry Styles? I was told to talk to you, I was one of the consultants who examined your partner when he came in earlier.»

It’s not cancer, and Louis is not going to die. Louis is more than likely going to be just fine — or, as fine as he can possibly be — but he’s going to take a little while to heal. That’s the essence of what Dr. Morrow tells him over the next couple of minutes, and Harry feels the claw that has had a grip on his heart since this morning start to loosen a little. Harry’s gotten a fairly good grip on a lot of medical terminology he couldn’t even pronounce six months ago, but he still has to ask the doctor to dumb her explanation down a little, which she patiently does. The gist of it is that back when Louis was first injured, the surgeons attached plates and screws to his spine to stabilise it, and what the scans showed was that one of the screws had come loose. This in turn caused the area around it to swell, which is the main reason why Louis was in so much pain. In addition, they were afraid that the loose screw could cause damage further up on his spinal cord, which could cause him to lose further sensory and motor functions.

«Now I think we got there in time, but of course there’s no guarantee until he’s out of surgery.» Dr. Morrow’s voice is calm and soothing, which is good because Harry’s heart did a backflip into his stomach at the words further damage to his spinal cord. «And there is always the possibility of complications after any surgery, so I can’t promise you anything, but the odds of a full recovery are in his favour. Or, not a full recovery, but — you understand my meaning.»

«So you think he’s going to be okay?» He feels like he’s pleading, but he needs to hear her say it.

«In general I try to avoid guesswork, but what I can tell you is that he is in the best of hands.» Her smile is kind. «Anything else I can try to answer for you before I go?»

«Yeah, there was one more thing, actually. Um, why did it happen, do you think? Is it just 'cause he fell out of bed?»

«No, it’s extremely unlikely that a fall was enough to cause it. As I said, I don’t like guessing, but it’s probable that there was something wrong with the screw when it was placed there originally, and then it’s probably been nudged out little by little and then the fall he took today was the final drop, if you will. Do you know if he’s engaged in any new sort of physical activity lately?»

Harry feels his face start to burn, but he can’t physically make himself say the words «Well, I started fucking him into the mattress on a near daily basis around two months ago» to this mild-mannered, middle-aged doctor who looks like his mum, so instead he mumbles that he thinks Louis got some new exercises from his physical therapist a while back. Dr. Morrow wishes him good luck and leaves, and Harry is left feeling like a deflated balloon. Did he…did he injure Louis by shagging him too hard? If Louis gets through this without any permanent damage he is never going to let Harry live this down.

Now that he’s no longer feeling like he’s on the brink of a full meltdown, he reasons he can talk to his mum and Gemma without breaking down, so he gives them both a quick call to explain what’s going on with a promise to give them a full update once Louis is out of surgery. Next, he rings Lottie with what he now knows. She’s on her way to Charles de Gaulle with a standby ticket for a six o’ clock flight, but doesn’t know if she’ll actually make it. He then shoots off a quick text to Niall, because in all the chaos of today he’s forgotten that they had dinner plans. And then he waits some more.

Finally, a little over half past six, minutes after he received a text from Lottie saying Flight fully booked, no space for me :( trying again with one that leaves at seven thirty x, he’s waved over to reception by a nurse who says she’s going to take him to Louis’s room. She talks and talks as she leads him down one corridor, then another, but Harry’s unable to take in much of what she’s saying, nerves on the outside of his skin. They stop outside a white door, and he manages to catch the last thing she says before she leads him inside, which is that Louis is coming out of anaesthesia and will probably be confused and groggy at first.

Then she leaves the room, and it’s just Harry and Louis in there, but that can’t possibly be Louis in the bed by the window, because he looks altogether too small and helpless, and there are machines either side of the bed and they’re making strange noises, and it smells weird in here, like a mixture of swimming pool and his nan’s old bathroom — clean, but with a hint of unease underneath it all. There’s a plastic chair on the left side of the bed, and he drapes his coat over the back of it, sits down on the very edge. He wants to take Louis’s hand, but he looks so fragile lying there with his eyes closed, and he’s absurdly afraid of touching him, suddenly, afraid he’s gonna hurt him, even more than he possibly already have.

The fluorescent shine of the hospital lights has done the unthinkable, has washed away Louis’s permanent glow, turned his skin almost translucent and pale, and the seriousness of the moment hits him, how scared and helpless he’s been feeling all day, all the anxiety of sitting around and just waiting for what could be the worst news he’s ever gotten in his life, and it all seems to come to the surface all at once and he feels the tears coming, can’t do anything to stop them, and then he’s sitting on the shitty plastic hospital chair and crying, big heaving sobs that have his entire body shaking. The noises that escape him are loud, undignified even, but he finds he doesn’t even care, just lets his body do what it clearly needs to. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, elbows on the edge of the hospital bed and his face buried in his hands, when he feels fingers circling his wrist. He looks up and straight into Louis’s eyes, who’s looking at him with an expression he cannot immediately decipher.

He clutches Louis’s hand between his, opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t know what to say. «Hi» doesn’t seem to be enough, can’t possibly encompass all the things he wants to say in this moment, and anyway he doesn’t trust his voice to work, so instead he just focuses on the point of contact between them, Louis’s smaller hand between his two big ones, his skin dry and warm to the touch and there.

Louis is the first to speak, in the end. «You’re here», is all he says, barely audible, and where else would Harry be? Where else could he possibly be than right here?

«Course I am», he murmurs, reaching up to cup Louis’s cheek. «Told you I’d be, didn’t I?» Louis turns his head slightly, seems to soak up Harry’s touch, closes his eyes. Then he dozes off again.

He comes to more properly and is more alert around half an hour later, when the head surgeon who operated on him comes by for a post-op-briefing. He’s got Harry’s fingers in a vice-like grip as the doctor talks him through the procedure, and he feels them relax the instant the doctor says there were no complications and they expect him to make a full recovery. After he leaves, Louis says nothing, just stares up at the ceiling in an apparent daze. Harry’s starting to worry that he’s slipped into some sort of coma from the good news when he finally makes a sound. It’s not a laugh, or a sob, or a sigh, but something in-between, and after that he falls silent again.

«Tell me what you’re thinking», Harry says, rubbing his thumb across the top of Louis’s hand. «Please».

«I’m thinking», Louis says, still looking up at the ceiling. His voice is unsteady. «I’m thinking that I really fucking hate hospitals. And I’m thinking about how relieved I felt just now when the doctor said I would make a full recovery, and how he said I’d been lucky and how I agreed with that. I mean, if someone had told me, when I woke up from surgery almost two years ago, that one day I would think myself lucky for what my body is capable of, I’d have fucking smacked them over the head.»

Harry laughs a little wetly and kisses Louis’s hand, then scoots the chair up so he’s closer to his face. «How are you feeling?» he asks, stroking his hair.

«Sore», Louis says, turning his head to look at him. «Sore and a little embarrassed.»

«Why?»

«Because I forgot to put on the fucking brakes. Nearly two years of that bloody thing and I forgot to check if the brakes were on. One second I’m getting out of bed and the next the chair’s flying across the room and I’m lying in a heap on the floor.»

The scene that met Harry in Louis’s bedroom is starting to make a little more sense now. «Is that what happened?»

«Yup», Louis says, popping the p. «And my phone was still in bed and I had no fucking chance of reaching it. I could hear it vibrating like hell but there was nothing I could do.»

«That was probably when I started calling you.»

«Thank fuck we had plans yesterday morning or I’d probably still be there.» Harry shudders at the thought of Louis lying there, alone and unable to move, for hours and hours, then pushes the thought away. He can’t think about that.

«What do you mean yesterday?», he says, suddenly registering what Louis said. «That was today. It’s still Saturday.»

«Really?» He sounds genuinely surprised. «Oh well, I’ve had major surgery today, cut me some slack.» Harry snorts, then leans in to kiss him properly. When he tries to end it, Louis grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in again, deepening it. Harry doesn’t know if he’d been able to stop if his phone hadn’t started ringing just then.

After speaking to Lottie, who called to say that she was about to board a plane, he’s reminded by a nurse popping her head in that visiting hours are over in ten minutes. He kisses Louis goodbye with a promise of being back the next morning, then decides to take a taxi back home, too mentally exhausted by this endless day to even consider braving public transport on a Saturday evening. Lottie has her own spare key to Louis’s place and will be heading straight there from the airport, so he’s got nowhere he needs to be before tomorrow morning. It isn’t until he lets himself into the darkness of his flat that he realises he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he hasn’t got it in him to do anything other than an emergency frozen pizza he thankfully digs out from the freezer, and then it’s shower and straight to bed, falling asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

*

Louis stays in the hospital for five days, his body needing the time to heal from surgery. Harry’s there every day along with Lottie, and together they try their best to entertain an increasingly restless Louis, who’s not handling being commanded to stay in bed without moving with all that much grace or patience. It’s completely understandable, Harry thinks, given everything Louis went through last time, and yet he has to try very hard not to snipe back when Louis berates him for buying the wrong kind of Percy Pigs (Percy Piglets, H., really? What are you, an imbecile?) Lottie takes it all in stride, but then she was here the last time, sat with him nearly every day for the first two months after the accident, so she’s seen and heard much, much worse, Harry imagines.

On the sixth day, two days before Christmas Eve, Louis finally gets to go home. Lottie brings over his wheelchair in a taxi the same morning, and after the orderlies assist him into the chair and out the main entrance, together Harry and Lottie manage to get him the rest of the way home without incident. Even though he’s been discharged, he’s been told in no uncertain terms that he is to move as little as possible and not do anything physically demanding for at least two more weeks, at which point a check-up at the hospital will possibly clear him to go back to more of his normal routine. This means no transferring in and out of the wheelchair on his own, no heavy lifting, no driving and, of course, no sex. The doctor who came to see them before clearing him to go home this morning didn’t actually use those words, but by the way she pointedly looked at Harry while saying «no strenuous activities», the point definitely got across. He can’t believe he won’t be able to have sex with Louis until next year. And he can’t believe, with everything his boyfriend’s been through in the last week, that that was his first thought.

*

Their Christmas plans were already settled long before this happened, and Louis is refusing to stray from them even though Harry’s been dropping hints for days that he wouldn’t mind staying in London with him and Lottie instead of going home. It probably is way too early to be spending Christmas together, but the last thing on earth Harry wants to do right now is to get on a train north and leave Louis. Still, he’s got enough common sense to know that now is not the time to go against his express wishes, so after making the three of them lunch and kissing Louis goodbye, he heads home, packs his suitcase and takes an afternoon train to Manchester.

Gemma’s unusually quiet when she comes to pick him up, says nothing when he turns up the volume on the car radio and leans against the window, his eyes closed. It isn’t until they’re barely five minutes away that she gently prods his cheek while they’re waiting for the lights to change.

«Hey, you okay?»

«Yeah, just tired. ’S been a long week.»

«How’s Louis doing?»

«He’s good, I guess, all things considered. Sore from the surgery, still, but the pain meds are helping.»

«I meant more, you know, mentally. »

Harry opens one eye and looks at her cautiously. It’s mostly water under the bridge now, and Louis and Gemma have met several times and get along extremely well, but one small part of him still holds on to a tiny bit of anger for the way she reacted when he first told her about Louis. If she’s going to ambush him with another attempt to psychoanalyse Louis and how his disability might affect their relationship, he’s going to jump out of the car and walk the rest of the way to his mum’s house.

«Why do you ask?», he says, unable to keep the wariness out of his voice.

«What do you mean?»

«I mean, why do you want to know?»

She looks at him with a baffled expression, and then, just as they slow down at a stop sign, she sighs and briefly closes her eyes.

«I don’t have any ulterior motives. I’m asking because he’s your boyfriend and because I care about how he’s doing.»

«So you’re not gonna say I told you so and that you warned me that things might be difficult?»

Even though they’ve started moving again, she takes the time to turn her head to fully look at him. «No, Harry. I wouldn’t do that, you know that.»

He makes a noncommittal noise, but he doesn’t actually believe she would. He’s just got his guard up after the last week.

«Listen, I know I behaved like a bit of an arse when you first told me about him, and that I said some things I shouldn’t have, but you’ve got to stop holding it against me. I like Louis a lot, and I can see how happy he makes you. I’m asking how he’s doing because I want to know, and because I know it's the only thing you’ve been thinking about for the whole train ride and the drive from the station. That’s it.»

«I’m sorry», he says, leaning back and closing his eyes. «I know I’m being unfair. I’m just…protective of him, I guess. Of us.»

«You really love him, don’t you?» Her voice is warm and gentle.

«So fucking much», he sighs. «It honestly makes me feel a little insane.»

«Well, thank God we’re here», she says as they turn left and park in front of the house. «Because as much as I love you, I’m going to need some wine in order to listen to you gush about your love life for five days straight.»

Christmas turns out to be lovely, even though Harry misses Louis to the point that he nearly vibrates with it. They talk and text every day, but it’s not the same. As has become tradition, him, his mum and Gemma spend the first two days just the three of them, holed up inside wearing their best sleepwear, eating and watching TV and playing copious amounts of board games.

He does end up talking about Louis quite a lot, but they have an agreement where Gemma is allowed three vetoes in a day when she thinks it becomes too much and they have to change the subject. He gets to talk about the past week and everything that happened in as much detail as he wants, which turns out to be quite therapeutic, as he hasn’t really been able to talk it all through with someone before now. It didn’t feel right to share all of it with Louis with this much emphasis on his own thoughts and feelings, as it would have made the whole thing more about him than Louis, and it’s nice and something that he needed more than he realised. He also talks about his plans to ask Louis about moving in together when he gets back after the holidays, and is relieved when both of them seem to find it a wonderful idea. Or, as Gemma puts it: «I mean, if you do the maths on how much rent you pay versus how many nights you’ve spent there in the last two months, it’s not exactly a difficult question.»

Yes, Christmas is rather wonderful, and he even finds himself enjoying the family lunches and visits in the following days, is almost looking forward to the barrage of questions from aunts and great-aunts and the rest of the extended family, because it’s just an excuse to talk about Louis even more.

*

Het gets back to London in the early afternoon on the 28^th and only swings by his own place to dump his bags and pick up a fresh batch of clothes before he rushes over to Wood Green. Louis is on the sofa when he lets himself in, extremely cozy-looking in a hoodie and underneath a blanket, and Harry barely has time to get his shoes off before he walks over and straight into his outstretched arms.

«Hey», he mumbles, nuzzled into his side. «I missed you.»

«Missed you, too», Louis says, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

Harry adjusts his position a little, looks up at him. «I wanna give you a proper hug, but I don’t want to, like, hurt you.» Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

«I’m not made of glass, you know. C’mon, give us a proper cuddle.» So he places one knee either side of his thighs, careful not to place his full weight on top of him, and reaches around to fully envelop him in a hug. It’s the first time he’s done so since before Louis’s fall, and it feels like coming home.

«Oh come on», comes a voice from behind him. «You’ve been here all of what, two minutes, and already I have to deal with this?»

«Hey Lottie», he says into the crook of Louis’s neck. He feels the vibrations of Louis’s laughter against his skin. «Happy Christmas to you, too.» He clambers off Louis to give her a hug, not missing the disappointed sound he makes as a result.

Lottie’s going back to Paris this evening as she has to be back at work tomorrow morning, so Harry’s taking over as Louis’s caretaker and helping hands until he gets the all-clear from the doctor. They’d agreed on all this while Louis was still in hospital, and while he seemed on board at the time, Harry’s still wondering how it’ll play out.

A couple hours after they hugged Lottie goodbye, while they’re sitting at the kitchen table eating an omelet that Harry threw together from what was left in the fridge, Louis has something he wants to get off his chest. It’s unmistakeable from the way he keeps picking up and putting down his glass without actually taking a sip, and because he’s so obviously been avoiding looking directly at Harry for the past couple of minutes. Still, Harry’s learned that in these instances, nothing productive will come out of him trying to pry it out of him — this has to happen at Louis’s pace. Finally, after what feels like hours of the two of them sitting there and pretending they didn’t finish eating ages ago, he clears his throat.

«I wanted to, um, talk to you about something.»

«Sure», Harry says, doing his best to pretend this is news to him. «What’s up?»

«I just… I want you to be my boyfriend.»

Well, this is not going in the direction Harry was expecting. «Right. Um. Am I not your boyfriend already?»

«No. I mean yes, yeah you are. Christ», he says, dragging his palms down his face. «That’s not what I meant. I mean, I want you to be my boyfriend, not my nurse.»

«Okay», Harry says, careful to keep his voice neutral. «I mean, I don’t want to be your nurse either. Unless it’s part of some kinky role-play scenario, but I get the feeling that’s not what you’re talking about.» That gets a smile out of Louis, but he quickly tamps it down, squints at Harry. «Stop being charming, I’m trying to be serious here.»

«Okay, okay, sorry.»

«Look, some of the things that I’m going to need your help with for the next week or so go beyond just…boyfriend stuff, all right? And I’ve managed to not overthink it too much so far, but now Lottie’s gone back home and you’re here now and I have to face it. If it were up to me, I’d have Lottie stay here for the entire two weeks and you’d come back when I was all better, but I couldn’t ask that of her, and also I think I’d just be putting off the inevitable. Because I know that this probably won’t be the last time in my life that I’m going to need more help than I’d like, and so at some point I’m going to have to let you in on all this. I mean, what am I gonna do, call my little sister for help when I’m 40 because I’m uncomfortable with you seeing me like that?»

In that moment, Harry’s mind goes temporarily fuzzy, because all he hears is When I’m 40 and that means he’s there when Louis is thinking ten years into the future, and what he wants right now is to do cartwheels across the living room floor, but this is a serious conversation so he doesn’t, just takes Louis’s hand in a gesture that means Go on, I’m listening.

«I don’t want you to be my nurse, but for the next week or so you are going to have to be that just a little bit and I’m not sure yet how I’m going to handle it, so what I’m trying to say here is that I’m warning you a little bit, I think? I’m gonna do my best not to bite your head off or get snappy or whatever, but if I do, it’s not because I don’t want you here, it’s just that this is all…a little scary to me, I guess.»

«Are you done?», Harry asks, squeezing Louis’s hand across the table.

«I think so.»

«I like that this is you saying you haven’t been overthinking things too much.»

«I didn’t think it was that bad», Louis says with a shrug. «But what do you think?»

«What do I think?»

«Yeah».

«Well, I think I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been waiting for something like this to come from you. And I also think it’s normal that you feel this way, even though I hate that you do.»

«You know it has nothing to do with you, right? This is all me.»

«I know», Harry says, playing with his fingers. «Doesn’t mean that I’m not allowed to hate it, though.» For a moment he observes the two of them from the outside, how they’re able to have what is a rather difficult conversation in such a calm, open manner, and he’s struck with how proud he is of them, how far they’ve come. So this is what it’s like to have a mature, trusting relationship. It bloody rules, even when it’s not easy all the time.

«Listen», he says, coming around to Louis’s side of the table and perching on the edge of it. Experience has taught him that his words resonate more with Louis when he combines them with physical touch, so he places a hand on the curve of his neck and uses his thumb to stroke at the tender skin below his ear. «You’re right that this bit is new to us, and I can’t predict my reaction to it any more than you can. I just think we’re coming at this from two different angles.»

«What do you mean?» Louis looks puzzled, as if this thought has never occurred to him, and it probably hasn’t.

«Well, you’ve made it pretty clear that you’re scared it’s going to change the way I see you, I mean — you said that you want me to be your boyfriend, not your nurse. And I’m not going to pretend I suddenly have a degree in psychology or whatever, but I think that’s because deep down, some small part of you is still convinced that the more you reveal about your vulnerabilities or the more help you need is somehow going to push or scare me away. Am I right?»

Louis closes his eyes, sighs, nods. «It’s bloody infuriating, you know.»

«What, that I know you so well?»

«Yeah. Almost creepy.»

Harry laughs and bends down to kiss his forehead. «Well, sometimes you’re a bit of an open book, babe.»

«So what’s your angle?», Louis asks. «You said we had a different view on things.»

«Yeah, we do. Look, I know you’ve been anxious about this, but I’ve been looking forward to it all Christmas, because I just see it as another way to get even closer to you.»

«You have?»

«Fuck yes, I’m excited!»

Louis looks at him as if he just fell out of the sky. «You’re…excited about helping me on the toilet and taking a shower?»

«Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? It’s basically just getting to spend more time with you naked, isn’t it?»

«What, you’re gonna be naked too?»

Harry shrugs. «Why not?»

«You’re gonna take your clothes off when you’re helping me take a piss?»

«I mean, I don’t see why not? And if it helps you to feel more comfortable, even better, right?»

«Harry…» Louis just stares at him, seemingly lost for words. That’s probably never happened before. «Why are you so fucking weird?»

Weird or not, Harry’s approach seems to actually be successful, and Louis is surprisingly comfortable when Harry assists him through his evening routine later. He feels a bit silly, brushing his teeth stark naked with his cock swinging around, but it’s all worth it when Louis is laughing and joking instead of being self-conscious and on edge. After that first night, they quickly move into a routine, and by the end of night three they even use the evening shower as a form of foreplay, with Harry sitting on the floor of the tub in-between Louis’s legs and Louis washing his hair and massaging his scalp with such care that it sends tingles through Harry’s entire body. Of course, it’s not foreplay to full-on, penetrative sex, because Louis hasn’t been cleared for that yet, but he sends Harry off to nirvana with a slow hand job in bed later and it’s just as good.

*

When Harry wakes up on the fourth day after he got back to London, it’s New Year’s Eve, and again he can’t help but think about how much has changed for him and Louis in the last two years. Two years ago, they were heading out to two separate New Year’s parties, but this year, they’re staying inside, having planned nothing more extravagant than a roast turkey and maybe going out in the street to see if they can spot some fireworks. Part of the reason for the quiet evening is of course Louis’s injury, but Harry’s pretty certain he wouldn’t want to do anything else even if he was fit for a big bash. And two years ago neither of them was brave enough to tell the other how they really felt, but now it seems all they do is be open and brave about their feelings. Which is why Harry reckons now’s the time to finally find the courage to ask Louis what he’s been wanting to for some time.

«You awake?» he asks a clearly not awake Louis, but now that he’s decided that this is the time to do it, he’s suddenly impatient and can’t wait for his sleepy boyfriend to wake up on his own. «Babe, you awake?» he tries again, this time with added kisses to his shoulder.

«What?» Louis mumbles, slowly opening his eyes.

«Oh good, you’re up», Harry chirps, petting his cheek. Louis bats his hand away, says «I’m up because you woke me», and yes, Harry’s in a bit of a rush but he’s also pretty helpless when Louis is all sleepy and grumpy and soft, so he spares five minutes to thoroughly kiss him awake, all lazy tongues and hands on sleep-warm skin.

«Hey», he says when he’s satisfied with his work, Louis more alert and pliant next to him. «There was something I wanted to ask you.»

«What’s that?» Louis asks, his gaze soft.

«You know how I’m here pretty much all the time? I mean, I did some counting and I think I only slept at my own place three nights in all of December, except the week when you were in hospital.»

Louis smiles. «What, you want another drawer? So greedy.»

«Well, no», Harry says, drawing patterns on Louis’s chest. «I was actually thinking more…» He takes a deep breath, stops moving. «I was thinking I could move in here. With you. For real, I mean.»

Louis is quiet, his eyes moving up and down Harry’s face. «You’re serious?»

«‘Course I am. I know it might be early, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while and it just…I think it feels right. What do you think?»

«When would you be moving in?»

«I mean, technically I think I already have?»

Louis snorts at that. «True.»

«But seriously, I’d be moving in for real tomorrow, if you want me to. Or well, maybe not tomorrow, it’s New Year’s Day and I can’t be arsed, but in a couple of days? And obviously I’d need to go through my stuff and get rid of things I don’t need, and we’ll have to figure out storage, maybe get a new wardrobe in here for my clothes, but I could send off an e-mail to my landlord today and —» Louis claps a hand over his mouth. «Shut up», he says, laughing. «Will you please. Shut. Up. We don’t have to figure everything out in the next five minutes, you idiot.»

«Sorry», Harry says. «Got a bit carried away there.»

«The bit about your landlord’s good, though. Saves you a bit on rent if you tell him today instead of tomorrow, right?»

Harry looks at Louis, still can’t believe this is actually happening. «So you’re in? You want to do this?»

Louis grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. «Yes», he says, their faces no more than an inch apart. «I really want to do this. I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you. I want you here, every day. It’s all I want.»

Harry tries to go in for another kiss, but he’s smiling so wide it’s difficult to actually get it right. It doesn’t matter. They have all the time in the world for kisses.

Epilogue - July 2023

«I promised Louis that I wouldn’t bring up this story tonight», Harry says into the microphone. «He’s not a big fan because he thinks it makes me look like an absolute idiot». Scattered laughter around the room. «Obviously, he’s right.» More laughter, a little louder this time. «Which is why I’ve decided to tell it anyway.» Someone — Harry’s fairly certain it’s Niall — whoops. He looks down to his left at Louis, who just rolls his eyes at him. «Sorry babe», he grins. «But you did know that I was an idiot when you agreed to marry me.»

«Yeah, yeah», Louis says, mock-outraged, «Just get on with it». But he’s smiling, so Harry knows it’s okay. He takes a sip of wine and loosens his bowtie a little, the tuxedo jacket abandoned long ago. If he could change one thing about his own wedding, it would be the date. Turns out it can be slightly uncomfortable having to spend an entire day in a dark suit when it’s July and 32 degrees outside.

«So», he begins, looking out across their family and friends who have gathered here today to celebrate them. «When I met Louis again for the first time after I got back from New York, what do you think was the one thing I failed to notice?»

Later, after the speeches are over (despite the inclusion of the stupid story, Harry did manage to make Louis cry in the end, which was only suitable seeing as Louis’s speech to Harry had him sobbing like a baby) and the wedding cake has been cracked open, Harry returns from the toilet to find his brand new husband lost in his own thoughts. He’s staring out across what has now become the dance floor with a faraway look in his eyes, and he’s so distant that he doesn’t notice Harry coming up behind him until he’s snaked his arms around his waist and planted a sloppy kiss against his right temple.

«Hi», Harry mumbles against the delicate skin there. «Penny for your thoughts?»

Louis hums. «I thought the whole point of marriage was that we’d now be able to read each other’s minds?»

Harry laughs and plops down on his chair, twists around so that his left knee nudges Louis’s right one and places his hand on his thigh. «What do I win if I manage to guess correctly?»

Louis pretends to think it over for a second. «You mean you’re not happy with already having won the first prize, which is getting to marry me?»

«No, yeah, you’re right, what was I thinking? Obviously there’s nothing left to win.»

Louis turns his head and gives him a quick peck on the lips. The hair at the nape of his neck has gone all tousled and slightly curly because of the humidity, and Harry rests his hand there, starts playing with it. «Can I guess even if there’s no prize?»

Louis looks at him and flashes a crooked smile. «Go ahead.»

«I think», Harry says, rubbing the back of Louis’s neck, «That you’re second-guessing your decision about the first dance.»

Louis blows out air through his nose and looks up at the ceiling. «Do you think I made the wrong choice?»

«I think you made the choice that felt right at the time.»

«Yeah, but what if it was the wrong one?»

«Love», Harry says, interlacing their fingers and giving Louis’s hand a squeeze, «There isn’t a right or wrong choice here. But if you’ve changed your mind, we can go out now and give it a go.»

The question regarding the first dance had been one of the last decisions they made when planning the wedding, although it wouldn’t be right to say «they» as Harry thought it was ultimately up to Louis to decide. The rest of the planning had gone relatively easy with the exception of finding an appropriate venue that catered to their wishes, as it turned out to be more difficult than they expected to find a wheelchair accessible venue that didn’t have the atmosphere of an abandoned bingo hall. But on the rest: the guest list, the menu, the music and the cake, they were in perfect agreement, and everything went smoothly. That is, until their venue coordinator in an e-mail asked for their song choice for the first dance, which sent Louis into a bit of a tailspin three weeks before the big day.

«I forgot about the dance! Do you think they’ll be expecting us to? Does every wedding need to have a first dance?», he’d practically shouted across the kitchen table the morning the e-mail landed in their shared wedding-planning-inbox. Harry had tried his best to assure him, saying there were no rules about what a wedding needed to include (except for the two people getting married, obviously), but by then it was too late, and Louis was down a YouTube rabbit hole of wedding videos from other couples’ weddings where one of them was physically disabled, alternating between recoiling from the screen in horror at some of the solutions (the one where the groomsmen stood in a half circle around the paralysed groom, two of them kneeling behind him and moving his legs for him while the rest held him up as he and the bride slowly moved in an attempt at a circle was the worst, based on Louis’s range of facial expressions), to quiet contemplation (the one that had him the most thoughtful was a simple dance where the bride was in her wheelchair and the groom danced on his own two feet — nothing fancy, just clearly well-rehearsed and choreographed).

«Do you want us to do something like that?», Harry had gently asked after Louis showed him the last video.

«I don’t know», he grimaced. «It’s not as if we have time to rehearse something like that anyway.»

«It’s probably not that complicated — a couple of evenings in our living room and I’m sure we could manage something half decent, at least.»

Louis had looked at him, clearly conflicted. «I don’t know, Haz. I don’t know if I want to do it even if we’re somehow able to squeeze in some practice. I’m worried that it’ll just look...silly. Like, not like a real dance, if that makes sense.»

Harry had grabbed both his hands between his own then and put on his stern voice, the one he still sometimes had to use when Louis disappeared down a tunnel of his own insecurities. It happened more and more rarely these days, but there was still use for it, occasionally.

«It’s just as real as any other dance, you dummy. And we’d look silly even if we were both on our feet, seeing as I can’t dance to save my own life anyway. But it’s our wedding and our day and it’s going to be whatever we want it to be, so you just say the word and I’m in, one hundred percent, whatever you decide. Okay?»

Louis rested his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. «Yeah, you’re right. Would it be okay for you if we just dropped the whole thing? No first dance, we’ll just open the dance floor to the guests and let them have at it?»

«Of course», Harry had said, kissing the top of his head. «Whatever you want.»

So they had ditched the whole thing. They didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t announce it, just told the wedding DJ to start dropping the more danceable tunes after the cutting of the cake and let their guests take control over the dance floor. Harry’s been out there twice, once with his mum and once with Gemma, but Louis has been sitting there, observing it, and Harry thought he was content with it, until now.

«So what do you say?», he asks after getting no response from Louis. «Wanna get out there after all?»

Louis chews the inside of his cheek, thinking it over.

«I just don’t want to look back on this day ten years from now and regret anything, you know?» He looks at Harry, reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. «I don’t want to regret not dancing with my husband on my wedding day.»

Harry takes his hand in his, turns it palms up, kisses it. «Then let’s go.»

«Promise we won’t look like idiots?»

«I can promise no such thing», Harry says, getting up and tugging on Louis’s hand. «But that has nothing to do with the wheelchair, just the fact that we are idiots.» Louis laughs and turns towards him, and then Harry leads his husband towards the dance floor for their first dance.