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When Harry thinks of Louis, he thinks of a sneaking smile that outshines the sun. He thinks of laughing eyes that swallow the sky. He thinks of soft, warm hands that reach for him, pulling him into embraces and cuddles and hugs, and he thinks of being perfectly, incredibly happy.
What Louis is to Harry, the sun is to the sky: vital, and really fucking beautiful.
But the Louis that’s standing before him, the one with glassy eyes, overly styled hair, and tear streaks, isn’t the right one. This one is wrong. This one is the rain, the quietly heartbreaking rain that pelts cold sidewalks and washes away the world.
And Harry doesn’t know what to do.
“Louis,” he tries again, but his feet can’t move and his hands lie limply at his sides. He’s afraid to touch—can you touch rain? Won’t it just wash him away, too?
Louis simply shakes his head, eyes wincing just enough to release the well of tears that had struggled to hide. Involuntarily, he takes a step back, and his eyes suddenly aren’t looking at Harry anymore. They’re stuck to the ground or the wall or the ceiling—but they’re never stuck on Harry.
And Harry doesn’t know what to do.
“Please?” Harry tries one last time, and his voice fucking breaks because he’s not capable of this, he’s not made for this. He was made to love Louis. He was made to slide fingers through honey-brunette hair, press lips to soft flesh, lock eyes from across the room, and laugh at jokes that nobody else would understand—except Louis.
There’s never been an option for Harry; it’s always just been Louis. Louis through the good times, Louis through the hard times, Louis through the lies, and Louis through the pain. No matter how utterly impossible it all became, it’s always been Louis, and it always will be.
But now Louis’ been hurt, Louis’ spent, and Louis doesn’t want it anymore.
And Harry doesn’t know what to do.
“I’m tired,” Louis says, voice loud and wavering, and Harry sees him trying to be strong, but knows that he’s already broken. But Harry doesn’t care, doesn’t fucking care, because he has the memories of everything good, everything that’s worth it, everything that they’re fighting for, and he will pick up every broken piece of Louis, and he will keep them until Louis wants them back. Until Louis wants to be put back together.
So Harry just stares, and the tears aren’t falling, but they sting and blur the world, and he can hear the voices outside the door, laughing, and shouting, and bumping into walls.
“Boys! We gotta go! They’re here!”
And he knows they’re supposed to have a shoot, knows that they’re supposed to stand there with bright grins and clasp at each other like ol’ chums, beaming with the promise of youth as they pose with a slew of celebrities… But what does any of that mean?
What the hell is he doing?
Harry doesn’t know.
Neither of them move, nor do they make any show of having heard their handler’s barked orders.
It’s just Harry staring at Louis with dazed denial and unshed tears, and Louis staring away, suppressing quiet, grating sobs, tears streaming freely.
“We’ve got to go,” Louis finally says, and his voice is stronger now, but his face is puffy and cheeks still wet. He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, still looking away, and still so beautiful.
And Harry knows he’s right, but he can’t process any of it, and so he just stands there limply and stares.
“Louis,” he says again, and it’s imploring, it’s wrecked, and it’s questioning. It’s disbelief.
“We’ve got to go, Harry,” Louis repeats, but it’s so pained and so strained that it’s not acknowledged, merely swept away and tucked out of sight.
Because this is not how it’s supposed to work. Harry can’t see this Louis, can only see the one that laughs and screams and pulls his hair and winks when everybody’s looking. He hears their whispered promises amidst tangled sheets and breathy gasps of laughter and he feels the quiet mutual understanding of forever.
But that, all of that, clashes so harshly against all of this, and Harry doesn’t know what to do.
Because this is the beginning, this isn’t forever, and Louis is standing in front of him and he’s broken and he’s not letting Harry any closer.
“I’m not letting you go,’ Harry cracks out, and he still can’t move, still can’t blink, tears suspended.
Louis winces, turns away. His back faces Harry, and Harry knows that back so well, but it’s distant, cold, and separate from him in this moment, so he can only stare.
“But I’m letting you go,” Louis whispers.
And the click of the door tells Harry he’s gone.