Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Liam gets in inhumanely early the next morning. The only reason Louis is there to meet him in the parking lot is because he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

It’s ridiculously cold, the grounds all around them covered in frost. Louis has borrowed one of Harry’s fluffy parkas, to keep him warm and give him courage at the same time.

“Hi,” he says as soon as the driver’s side door creaks open, and balls his hands into fists in his pockets.

Liam jumps out with his head hanging down. Louis would think he hadn’t heard him if it wasn’t for the rigid line of his shoulders and the white knuckles curled around his car keys.

This is bloody ridiculous, he thinks. They’ve never fought like this, and he feels completely off-kilter.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it seems that they’re going to be stuck at a standstill otherwise.

Finally, Liam raises his head. His eyes are puffy. Louis feels like absolute dirt.

“I’m sorry, Li. I shouldn’t have—“

“No,” Liam says finally, effectively shutting him up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did, I was just—“

“What are you talking about, I acted like a—“

“It’s Soph,” Liam says. Just like that, the trees fall silent around them. “We’re—it’s not good. It’s shit, really, and I don’t know how to fix it, and I took it all out on you yesterday. Louis, I…”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis murmurs, and he’s moving before he can make a conscious decision to do so.

They meet right in the middle of the parking lot, Louis’s arms around Liam’s shoulder, Liam’s arms around his waist, and an endless chorus of I’m sorry.

“I didn’t know,” says Louis, rubbing Liam’s back over his jacket. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I know,” Liam says. “I know, I. I was hoping that if I didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be real.”

Louis had felt awful walking down here, knowing full well that this was his fault, but there had been a little spark of anger lying dormant within him, ready to become a fire should he need it. Now, as Liam trembles in his arms and hugs him just a little unsurely, it’s gone.

“God, I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand through Liam’s hair. “Is it—is it, you know?”

“It’s real this time,” Liam nods. He and Sophia have gone through more breakups than Louis could count, but they always came back together. It’s one of the laws of the universe, at this point: the Earth rotates around the Sun, speed equals distance over time, and Liam and Sophia always find their way back to each other. “We’ve not—we’re still together, I think, but she’s been telling me that we need to talk, and I keep running from her.”

“Maybe you can fix it still,” Louis suggests, though judging by the state Liam is in, it already seems unlikely. “Maybe you’ll talk through it.”

“Maybe,” Liam agrees, even as he shakes his head. Louis feels a couple of tears on the side of his neck, bleeding into his collar, but he doesn’t mention them.

“I’m still sorry,” he says. “I acted like a complete twat, and there’s just no excuse.”

“There is,” Liam says, and pulls away. His eyes are wet, but he’s clearly latched on to Louis’s words, and there’s a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “I knew you would dream too big once you got back up on a horse. I should’ve told you about Ellie before she came.”

Louis freezes. “What are you talking about?”

Liam raises an eyebrow, and just—looks. Waits for Louis to figure it out.

“You know,” he breathes finally, tentatively. “You—you know.”

Liam nods. His eyes are kind, like Louis deserves that after the scene he caused yesterday.

“I do,” he says. “Of course I do. I broke Harry’s bloody standard so you’d get a little while alone and try.”

“How—” Louis breathes, entirely overwhelmed. He remembers, instantly, how doing a few wonky rounds around the hall felt like being on top of the world.

“I heard you talking to the horses,” Liam smiles. He checks that his car is locked, then offers Louis his elbow, more out of habit than necessity. Louis takes it.

“When we went to get Marshmallow that morning. You weren’t exactly quiet, you know.”

Louis keeps his gaze down, watching where he steps, and holds on to Liam’s arm much tighter than necessary. “But I thought—I thought for sure you’d say no if I asked.”

They take a shortcut through the paddock, frosty grass crunching underneath their feet. A few of the horses are moving up on the hill, Marshmallow’s white coat sticking out in the darkness. Liam takes a second to smile in their direction before he says anything.

“I was going to,” he admits. “But you’re just—I’ve never met anyone who loves doing this more than you do. If there’s a chance, you deserve to take it, and I couldn’t possibly stand in your way.”

“I could get hurt again,” Louis says softly. “I won’t make it back into the races, but even here—I could fall, or fuck my knee up for good.”

Liam shudders a little. Louis isn’t convinced it’s from the cold.

He stops, and Louis stops with him. There’s a hint of the sunrise on the horizon, dark blue sky giving way to bright orange, promising a cold, sunny day. They watch it for a few minutes, and Louis lets Liam find the words.

Finally, he sighs. “You could,” he says. “You probably will, because that’s how these things go, but I’m not your parent. I’m your friend, and I know how much you need this.”

Louis exhales. His breath turns into fog, and the breeze throws it back in his face. “I do,” he admits. “I do need it.”

He’s needed it all this time, and it’s within reach now. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t go and take it.

“I know you do,” Liam says, squeezing his shoulder. “So tell you what. Take a couple of days to wrap your head around it, then we’ll find you a horse to work with, and we’ll start getting you back into shape next week.”

Louis’s heart picks up pace, fluttering in his chest. God. God.

“We?” he asks, more than a little breathless.

Liam gives him a shrewd look. “I’m going to supervise, obviously.”

Louis would probably give him shit if it were any other conversation, but as it is, all he can do is grin until his cheeks hurt.

“Thanks,” he says, and follows after Liam when he takes off towards the house. He’s freezing, but the happy skip of his heart is stubbornly keeping his warm.

God, he thinks again as he looks up at the sky. He’s really doing this.

Liam wastes no time, and gets Harry’s permission to train with whichever horse he chooses before the week is out. He and Louis agree on a mare named Heather, a tall, calm palomino that works reasonably well under saddle.

Getting back on a horse properly is, of course, dangerous business. Louis figures he’s fine not telling his doctor for a while, but he feels awful keeping it from Niall, and ends up spilling the beans five minutes into their next session.

Niall is—displeased.

“You weren’t even supposed to walk in the first place,” he says, looking out of the window with his arms crossed. “Not that—I love that you’re making progress, I really do, but this is all kind of,” he waves a hand around, narrowly avoiding smacking himself in the nose, “sudden. Last I heard you’d given up on riding forever.”

Louis sighs. He lies back down on the mat, medicine ball sitting heavy in the middle of his chest.

“Come with us,” he says, not sure why, but it makes sense when he thinks about it. “Come see me train next week, and you can tell me if I’m fucking up my knee forever. I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Niall snorts, and doesn’t even think about it before he says: “I’ll come. I want a limo, though.”

Louis grins. “You’ve got it.”

“Do you have a jockey, then?” Louis hears Niall ask, all the way on the far end of the hall. He’s just executed a perfect diagonal, but Liam is too preoccupied with answering questions to even tell him so much as a ‘well done’.

“Amazing, Louis,” he mumbles under his breath, turning Heather down the short side and then towards where Niall’s blond head sticks out of the semi-darkness. “Fantastic, Louis. Flawless movement. You’re the best rider in the world.”

“A toddler could do a walking diagonal, Louis,” Liam says once he’s reached them, a knowing look on his face. “How’s the knee feel?”

“Yeah, Louis,” Niall grins, clearly in good spirits. “How’s the knee?”

Louis leans back to stop his horse. The weather’s good, and his leg has been relatively quiet so far. He’s still got a half hour in the saddle ahead of him, though, and he suspects that it’s going to be a different story by the end.

“Fine,” he answers, rolling his ankle and flexing the muscles in his thigh. He doesn’t find it in himself to move his knee – he’s clutching onto the horse a little too hard, still trying to quench that little flutter of panic in his stomach whenever Heather sidesteps a little too quickly.

Liam’s going to tell him to drop the irons any minute now. He’s trying not to think about it yet.

“Good,” Niall nods, hopping over the fence to check that it feels normal to the touch. Louis could do that himself, he supposes, but he’s a little too scared of upsetting his balance this early on. “Is this the usual angle it’s at?”

Louis looks down at him, frowning. “I suppose,” he says. “I usually wear the stirrups a little lower when I’m riding, and then when I race—“ he grimaces, “raced, they’d be all the way up here,” he taps the leather of the saddle right around where his knee is. “It’s a crouch more than anything.”

Niall nods. Heather looks at him when he steps away, stretching to mouth at the bottom hem of his shirt.

“Well,” he shrugs, and scratches her on the ear, “seems alright so far. Long as you don’t actually race, I guess you’ll be fine.”

Louis smiles, trying to inject it with just the right amount of I told you so, but his mind is stuck on Niall’s words.

As long as you don’t actually race.

That’s the plan, after all – to get Louis back into shape for trail rides, get his leg strong enough so that he can handle himself on a horse.

That’s the bloody plan. Thinking it’s anything more is a road he desperately doesn’t want to travel.

He’s starting to think this is a character flaw he hadn’t noticed before – wanting more than he can have. It’s happened with Harry, and it’s happening right now, as he sits on an actual horse with no pain whatsoever, and still thinks about Marshmallow running over the finish line with a faceless jock on her back and burns with jealousy.

He wouldn’t have even dreamed of this a couple of months ago. When did it stop being enough?

“Let’s try hand on hip,” Liam decides once Niall is back next to him. “You’re a little off-balance.”

No shit. “I hate hand on hip,” Louis whines, mostly to be a twat.

“Sure you do,” Liam replies, smiling. He’s been smiling all day, really. It’s a little disconcerting. “Off the short side, let’s go.”

“Yes, mother.”

He pushes Heather into a trot, guiding her into a figure eight, left hand on his hip. It’s been years since the last time he did this, but he falls into it easily enough, feeling his shoulders relax.

Liam keeps his eyes on him for a while, but once he’s in a rhythm, he turns back to Niall again.

“I was thinking Ellie,” Louis hears him say, his voice carrying easily underneath the tall ceiling. “She’s qualified, and she’s been working her for quite a while. I’ll just have to convince her to go back to pro racing.”

Louis isn’t jealous. He’s not.

“Pro racing?” Niall asks with a laugh in his voice, ignoring Louis as he trots by. “I thought your horse had never been in a race before.”

Louis executes a less than stellar turn. He’s supposed to be paying attention to the horse, he knows, but it’s difficult to help himself.

“She hasn’t,” Liam says, and Louis can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “But she will. We’re going to try and class her up in the next few months, it’s a bit of a stretch, but I think she can do it.”

“I have no idea what any of that means, mate. Will I see her on the telly?”

“I’m sure you will.”

Louis gets a stitch in his side from all the posting he’s doing, and decides to walk a couple of rounds. He’s horrifically out of shape, panting like a basset hound, which must be why the universe picks that particular moment to send in Harry.

He opens the door just a crack and peeks in, like he usually does. Louis has a perfect view of his curly head, the humongous scarf wrapper around his neck, and the beautiful smile that’s lighting up his face. In Louis’s humble personal opinion, he’s kind of begging to be kissed.

Louis might be a bit biased, though.

“Hello,” he chirps, nodding to Liam and Niall when they turn to him. “Everything alright?”

“Yep,” Louis calls from the back of the hall, where he’s stopped to do a few half circles because his trainer is absolutely useless.

Harry’s eyes snap to him immediately, and Louis realises that this was an incredibly stupid thing to do. He’d wanted Harry’s attention, like he always does when he sees him enter a room, but now that it’s on him it makes him uncomfortably hot under the collar of his old riding jacket. Harry has never seen him on a horse, he realises a minute too late.

“Hi Louis,” Harry says, bright and lovely and only a little bit fake. They’ve both been making a valiant effort to pretend that nothing ever happened.

“Hey,” Louis greets back, and turns his horse to walk down the middle of the floor. Not something that he’s normally supposed to do, but it gets him to Harry faster. “She’s lovely,” he says once he’s reached him, close enough to see the little moles on Harry’s face, and pats Heather on the neck. “Just the kind of horse I need, I think. Thanks for—you know. Letting us do this.”

Harry’s eyes seem to be sparkling in the low light, and his gaze travels from Louis’s face down to his waist, his thighs, his knees.

“You’re wearing them,” he says, so quiet Louis almost doesn’t catch it. He bites his lip right after, like maybe he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

Louis’s heart does a painful little somersault. He smiles. “Of course I am,” he replies, just as quiet.

In his periphery, he can see Liam and Niall watching them with matching calculating expressions.

“That’s—nice. Good,” says Harry, hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing a muddy pair of wellies, probably just coming in from a walk around the paddock, and his cheeks are a deep red. The sight of him makes Louis feel too big for his own skin.

There’s a silence that lasts just a beat too long, because Louis, self-declared master of wit, doesn’t know what to say.

“Anything you needed, Harry?” Liam asks, sweeping in with a pleasant smile. “We won’t be long, I think Louis has just about had enough.”

“Hey—“

“Yes, actually,” Harry says. “Just wanted to let you know that there’s dinner in the house, if you’d like. Niall is invited as well, of course,” he smiles in his direction.

Niall who, as far as Louis knows, lives off of work accomplishments and ramen noodles, perks up immediately.

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, we’d love dinner. Yes. We’ll be there.”

“Great,” Harry laughs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. Louis is still sitting there motionless, clutching his reins and taking in every subtle movement of his body. “Good. See you soon, then.” And he turns to Louis after that, just Louis, and looks him right in the eye. “Bye, Lou,” is what he says.

“Bye,” Louis replies, chest tight.

Liam gives him a look as soon as the door slides shut.

“Piss off,” Louis tells him, and trots to the other end of the hall.

Once Liam has sent off Marshmallow’s applications – for meetings in Uttoxeter, Southwell, Ludlow, and a whole bunch of other maiden fixtures – he decides it’s time to take Harry to the races. As posh as his family is, he’s never been, and he’s immediately excited about the idea.

Louis himself doesn’t feel too sure, but he supposes that once he’s in the car and halfway down the M40, it’s a bit too late to back out.

He’s managed to snag his usual shotgun seat even though Liam had glared at him. He’s currently squished between the door and Harry’s gigantic head, stuck between their seats like an excited labrador as he chats to Liam.

He’s not subtly sniffing Harry’s hair, because that would be creepy.

“Where is it that we’re going again?” Harry asks, voice rumbling in the enclosed space.

“It’s a surprise,” Louis says, but Harry doesn’t even have time to turn to him before Liam rolls his eyes.

“Cheltenham,” he replies, because he’s no fun at all.

Harry blinks. The sun slanting in through the window draws his profile in incredible detail, his eyes a clear green.

“Really? We’re going to the Festival?”

“Yep,” Liam grins contendedly. He’s been humming along to the radio, and tapping his fingers against the wheel, and opening the window every time they slow down just to stick his arm out like an idiot. It’s been ages since he’s been to the races, and it’s plain to see how much he’s missed it.

Louis, staring straight out at the road, feels the odd man out. He can’t stop bouncing his bloody leg and picking at the pills on his coat. The last time he was anywhere near a race almost killed him – he thinks he’s allowed to entertain some mild anxiety.

They get to Cheltenham just after ten, following the procession of cars through town and into Swindon. Liam makes sure to display his red sticker proudly as they weave through the car park, and Harry practically vibrates with how thrilled he is. The sun’s followed them on their way North, the sky a gorgeous blue.

“Wonderful day for the races,” Liam comments once he’s found an empty spot and manoeuvred into it. “Should be a good one this year.”

“Who’s running?” Harry asks, all but jumping out of the car. Louis follows at a more sedate pace, taking everything in. The air is thick with dozens of different scents, food and turf and the ever-present smell of horses. It wraps around him like a blanket, soothing him until he feels a little less frazzled.

“Lots of horses,” Liam grins, already waving hello to someone. “Coneygree, Lord Windermere, Martello Tower…Simon’s got three in the running, but his new trainer is shit.”

Harry’s startled into a laugh. “Ouch,” he says, wrapping an arm around Liam’s shoulder and pulling him forward.

Liam shrugs. “I was much better,” he says. “Not to toot my own horn or anything.”

It’s the kind of thing Louis is used to hearing from him, but there’s a bit of hesitation behind the words – it’s been a while since he sent Marshmallow’s applications in, but there have been no replies so far. Louis is worried she won’t make the cut, too, but if it happens, it won’t be because of Liam’s lack of ability. He’s been doing a stellar job, has trained her up much faster than Louis had expected and still kept her motivated, and he knows all this, he does, but Louis makes a mental note to tell him anyway.

“Liam,” he frowns once they make it to the entrance, throngs of people already queuing, clouds of condensed breath hanging above their heads. “Liam, don’t tell me we’re in the tattersalls.”

Liam looks over his shoulder, already grinning, and Louis feels dread squeeze at his stomach. “We’re in the tattersalls,” he says. Louis wants to kick him. “Thought Harry should experience the real atmosphere before he gets used to the owners’ lounge.”

Harry lights up at that, bouncing on his feet. “I don’t know what tattersalls are,” he grins, “but I’m excited.”

“They’re the ground enclosures,” Louis says, frowning at the sky and shuffling forward as the queue moves. “With no seats.”

Harry turns to face him, that familiar little furrow between his eyebrows. He seems to have automatically figured out what Louis means, that his knee is already aching at the prospect of standing to watch six races in a row. He opens his mouth to say something, and Louis can’t help noticing how red his lips have gotten in the cold.

Before he has the chance to speak, though, Liam’s eyes go wide. “We have seats!” he says, putting a panicked hand on Louis’s shoulder, as though he can’t stand Louis thinking that he’d forgotten. “I called and specifically asked for chairs, so they put us front row in the left half.”

He points in front of him, somewhere inside the course that Louis can’t see. Regardless, he breathes out in relief.

“Thanks,” he tells him, feeling sheepish, but Liam grins and pulls him under his other arm. Louis leans into him and looks to his left, where Harry is already beaming, looking pleased as punch.

He’s so beautiful, Louis thinks. He could reach out, right now, and touch the deep dimple in his cheek, the red tip of his nose. He could, but—he can’t.

Sod it, Louis is supposed to be getting over this. He’s gone through it in his head no fewer than a million times, looked at it from every possible angle, and always arrived at the same conclusion: this isn’t meant to happen.

His heart still breaks a little every time he remembers.

He catches Harry’s eye, and Harry holds his gaze. His smile has softened around the corners of his mouth, turned more intimate, like despite the crowd of people around them, Harry is only smiling for Louis.

Liam pulls them both forward before Louis can smile back. It takes another twenty minutes before they hand in their tickets, but then they’re in.

The very first breath Louis takes on the other side of the gate rushes through his veins like a drug, has goosebumps rising on his arms and his heart racing. The adrenaline is almost palpable in the air, rising off the spectators milling about and the few horses already walking in the parade ring. It hits him square in the chest like a punch, how much he’s missed all of it.

Liam has ducked out and ran ahead, already spotting someone he wants to talk to, and Louis is left standing beside Harry, both of them looking around.

“There aren’t as many hats as I thought there would be,” Harry says, and when Louis looks up at him, he’s pouting.

“Cheltenham’s not that poncey, unfortunately,” Louis says, eyeing Harry’s black coat and posh shirt and dress trousers. He looks incredible as always, and not at all out of place even in the tattersall crowd. “Fancy dress is optional.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes. He looks disappointed, and Louis wants nothing more than to go on his tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

“I’m sure you’ll see one or two,” Louis tries to comfort him, wrapping a hand around his elbow for just a second. “If you don’t, I promise I’ll take you to the Ascot one day. Hats everywhere you look.”

“You promise?” Harry asks, biting down on a smile.

“I promise.”

“Good,” he replies, grinning wide and clapping his hands together. He takes off through the dense crowd, and Louis has to struggle to keep up. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Finding their seats turns out to be more difficult than anticipated, and through the long minutes it takes them to locate Liam and sit down, Louis doesn’t look around him once. His eyes are glued to Harry: to the delighted quirk of his mouth when he spots jockeys already in their colours walking around the back, and the spring in his step even as the soft grass gets his expensive shoes all muddy. He’s lit up, glowing, and he makes everyone’s heads turn as he gently shoulders through the crowd.

He loves it here; it’s plain to see in every soft feature of his face, and Louis is happy, so happy even though his heart keeps breaking. Harry belongs here.

He belongs, and soon enough everyone is going to know his name.

“Which one is he again?” Harry asks, taking a dainty sip of his pint. He’s squinting at the starting line, already strung up, and the fidgety horses walking around behind it.

“Fourteen,” Louis and Liam say simultaneously. They’re both clutching the railing and leaning over it, straining to see Tic Tac’s slim silhouette against the darkening sky.

Louis has been having a surprisingly good time, but now, seeing someone else in the starting field with his horse, he feels a little too hot under the collar.

“He’s pretty,” Harry comments, smiling. The sunset paints a blush on his skin, makes his hair shine golden. “Not sure about the colour combination, though.”

He’s not wrong – Simon has picked new silks, a hideous dusty pink combined with indigo. They hurt Louis’s eyes even though he can barely see them.

“Nobody’s going to care about that,” says Liam. “He can outrun all of these horses.”

Louis isn’t so sure. He’d tried to avoid racing completely up until a few months ago, but he never could help checking up on Tic Tac’s rating. His season has been, to put it nicely, absolute shit.

He’s standing against a dozen mediocre horses now, the kind with faceless jockeys and vaguely familiar names that he used to leave behind in the dust. He’s the favourite to win, but there’s no challenge in this, and Louis knows even before the bell sounds that Simon’s not going to be pleased with this one.

Kieren starts him out well enough, tight on the rein and on to the first hurdle at a gallop, and they keep the lead for almost half the race. Liam’s got his hand curled into a fist, biting the back of it, so excited because he considers Tic his, Louis knows, no matter what the papers say.

Even Harry’s put his drink down, hands wrapped around the rail and gone white at the knuckles.

“Come on, Tic Tac,” he mumbles, probably not even aware of it, and ignores the wind whipping his hair in his face as he bounces on the balls of his feet, oohs and aahs with the rest of the crowd. There’s a bit of a tumble on the third hurdle, a couple of horses tripping but getting right back up, and his concerned frown nearly makes Louis cry.

He’s a nervous wreck by hurdle six. Tic is still fighting, Louis can tell, trying to get ahead late like they’ve trained him to, but his potato sack of a jockey is all but sitting down in the saddle and holding him back. Louis has half a mind to grab Harry’s beer and throw it at him first chance he gets. He’s sitting on a bloody good horse, lucky enough to be racing at all, and he’s sabotaging his own chances. What an absolute turd.

“What is he doing?” he asks Liam, hoping for a nugget of trainerly wisdom, but Liam only shakes his head, equally clueless.

With Kieren holding him back, Tic Tac finishes fifth. The seats around them are filled with complaining and ripped betting tickets in no time at all.

They’re almost close enough to touch the horses after they all run in on the final sprint; for a second, Louis entertains the thought of jumping the railing and marching right in to comfort his horse. He’s heaving now, struggling to breathe as he stands with his head bent low, tongue weakly twisting in his mouth, no doubt trying to lick at the sore corners of his mouth. He looks so thin, too, just this side of skinny over muscular. He’s just—wrong. Like whoever is in charge of training left him to fend for himself, ride out his name for another season before Simon gets rid of him.

The thought alone makes Louis inexplicably angry.

Harry breaks him out of his trance with a soft hand on his shoulder. “Louis? Are you going too?”

Louis shakes himself. Kieren has dismounted, and a stable lass is carefully leading Tic away.

“Going where?”

Harry looks concerned when Louis meets his eyes, looking between the track and Louis’s face. “In through the owners’ entrance. Liam said he needed to talk to someone.”

Shit.

“He can’t get in,” Louis replies, already on the move, even though he knows that Liam can, and he will. He’s the most straight-faced liar Louis has ever met.

“He seemed pretty set on it,” Harry points out, struggling to keep up.

“We’ve got to stop him,” says Louis, already imagining the reprise of Liam Punches Simon In the Face, except with an alternate ending that involves course security and Liam’s training license being revoked. “Did he look angry?”

As he pokes out his elbows and steps on feet, he silently curses himself for not paying attention. Liam must have been thinking the same things as Louis was, and it must have been awful to see months of careful training undone in less than two minutes.

“I’m not sure,” Harry says. “He was frowning, but he seemed really calm.”

He sounds further away than before. Louis risks turning around and finds him carried a ways away by the leaving crowd.

Fuck it, Louis thinks, heart already racing, and reaches out for Harry’s hand.

Two things happen at the same time:

One, Harry reaches right back. There’s a grin on his face, and his fingers slot between Louis’s warm and sure and so excruciatingly right.

Two, somebody’s briefcase hits Louis square in the knee.

He stumbles, throwing out his other arm to keep his balance, and Harry is right by his side to offer his jacket sleeve for Louis to hold on to.

“Motherfucker,” he hisses, conscious of the children around him, but also too dizzy with the pain to care. “Ow, fuck.”

There are spots dancing in front of his eyes, rapidly changing colours, and his stomach does a violent somersault. He tries to focus on those things instead of his leg, throbbing like it used to months ago after Niall would put him through a particularly grueling physio session.

“Louis,” Harry calls, running a hand over Louis’s cheek, his forehead, “Lou, you okay? Does it hurt still?”

Louis nods, out of energy to pretend otherwise.

“Can you go find Liam?” he asks, still clutching Harry like a lifeline while he shuffles them out of the way and against a wall. He almost manages to ignore the fact that Harry has leaned back and pulled him into his chest, his shoulder nudged under Louis’s arm and lifting him up, taking the pressure off his leg. “He’s got to—just tell him to stop and think about it for a second, yeah? We’ve got a race coming up, he can’t afford to do anything stupid.”

Harry looks down at him, hair wild. “I’m not leaving you here,” he says immediately, sounding horrified at the suggestion. “You’d get trampled, Louis. No offense.”

Louis pulls together a breathy, painful little laugh. “None taken. You’ll have to carry me though, you know.”

He’s not cheating. He’s not. This is not a case of him pretending to be a damsel in distress. He genuinely can’t walk.

Sure you can’t, a voice pipes up in his head, and it sounds suspiciously like Niall. Louis ignores him and focuses back on Harry’s face, where the slightest flicker of hesitation appears and fades again.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he grins, the little shit. “Would you prefer to sit on my shoulders, or is a piggyback okay?”

“Shut up,” is Louis’s contribution to this round of repartee. He’s too busy keeping himself together, because a) his knee feels like it’s shattered into pieces, and b) he’s about to be as close to riding Harry as he’s ever going to get. It’s two completely different types of pain, and they both combine into this ball of fire in Louis’s stomach that drives him crazy.

Harry smiles, kinder than Louis deserves, and crouches. Louis pulls himself up by his shoulders (broad and firm but soft, so bloody soft) and settles against his back.

“Onward, my steed,” he commands through gritted teeth, trying to adjust his leg until it doesn’t feel like it’s abut to fall off. The pain has started shooting into his thigh now, but he recognises it for what it is – a phantom.

“Yes sir,” Harry giggles, and reaches behind him to help Louis settle. He grips his calf like it’s no big deal, then moves on to Louis’s upper thighs and settles there.

His hands are an inch away from Louis’s arse.

That’s fine.

Louis feels people’s stares in his back as soon as they start moving, but he can’t be bothered. He remembers his initial concern for Liam now, and files everything that Harry’s making him feel away to sort through later.

“Take a left here,” he navigates, leading Harry down a paved path behind the course stables and then up a flight of stairs.

Miraculously, they catch up to Liam just as the security guard nods and waves him in.

“Wait!” Louis all but shrieks, too exhausted to give a damn. This whole escapade can’t have taken more than ten minutes, but he’s just about ready to go curl up in the car and call it a day.

Not yet, though. First, there’s his idiot of a best friend.

“Liam, wait,” he yells again, and this time Liam hears him. His eyebrows climb towards his hairline when he turns around and sees the state they’re in.

“Louis?” he asks, slowly, like he thinks this might be a dream. “Harry?”

“Hi,” Harry pants. His back is heaving under Louis’s chest. “Louis says you should stop and think about this for a second.”

“Louis is here,” says Louis, but he grins anyway. “Liam, what he said.”

“Think about what?”

“Talking to Simon,” Louis replies. “Don’t do it. Just—leave him alone.”

He’s intensely aware of the guard watching them, his douchey sunglasses low on his nose. He doesn’t even bother to pretend that he isn’t listening.

“Louis,” Liam says very slowly, “I’m not going to talk to Simon. I don’t have anything to say to him.”

Louis deflates. “What about Tic?”

“I want to talk to his trainer,” he replies. He’s still speaking slowly, looking at Louis like he’s a particularly dense child. “Which is why I’m going in through the trainers’ entrance.”

The owners’ and trainers’ entrance is one and the same, but Louis isn’t feeling snarky enough to point it out.

He’s about to tell Liam they’ll go back and wait in the car, but Harry beats him to it and, hopping in place, asks:

“Can we go, too?”

Liam tilts his head, then looks at the security guard, who nods curtly.

“Guess you can,” Liam shrugs, and then disappears down the stairs.

Harry makes no move to get Louis off his back, and Louis is most definitely not letting go until he has to. They walk in with their heads held high and Louis perched on Harry’s back.

“This is so exciting,” Harry whispers. Louis wishes he could see his face.

This section, unlike the one for the general public, is still bustling. There’s the vets with their clipboards, a couple of jockeys with silks untucked and, laid out in front of them like a sea of ill-fitting suits, mingle the owners. There’s champagne and hors d’oeuvres and handshakes – this is a prime opportunity for rubbing elbows, even for people who haven’t left much of an impression on the racing world. Louis finds it so very, intimately familiar.

“This is your future,” he laughs into Harry’s ear. “Except you’ll wear clothes that fit, I’m sure.”

“This is so…” Harry trails off, his hands curling tighter into Louis’s thighs. Louis valiantly attempts to hold in his moan, breathing in.

“Posh?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Everyone’s trying really hard to be, at least.”

“God, don’t even tell me,” Louis starts, holding on with hands intertwined and pressed into the base of Harry’s neck. “Simon made me do this, too, right after the races. Said it would help me unwind, but I never felt more like a piece of meat.”

They’re turning heads now, accidentally jostling people as they weave deeper into the crowd. Liam is nowhere to be seen, and most of the other faces Louis barely recognises.

“I feel very naked,” Harry mumbles, but he sounds amused.

“I thought you were an exhibitionist,” Louis says, patting him on the chest. “You’ve still got time to change your mind, you know. You could be a jockey instead.”

Harry snorts, and stops to let Louis snatch a couple of salmon canapés of a passing waiter’s tray. “You said I’m too tall,” he says, and the squeeze of his hand is deliberate, this time. “Even if I wasn’t, I couldn’t.”

“Course you could,” Louis smiles into his hair. “You already know how to ride, Liam would train you up in no time.”

Harry doesn’t reply. The only part of him that Louis can see – the tips of his ears – goes red.

They stop once they reach the path that leads to the stables.

“I don’t,” Harry says, and nothing else.

“Don’t what?”

“Know how to ride. I don’t know how to ride.”

Louis lets go out of pure shock. Harry releases one of his legs, then reaches up to take his hand, and bends back until Louis is standing safely. Louis barely feels any of it, because Harry—Harry can’t ride.

“But you own over twenty horses,” he says when he finally finds the words, looking up into Harry’s face. The rest of his face is just as red as his ears, and the blush runs dark and delicious all the way down his neck and under his collar. “You do all the work around them, I never—“

Harry takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. They’re still holding hands; Louis uses the opportunity to give him a reassuring squeeze.

“They’ve always been pets to me,” he says. “Gemma used to get riding lessons, and mum wanted me to take them too, but I’d always say no because I was scared.” There’s a wrinkle between his brows, sitting there like it has any business being on Harry’s beautiful face. “I still am, I think. They’ve just—always seemed so tall, you know?”

Louis has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing, fond. “You said you’ve gone bungee jumping, though. That’s way scarier.”

“Is not,” Harry says, gaze lowered and digging the toe of his boot into the grass . “Besides, that’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. I may’ve never had the chance again.”

“Oh my God,” Louis breathes, mind reeling. The new discovery has made Harry impossibly more endearing, and sent his mind into a tailspin, too. He has no doubt that Harry would love riding once he got over his fear, that he’d look adorable and gorgeous all at the same time trying to learn how to post—

“Can I teach you?” he asks, mouth running ahead of his brain. If he’d had a second to think it through, he might have seen it for what it is – a bad idea. At the same time, though—he ‘d get to show Harry something new, something wonderful. Spend even more time with him than he already does. He can keep his bloody feelings in check. “Let me teach you, please.”

Harry’s palm is burning against Louis’s, who is suddenly very aware of the contact. Harry doesn’t pull away, though, and neither does he.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, fidgeting. “I don’t know, it’s been years since I even tried—“

“That’s okay,” Louis jumps in. “We can take it as slow as you want, but you’ve got to try it, come on.”

Riding. He’s talking about riding.

Horse riding.

“I’ll be a great teacher, I promise.”

Hesitation is written plainly all over Harry’s face, but there’s a smile, too – one of Louis’s favourite kinds, where only one corner of Harry’s mouth lifts and his dimple pops.

“That’s the second thing you’ve promised today,” he says. Louis could swear he feels his fingers tighten around the back of his own hand.

“I’ll deliver,” he says, grinning but entirely serious. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Harry cracks, his smile turning into a full-blown giggle. He takes a breath, then another, and looks at Louis with soft eyes.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Teach me how to ride.”

They’re still holding hands when Simon hunts them down.

Louis has been hoping to avoid him for the past half hour, ducking through the crowd and pulling Harry in to talk to anybody whose face looks familiar. His bloody knee is still in pain, though, and he eventually has to break away to lean against something – the stable wall, in this case. Simon takes exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds.

“Louis,” he says once he’s standing in front of them in his boxy-haired glory. He doesn’t acknowledge Harry at all, and Louis wishes there was dirt nearby that he could throw in his face.

“Simon,” he forces out through clenched teeth. The very sight of him makes Louis want to physically fight him, but this is not the place. “It’s nice to see you.”

Harry squeezes hand. Louis feels so grateful he could cry.

“Mr Cowell,” he inserts himself into the conversation, a flawless fake smile bright on his face and reaching out for a handshake. “I’m Harry Styles. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I’m sure you have,” Simon replies, shaking his hand like it’s something he’s just picked up off the ground.

“What brings you here?” Louis asks, intent on keeping the two of them apart. He’s experienced how truly nasty Simon can get, and while Harry can hold his own, he shouldn’t have to. Not when this is supposed to be something exciting.

Simon looks him up and down in silence, lingering on his and Harry’s joined hands. The calculating look in his eyes makes Louis shiver.

“I just wanted to congratulate you,” he says finally, smiling a smile that only shows his bottom row of teeth. He reminds Louis of an eel. “On your…speedy recovery.”

His knee twinges. “Thank you,” he replies, not meaning a word. He’s tired and in pain and feeling spiteful. “I’m sure it came as a surprise, seeing as you never cared to call me and ask how I was doing.”

Beside him, Harry sucks in a surprised breath.

Simon doesn’t let anything show on his face, but Louis can see his hands curling into fists where they’re jammed in his pockets.

“You know how it goes,” he says, shrugging. Louis squeezes Harry’s hand and tries to keep himself grounded. “We get very busy after the National, especially if something happens to generate headlines.”

“Sure,” Louis nods. He hates this game, hates pretending that they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats if such a thing was acceptable in polite company. He’s had an inkling, ever since he first woke up at the hospital, about how his saddle ended up breaking despite numerous inspections. He wants to voice his thoughts now, just come right out and ask, but somewhere deep down, he already knows the answer. It’s right there in Simon’s eyes, plain to read in the distasteful look he’s leveled Louis with.

Louis hates him; hates him more than words could ever express.

Harry must read his mind, or feel him shaking. He pulls Louis closer to him, and picks up the conversation. “I’m sorry to hear about Tic Tac, Mr Cowell. It looked like a promising race.”

Simon scratches his nose. “These things happen,” he says. “He’s getting old, unfortunately. They can’t keep running forever.”

“He’s six,” Louis mumbles.

“As I said,” crows Simon, “old. I don’t think you’ll see him on the courses next season, Mr Styles.”

Louis lets himself look at Harry’s face. He wishes he was a little stronger, a little more capable of dealing with the devil that is Simon Cowell, so he could get them both out and away from here.

Harry flawlessly pretends to be aloof, politely interested, though his palm is sweating against Louis’s.

“Will he be retiring?” he asks.

Simon raises his eyebrows, a condescending smile on his face. “We don’t have room for that, unfortunately. You have to understand, the Cowell stable prides itself on raising horses that are ahead of the crowd, and we dedicate all our resources to them. We will be sending Tic Tac away, as is standard practice.”

Louis’s heart aches. He and Tic fought their way to the first class races together, both young and unknown and determined to get to the finish line. Now Simon’s gotten rid of Louis, and he’s ready to discard the horse, too.

“These decisions are hard, Mr Styles, as I’m sure you’ll soon find out for yourself,” he’s saying, hands clasped behind his back now. “You currently have a horse in training, do you not?”

“I do,” Harry nods, slow and thorough. “But I don’t plan on abandoning her if she doesn’t do well.”

Simon takes the dig in stride. “A filly? That’s very brave of you.”

“Mare, actually,” Harry smiles. “She’s very good. I’ll look forward to her facing off with your horses next year.”

Louis bites his lip to hide a smile. God, he loves Harry.

“I’m just trying to warn you,” Simon says. Louis can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to find another backhand insult to throw at Harry. He can’t try to put down Liam, at least, because every single Cowell horse thrived under his training. “I’m sure you love your horse, but there will come a time when you see her slow down and give up. You won’t even be able to bet on her anymore.”

He pats his breast pocket, where his wallet probably sits filled to the brim. Louis feels dread pool in his stomach as he realises the implications.

Kieren rode like an idiot on purpose.

“How many deals did you make, then? Who else got rich off you destroying your own horse’s reputation?” he asks, suddenly unable to keep his mouth shut.

Simon’s face is blank. Louis wonders if he has any conscience at all, if he’s ever felt anything close to regret.

“I’m certain you realise that this is private information,” he says, pleasantly condescending. “If you have no other questions, I think I’m going to go back to my sponsors. It was a pleasure to see you, Louis, Mr Styles.”

And he turns their back to them just like that, seemingly content to have the last word.

Louis frowns. It’s not like Simon to come up to him just to rile him up a little. Everything is a power play for him; if he talks to someone, it’s usually to make sure that he has the upper hand and all parties know it.

Still, he squeezes Harry’s hand and moves to leave, happy to escape, but he’s not quick enough. Simon catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and turns around, looking rather like a large cat about to pounce.

He looks at both of them, then down to their joined hands; his eyes are slate grey and cold. Dead.

“Congratulations, by the way. Guess we know why this is the only sport you were ever good at .”

He turns around, then, and disappears in the crowd.

Louis lets go.

“He did what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Louis replies, blowing on his tea. “It wasn’t even mean, I just—I was taken aback.”

“He had no right,” Liam frowns at the sign in his hands, and pulls his sleeve down to polish it. “What an absolute dick, I can’t believe I didn’t punch him when I had the chance—“

“Calm down,” Louis butts in, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze Liam’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Was fine. Harry was lovely about it, I didn’t even feel bad afterwards.”

Liam sighs. There’s a frown settled on his forehead that’s been there since the morning, his eyebrows a straight line. Louis should have never brought up Simon, not when they’ve all got so much to deal with already.

“You sure?” he asks, looking into Louis’s eyes like he’s searching for a lie. “Because I can—“

“I’m sure,” Louis smiles. He feels suspiciously tranquil, even though the air around him is practically dripping with nerves. Everyone’s trying hard, here. “You don’t have to fight anyone for me. Relax.” He takes a step to close the distance between them, and forces himself under one of Liam’s arms until he’s curled into his side. “And stop polishing that, please. It’s just plastic.”

“It’s important,” Liam grins, seemingly satisfied that Louis is okay. “It’s our first one.”

Louis has to give him that. He can’t deny the warm, overwhelming pride he feels when he looks at it.

Girl Almighty, it says, in plain blocky letters on a black background. L. J. Payne/H. Styles. It’s cheap and dirty already, but it looks so good, so right in Liam’s hands. This is where everything really starts, and they’re all as ready as they could ever be.

“I still think we should have kept her name,” Louis says, just to keep himself from blurting out something much mushier. “Marshmallow races to the finish. Marshmallow in the lead. Marshmallow clears every hurdle without a stumble and wins the Grand National.”

Liam laughs. “It’s too silly for the big races,” he says. “Besides, it should be a special name. Something only her friends call her, even when she’s the most famous race horse in England.”

Marshmallow, half listening to them and half drifting off in her stall, neighs.

“Is that right, lovely?” Louis asks, reaching in and petting her neck. She feels warm and relaxed, completely unbothered even as the stalls around her shake with impatient stomping. “Are you going to be famous?”

She raises her head, bumping her nose against Louis’s palm. He can’t resist leaning in and dropping a kiss there.

In the meantime, Liam decides to listen Louis’s advice and stops fussing with the sign. He puts it, instead, back where it belongs – on the wall right beside the stall, hanging proudly. It’s the nicest one by far, in Louis’s humble opinion. The ones around them boast names like Gold Nugget and Blue Baron and Red Velvet, a touch too silly to be taken seriously.

It’s less than two hours until the bell, and Louis is beyond excited. Today is monumental, and he’s certain they’ll be going home in good spirits tonight.

“I’ve got to go find Olly,” Liam says. They’ve taken him on as a stable lad, and he’s been doing a great job, but he also seems to have a propensity for disappearing whenever he’s not needed. “If Ellie comes back, tell her to wait here, I need to talk to her.”

“You’ve got it, boss,” Louis replies, and ruffles his hair before he goes.

Marshmallow rumbles when she hears Ellie’s name. Louis would like to think he’s not jealous anymore.

“That’s right,” he tells her, grinning when she butts her head against his chest. “Ellie’s gone to weigh in, but she’ll be back, and then the two of you are going to win the whole thing.”

She closes her eyes, looking pleased. Louis leans against the stall door, breathes in deep, and sips his tea.

Harry finds him after Marshmallow has already been led out, barely fifteen minutes until start, red-cheeked and excited. He’s gone all out with his clothes – not that Louis expected anything else – and he looks like an absolute dream when he stops in front of Louis with a wide grin on his face. Louis doesn’t try to resist poking his dimple.

“I brought you another tea,” Harry says, holding out a steaming cup. It’s much bigger than the one Louis bought in the restaurant earlier, the kind that they only sell in the owners’ lounge.

I love you, Louis nearly blurts out, but he catches himself at the last second.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and wraps his gloved hands around the cup. Their hands brush. “I’m bloody freezing.”

“It’ll all be over soon,” Harry grins, full of nervous energy.

“Don’t say it like that,” Louis grins back. “We’re only just starting out.”

Harry starts walking, tilting his head in question, and Louis follows him without a word. He feels warm just looking at the lanky silhouette of him, the tails of his coat billowing in the wind. He could be in the owners’ lounge, with windows and seats and heating, sipping on a drink, but instead he’s down here with the rest of them, watching the horses line up from the ground.

The race itself is little more than a blur. It’s a short course, one and a quarter miles and a few poorly constructed brush fences. Ellie is on top of her game, crouched in the stirrups and focused, looking ahead.

When the starting line falls, Harry hops in place, and Louis misses the horses take off because he’s busy looking at his face. It takes superhuman effort to tear his eyes away and focus on the track, but once he’s looking, Marshmallow is easy to spot. She’s in the middle of the pack, shining like a beacon of light in a sea of bays and chestnuts. Ellie’s blue and green silks are billowing in the wind, and when they clear the first fence, Louis gets a view of the triumphant smile on her face.

He’d love to be up there, flying down the track on their miracle horse. At the same time, though, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. Racing might not be for him anymore, but he’s still here, still welcome, still just as excited, part of this little family they’ve built around Marshmallow.

The second-to-last turn sees her in third place, and Louis’s hands are shaking so much he has to set his tea down. He almost wants to cry when she sees how hard she’s fighting, overtaking the horse in front of her from the outside. He hears Ellie shout in encouragement, and feels Harry’s fingers twist into his sleeve in nervous anticipation; they clear the last fence, the crowd roars—

And Girl Almighty comes in second.

“Oh my God!” Harry shouts, a brilliant smile on his face, hands in his hair like he’s not sure what to do with them.

Louis feels goosebumps racing down his back, a pure, bright ball of happiness that ignites in his chest. He raises his arms above his head like he’s at a football match, shouting something that he can’t quite make out. She’s done it. They’ve done it.

Before he has time to think about it, he grabs Harry’s hand, and they run. They weave through people coming down from the stands, through stable lads and lasses on their way to fetch the horses, around a handful of local reporters and a jockey who’s thrown his helmet in the mud, giggling like children the whole way.

Louis spots Liam right by the winners’ circle, hair curling every which way and mobile pressed to his cheek. He hangs up as soon as he sees them, and instead opens his arms. Louis’s throat goes tight at the sight of the happy sparkle in his eyes, his red cheeks and the smile that looks like it hurts. He’s missed this Liam.

“Second place!” he shouts once they’re close enough to hear, like there’s any way they could’ve missed that, and laughs when Louis crashes into him first, Harry hot on his heels.

Louis loses track of which pair of arms belongs to whom, but he doesn’t care one bit. He joins in on Liam’s incoherent yelling, and Harry’s back pats, squeezing them both to him as hard as he can. They laugh into each other’s coats, and ignore people who try to nudge them out of the way.

They’ve made it to the start, and there’s a whole steeplechase ahead of them. Louis couldn’t be more excited.

In more than one way, this feels like the happiest moment of his life.

April brings typical English weather, with more rain than sunshine and entirely too much wind. The other meetings that accepted Marshmallow’s application are both run on turf, and the going is dangerously soft, but she finishes the first one in second, and then scores her very first win. They have Olly take a picture that now hangs in the living room right above the fireplace – Ellie and Marshmallow covered in mud, Liam beaming with dirt on his cheek, courtesy of Louis, and him and Harry with their arms around each other, on top of the world.

Louis loves the picture dearly. He suspects that Harry does too, going off the amount of times he’s caught him standing there and staring at it.

Three good finishes, of course, means that Marshmallow gets to apply for a handicap rating. It takes a few days and about seven emails to the BHA before arrangements can be made, and Liam barely sleeps throughout all of it, but it all ends happily with him driving to Holborn and giving Marshmallow a well-deserved rest day.

He forgets, of course, that he’d promised Louis a lesson.

“We can do it by ourselves, can’t we,” he murmurs to Heather as adjusts her noseband. He’s been riding bitless for the past couple of weeks, just like Ellie, and he feels much more capable a rider now. He’d never realised how much control he focused into his hands until the bit was gone. “We don’t need Liam to tell us what to do.”

He’s been moving out onto the track, little by little, yearning for the kind of speed that just can’t be reached in the hall. It’s a passably nice day today, with a grey sky but dry ground, and he’d bullied Harry into picking him up and driving him up here, wanting to take advantage of it.

Speaking of the devil, Harry is already there when Louis leads Heather down, sitting in the grass and looking up at the sky. His eyes are closed, and Louis can’t resist tearing off a blade of grass and tickling him on the nose with it.

“Hey,” he crows as his eyes open. He wraps his fingers around Louis’s wrist, languid, and pulls it away from his face. “That’s mean.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, grinning, and then: “I thought you had work to do.”

That was the excuse Harry had used, at least, when he disappeared inside right after they pulled in.

He shrugs now, turning a pebble over in his hands. “Needed some inspiration.”

“What is it that you do again?” Louis asks as he pulls himself into the saddle, hoping to catch him off guard.

“I’m not telling you,” Harry grins, too smart to fall for Louis’s tactics. “You’ve got to guess.”

“I hate riddles.”

Harry laughs. He jumps to his feet and runs a hand through his hair, settling into Heather’s slow walking pace and following them around the track. It’s adorable.

“I forgot to ask,” he says, once they’ve gone almost half the track in comfortable silence, “how did you appointment go yesterday?”

Louis grimaces. He doesn’t particularly want to think about his doctor’s pointed looks of disapproval.

“She doesn’t like it,” he says, re-folding the reins in his hands. “She yelled at me for half an hour.”

“But it’s not doing any damage, is it?” Harry asks, looking at Louis’s knee where it’s settled against the saddle. “Did she tell you to stop?”

Louis shakes his head. “No. She said I should come in once every two weeks, though, and to book more physio.”

“That’s not too bad then,” Harry smiles, always one to look on the bright side. “She’ll come around, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, love,” Louis smiles back, shifting his weight. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not even with Harry. His doctor is a lovely woman, and she has the patience of a saint, but the harsh way she reacted to the news of Louis riding again has been weighing on him all day. He’d been a little too caught up in this happy little bubble, thinking he’d got through the worst of it and his knee would never get screwed up again; she brought him back to earth in the most unpleasant way possible.

Still, he’s not in pain right now. There’s no reason he shouldn’t keep going.

He takes off in a canter, laughing at Harry’s indignant squawk when they leave him behind. Heather is going at a sedate pace as always, comfortable enough for him to post, and he does a whole round before he speeds up.

It still feels strange, galloping with the stirrups so low, but the wind lashing at his face is as exhilarating as always.

He stays for a bit too long, long enough for the sun to dip low in the sky, and he feels exhausted when he finally stops and decides he’s done for the day. Harry is a hunched shape in the semi-darkness, scribbling something into a notebook and still there, even though it’s cold. Louis gets off the horse, stretches his legs, and, looking at him, gets an idea.

“Hey, Harry,” he calls, soft, just loud enough to be heard over the wind in the trees and insects in the grass.

Harry takes a while to look up, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrates. “What is it?”

Louis smiles. “How about those riding lessons I promised you?”

“What—“ Harry blinks, taking in their surroundings, the sun setting over the horizon, “now?”

Louis pets Heather’s nose and sneaks her a piece of carrot. “No time like the present, right?”

Carefully, Harry sets his notebook down in the grass, then scratches at the bare skin of his knee that’s poking out of his jeans. “I’m not dressed for it,” he says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis reassures him, leaving Heather to stand in place and coming closer. “Let’s just try getting up there today. It’s getting dark anyway.”

“Up on the horse?” Harry asks, gulping visibly. Louis can tell he’s—worried, if not quite scared, and it makes him want to wrap Harry up in his arms and never let him go.

“Up on the horse,” he smiles, extending a hand. “I’ve got you, come on.”

Harry closes his eyes and breathes in. “Okay,” he says finally, letting the word out in a massive rush of breath. “Okay, let’s do it.”

He grabs Louis’s hand and lets himself be pulled up. Louis wishes he could say that he’s used to the sparks dancing in his fingertips by now, that every time they so much as touch doesn’t render him yearning and completely helpless. It’s become such a normal thing for them, too, holding hands. Louis doesn’t want it to stop; thinks that if he gets to have this, to hold Harry’s hand and have his company and friendship and gorgeous smile, he will find a way to be happy for the rest of his life.

“Here we go,” he says, once they’re at Heather’s side and Harry’s staring at the stirrups like they might come alive and hurt him. “I’m sure you’ve seen lots of people do this.”

Harry nods slowly, reaching out to touch the cold metal. “Can we lower them?”

Louis looks him in the eyes. They’ve gone almost blue in the sunset, and wide with panic. There’s still softness in them, though, that kind look that Harry always has for him, and so much trust it makes Louis’s knees a little weak. Harry trusts Louis to guide him through this, and that’s exactly what Louis is going to do.

“Sure we can,” he says, and reaches out to undo the clasp. Harry doesn’t pull his hand away, and Louis’s fingers brush against his wrist, warm where it peeks out of his sleeve. “Here.”

“Do I just—“ Harry starts, but he doesn’t finish, waving his arm to indicate the horse instead. Louis thinks his hands might be shaking.

“Yep,” he smiles, trying to be reassuring. He’s only ever done this once, when he was sixteen and Lottie wouldn’t stop badgering him about getting to ride a pony. “Just put your foot in the stirrup, grab the saddle, and up you go.”

He holds the stirrup still, waits until Harry takes a few deep breaths and then lifts his leg. He’s wearing trainers, and it takes him a couple of tries to get his foot in.

“I’ve got to do this fast, right?” he asks, now hopping on one leg as he tries to keep his balance. Heather indulges him, standing still and calm and leaning into Louis’s shoulder.

“You’d just drag the saddle down otherwise,” Louis nods. “You can do it, yeah?”

He has half a mind to call this off, just stop and go inside and have a nice evening cuppa like they’d planned. Harry looks spooked, his face pale even in the warm light, hands slipping off the saddle with how much his palms are sweating. Louis reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, though what he’d really like to do is take Harry’s face in his hands and kiss him, just until the shaking has subsided.

He doesn’t tell Harry to stop, though. He doesn’t, because his forehead is furrowed in determination, and he keeps his foot in the stirrup even though he’s swaying in place. He knows he can do this. Louis’s heart beats a little faster just looking at him.

“On three?” he asks. “Heather’s got you, and so do I. You can do this, love.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, then nods. “On three,” he says, and doesn’t wait for Louis to start counting. “One, two—“

He pushes off just a bit too hard, nearly toppling to the other side of the horse, but the death grip he has on the saddle keeps him up. He sits down way too hard, almost startles Heather into walking, but Louis holds her in place and beams.

“There you go,” he says, watching Harry carefully while he pulls up his stirrup, and makes sure his foot sits secure inside the other one. “You did it, Harry, look at you.”

Harry’s hands are curled into fists on his thighs, his eyes closed again, but he opens them when he hears Louis’s voice.

“My legs hurt,” is the first thing he says, a little out of breath. “Are they supposed to hurt like this?”

“Afraid so,” Louis grins. He holds on to the reins and stays close, wrapped up in Harry’s body heat and trying his darnedest to make sure that he feels safe up there. “Wait until you get off, they’re going to feel like jelly.”

Harry grimaces. A little bit of colour floods back into his cheeks, though, and Louis counts that as a win.

He gives Harry a minute, petting Heather’s neck to make sure she stays calm. A minute passes, then another, in peaceful silence. Louis can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, the rasp of his breathing and Harry’s slowly falling into sync.

“Look up, love,” he says finally, whispers. “The view’s gorgeous, I promise there’s nothing else like it.”

Harry bites his lip, head hanging low. He’s blinking, slowly, down at where his legs meet the saddle. His arm moves, so quick Louis almost misses it – almost. He looks over, and there’s Harry’s hand, lying palm up on top of his thigh, his fingers extended towards where Louis is standing.

Louis looks up. There Harry is, with wide eyes, biting his lip. “Please?” is all he says, and Louis all but melts.

He takes Harry’s hand with baited breath, wrapping it up in his and running a thumb over Harry’s palm.

“Come on, then,” he smiles, and Harry smiles back.

When he looks up and looks around, Louis feels rather like he’s watching the sun rise after a very long night. A light comes alive in his eyes, and he squeezes Louis’s hand as he turns in the saddle, this way and that, taking in the never-ending grounds bathed in yellows and oranges and reds. It’s beautiful down here, but Louis only has eyes for his gorgeous, gorgeous boy.

Not yours, Louis’s brain reminds him, but his heart keeps thudding on happily, attuned to every pleased noise, every move Harry makes.

“This is amazing,” he says, and laughs breathlessly. Louis, as always, is arse over tit in love with him.

“Told you,” he says, unconsciously stroking the side of Harry’s thigh with his pinkie. Harry tenses under his touch, and Louis, feeling as though he’s burned himself, pulls his hand away. “Think you can do this for real?”

Harry blinks, a little panicked. “Today?”

“No,” Louis laughs. “Not today, don’t worry. Another time.”

“You’ll look out for me, right? This is safe?”

“Course I will,” Louis says, one finger tucked under the girth to keep himself from touching again. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Harry nods. “Another time.”

“Good,” Louis grins. “I’ll look forward to it. Want to get off now?”

Harry looks at the ground, suddenly reluctant. Louis is very near ecstatic to see that he’s relaxed his shoulders, and his hands are steady when he reaches out to pat Heather on the neck.

“Sure, just—am I sitting right?” he asks, trying to move his legs back but mostly just swaying in his seat. “Gemma’s instructor used to yell at her when she didn’t.”

It’s quite horrifying, but Harry has a grin on his face, looking Louis right in the eye – almost like he’s teasing.

“No yelling,” Louis says, holding up his hand in a promise. “But you could sit a little straighter.”

“Too gay for that,” Harry answers. It’s a terrible joke, but he looks inordinately pleased with himself, and Louis has to bite his tongue to hold back a ridiculous giggle.

“I can’t stand you,” he says, patting Harry’s thigh and reaching for the small of his back. “If you just—“

He trails off once he touches the fabric of Harry’s jacket, distracted by the heat radiating from underneath. He’s dangerously close to the swell of Harry’s bum, to the sliver of skin that pokes out above the waistband of his jeans.

He presses his hand in anyway, gentle against Harry’s back right where his hunch starts, and he finds that he can’t quite look him in the eye.

“There,” he says. He sounds breathless. “It helps if you keep your shoulders back, too. Gives you better—better balance.”

His skin is prickling now, itching, and he becomes hyperaware of just how close he’s standing. Harry’s knee is pressing into his shoulder, motionless, and the long line of his thigh is barely inches away from Louis’s face. He could just—turn his head and press a kiss there, then another one, tumble headfirst into something he can’t, can’t have. Harry explained himself, and Louis promised him it was okay, but here he is—

Here he is.

Louis steps back. His fingers are tingling; he curls his hand stubbornly into a fist and sticks it in his pocket.

“Um,” he clears his throat, too ashamed to look Harry in the face. “You should take both your feet out of the stirrups, swing one over her back and just—“

Harry thuds to the ground before Louis is finished speaking, only stumbling a little when he realises how shaky his muscles are.

“Like that,” he finishes, a little dumbly. Harry’s immediately taken to petting Heather, and whispering something that sounds like praises. Louis chances a look, just to make sure that he hasn’t fucked anything up permanently, that Harry hadn’t noticed his moment of absurd weakness.

He hadn’t.

“D’you need any help untacking her?” he asks, smiling brightly. He has no idea, it seems, and Louis has never felt more grateful.

“Uh,” he says as he rubs his forehead, trying to make sense of his thoughts. “No, I’m good. You head on up, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You sure?” Harry asks, eyes big and searching. “You look tired.”

Louis grimaces. “I am,” he says, rubbing his thigh, where a familiar kind of tension has settled. He’d overdone it today, and he’ll be feeling it tomorrow. “I think I bit off more than I could chew today.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry asks again, and then another three times, until Louis puts a hand on his shoulder and physically turns him toward the house. He watches his silhouette turn into a shadow, shrinking until he disappears under the cover of darkness.

It takes him a while to hobble up the hill and into the yard. His fingers feel too big as he opens all the clasps and tries to close them back up, and he’s got spots dancing in his vision when he tries to find Heather’s name tag in the tack room.

He makes quick work of feeding her, then turns her out, ready to collapse into Harry’s uncomfortable posh sofa and drink an entire pot of tea.

The house is blissfully warm when he walks in, the air wrapping around him and soothing his stinging cheeks. All the lights are on, and he can hear the fire going in the living room.

“Harry?” he calls.

“Up here!” Harry’s voice carries back from the first floor, distorted under the tall ceiling. Louis doesn’t particularly feel like coming up the stairs.

“Should I put the kettle on?” he asks, getting out of his coat and automatically moving towards the kitchen, but something stops him. There’s a sound coming from upstairs, a thud-thud-thud not unlike a small herd of elephants – Harry’s coming down. Or running, rather.

“No,” he pants once he makes it to the stairs, grinning and leaning over the banister. His face looks red, and his hair has gone curly around his temples. “Come up here, I drew you a bath.”

Louis almost drops the pair of gloves he’s holding. “You what?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “A bath, Louis. A container full of very hot water that humans go in to soak off their filth. Come on, it’ll get cold.”

“You drew me a bath,” Louis says, just to make sure he’s not hallucinating. “Up there? In your own bathroom?”

“It’s the only clawfoot tub in the house,” he shrugs. His grin has gone a little manic around the edges, but that doesn’t stop Louis from grinning right back. “Wanted you to have the full posh experience.”

Still bewildered, Louis abandons the thought of tea and makes his way up the staircase. Harry watches him with his hands folded behind his back, smiling and patient even thought Louis takes ages.

He’s not entirely sure this is really happening, is all.

“Why did you draw me a bath?” he asks once he’s standing by Harry’s side. Harry wraps an arm around his shoulders, leading Louis into his bedroom with no qualms, like it isn’t his private space, the only place in the house that Louis hadn’t seen.

“Thought you could use one,” he shrugs, and opens the door to his en suite. “There’s nothing better than a bath after a long day, my mum says.”

Louis would reply, but he can’t quite feel his face. This bathroom has to be the most opulent place in the house, full of creamy white tile and gold detail, dominated by an enormous tub that is, indeed, full of bubbles. Louis is a little scared of touching anything, and it takes him a second to notice the unmistakable signs of Harry in the space: hair products lined up on the sink, a smear of toothpaste in the very corner of the mirror, a few neatly lined up bottles of nail varnish in an open cabinet.

Harry himself stands next to the tub, twisting the faucets to make sure the water is off.

“There’s a dressing gown over there,” he says, pointing to a fluffy white item folded on top of the hamper. “And I’ve got lots of clothes you can borrow, if you don’t want to get back into these ones.”

Louis looks down at his breeches, dirty with a good couple of weeks of wear, and hums in agreement. There are words that he’s supposed to form, he thinks, but he can’t put together anything more than a feeble “thank you”.

Harry smiles at him anyway, and claps his hands like he’s all done here. “Enjoy then,” he says, hopping to where Louis is still frozen in the doorway. “Come find me when you’re out.”

And, lightning fast and so soft it could just be imagination, he leans in and kisses Louis on the cheek.

Then Louis is alone, with a tub full of bubbles and countless things on his mind. He strips without thinking about it too much, and sinks into the hot water gratefully. As soon as the warmth envelopes him, he knows that this is exactly what he needed, and Harry—Harry knew that too, somehow.

“This is fine,” Louis murmurs, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The inside of his chest is burning, his head is spinning, and he’s up to his neck in more things than water.

It’s fine.

Marshmallow’s sixth race takes place on a beautiful May day. It’s sunny, dry, with just a hint of the approaching summer in the air.

It’s also when everything goes to shit.

It starts out well enough, with Marshmallow pulling ahead of the pack right out of the gate, sailing over fences like an old pro. She runs like she’s got a fire in her, fast and efficient despite how often she trains; she’s already moved up a class, and though Louis doesn’t keep up with the ratings, he’s willing to bet that she’ll be the best newcomer of the season.

They’re in Ludlow today, and Harry has managed to smuggle him into the owners’ area. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder under the gorgeous white arches, barely breathing as they watch the horses sail over another fence. Two already tumbled at the very beginning, and another one just barely manages to make it over the obstacle, stumbling and sending its jockey toppling to the ground.

Harry hisses, grimacing as he watches the horse trot on without a rider, stirrups bouncing. It’s noticeably more difficult, this race, and he’s been antsy even since he went out on the track and realised how tall the fences were.

Louis rubs his shoulder, trying to be reassuring as he follows Marshmallow with his eyes. She’s still holding her own; she rounds the last turn barely half a length away from first place, bumping into her competitors. There’s only one obstacle between her and the final sprint, and Ellie’s pushing her forward with a steady hand.

She falls back just a fraction, leaps along with four other horses. It’s an easy fence, made to be jumped in a nice, clean arch, and Louis is already celebrating in his head. They’ve got this in the bag.

Except then—then time slows, like it does before an explosion in every bad action movie. The air turns to sludge in Louis’s lungs, and he watches, over the span of a quarter second, as one of the horses gets caught in the fence. The momentum throws him sideways, tripping up another horse, and another, and then, on the very edge, knocking into Marshmallow.

She lands, but stumbles. Her legs tangle together, Louis’s heart shoots into his throat, and Ellie flies forward and over her neck in a bizarrely clean arch. She tries to twist as she falls, Louis can tell, but she doesn’t quite make it.

Marshmallow makes it a few more steps, then stops. The rest of the horses gallop on, and leave the finish line in the dust.

There’s an uproar on the ground, lots of cheering and betting tickets flying in the air, but everyone around Louis seems to hold their breath, completely silent; it takes him a second to register that no, actually, there’s plenty of talk, but the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears has drowned it out.

He doesn’t realise that he’s shaking; doesn’t realise he’s folding up and sliding onto the ground until he’s sitting, leaning back against the stand with his head between his knees.

“Louis,” Harry’s voice comes, along with a touch to his wrist, soothing like a wave rolling onto shore in a quiet night. “Louis, she’s okay. They’re both okay.”

Louis’s heart keeps on racing. It’s loud, so loud.

“We should—we need to go down there,” Harry says. Louis can’t quite figure out what the tremble in his voice means. Something happened, just now, but his head is spinning too much—

“Louis,” he says again. He sounds desperate. “Louis, please. I won’t leave you here alone.”

Louis reaches out. It takes a tremendous effort, as if he were drowning and trying to keep his head above the water, but once his fingers brush against the soft wool of Harry’s coat, all this terrifying, suffocating weight lifts off Louis’s shoulders.

A sound trickles in, and then another. Chatter, yelling, laughter, a thousand pairs of feet moving at once and making the stands rumble. And above it all, like a desperate little harmony, Harry’s breathing.

Ellie fell. Ellie fell, and Louis is sitting here panicking like a numpty—

“Lou,” Harry whines. His grip on Louis’s wrist tightens, fingers digging into flesh until Louis can feel his own heartbeat pressing against Harry’s skin.

He looks up. Harry looks scared half to death, white as a sheet, sweat beading on his forehead. Louis’s heart gives one long, slow, agonizing thump at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, out of breath. “I’m sorry—Jesus, let’s go.”

He keeps a hold on Harry’s fingers, slippery as they are, and on the sleeve of his coat. They’re slumped into each other when they stumble down the stairs and toward the stables, both shocked in their own ways.

Louis feels like clawing at his own skin. He’d wanted to close his eyes as soon as he realised what was happening, but his body wouldn’t let him, made him stand there and watch. Had he looked like that, all those months ago?

“Over here!” Liam’s voice carries to them, surprisingly loud over the general din, and he shoves his way through the crowd to lead them to their stall.

Marshmallow is already inside, rubbed down and covered with a blanket, and a woman that Louis recognises as the course veterinarian is running curious fingers over her leg. She seems as calm as ever, though, with her drooping eyelids and ears lolling forward on top of her head, relaxed.

Harry starts shaking as they stand and watch, looking around for Ellie with a visceral kind of fear in his eyes.

He said she was fine.

Louis wraps more firmly around him, half out of a need to comfort him and half because he needs comfort himself.

The stalls on either side of them are empty, the course slowly falling into silence as the horses are led out and everyone important moves into the comfort of the restaurants. Louis looks at the floor, the sky, the staff gathering broken branches out on the track, and finally, at Liam. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, too, has his arms wrapped around himself so tight his knuckles have gone white. He looks like he wants to pace, but he’s making himself stay still while he waits for the verdict.

The vet doesn’t seem particularly concerned, and that’s good, it is. Still, Louis can’t stop his mind from racing. She might have given herself a fright – he’s seen it many times before, horses that were easy and obedient under saddle flat-out refusing to jump a hurdle again because they were scared. She might have—God, she might have an injury that’ll only show later, the next time she's running.

And Ellie—they might not have Ellie anymore.

“She’s fine, Mr Payne,” the vet says finally, smiling a little as she tickles Marshmallow on the pastern. “Get an X-ray as soon as you get home, of course, but there’s no swelling, and she’s not in pain. Clever girl, she is.”

“What do you mean?” Liam frowns.

“She stopped,” the vet says. “You must have missed it – understandable, really, these things really scare the life out of you, don’t they – but some of the stumblers ran on, and I had two horses just keel over as soon as they finished. They had hairline fractures at most, and now we’re dealing with two broken legs.”

“Oh,” Liam mumbles, and he moves to Marshmallow as soon as the stall is free, like he physically can’t stay away. “That’s—yeah. She’s very clever.”

The vet nods, smiles, nails tapping against her clipboard. “That’s me, then,” she says. “Take good care of her, Mr Payne, Mr Styles.”

Harry startles in Louis’s arms, like he hadn’t realised that she saw them idling by. “T—thank you,” he manages to stutter out, though he doesn’t sound like himself. “We will.”

She walks away to the sound of her boots clacking against the concrete, and the three of them look at each other with no idea of what to say. Harry’s shaking has subsided into trembles, and he doesn’t really need to be held anymore, but Louis keeps him there, selfishly, until he moves away to comfort his horse.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and he looks so young it breaks Louis’s heart a little. “Hey, beautiful, how are you doing?”

Marshmallow sighs deep in her belly, her neck relaxed and head hanging low, probably about to go to sleep. Liam’s petting her neck, weaving half-hearted braids into her mane, and when Harry presses his face against her shoulder on the other side, she leans into him.

Louis reaches down and pets her nose. His chest feel terrifyingly tight, barely allowing him to breathe as he stands and looks into the distance – and there, limping slowly away from first aid, are Ellie and Olly. They’re laughing, and Louis experiences a second of wonderful, sweet relief—but then he looks down. At the very big, very obvious sling that’s wrapped around Ellie’s neck, holding her arm in position.

Liam notices them just a few second later, and so does Harry. Louis can pinpoint the moment they both figure out what’s going on, because the air around them changes entirely; becomes hard to breathe.

“Hey, boss,” Olly waves once they make it off the course and through the paddock entrance. “Sorry we took so long.”

“Don’t apologise,” Liam manages to reply incredulously, in a voice so thin it’s barely audible. “What happened?”

“Non-displaced fracture,” Ellie says, putting on a funny voice. She’s smiling, but her eyes are sad too. “And a couple of jostled ribs, I think. I’ve got to get to a real hospital.”

“Yeah, we’ll—“ Liam starts, pointing over his shoulder, but he trails off. He’s looking at the ground, throat working.

“I don’t want you to worry,” says Harry, impressively composed. “I’ll get you anything you need. A—a non-displaced fracture specialist, or something.”

My beautiful boy, Louis thinks.

Ellie walks over to him, and pulls him into a careful, one-armed hug. “Thanks,” she says, and none of them comment on how thick her voice has gone. “I’ll be right as rain in no time, I’m sure, but…”

But. It’s hanging over all of them, like a cloud heavy with rain just before a storm.

“You’re not going to race next week,” Liam takes the plunge.

“Or the ten weeks after that, I’m afraid.”

Silence. Liam stands with his hands in his pockets as he tries to figure out what to say, and Louis moves closer to Harry before he can stop to think about it, needing his familiar warmth.

“You’ll find someone,” Olly says finally, bless him. “I mean—we’re going to Hexham in a few weeks, right?”

Silence – again. Louis’s skin is itching, burning from head to toe with the awkwardness that hangs in the air.

In a few weeks, Olly’s words echo in his head, and he’d bet anything they’re stuck in Liam’s too.

“We are,” Liam ends up saying, a reassuring hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, his eyes hard-set and determined. “We will.”

Louis is not so sure.

As most of humanity tends to do when things go wrong, they get drunk. Hammered. One could every say spectacularly shitfaced.

It’s a couple of days after the race; Ellie’s forearm is in a cast, Harry is moping, and Liam has been glued to his phone for the past forty-eight hours. One of the people he calls is, apparently, Niall, who strolls in with a big smile on his face and a couple of Tesco bags’ worth of booze. (They raid Harry’s fancy bar as well, though he seems to be keen to get away while they’re there. Louis, too, remembers them sitting on those very stools and drinking Cosmos, remembers every minute of that night in excruciating detail.)

Point is, they amass a decent amount of alcohol. Like, enough to supply a medium-sized pub for a night.

And that brings them to—

“You’re being dramatic,” Niall declares, approximately five beers in and completely unaffected. He keeps waving his hands when he speaks, sloshing on Harry’s very expensive rugs. “She’s not, like, famous. You can literally hire anyone.”

“We can’t,” Liam says, enunciating in a way that makes him look like he’s doing facial gymnastics. “Newbies run separate races, this one ish for real jockeys.”

“Ish it?” Harry asks, slumped in his armchair and sporting a lazy grin.

“I’d say fuck you,” Liam says, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to act sober. “But Louis would make a joke.”

“That I would,” Louis smiles, amused. A drunk Liam is rather like a starfish, moving his limbs in completely illogical ways into completely illogical places. He usually ends up tangled with a piece of furniture or, more often than not, Louis. “Cheers.”

He looks up at Harry – because he’s sitting on the ground between his legs, and it’s a wonderful place to be – and raises his drink. Harry reaches over to clink their glasses together. He looks sleepy and hazy and scorchingly hot. If Louis was drunk, he’d probably be sitting in his lap by now.

Thankfully, he foresaw tonight’s events, as well as the fact that alcohol makes him behave like a housecat starved for affection, and made the healthy decision. That is to say, he’s been pouring his screwdrivers into a nearby flowerpot all evening.

He still feels slightly woozy, but he only has Harry’s eyes to blame for that.

“But the main season isn’t on, right?” Niall continues, and it’s only then Louis remembers that they’d been trying to have a conversation. “Like—I bet there’s lots of jockeys out there who don’t have a job.”

“We need someone good,” Liam laments, looking up at the ceiling. He sounds near tears; Louis is going to have to take his drink away soon. “She has to plate. Place. Louis, water.”

“That’s rude,” Harry gasps, and Louis giggles as he reaches for one of the water bottles they’d prepared for this very reason.

“Here you go, Lime,” he says as he hands it to Liam, and pats him on the head for good measure. Liam frowns, like he’s noticed something is off with the way Louis said his name, but no matter how much he frowns, he can’t figure it out.

Drunk Liam is Louis’s favourite.

After he’s taken a sip of water, he continues, pointing at Niall: “I’ve called everyone I know, they’re all signed to someone else. They can’t just up and race a random horse.”

“I could do it,” Niall shrugs, looking out of the window like he can see anything in the blackness behind it. “How hard can it be?”

“Very hard,” Harry says, sounding very important and squinting as he tries to figure out where Niall begins and ends. “It’s very hard.”

Nobody says anything after that, and Louis laughs so hard he has to hide it in his knees.

Harry falls asleep soon after, his legs draped over an armrest and head tilted back. The line of his jaw is sharp and prominent, drawing Louis’s eye and holding him hostage. He can still recall how it felt against his lips, the warmth and glow of Harry’s skin.

“We should go to bed,” Niall says from his spot on the floor, looking up at the ceiling like it’s the night sky and he’s picking out constellations. Louis is a little scared of how calm and articulate he is, considering the amount of drinks he’s downed. “I have patients.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Louis points out.

“Oh,” says Niall. “Okay. I guess I don’t have patients.”

“You should take more time off, you know,” Louis tells him as he stands up, carefully dislodging the hand that Harry’s left resting on his shoulder. They’ve turned off the lights, and Liam’s eyes glisten in the darkness as he watches Louis collect empty glasses.

“Who, me?” asks Niall.

“Yes, you. You work too much.”

“That’s outrageous,” he defends himself, a step away from shouting. Harry, thankfully, doesn’t even stir. “Six days a week is not too much. I’ve been thinking about Sundays, actually, what do you think—“

“No,” Louis jumps in. He’s been allowed to cut physio down to twice a week, but if Niall extended his hours, Louis would probably be the first person he’d bully into an extra session. “You practically live there as it is. You’ve got to get out more. Date someone, or something.”

“Mreh,” Niall says, and startles Louis into a laugh. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m heaps of fun,” Louis says, bending over him to reach all his empty beer bottles. “I invented the word. I’m the spirit of fun. The ghost of Christmas fun.”

Liam snorts. “He’s right,” he says, slurring his words but much more sober than he was right after he discovered the joys of Jack and Coke. “You should have fun. Louis knows these things.”

“Aw, Liam,” Louis pats him on the cheek on his way to the kitchen. “That’s adorable, thank you.”

Liam grumbles something and turns over, facing Niall. Louis leaves them behind to put the dirty glasses in the sink and get a garbage bag, but their voices still carry, down the hall and in through the open door.

“We should go out,” Liam is saying. Louis’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “To the cinema, or something.”

“What for?” Niall replies.

“Fun. Do you like superheroes?”

Louis feels like a mother on her child’s first day of kindergarten. Liam’s making friends.

“I saw an Iron Man movie, I think.”

“I’ll show you the others,” Liam says, and he sounds so excited about it, bless him. “They’re really good. We can go see Civil War together.”

Louis gasps, clutching a mostly-empty bottle of vodka to his chest even though there’s no one to see him. They were supposed to see Civil War together. Liam and him.

But then—

“Really?” Niall says, and there’s a happy lilt to his voice that Louis has never heard before. “I mean—yes. We can do that.”

“Nice,” Liam replies, sounding sleepy and definitely pleased. “Good. Give me your number.”

There’s a thunk, and a hiss, and then badly muffled peals of laughter. Louis walks back in to Niall clutching his forehead, grinning like a madman, and tapping the screen of Liam’s mobile. Over on the sofa, Liam is lying face-first in a pillow, wearing a deliriously happy smile.

The sombre mood will probably come back in full force tomorrow morning, but it’s gone for now, and it’s enough to make Louis’s heart warm. He’s smiling when he points Niall to an empty room, and when he softly nudges Harry and steers him all the way to bed with a hand on his waist.

When he comes back for Liam, though, he refuses to move from his spot.

“Comfy,” he implores. “Comfy, Louis. Leave me.”

“You’re going to be in so much pain when you wake up,” Louis tells him. Harry’s sofas are pretty, but certainly not examples of proper lumbar support. “You’ll kill me.”

“Nope,” Liam says happily, popping the p. He turns over and reaches up, waiting patiently until Louis wraps his hands around his forearms, naively thinking he’s changed his mind.

In the next second, he’s lying right by Liam’s side, his best friend’s arms wrapped around him like the tentacles of a particularly cuddly octopus.

“No,” Louis protests, but it’s weak. He knows from experience that Liam’s arms are like a vice.

“No,” Liam replies. “Not going up. Sleep here.”

“Li—“

“Nuh. Is your knee okay?”

Louis can’t quite believe him. He looks and sounds like he should’ve been in bed ages ago – he might be talking in his sleep, actually – but he’s still remembered to ask.

“The knee’s fine, Payno,” Louis tells him, and pats him on the head. “I don’t fancy a pinched nerve in my back, though.”

“Shhh,” Liam hisses, so emphatically he spits on Louis’s face a little. “Niall will help you with that. Sleep now.”

He’s pouting, and Louis wants to laugh at him, but instead he gives in and closes his eyes. It’s only then that he realises how tired he is, his eyelids refusing to lift again, but he doesn’t mind. He’s warm and comfortable with Liam wrapped all around him; the cold bed waiting for him upstairs doesn’t seem very tempting in comparison.

“Goodnight, then,” he sighs, resting his head on Liam’s shoulder.

“Night,” Liam replies. There’s still something he wants to say, though, Louis can tell.

“What?” he pokes him in the ribs, already sinking into sleep, thoughts fuzzy.

“Nothing, just,” Liam starts. He’s whispering, and one of his hands has found its way to the centre of Louis’s back. “We do have a jockey who could run.”

Louis’s blood runs cold. Every last one of his nerve endings flares to life, effectively waking him up.

“Liam,” he says, at full volume and dead serious, ready to talk about this and put it to rest, but Liam—Liam’s asleep.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers as his throat constricts. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t sleep a whole lot, after that.

Louis is an idiot. An utter, absolute, bloody idiot.

“Trousers off, if you would,” the doctor grins at him. The tag he’s got pinned to his white coat declares him Dr Corden, and he’s wearing a friendly smile. In any other situation, Louis would probably be joking right back.

This isn’t really the time, though. Not when his heart is beating so hard he feels it in every inch of his body.

“Right,” he says, then wiggles out of his jeans. He’s wearing his nicest boxers underneath – if there’s one thing his mother has taught him, it’s to always wear nice underwear when you’re going to the doctor’s. “Right, yeah.”

“And back up on the table, please,” Dr Corden smiles again. He doesn’t seem to mind that Louis just left his trousers in a heap right there on the floor. “Mr Tomlinson. Can I call you Louis?”

Louis nods. “Please.”

“Wonderful. My name is James, I’m an orthopedist, and I work with the BHA, but you obviously already know all that.”

The BHA. God, Louis feels faint.

“As far as I can tell, they didn’t monitor you after your injury, is that right?”

He nods again, wrapping his arms around himself. “I mean…the verdict was that I was never going to walk again. You can’t exactly blame them.”

“No, I guess not,” James laughs. “But you’re here today, aren’t you? Clearly you’ve been underestimated.”

Louis blushes a little.

“Alright, Louis,” James says, setting his clipboard down and pulling on a pair of gloves instead. “Just to make sure you’re up to speed – I’m responsible for examining you, and I’ll be sending my findings to the CMA, but he might still need to call you in after. This is a fairly rare case.”

“Sorry—the CMA?” Louis feels naked completely, not just from the waist down. He shivers a little, and bites the back of his hand.

“Chief Medical Adviser,” James smiles. He’s being so kind it makes Louis want to cry a little. “Don’t be nervous, mate. Won’t be a minute.”

“Sure,” Louis smiles. His eye starts twitching.

James looks at him like he knows what he’s thinking, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he moves to the table Louis is sitting on, and doesn’t allow for so much as a second of panic before touching his knee with cool fingers.

Louis won’t look. Can’t look. He’s been avoiding the scars for months upon months on end, and it’s a carefully practiced dance by now. He stares at his right leg and his right leg only when he gets dressed and when he goes to bed and now, even though James isn’t being particularly gentle while poking him.

“I’ve got to say, your X-ray wasn’t very convincing,” he says, and runs a finger down the knee scar. It makes Louis shiver in the most disgusting way possible. “The femur has healed wonderfully, but then they usually do. You knee, on the other hand…”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He’s an idiot for being here. Such an idiot.

But he wants this. He wants it more than anything in the world, perhaps with the exception of Harry Styles.

“I know,” is what he tells James. “I know it’s not great, but—“

“Do you know, though? I just want to make sure you understand, Louis,” he looks up, a frown settled between his eyebrows. It looks wrong on his round, cheerful face. “This knee,” he says, and taps the very top of it. Louis tries to hide his flinch. “It won’t ever be a hundred per cent again. It won’t even be seventy per cent. More like thirty, if you’re lucky.”

And he has been. He wakes up every morning expecting the pain to be back, to be stuck to his leg like a leech. He still reaches out for his cane before he’s fully come to, already prepared to spend an excruciating hour bending and stretching and air biking until he doesn’t want to throw up.

None of that ever happens, though. The pain is minor enough that he’s accepted it as a part of him, and barely notices it as he goes about his mornings excited to go to Harry’s. And the cane—the cane still leans against the wall by his bedside, but it’s little more than a reminder now.

Please, he thinks. Please God, James, anyone. Let me have this one more time.

“I do know that,” he says finally. James is looking at him with his head cocked to the side, eyes warm but wary. “I do. I’m not Tony McCoy, I won’t be out there jumping fences at forty, but I just—please. Just give me one season.”

James’ expression doesn’t change. “Are you in pain when you walk?”

“No.”

“When you ride?”

Louis bites his lip. “No.”

“What did your doctor say?”

“She, um,” Louis scratches his head. “She said she’ll only refer me to you because there’s no chance in hell you’ll pass me.”

James laughs. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Louis wrings his hands where they’re resting in his lap. This is his one chance. There aren’t any do-overs after this; this is it.

“Niall says it’s structurally fine,” he starts. “The—the tendons and muscles and everything, most of it grew back the way it was supposed to.”

“It’s on the inside, Louis. Your joint isn’t cushioned properly anymore. Everything’s aligned, but it would be so easy to break it again,” he looks earnest now, sitting down in his chair and looking up. Louis tries to remember that he’s got his best interests at heart. Probably.

“One season,” he repeats. “That’s all I want. All I need. I’ll come in for a checkup every week, I’ll take Niall to the races with me, I don’t care, just—one season. Until after the National.”

James raises his eyebrows. “The National? Bit farfetched, isn’t it?”

Louis shrugs. His legs feel cold, the raised skin of his scars stinging even though nobody has touched it. “She’s a damn good horse. She’ll make it there.”

“Who did you say the owner was?” James asks, then sighs and pulls a stack of papers out of the organiser on his desk.

“Harry Styles,” Louis smiles. Just saying Harry’s name gives him such a bloody thrill. It makes him feel warmer, safer. Like all his dreams aren’t on the line right now.

“Never heard of him,” James replies. He’s writing something, and then pressing his stamp down on the paper with a noise that makes Louis flinch. “Is he one of those spoilt Dukes thrice removed?”

“No,” Louis says, with a ferocity that’s entirely inappropriate for the setting. James isn’t attacking Harry, he doesn’t even know him. Relax. “He’s…”

A clear sky after a day of rain. The sun, and the moon, and the stars too. The reason Louis gets out of bed in the morning. Everything; absolutely everything.

“He’s great.”

James smiles, looking into his papers. He shuffles them around on the desk, and Louis spots a familiar blue and red letterhead. His stomach freefalls out of his body and lands on the pristine tiled floor right next to his jeans.

“I’m glad to hear that,” James says finally, like they haven’t just spent several minutes in complete silence. “And I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that he can sign one of the most popular jockeys of this generation.”

It takes Louis a second—a minute, really, the words reverberating emptily in his brain, void of meaning. One of the most popular jockeys of this generation. It’s only when James stands up and forces the stack of papers into his hand when he realises that—that—

“Are you serious?” he asks, entirely breathless. His eyes fill up with tears before he can so much as think of controlling his reaction, and he probably looks like a child when he looks up at the doctor. “Is this—really? For real?”

James pats him on the shoulder. “One season, Louis. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Louis says immediately. His hands have started shaking, the stack of papers crinkling in his grip.

“Good. If you don’t retire next year, I’m going to come after you.”

“No, I—I will, I—“ the oxygen in his lungs isn’t enough, suddenly, and he has to pause to take in panicked little breaths. James looks concerned as he helps him bend forward and put his head between his knees, rubbing his back.

Approved, one of the papers says, the world blurring right in front of Louis’s eyes until it stops making sense. He’s been approved.

He’s going to race.

“I’m going to be sick,” says Louis, and proceeds to throw up his breakfast into the closest bin.

It’s the best day ever.

The only issue with being back in the saddle – literally and figuratively – is that they’ve yet to tell Harry. Liam has reasoned that there’s no reason to give him hope only to take it away if the doctor told Louis no, and Louis had agreed easily enough.

There’s nothing easy about this, though, about sitting in Harry’s office with the windows wide open, feeling the breeze soothe his red cheeks.

“You’re going to ride,” Harry repeats again, looking from Liam to Louis and then back. He’s actually sitting behind his desk for once, and cuts an imposing figure. His hair is pulled up into a bun, exposing the sharp angles of his face, and together with the frown on his face and his steepled hands makes him look stern and serious; nothing like the Harry whom Louis knows. “You’re going to ride Marshmallow. In Hexham, which is,” he looks at his kitten calendar, “in fifteen days.”

Louis feels terribly off-kilter. All the meetings they’ve had in this office have been informal, casual, even friendly. Now, though, the solid body of Harry’s wooden desk creates a divide between them, and it might as well be the Grand Canyon with how far away it makes him feel.

“That’s right,” Liam says, smiling. He either hasn’t noticed how strange Harry is being, or is studiously ignoring it. “The doctor said he’s good to go, and he’s been riding for months now, so we really just need to dust off—“

“What if I say no?” Harry asks. It feels rather like he’s reached into Louis’s chest and ripped his heart out.

He looks so serious about it, and Louis is suddenly drenched in cold sweat. Harry had been so supportive, had bought him the bloody breeches he’s wearing right now, hoping to go straight on the track with Marshmallow after they’re done.

Except. He won’t be going anywhere, if the wild frown on Harry’s face is anything to go by.

Liam, too, looks gobsmacked. “Why would you say no?” he asks before Louis can try.

Their eyes meet. He means to look out of the window behind Harry, really, at the grassy slopes of the paddock, because he’s heard somewhere that green is supposed to be calming, but Harry doesn’t let him.

His eyes are green too, Louis realises as they stare at each other. He’s shaking in his chair, trying not to lose his mind completely; opposite him, stoic and cold and still heart-wrenchingly beautiful, sits Harry. Louis cannot read a single thing in his gaze. It’s like the shutters have been closed – like for the first time since they met each other, Harry is making a conscious effort to keep him out.

“Why would you say no?” Louis repeats, even though his throat feels like he’s being strangled.

Harry blinks, slow and thorough. The line of his lips is turned down when he leans back in his chair and says, nonchalant: “I wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Liam claps his hands, clearly anxious to get out. Even with the windows open, the air has gone stuffy and stale around them. “Thanks, Harry. We’ll go and get to it, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” he says, looking down at the desktop. He’s stuck a bright pink post it right in the centre of it, and is doodling an erratic cluster of circles in one corner. He’s pouting a little, Louis thinks. It’s the first sign of emotion he’s shown since they walked into the office.

Liam leads the way out, all but running. Louis follows, but he can’t help but stop in the doorway for just a second.

“Bye, Harry,” he says, soft. He waits for a second, two, ten; Harry keeps his eyes down, and doesn’t say anything back.

Okay, then.

Louis resolves to not let it bother him. He’s got so many things to prove to himself, to Liam, to everyone who thought he was done for good, and whatever strop Harry’s throwing will have to wait.

He throws himself into training instead. His life had been a trainwreck after he fell, and this, zooming down the track at actual race speed, clearing fence after fence until the bones in his lower back feel like they’re vibrating, feels like being put back in the rails. Marshmallow has the energy of a fireball, burning bright even when it’s five in the morning and Louis’s eyes are closing, and he and Liam slide right back into the familiar dynamics of their working relationship. Every day, they bicker about Louis wearing an air jacket, then about his diet, and about his hunched back or heavy elbows or stiff thighs, even though they both know his form could rival the best. They end their days by singing along to Queen in the car (and Liam usually ends up sleeping at Louis’s, but that’s neither here nor there).

Harry doesn’t come to check up on them once; not to ask how it’s going, not to bring tea and biscuits or just kiss Marshmallow for no reason like he usually does. It’s unsettling, but Louis’s exhaustion is so bad he dozes off on the way home most days, and this confrontation clearly needs to happen at a time when they’re both capable of discussing things like adults. He still has no idea what happened, and his heart hurts every time he sees Harry’s silhouette standing in one of the windows, but—later. Later, he’ll get everything back to normal.

The night before they leave for Hexham, Louis lies in bed and listens to Harry talking on the phone just behind the wall. He’s laughing, and the rumble of his voice is so familiar it almost makes Louis cry. Missing him is a physical ache, little pinpricks underneath his skin that remind him he hasn’t touched Harry in almost two weeks.

He falls asleep with his hand pressed against the wall.

“I’m out of my mind,” Louis says, turning on his heel and stalking to the other end of the corridor. People are glaring at him, and the horses toss their heads nervously when he walks by, but he can’t stop. “I can’t do this, Li. What was I thinking, we have to—“

“We’re not going home,” Liam says as he jogs after him. He puts his hands on Louis’s shoulders when he catches up, effectively stopping him. “You’re going to do some breathing exercises, get on your horse, and win this bloody race.”

Louis searches for a hint of doubt in his eyes, anything to suggest that he’s unsure about Louis’s ability to handle it out there, but he finds nothing. Liam looks earnest and excited, entirely too puppy-like, hair flopping into his face.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers, letting all his guards down like he only can around his best friend. “I don’t know how—I’ve forgotten everything. I’ll probably start her off running in the opposite direction.”

“Louis,” Liam says, serious, and puts a hand on his cheek, “you were on the track at six this morning, and you didn’t come back for two hours. You could run it in your sleep. So could Marshmallow.”

“But what if I—“

“No,” says Liam. “No. We trained. We trained enough. You used to be a literal superstar, and not all of it was down to Simon’s publicists. You can do this.”

Louis closes his eyes and swallows. He feels swollen and clammy and shaky all at the same time – it’s familiar, really, but he never did learn to enjoy the nerves, to feed off of them like other jockeys do.

It’s half an hour until the bell, Louis knows. His entire body feels like a clock, ticking and getting more restless with every second. His knee is the only thing that has been good so far, has withstood the training and the pacing and the extra exercise that he put himself through. He’s almost completely confident it’s not going to give out in the middle of the race.

“I need someone to hold my hand,” he breathes out, curling his trembling fingers into fists.

“I can go get Harry?” Liam suggests immediately, bless his heart, but the thought makes Louis grimace. They lost Harry to the owners’ lounge as soon as they parked, and it seems that he’ll be watching the race with the posh crowd today. “Or Niall, even. Olly. Anyone you want, just tell me.”

Louis huffs a laugh. “Just hold my bloody hand.”

Liam grins, like a laugh is what he was going for from the beginning, and wraps one of Louis’s shaking hands in his own. It’s—grounding. Incredibly so.

“You’ll be golden,” Liam promises, and the warm reassurance in his voice goes a long way in helping Louis settle down. “Completely fine. This is what you’re meant to be doing, remember?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, crushing Liam’s knuckles. “Yeah.”

It’s really just that—everything feels completely different. New, like Louis hasn’t run in dozens of meetings like this. He’d almost cried at the weigh-in earlier, just because the number on the scale was so different from what he used to see. He’s dropped a few pounds to make sure he stays within the guidelines, but it’s nothing compared to the diet Simon used to scare them all into. There was a time when Louis was barely more than skin and bones, and it’s only now that he realises.

It’s also the fact that Simon is just – gone. After he made Louis the nation’s darling through his friends in the newspapers, he’d spend every race day breathing down Louis’s neck, hounding him for interviews and straightening his silks to make sure he represents Cowell properly. Now, Louis’s silks are wrinkled and half untucked, and the only person who should care is making sure that Louis is alright instead.

“Twenty-five minutes,” Liam says after he’s given him a while to get lost in his thoughts. “You’ve got to go soon.”

Louis nods, and it’s then that Olly and Niall appear, walking in from the spectators’ area with a cup of tea and a pint respectively. They seem to be getting along surprisingly well, even though Olly was suspicious of Louis bringing his physiotherapist at first. Niall’s wide-eyed enthusiasm managed to win him over quite quickly.

“Louis!” Niall shouts when he sees them, raising his beer in the air. Louis can’t believe this is what he’s like outside of the office. They could’ve been friends, real friends, months ago. “I think it’s starting soon, mate. There’s lots of horses out there.”

Louis laughs. Marshmallow is, indeed, the only horse left in her stall, and Olly makes quick work of leading her out.

“I can do this,” Louis tells the ceiling.

“You can do this,” Liam claps him on the shoulder, and then steps back.

Louis keeps his head down while they walk down to the track, trying to block out any and all distractions. His blood is burning in his veins like liquid fire, thrumming in his wrists and his temples, soaking in the adrenaline.

Twelve horses in the starting field. One Louis, one Marshmallow, and one Olly, who lets them go with a smile and a bow. One and a half miles, eight fences – one jump over water, two open ditches. A breeze, really, if only Louis didn’t feel like throwing up.

He clutches the reins in one hand, trying to remember what one usually does before taking off. He’s been doing this since before he entered puberty, but his mind is so blank this might as well be his first time. He doesn’t recognise any of the colours in the running, and the jockeys all look the same.

It’s probably less than five minutes now, and everyone around him is putting on their goggles, which—right. Goggles.

Louis makes sure that the strap is flat around the back of his cap, and silently thanks the universe for gifting him with a dry track today. He’d hate to be all muddy when their winners’ picture is taken.

As if reading his thoughts, Marshmallow whinnies under him.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, and pats her on the neck. She’s alert now, not fidgety like the other horses but definitely not relaxed. “We’re going to win this, that’s why we’re here. You’ll be moving up a class, you’ll see.”

They don’t actually need to win – a finish in the first three is more than enough to invite another performance review, but Louis has never done anything halfway.

The starting line is being pulled taut now, a teasing flash of white that flickers in and out of sight as it twists in the wind. Louis tests his stirrups, tightens the reins, slides the handle of his crop between his fingers. He feels muscle memory taking over, finally; it bolsters him as he trots forward, weaving in-between horses that are all at least a hand taller than Marshmallow, long and lean and athletic-looking.

“Alright, gorgeous girl,” he whispers as he shifts his weight down to his calves, ready to sit up. “Let’s go get them.”

It takes another ten seconds of feverish heartbeat drumming in Louis’s ears, of Marshmallow’s even breathing, of the din of conversation that rises from the stands. Louis is tempted to look up into the owners’ area, find flyaway hair and brilliant green eyes, but years of training make sure that he keeps looking at the stretch of turf ahead.

He takes a breath in, then lets it out. Underneath all the nerves, he can feel pure, absolute happiness shivering through his body.

When the bell sounds, he’s ready. Marshmallow takes off at a hearty gallop, steady as she rounds the first corner. Fence number one looms in front of them - Louis has jumped countless obstacles in the past two weeks, is ready for the lurch and the momentum that tries to pull him down, but there’s something uniquely exhilarating about this one. It’s real.

She jumps the second one without a hitch, and the third, so solidly in the middle of the pack that Louis bumps elbows with several different people. It’s good, though, and it’s what they’ve trained her to do.

He pulls her back just a little before the water, still balancing out the third turn and full of a gnawing kind of worry. It’s a long, long jump, and the one that made wrinkles appear on Liam’s forehead when he went over the course map. If they get this one right, they’ve as good as won.

His heart stutters, out of rhythm and rising up the back of his throat. He’s scared, so bloody scared of slipping off and going right back to the hospital room, but he wants this so much more than he is afraid. This is where he belongs, and he knows it – it’s in the whistle of the wind in his ears, the fall of his horse’s hooves that reverberates through his bones, in the air that smells of turf and leather. In the beautiful, bubbly feeling that fills him up from the inside, spreading warmth all the way to his fingertips.

The horses in front of them rise over the fence like waves, one after another. A few of them splash, but they all make it to the other side.

Louis loosens the reins, pulls his arms in, and lets his horse jump. Later, he’ll conveniently forget to tell Liam that he also closes his eyes.

Gravity keeps a stubborn hold on him as they rise into the air, pulling on the back of his silks then tipping him dangerously far forward when they make it over the top, intent on pulling him out of the stirrups. Louis leans back and grins into the wind; the landing even startles a laugh out of him. That’s it. They’ve made it.

Marshmallow seems just as exhilarated, pushing forward like a steamroller. Louis only holds her back a little, just enough to leave her best for last.

They sail over the first ditch, then the second one, as if they were barely there. Louis’s cheeks are stinging, his fingers have gone numb, and he feels more alive that he ever has.

The second round goes as smoothly as the first, steady. Fence after fence, Marshmallow leaves behind yet another horse, and once the final sprint opens in front of them, wide and green and seemingly endless, there are only two left. Louis rises high off her back and shifts his weight to the front, then lets her fight for it.

“Come on, beautiful,” he shouts, face so close to her neck he can feel the heat radiating off of her. “Let’s go.”

He thinks he can hear the crowd roaring in his ears, and the thunder of a dozen sets of hooves that rises behind them like a tidal wave. The stands fly past in a blur of colours, and the air ripples over the finish line in the distance.

“Come on!” Louis shouts again, the air sharp against his face, burning its way all the way down to his lungs. He’s all but standing up, the reins wrapped around his fingers tight enough to hurt, moving with his horse, doing everything he can to help her to the end.

They gallop past one of the horses, passing wide and leaving him behind. Louis can see the finish posts now, can all but hear the camera click as he stretches his arms forward one more time—

They’re second.

They’re second, and Louis is laughing, raising his crop into the air like he’s just won the Ascot.

“Well done,” he grins as he slows Marshmallow down, sitting in the saddle and trying to balance as she restlessly trots on. “Well done, lovely. Thank you.”

She doesn’t hear him, sweating and throwing her head about as she tries to calm herself, but he knows he’ll get to thank properly later. Now—now he’s got to get off and realise what just happened.

The winner – Forget Me Not, or something equally cheesy, Louis thinks – is just ahead of them, kicking nervously as a stable lad leads him off the track and into the winners’ enclosure. The jockey is grinning as he sits right on top, even though his face is flecked with dirt, and Louis—Louis can’t find it in himself to be even a little bit jealous. This was so much more than enough; they have time to win the cheers and the trophies and the flower garlands.

They have time, because Louis is back in the saddle, running the most talented horse that English racing has seen in decades.

The noise slowly dies down as all the horses finish, a little dirty but otherwise sound, and the crowd starts trickling out to gather around the betting booths. Louis spots Olly’s blond head bobbing among the many people milling about, and gently pulls Marshmallow to a stop to wait for him.

“Yes!” he shouts as soon as he’s within hearing distance, one of his arms raised above his head and grinning from ear to ear. “You smashed that,” he says as he skids to a stop, immediately extricating the reins out of Louis’s hands; he hands them over only a little reluctantly. “Well done, Louis,” he continues, petting Marshmallow’s face and scratching her on the cheek. “Seriously. Liam almost pissed himself.”

Louis laughs as he settles down, comfortable in the saddle. His knee protests a little, but it’s a welcome kind of pain, a companion rather than a hindrance. “I assume you filmed it?”

Olly smiles up at him, winking. “Course I did. I’ll show you on the way home.”

Louis pokes him in the shoulder with his crop, and they both laugh until they’ve reached the gate and Louis has to dismount. He does so automatically, utterly used to it. It’s like he never left and like everything has changed, all at the same time.

Secretly, Louis still expects to close his eyes and wake up back in bed. Right then, everything around him feels too good to be true.

Olly leaves him with a wave and scuttles toward the stables, leading Marshmallow away to get her taken care of. Louis takes a minute to stretch and breathe in, basking in the moment and imagining the bath he’s going to take when he gets back to—

Shit.

It’s not quite enough to get rid of his good mood, but he’s much more sombre when he walks inside. His boots are chafing; he’s going to get them off, change out of his colours, and then go look for Harry. If there’s a right time to fix whatever this is, it’s most definitely now.

Except—he doesn’t quite make it to the changing room.

As soon as he steps foot in the stable, now resembling a hive with the constant noise and motion, he hears somebody call his name.

“Louis!” it carries over people’s heads right to him, and recognizing the voice is the easiest thing in the world.

“Harry?” he calls back, turning in place, but it’s impossible to see. There are horses being led out, stable lads, vets, valets, jockeys returning off the track, all tangling together. “Harry!”

“Lou!” he shouts again. He sounds—desperate, and Louis suddenly feels like climbing on top of the person closest to him just to see, to get there faster, because no matter what Harry has done, Louis’s instincts are screaming at him to keep him safe. “Louis, over here!”

It turns a few heads, but nothing more. Louis gets jostled and moved and carried away by the crowd; Harry’s voice seems closer now, and out of the corner of his eye, Louis spots a familiar striped coat.

He turns around and blindly reaches out. His fingers just manage to curl into the edge of a sleeve.

“Harry,” he says when whoever’s wearing the coat tries to yank it out of his grip, and then, finally, everything seems to still. The person standing between them shuffles away, glaring at Louis for the elbows they’d received in the ribs.

Louis doesn’t care, because Harry turns around, and he looks—wild.

“Louis,” he breathes, and a brilliant smile lights up his face. Louis feels his eyes sting with tears just seeing him, seeing this, his lovely boy who wears his heart on his sleeve.

He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but he never gets the chance.

Harry reaches out, pulls him in by the collar, and kisses him.

Louis squeaks in surprise, but his body settles into it before he can so much as stop and think about it. Harry is warm, so warm against Louis’s cold-bitten cheeks, and his hands are gentle, reverent, when he cups Louis’s face. His lips are soft, so careful where they’re pressed against Louis’s, barely moving at all, just waiting and breathing him in.

And Harry—Harry’s shaking , Louis realises.

He wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrists, stroking the silky skin on the underside, where his pulse is running wild.

“Hey,” he whispers, but he doesn’t pull away; he can’t. The noise and commotion around them seem to have disappeared – it’s just him and Harry, and he wants this, needs this. “Hey.”

Harry kisses him again in lieu of saying something back, another soft press of lips that gives Louis butterflies. His head is spinning, he feels giddy when he leans into the kiss, runs a soothing hand through Harry’s hair. The race is all but forgotten; everything that matters is in Louis’s arms now, trembling like a leaf.

“Hey,” he tries again when he pulls away, but Harry’s eyes remain stubbornly closed. Louis takes his hand and tugs him along, unceremoniously shoving people out of the way until he finds Marshmallow’s stall, blessedly empty and just dark enough so they’re out of sight. His thoughts are going haywire, the rational part of his brain battling his body, which just wants to get lost in whatever Harry has to offer. He’s clearly not okay, and they’re fighting.

“Harry?” he tries, tentative, never letting go of his hand. He looks tired in the wan light, with circles underneath his eyes that Louis hadn’t noticed before. “What’s going on, love? What happened?”

The pet name works like a charm. Harry looks up, eyes as shiny as his lips, and he looks like he wants to speak, but no words come out. He shakes his head and points at his chest, heaving rapidly underneath his half-open shirt.

“Can’t,” he gets out, obviously struggling. “Just—kiss me.”

“Harry—“

“Please,” he asks, and Louis is powerless.

He wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders as if he was moving in for a hug, making sure to pet every inch of him, to soak up the feverish heat of his skin and give him relief in return. It’s even softer than before when he leans in, just lips pressed to lips. He can hear, feel Harry struggling for breath now, and he rubs his shoulders, his back, anything he can to help him relax.

Harry’s hands land on his waist unsure, so light Louis can barely feel them through the thin material of his colours. He shifts his weight, presses against one of them, trying to let Harry know that it’s okay, anything is okay, Louis would give him everything he asked and the world on top of that.

Harry breathes in, shuddery but deep. His arms lock around Louis’s waist, pulling their bodies flush with each other. His lips slacken, and eventually he separates their mouths, only to lean in again and bury his head in Louis’s shoulder.

He had been calm, before, but it only takes seconds before his breathing feels ragged again. It’s when Louis hears sniffles against his shoulder that every cell in his body screams in alarm, his heart clenching painful.

“Shh, darling,” he whispers, a hand in Harry’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s alright, whatever it is, it’s alright.”

Silently, Harry shakes his head. His fingers curl against Louis’s back. “I’m sorry,” he says, remarkably put together. “Lou, I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Louis tells him, though he knows full well there is. It’s just—he’d probably forgive Harry anything, especially when he’s like this.

“No,” Harry shakes his head. He pulls away, but only far enough to look Louis in eye. “No, I shouldn’t have—there’s no excuse for what I did, I just really,” he trails off, looks down. Swallows. “I was so scared,” he says, and it’s so quiet Louis barely picks it up.

He touches Harry’s cheek; revels in the way Harry leans into the touch, eyes close and a hint of a sad smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Scared?” he asks. His entire body is aching with the need to touch Harry, to reassure him.

He nods. One of his hands leaves Louis’s waist to tug at his own lip. “After what happened to Ellie, I just. I was so happy for you when you told me you were going to race, but I kept seeing it in my head, the way she flew out of the saddle like she didn’t weigh anything, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it happening to you, I couldn’t—“ he stops to breathe, lips trembling. Louis’s throat constricts. He’s ready to meet Harry’s gaze when he looks up, trying to pour everything he wants to say into one look. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

He’s tugging on Louis’s cravat desperately, probably unaware of it. “But I understand now, I promise I do. You belong out there, you just—you’re so beautiful, do you know that? I’ve never seen you smile the way you did when you finished that race. I couldn’t look away from the screen, you...” he trails off there, with another look into Louis’s eyes. His are clear now, free of the walls he’s had up for weeks, and Louis feels like he’s falling head-first into the green pools of them, never to surface again. “You’re breathtaking.”

Louis is crying now, he thinks. If he isn’t, he’s damn close. “You won’t lose me,” he says first, intent on letting Harry know. “Not ever, I promise you. If I fall again, then I fall, but I’m not leaving you, love. There’s no way.”

His hand has ended up wrapped around Harry’s wrist again, and he feels the pulse underneath his fingertips jump.

“And I don’t—I don’t want you to be sorry. It’s okay.”

Harry shakes his head. “I wasn’t there for your first race,” he says, eyes big and miserable. “I should’ve been with you.”

While they’re having this conversation, Louis might as well just go all out. He puts his hand on his heart, watching Harry to make sure he’s caught the gesture. “You were,” he says, and smiles.

Harry takes a sharp breath. “Louis,” he says, voice thick. He’s been touching Louis everywhere he can reach, his face and his neck and his waist, running his fingers through the hair on top of his head that’s messy from the helmet.

“Harry,” he smiles back, even though he inexplicably feels like crying. Something—something is happening, obviously hanging in the air all around them, but he can’t tell what it is. His lips are still on fire, tingling with the ghost of Harry’s mouth on his.

“Louis,” Harry repeats, and then, much softer: “Lou. I’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head. “I already told you, apology accepted.”

“Not for that,” says Harry. Both of his arms are back around Louis’s waist now, settled there with palms flat against his back like he wants another hug, but isn’t quite sure how to ask for it. “I’m sorry for, uh. You know, jumping you like that.”

Louis can’t help the laugh that falls out of his mouth, but Harry takes it in stride, his own lips curling up a little.

“That’s okay,” Louis tells him, and tries desperately to ignore the fire that’s been ignited just underneath his skin, the yearning that eats away at him every day. “I didn’t mind.”

Harry touches his lips. “It still felt right,” he says, then blinks in surprise, like maybe he hadn’t meant to let that slip. Louis, too, wishes he could have kept it inside, before yet another piece of his heart chipped away.

He can be completely happy being Harry’s friend. He’s already told himself this, and his brain is in complete agreement – it’s the rest of his body that keeps betraying him, keeps gravitating towards Harry like he’s the world and Louis is the moon, always chasing him but always at a distance.

It’s probably a good time to let go now, to stop clutching Harry like it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in years. Louis doesn’t want to, though. He never wanted to, and he never will, not until he’s old and shriveled and lonely and Harry is off somewhere being happy and raising a brood of children.

“Louis,” Harry’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, and he’s momentarily shocked to see him young and long-haired and doe-eyed. “Where did you go?” he’s asking, smiling that smile, the one that Louis’s and Louis’s only.

“Just, you know,” he shrugs. “Thinking. Should we go find Liam? There might be some important people you need to schmooze with.”

And he moves to walk away; though putting space between their bodies feels like fighting gravity itself, it needs to be done, and it needs to be done now, before he does something he can’t take back. Harry stops him before he has a chance to move.

“Wait,” he says, and the smile is gone from his face and his voice. He’s nervous again, fiddling with the lapels of his coat, toes pointed inwards. There’s something fragile between them still, has been there for as long as they’ve been talking. “I—can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Louis replies without thinking. “Anything.”

Harry crowds back into his personal space without invitation. Louis can’t resist pulling him closer.

“So…I have this friend,” he starts, and Louis suppresses a laugh. Friend, right. “And he’s—he’s a bit of a wanker, to be honest, really out of touch with his feelings, just terrible. Anyways, uh,” he pauses, hesitant. Louis pokes him gently in the chest in an effort to push his next words out. “This friend. He’s got another friend, and they, uh, they kissed this one time, right?”

Louis freezes.

“And my friend, who’s a wanker, told his friend that it shouldn’t happen again, because he’s scared of love, or something ridiculous like that. He said it’d be better to stop before either of them falls for the other, except he was full of it, because he was already in love. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

He’s looking down, kicking a pile of straw around with the toe of his boot. Louis’s lungs feel like they’ve turned to dust inside his body. There’s no air.

“So he asked me for a second opinion,” Harry continues, hands behind his back, hair in his face and sheepish like Louis has never seen him. He’s shaking again, just a bit, and Louis wishes more than anything that he could reach out and hold him, but his limbs won’t bloody work. “Because he—he loves this friend a lot, and the friend kissed him too, so there’s a chance he might love him back one day, and he wanted to know—he’s said all these things that turned out not to be true, and he thinks he’s ruined his chances—“

“Harry,” Louis gets out. He sounds rather like a dying cat, and feels like it, too.

“Let me finish,” Harry looks up, and there’s pure, wild panic swirling in his eyes. “He asked me if he should tell this boy that he loves him more than anything in the world, and I said—I said I’d have to think about it before I gave him any advice. I figured you could help.”

“Help,” Louis repeats. He’s wheezing, and the stall floor feels wobbly underneath his feet.

“Yeah,” says Harry. He looks like he’s a second away from running out the door and never coming back. “Do you think his friend should know? Do you think he could love him back?”

Louis blinks. He feels torn open and turned inside out, shocked and confused and wrong-footed, but above all that, relieved. The words he wants to say taste sweet in his mouth as they form, and he knows – Harry’s just put everything on the line, came right out with it even though he’s obviously terrified, and the least Louis can do in return is be upfront.

There’s something asleep in Louis’s chest that’s just waiting to explode; happiness, maybe, or the overwhelming sense of rightness he feels whenever he’s with Harry.

He reaches out. Harry goes to take his hand, but Louis moves past, and instead puts his fingers on Harry’s cold cheeks, gentle as can be. He needs him to hear, to see, that he’s being serious.

“Could he?” Harry asks when the silence stretches for a beat too long, his voice impossibly small. Louis blinks a couple of stray tears out of his eyes.

“Gorgeous boy,” he says, smiling, shaking his head because—how could Harry ever think that he isn’t Louis’s entire world? “He already does.”

Harry blinks. It takes a few seconds to sink in, and when it does, his mouth falls open just a little.

“You do?” he asks, and the sheer awe in his voice is enough to have Louis choking back another wave of tears.

He leans in instead, and presses a kiss to Harry’s lips, just one. He leans his forehead against Harry’s when he pulls away.

“Of course I do,” he breathes into the minuscule space between them, grinning. “I have for ages.”

“You—really?”

Louis looks at his wide eyes, his beautiful lips; listens to the tremble in his voice, and thinks – knows – that this, right here, is where he’s met his forever.

“Really, love,” he replies. He feels soft, sated, rather like climbing into bed with Harry and never coming out again. “It’s been months, since before we—you know.”

Twin red spots appear in the apples of Harry’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, and doesn’t give Louis a chance to reassure him. “That was—I loved you, and you loved me, and I told you—oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve really got to stop apologising,” Louis smiles. “It’s okay. You were scared, I understood that then and I understand now. Don’t apologise for telling me how you feel,” he says, “even if it wasn’t the whole truth.”

“I still am,” he admits, so close Louis can hear the rasp of his breath in his chest. “Scared, I mean. I’m terrified, but I can’t keep running, not when—not when you’re everything to me.”

“And you to me,” Louis replies, closing his eyes, enjoying the way the words echo in his head. Everything. “I’m not him. I think you deserve the world, you know? Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, I’ll be right there with you, I promise.”

Harry sniffles.

“If you’ll have me, of course.”

“Shut up,” Harry bursts out, laughing through tears. Louis’s own emotions feel much the same. “Shut up, of course I’ll have you. Why do you think I told you this in the first place?”

He falls forward, wrapping around Louis in a hug. Some of the tightness in Louis’s chest dissipates, and he realises – only just begins to realise, really – that this is happening. Harry is here, in his arms, and his.

“I can’t believe you made up a friend,” he giggles into Harry’s hair. He feels a little less creepy sniffing it now, and the familiar scent of coconut shampoo that hits him when he does is the most soothing thing in the world. “I can’t believe you, Harry Styles.”

“I didn’t know how else to do it,” Harry mumbles. His lips move against Louis’s neck; they’re perfectly innocent, and yet they feel like fire. “I was sure you’d be mad at me still, so I figured I’d try something that would make you laugh.”

“Did you rehearse?”

He scoffs. “Of course I did. You can’t do a dramatic love declaration without practice.”

Louis smiles, thinking of all the times Harry has told him – when he accepted Louis’s ginormous family into his home without a second though, when he spent weeks putting together specially customised breeches, when he let Louis ride in this race even though he had the power to stop it.

“I love you,” he says into Harry’s ear, laughing a little because hearing the words come out of his own mouth makes him deliriously happy. “I love you, I love you I love you I love you I love y—“

“Shush,” Harry giggles, and pulls him into another kiss. It feels different now, with all these things out in the open, with fireworks shooting through Louis’s veins and Harry’s bright, bright smile pressed against his own.

He sucks on Harry’s bottom lip, trying to deepen the kiss, but Harry moves away.

“Before I climb you like a tree,” he says, trying to look serious, “this means we’re boyfriends, right?”

Louis wants to kiss every last inch of his face. “Yes it does,” he grins. Harry’s answering smile feels like a drug, gets his heart racing in his chest in the best way. “You’re never getting rid of me now.”

“Wonderful,” says Harry, and steps back into Louis’s embrace. He pauses just before he connects their lips, lashes brushing his cheeks and a content quirk to his lips, “I love you.”

“Love you too, gorgeous,” Louis replies, and finally kisses him for real.

It’s wonderful, and dizzying, and completely disorienting. All of his senses are focused on Harry, on hearing the little noises he makes and tasting the mint on his tongue that his chewing gum left behind. He touches every bit of Harry’s body that’s within reach, just because he can now. There’s no doubts, no heartbreak – they love each other.

One day, Louis is going to wake up and be used to the reality of it. Today is most definitely not that day, and he thinks he’s fully justified in trying to coax as many different noises as possible out of Harry’s mouth.

Liam is the one who ends up finding them there, leaning against the wall of the stall snogging the daylights out of each other, Louis’s leg hitched up on Harry’s hip and one of Harry’s hands on his arse. To his credit, he doesn’t comment on their position, just shrieks a little in surprise and then announces they’re ready to leave.

“Let’s go home,” Harry says when he pulls away, lips red and a sneaky love bite just underneath his jaw. His hair is wild, his shirt untucked, and his face is the very picture of happiness.

“Let’s go home,” Louis smiles, takes his hand, and follows him out to the car.

A few days later, Harry introduces Louis to his fancy flat in the city. He claims it’s because he’s too tired to drive them all the way home after Louis’s physio appointment ends, but Louis suspects entirely different intentions. Harry smiles and waves the accusations away; as soon as they come up the stairs, though, his hands are on Louis’s hips, lips trailing down his neck.

“Really?” Louis asks, even as he tangles a hand in Harry’s hair and pushes back against him. “This is what we’re doing? I thought you’d give me a tour, make me dinner, you know—woo me.”

Harry whines, and presses his pout to Louis’s cheek. “I’ll cook you dinner,” he promises. “Three courses and really good wine, but I really, really want you to fuck me right now.”

Somebody drops something rather noisily behind the door they’re passing. It makes Harry giggle, but Louis feels like he can relate – he suddenly seems to have forgotten how to use his limbs.

There’s just—something about it, about hearing Harry say it out loud like it’s not a big deal, like this is something they’ve been doing for years. That something is hypnotic, cosmic, unbelievably hot, and it makes Louis hopelessly weak in the knees.

They haven’t had time to do any of this yet, to just take a moment for themselves and explore each other now that they can, now that everything between them is out in the open. The mere possibility of it had Louis walking around half-hard the past few days, intensely uncomfortable in his breeches as Harry stood in the corner of the riding hall and watched him do stretches in the saddle.

But now—now Louis has an entire day off ahead of him and it seems that, if Harry has anything to say about it, he’s going to spend it in bed.

Not that he minds, of course.

Harry is still pushing him gently down the corridor, past one shiny door after another, but Louis finds himself too impatient to wait. He grabs the lapel of Harry’s coat, spins him around, and presses him against the wall.

Harry blinks at him with wide, dark eyes.

“Are you serious?” he asks, and his voice comes out much huskier than he intended.

Harry licks his lips. “Are you?” he asks, a playful smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “It’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about for months. Months, Louis.”

Louis desperately undoes his coat buttons, burning with the need to touch, and gets his hands on Harry’s hips. There’s a security camera on the wall right opposite them, and they’re giving whoever’s sitting in the control room a show, but he really couldn’t care less. He’s got Harry right in front of him, in all his longhaired, long-legged, sparkly-eyed glory.

“Have you really?” he asks, leaning in to suck a bruise over his collarbone. Harry’s breath hitches, his hips jerking in Louis’s grip.

“Mhm,” he hums, fingers running through Louis’s hair. “Been thinking—“ he stops to inhale when Louis’s fingers dip below his waistband, “thinking about you when I—ah—when I got myself off.”

Louis is burning. He’s burning, and Harry is grinning at him openly, because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans in to kiss Louis, warm and pliant and hungry for it, and Louis meets him in the middle. The warm, smooth slide of Harry’s tongue against his, Harry’s hands in the back pockets of his jeans – it’s all so much more intense, suddenly, because it’s leading somewhere.

“Bet you could open me up so well,” Harry says, and doesn’t give Louis room to process, to breathe, before he’s kissing him again. “The angle’s never quite right when I do it to myself, but you could—your hands—“

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Louis bites his bottom lip, trying and failing to mask how desperately horny he is. He’s barely seen Harry shirtless, much less naked, and the thought—the thought alone—

“Anything you want,” Harry continues, relentless as his fingers dance across Louis’s arse, teasing and bringing their groins closer together at the same time. “I’d let you do anything you want to me.”

Louis runs his hands through his hair, pulls on his collar, struggling to get closer, always closer. “You’re all mine, aren’t you,” he murmurs against Harry’s lips, where their kisses have turned from hungry to slow and searing.

Harry pulls away. “All yours,” he says, completely serious, and manages to keep a straight face until he’s sure he’s caught Louis’s gaze and got his words across. Louis’s throat tightens at the sheer intensity in his eyes, the flame that burns there for him and him only. When Harry smiles, his lips stretch of their own volition, and when Harry giggles, Louis follows right along.

“I love you,” he murmurs into Louis’s neck, a smile clear in his voice. “Come on.”

It’s only then that Louis realises they’re still in the bloody corridor, their hair wild and coats askew, in plain view of anyone who might think of stepping out to fetch a newspaper. It’s not hot. It’s not.

Harry catches his hand and bodily pulls him forward, tripping over himself with his hips swaying. This time, it’s Louis who gets to crowd against his back, heat to heat, and whisper things that make the tips of Harry’s ears go red.

Finally, they arrive at the very last door, as shiny as the rest of them and adorned with a golden 28. Harry’s hands are trembling just a bit when he fishes out his keys and fits one into the lock, twisting hastily. He looks so gorgeous doing something so completely ordinary, and Louis takes a second to step back and admire him, to marvel, really; because by some strange, wonderful twist of fate, this boy is his.

He doesn’t get to see a whole lot of the flat. The hall is dimly lit but pretty, with an ornate hanger and a wooden chest of drawers – and that’s about as far as he gets, because in the next breath, Harry is slamming the door behind them and pushing Louis’s coat off his shoulders.

Louis laughs and wraps his arms around his neck, responding to Harry’s enthusiastic kisses in kind. He thinks the plan of action might be to stumble their way around until they find the bedroom, but Harry—Harry.

He reaches down, and picks Louis up by the thighs, just settles him against his hips like it’s nothing. Louis’s stomach floods with heat, and he can’t hold back the moan that escapes him.

“Fuck,” he says into Harry’s lips, eloquent as ever. “Fuck, Harry—“

He rolls his hips, pleased to find that Harry’s as hard as he is, straining the zipper of his jeans. He aches to touch him everywhere, to get every part of himself on every part of Harry until they’re tangled irreversibly, two bodies moving as one in perfect harmony.

He also wants to be inside Harry. He’s been virtually dreaming about his gorgeous little arse, his thighs, the whole tantalizing length of him; now that the image has been allowed into his mind, it refuses to leave, drawing his attention like a particularly annoying billboard.

HARRY SAID HE WANTS YOU TO FUCK HIM, it yells. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE.

At present, though, Harry’s fingers are splayed over his thighs, his arse, holding him up as they rut against each other in a way that’s as awkward as it is raw. Louis feels small and in control all at the same time, making Harry sway in place with haste to follow his lips when he pulls away.

He needs to get out of these bloody clothes.

“Harry,” he barely gets out between kisses, clutching Harry’s shoulders and squeezing his thighs around his waist. “Harry, wait.”

That seems to be the magic word – Harry lets go of his bottom lip with a soft little smack, eyes wide and earnest and dark, dark green when he looks at Louis.

“You okay?” he asks. There’s a tremble, the slightest note of insecurity hidden in the self-assured rumble of his voice. His fingers tighten where he’s holding Louis.

“I’m golden,” Louis promises, forcing himself to be a lot more collected than he feels. He could beat out of his skin any second now, his heart thundering at a breakneck pace, a long-forgotten kind of heat gathering just under his collar, choking the words out of him. “I’m all good, you’re wonderful,” he says, because Harry looks like he needs it. “I just—I assume there’s a bedroom somewhere in this flat?”

Harry’s happy, aroused blush seems to get a shade darker. “Course there is,” he says, and punctuates it with a peck to Louis’s lips. It turns into more of a snog, really, but Louis is not going to complain. “Bit too big for one person, though. ‘S why I don’t stay here very often.”

“Well,” Louis grins, pulling Harry’s wild tangle of hair out of his face. “You’re in luck, cause there are two of us now.”

Harry smiles. It might be the sweetest expression Louis has ever seen on his face, and that’s really, really saying something.

“God,” he says, casual, “I really want you naked. Like, right now.”

“Then take me to your ridiculously expensive bed,” Louis smiles back, holding on tighter as Harry peels him away from the wall. “Please,” he thinks to add, and throws in a kiss, just because he can.

The flat isn’t that big (Louis thinks, anyways. He’s too preoccupied with Harry to notice anything other than that it’s made up of rooms), but the few seconds Harry takes to find the right door might be the most excruciating of Louis’s life.

It’s just—Harry’s moving. Every single step jostles Louis from his comfortable perch and then brings them back together, creating delicious, cruel friction. Louis’s cock is still hardening miserably, pushing against his jeans like it has anywhere to go.

“Ta-dah,” Harry grins when he gets the door open. He doesn’t bother to close it behind them, just ambles over to the bed – and it is huge, complete with bedposts and a heavy, dark drapery; very princely and very, very Harry – and drops Louis into the pristine sheets.

He doesn’t actually drop him. Louis has watched entirely too much porn in his lifetime, and this is nothing like it – there’s no pawing or scratching or over-the-top animalistic grunts. Harry leans down and over him, looking into Louis’s eyes until his back settles against the mattress, and then smiles. Everything about him spells patience, even though he’d been rutting against Louis just as desperately as Louis was against him; they get to savour this, enjoy it, go slow. Or not, depending on how desperate they get once they actually see each other naked.

The point is, this is different. They’re in bright, burning, all-consuming love; Louis can feel it in every touch of Harry’s fingers, be it gentle or rough.

“Love you,” he whispers, just because he feels like it, and gets a brilliant smile in response.

“Please take your shirt off,” Harry replies, making Louis laugh as he struggles out of his top. It only occurs to him then that he’s still sweaty and probably smells awful, courtesy of Niall as always, but any apologies he’s about to make die on his tongue when he sees the way Harry is looking at him.

The look makes him flush all the way down to his chest with how earnestly intense it is. Harry is letting him see exactly how much he wants him, and Louis is so flattered he wants to cry.

“You too,” he says before he gets too overwhelmed, tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt uselessly. “Off, come on.”

Harry is kneeling over him now, and he grins as he undoes his buttons one by one. The sight of his chest is familiar, all soft, mouth-watering skin, but he reveals new planes and hollows and crevices when he shrugs out of his shirt, letting it slide to the ground without a care.

It probably makes some sort of noise, but Louis wouldn’t hear it for all the blood thrumming in his ears.

Harry’s just—holy shit. Holy shit.

He reaches out to touch, and Harry lets him, smiling. His skin twitches underneath Louis’s fingers, and he huffs like he’s holding back a laugh when Louis’s touch ghosts over his ribs.

He notices, and moves back with a little more intent. Harry squawks a laugh and grabs his wrist before he can do any damage.

“No,” he says, clearly trying to be serious even as he smiles so hard his eyes have all but disappeared. “Stop it.”

“You’re ticklish,” Louis says, awed, and sits up to attack with his other hand.

“Am not!” Harry giggles, and rolls away, landing on his back a little ways away from Louis – and still on the bed, which is truly, truly ginormous. “This is assault, I’m going to scream—“

“Shush,” Louis grins, shuffling closer until he can lie comfortably right on top of Harry, bare skin to bare skin. It feels almost frighteningly intimate, even though their trousers are still on. “I’ll file this away for later.”

“Lou,” Harry pouts. His cheeks are red with laughter, his hair drawing a messy pattern on the cream-coloured bedspread. He’s—radiant.

Louis kisses him, lazy and comfortable and not so much on edge anymore. He’s still shivering with little shocks of pleasure where his cock is pressing into Harry’s thigh, but it’s not urgent enough that he’d want to stop this, not when tastes so good.

“Sorry,” he says, not particularly committed to it. Harry reaches out and scratches him on the chest, barely hard enough to be felt, but he clearly intends for it to be a warning. “I love you,” Louis tells him then, so sweet it makes him blush a little. He rests one of his own hands on Harry’s chest, palm down and fingers spread across his skin, feeling the beat of Harry’s heart as it comes up to meet him. It feels—it feels like he’s staking a claim. Judging by Harry’s face, it feels the same for him.

They look at each other in silence, comfortable and intense all at once. Then, Harry raises an eyebrows.

“Shall we?” he asks, with a lovely smile and a wicked glint in his eye. Louis is not one to back down from a challenge. He pulls himself up, ready to work on getting Harry out of his trousers, but then his hand slides down the pale skin of Harry’s chest, and he realises there’s something—something.

There are bumps underneath his fingers, so small they’re barely there, but he’s intrigued immediately.

“Harry,” he cocks his head, sitting back on his haunches and ignoring his protesting knee. “Did you—did you wax your chest?”

Harry breaks into embarrassed laughter, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and the almost-gone flush in his neck returns in full force. “They told me nobody would be able to tell after a couple of days. I don’t even have chest hair, I just…” and he trails off, hand still firmly fixed over his face. Louis tugs on his wrist until he manages to dislodge it.

“You just?”

He tries to shrug, wrinkling the bedspread underneath him. He’s looking to his right and out of the window, avoiding Louis’s eye.

“Baby,” he tries, running his hands over Harry’s chest, his stomach, his hips. “What is it?”

The pet name seems to do it. Harry meets Louis’s gaze, and he looks like he has a little trouble holding it, but he powers through. The green of his eyes is brilliant in the waning sunlight.

“It was—“ he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “It was a thing for, um. For Will. Me being—I don’t know, just. He wouldn’t touch me unless I shaved. Said hair was gross.”

Louis’s alarm must be clear to read on his face, because Harry puts a heavy, reassuring hand on his thigh.

“I know it’s bullshit, I do. But I wanted to bring you over here, and I knew—I mean, I hoped we’d have sex, so I just did it automatically. Didn’t even stop to think about it.”

Louis wants to march right out of the door, find this William type and, Duke or no Duke, punch him square in the face a good fifty times. He doesn’t matter anymore, though; his presence in Harry’s life is a ghost that might stay for a long time, but he can’t take away Harry, beautiful, confident Harry with his loud shirts and gorgeous hair and a heart so big it’s a marvel it fits in his chest. He can’t touch him anew.

Louis can, and he will. He’ll love him the way he deserves, if it’s the last thing he does.

“You know I don’t care how much body hair you have, right?” he asks, just to make sure. His hands seem to be roaming Harry’s body all on their own now, petting his skin and soaking up the warmth.

Harry looks at him warm, open, sweet. “Of course I know.”

“You’re the most beautiful person in the world, I swear to God,” he says, not done yet, and leans down to kiss his boy. “Stunning, baby. Gorgeous inside and out. I can’t believe I get to be with you.” Harry’s smiling too wide to kiss him, now, and Louis pulls away just far enough to look into his eyes. “I was grinning when I woke up this morning, did I tell you? The alarm rang, and I remembered I get to see you, and then I walked around the flat smiling to myself like a tit.”

“Lou,” Harry giggles.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” Louis tells him, a hand over where Harry’s heart is beating a little faster than normal. “All because of you. I just want you to know that.”

He’s shaking a little, dizzy with the amount of emotions he’s gone through in the past hour.

“Thanks,” Harry says, grinning even though his eyes are wet. The tenderness between them breaks as they laugh, makes space for something much more comfortable. “I love you,” he says then, and pulls Louis back down for a kiss, then another, just lazy presses of lips to lips that feel so good they make Louis’s toes curl.

“I love you, gorgeous,” Louis replies, grinning as wide as he did that morning when he stood in the kitchen with his tea, watching the street below and waiting for Harry’s car to pull in. “You wanna grow beards together? Just to piss him off?”

Harry cackles. It’s beautiful and unrestricted, entirely fitting as he sits up and wraps himself around Louis, hair flying. He’s heavy and wonderful in Louis’s lap, fitting there like he was made for it.

“Want to know something?” he asks, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret.

“What’s that?” Louis asks, running his hands down Harry’s back. The skin there is warm and soft and endless.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he grins, and pressed the words into Louis’s lips with a kiss. Louis’s throat feels tight, his chest all but fluttering with happiness, and his head spinning with how overwhelming Harry is in every single way.

“You’re laying it on thick,” he replies once he’s sure his voice isn’t going to tremble. “I feel like you want something from me.”

“Is it working?”

Louis looks at him, just takes a second to take in every little detail in his face. It’s so bizarre, all of it – he’s here, he’s alive, he’s walking, he’s running in the races, and he’s more in love than he ever thought he could be. He’s got this miracle of a boy who’s his, all his; if he has anything to say about it, he’ll get to have him until he’s old and grey and can’t remember a time when Harry wasn’t in his life.

“I love you,” he says. It still feels exciting, fizzing on his tongue like a piece of candy. “And flattery will get you everywhere.”

“In that case,” Harry grins and pushes on his chest gently, until Louis is lying under him again, “I’d very much like to get in your pants.”

“Please,” Louis grins back. Harry’s eyes are all but sparkling when he attacks the button of Louis’s jeans. He’s very deliberate about pulling down the zipper, using the rest of his fingers to squeeze Louis’s poor trapped cock until he’s flushed and squirming. His lashes flutter prettily when he blinks, the grin on his face nothing short of coquettish, and Louis realises, with a groan that’s equal parts suffering and pleasure, that Harry Styles is a tease.

As soon as the jeans are off, Harry moves back up Louis’s body, sliding his hands up his legs in a way that feels very deliberate. Louis is about to ask for a kiss when Harry’s palm brushes over the sensitive skin of his knee, and it’s only then that he remembers.

Harry must realise too, and he stops to look down, then look back at Louis’s face. Louis has no idea what he’s thinking, but he’s panicking a little inside.

He knows, rationally, that a few scars aren’t enough to put Harry off of him, no matter how gnarly they are.

“Do they hurt?” Harry asks, quiet and genuinely curious. It’s—not what Louis was expecting.

“No,” he says. He itches to reach out and tangle his hands in Harry’s hair, but he’s too far away. “They’re a bit sensitive because they never healed properly, but—no. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he says, endlessly gentle. Then he bends down, and presses a kiss right to the top of his knee, then continues up the thigh, following the longest scar. The touch of his lips is so light that it’s barely there, but Louis feels it tingling all the way to his fingertips. It’s—hot, actually. Really hot.

Louis hasn’t looked at his scars properly for as long as he’s had them, but he feels no hesitation, no disgust when he looks down at Harry and holds his gaze while he makes his way up. He finishes just below the hemline of Louis’s boxers, and he grins when he gets there, then sucks a bruise into Louis’s inner thigh.

Louis gasps, half in surprise and half because he’s been hard for what feels like hours and Harry is killing him.

“Sorry,” Harry says, with the air of someone who isn’t sorry at all. He doesn’t give Louis time to respond before he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and pulls it down.

The air feels chilly on Louis’s cock when it’s finally free of the fabric, but it’s not the reason Louis shivers. It’s Harry’s eyes, suddenly dark when he looks down at Louis and breathes, so quietly in might be an accident: “Jesus Christ.”

Louis is so overwhelmed he doesn’t even make the joke. “Come up here,” is all he manages, his hand extended until Harry is close enough to touch. He pulls him in and straight into a kiss, licking into his mouth and moaning when Harry’s tongue meets his.

“You’re so—“ Harry starts, but Louis steals the words right off his lips. “Louis,” Harry reprimands, but he doesn’t say anything else when Louis gets his hands past the waistband of Harry’s jeans and the tight line of his underwear, right down to skin, and squeezes his arse.

“Ow,” Harry mumbles, but arches his back just so, meeting Louis’s hands eagerly. He feels bloody perfect under Louis’s palms.

“Get your pants off,” Louis whines into his mouth, and ignores Harry’s answering laugh. “I’m not letting go.”

He laughs some more as he reaches down and undoes the button of his trousers in the minuscule space between them. He looks flushed, excited, his hands trembling just a little. Louis is very pleased to see that he’s not nearly as cool and unaffected as he tries to act.

“An arse man, are you?” he asks, grinning into Louis’s lips and trying to shimmy out of his trousers at the same time.

“Have you seen yours?” Louis grins back, squeezing a little to emphasize his point. “It’s just—God, it’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, fascinatingly sincere for someone who’s peeling their underwear off one leg at a time. “I do a lot of squats.”

Louis’s brain is a lust-filled, hazy mess, and he just about manages to stop himself from saying something hideous and pornstar-cheesy like squat on me, then. Everything is too much in the best way, and he’s already hot all over, sliding his hands up the wide plane of Harry’s back and down to his arse again, dipping a dry finger between his cheeks, impatient and excited and curious. The skin there is hotter than the rest of Harry’s body, pulling Louis in, making him dizzy with the promise of what’s to come.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, boxers tangled somewhere around both their ankles.

“Jesus,” he moans, keeping perfectly still while Louis explores. “Warn a guy next time.”

Louis grins, not at all apologetic. Harry gets a glint in his eye like he’s planning something, and in the next second, his palm is wrapping around Louis’s cock—and his own, because he’s naked now, Louis hasn’t even had time to notice, fuck—

“Love you,” Harry smiles, smug as all hell. Louis kisses him, bites his lip, and arches up into his touch.

Harry’s cock, Louis discovers when he looks down between them, is just as pretty as the rest of him. It looks mouth-watering where it’s nestled against his own in Harry’s huge, huge hand. The friction is good, so good it makes Louis squirm in the sheets, embarrassingly close to coming. He needs, needs to get his hands on every part of Harry, to taste every bit of him, right now.

God, he hasn’t had sex in a year.

The smug smile has gone, and Harry is slack-jawed, quiet grunts spilling out of his lips and he jerks them both slowly. He looks stunning where he’s holding himself up above Louis, his lips red from the kissing and hair drawing senseless patterns on Louis’s chest. He’s a fucking vision, and he’s Louis’s. Louis gets to kiss him, gets to hold his hand, gets to be inside him, unless he regresses back to his teenage years and comes before he can get around to it.

“Baby,” he moans when Harry twists his wrists just so, skin on skin on skin. Harry moans right back, leaning down for a kiss, working up a rhythm with his hips as he rocks against Louis’s body. “Baby, hey.”

“You feel so good,” Harry says, now on Louis’s neck, kissing him too sweetly to leave any kind of mark. “Don’t wanna stop.”

“I’m—ah—I’m an old man, love. I can’t guarantee I’ll get it up twice in one night.”

He will. He totally will, considering how long it’s been since another person has touched him; considering the fact that this is Harry, hotter than hell itself and very probably the love of his life.

“That a challenge?” said love of his life asks, now licking around Louis’s nipples with a quick, precise tongue. He’s slowed his strokes, doing little more than holding their cocks together, but he still manages to sent shocks of heat up Louis’s spine. The way his hair follows him as he moves lower with his kisses, dragging along Louis’s skin shimmery and cool like rivulets of water, is mind-numbingly hot.

“Absolutely not,” Louis replies, even as he lets his legs fall open when he realises where Harry’s headed. Headed, ha. “’M just saying. My stamina isn’t what it used to be, I wouldn’t want to fall asleep while I’m—“

“If you say balls deep, I’m kicking you out,” says Harry casually, doing a very bad job of hiding a giggle in Louis’s stomach. Louis chokes on his own saliva, makes a series of decidedly non-sexy sounds, and then bursts into laughter.

“Not what I was going to say,” he says, grinning as he looks down at Harry. He’s stopped his little trip down the length of Louis’s body, and is holding on to one of his bent legs instead, a warm hand wrapped around the outside of Louis’s thigh and soft lips pressed to the inside of it. He’s holding Louis’s eyes, smiling into his skin.

“What was it, then?”

Louis shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to falls asleep while making love to you, is all.”

Harry bites him on the thigh and crawls up Louis’s body, so fast he’s there between one blink and the next.

When they kiss this time, it’s slow, unhurried, lazy but alight with a steady, intense kind of fire. Harry licks into his mouth easily, a smile curling his lips when Louis’s tongue comes up to meet him. Their bodies tangle until they feel like one, until Louis isn’t quite sure where his own edges are.

Harry pulls away with eyes shining. He’s got the softest look about him, and Louis expects him to be soppy right back.

“You can’t get all romantic when I’m about to blow you,” is what he actually says. He manages to hold a pout for all of two seconds, and then his face melts into a bright giggle. Oh, how Louis loves him.

“Can so,” he replies, picking a random strand of Harry’s hair to tuck back behind his ear. Harry moves into the touch. “I can get romantic whenever I want. You inspire romance in me, Harry Styles.”

Harry laughs into his collarbone, boneless and giggly, and Louis laughs right along with him.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says. “I adore you,” he sighs after, happily.

They lie there for a second, Harry’s warm breath on Louis’s chest, erections unsubtly pressed into each other’s thighs. Sparks dance along Louis’s skin everywhere they touch.

“You going to blow me, then?” he asks into the silence. Harry laughs again, then props his chin on Louis’s chest to look him in the face.

“Depends,” he says. “You going to fuck me afterwards?”

“Wait and find out,” Louis smiles, heavy on the sarcasm. Harry bites his nipple, and the smile freezes on Louis’s face.

It only goes downhill from there. Harry seems to be everywhere at once, touching Louis, petting and licking at his skin. By the time he takes Louis’s cock in his mouth, Louis is tacky with sweat and moaning into Harry’s pillow. He’s good – fantastic – but with lips like his, Louis wasn’t expecting anything else.

More than anything, it’s Harry’s unbridled enthusiasm that does him in every time he looks down. He’s licking up the underside of Louis’s cock, then sucking on the head like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted; there’s a trail of spit on his chin, and his hair is everywhere, tangled and curly at the temples. He meets Louis’s eyes every time, like he feels him watching.

Embarrassingly close as he was, it takes Louis a while to feel the telltale burn low in his belly. Harry gets him there with a quick tongue and expert hands, rolling his balls between his fingers, then sliding up to tweak his nipple before he’s had time to recover, grinning like the Cheshire cat every time he comes up for air. His lips have gone gorgeously puffy.

His hands are itching to touch where they’re curled in the sheets, to grab a hold of Harry and feel as he slides down – deeper each time, God – and to have a hold of him, to feel less useless. And to warn him he’s about to come, probably, because he has a feeling he’s going to be speechless by the time he gets there. Harry’s playing him like an instrument, able to tell every time Louis teeters a little too close to the edge and pulling off, teasing, always teasing. He looks so pleased every time he gets a new sound out of him, every time Louis blushes a little with how loud he’s being.

Harry pulls off and pulls his hair away from his face. He wraps one strand around all of it, and it stays, resting in a loose bun at the base of his neck. It looks unbelievably hot, and doubly as tempting.

“Okay?” Harry asks him, one of his eyebrows cocked like he’s trying to be smug, but his eyes are soft, always soft.

Louis clears his throat and tries to say something coherent. “Mhm,” is all he manages, and even then, it sounds like a soundbite straight out of a porn movie.

“Am I…” he pauses, putting a dramatic emphasis on his next words, “blowing your mind?”

He doesn’t wait for Louis to respond, just beams when he sees he’s made him laugh, and ducks back down. He takes Louis’s cock in his mouth – in his throat, shit, oh, bloody hell – and makes up the rest with his hand, stroking in rhythm with the bobbing of his head, the fingers of his free hand dug into Louis’s thigh like he’s the one who’s been seconds away from coming for going on fifteen minutes.

Harry presses his tongue against the bump just under the head, and every stroke feels like a shot of liquid fire straight into Louis’s veins.

Fuck it, he decides, and buries his hand in Harry’s hair.

The reaction is—not what he’d expect. He doesn’t like it when someone holds on to him while he’s giving head, most of the people he’s been with didn’t like it either, but of course, of course, this is Harry. He’s not other people. He doesn’t try to shake Louis off, or pull away and glare at him. No – he moans, the sound even prettier than normal when it’s muffled by Louis’s cock, and pushes up into the touch, making small noises until Louis closes his fingers into a fist and tugs in earnest.

Harry moans again, real and loud, and the rumble of it feels like a shock to Louis’s cock, sending a shiver up his spine.

“You like this,” he breathes. Harry looks up through his lashes; his pupils are wide, swallowing the green of his eyes, and he manages to smile even with his mouth full of Louis. “Oh God, you’re filthy, aren’t you. What did I get myself into?”

Harry pulls off with a sound that has no business being as hot as it is. “A relationship,” he grins, his mouth shiny, a streak of precome on his cheek. He’s gorgeous. “Where we feel comfortable with sharing our darkest, deepest desires. I like it when you pull my hair,” he says, and Louis pulls, just out of curiosity. Harry’s eyes flutter closed, and he breathes in sharply, holding still even as Louis curls his fingers tighter, makes his touch firmer. “I also really like to eat crisps with chocolate.”

“Harry, I swear to God,” Louis starts, but he can’t hold back the giddy laughter that climbs up his throat. He’s so endeared, and so bloody turned on he might explode with it.

Harry laughs right back. His cheeks are red now, rather than pink, and he looks inimitably satisfied with himself. Louis can’t really take that away from him; he’s never had sex that was this comfortable, or this good – or lasted this long, for that matter.

“Just kidding,” Harry says, kissing his stomach. He takes Louis by surprise when he licks his cock instead of taking it in his mouth, a flat, warm tongue up the underside, then swirling around the head with a deftness that shouldn’t be possible. He’s clearly got a goal in mind now, finally done with the teasing; he squeezes around the base of Louis’s cock, jerks him fast but thorough, the slide easy.

Louis’s orgasm catches him entirely by surprise, sweeping in like a tidal wave through an already restless ocean. One second, he’s following Harry’s touch, twisting in the sheets to be wherever Harry wants him; the next, the heat in his stomach explodes, shaking him down to the very core of his bones, and he can’t do much more than lie there with his muscles taut, Harry’s hands burning on him, stroking him through it until he feels spent.

When he relaxes into the pillows, he realises his head is spinning. The air lies on his skin like a physical touch, heavy, hot and smelling of the two of them. He breathes it in gratefully, revels in it, and unsuccessfully tries to get his breathing under control.

Harry slides up his body, all sweat-slick skin, and all but lies on top of him. Louis pulls his hair one more time just to get him close enough to kiss, holding his face in his hands as he does, fingers sliding over Harry’s cheeks. He’s so, so reverent about it, but he absolutely can’t help himself.

“Hi,” is the first thing he says when he trusts himself to speak, the aftershocks of pleasure still fizzing in his fingertips, and then: “I love you.”

Harry is hot and restless on top of him, his hard cock solid against Louis’s stomach, but he kisses back soft and lazy like he’s got nothing better to do.

“Hi,” Harry replies, bringing their foreheads together, nuzzling Louis’s cheek, mouthing at his neck. Louis gives him every touch he seems to crave.

“I feel like a changed man,” he says, and Harry snorts. He’s settled, arms folded relaxed next to his body, soft fingers on Louis’s hips, and he’s breathing deep like he could doze off right there. Louis would almost believe it, if it weren’t for the slow, steady hitching of Harry’s hips, seeking friction while Louis tries to get his wits about him.

“Hey,” he says, once all his limbs feel like his again, mouth pressed to the shell of Harry’s ear. “I promised you something, didn’t I?”

Immediately, the soft drowsiness disappears. “You said wait and find out,” Harry reminds him. Louis thinks he might be pouting. “You never promised.”

“I was just saying,” Louis starts, and begins the process of extricating himself from the weight of Harry’s body, until he’s got his body spread underneath him, looking like sin itself against the pale sheets. “The chances of me getting it up again after you did that—“

“You don’t have to fuck me,” Harry says, flushed, and stops restricting the instinctive movements of his body, his hips immediately pulling up as he tries to find relief in humping thin air. “Just—your fingers, anything, please.”

Louis licks his palm and wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. Harry breathes out in relief. “Not slow and thorough, then?”

Harry looks like he tries to smirk, but the expression falls clean off his face when Louis thumbs at his head. It’s really only now that Louis realises how desperate he is for it, how close to the edge, responding to every hint of a touch.

“I want that,” he moans, face turned up to the ceiling, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut. “I want to feel you for days, I do, just—I wouldn’t last, I wouldn’t—I don’t—“

Louis leans forward, stealing his words with a kiss. “Shh, baby. I’ll give you anything you want, don’t worry about it.”

Harry kisses back, messy. “Fingers,” he breathes. “Please, please.”

“I need lube, gorgeous.”

He groans, tugging on Louis’s hair once, equal parts playful and frustrated. Louis loves this; loves seeing Harry flushed hot and frenzied and begging for it, for him.

“Bottom drawer,” he breathes, throwing his arm across the bed and pointing to one of the bedside tables.

“That a pun?” Louis asks as he reaches for it, one hand clutching Harry’s hip to steady himself.

“What—“ Harry starts, but it must click then, because he lets out a cackle that tapers off into a moan when Louis rests the tube on his stomach. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” Louis smiles, gives him one more kiss, and gets to work.

Harry tenses when the cap snicks open, strung tight underneath Louis’s hands as he makes the journey down his body. He doesn’t have the time to explore it the way he’d like, if Harry’s impatient little grunts are anything to go by, but one day. Tomorrow, probably.

He lets himself pause when he gets to Harry’s cock, red and wet at the tip. The sight of it alone has arousal stirring in his stomach again, impossibly, and he gives it a couple of appreciative licks. Harry keens above him, his hand flying down to bury in Louis’s shoulder, somewhat painful but mostly indescribably hot.

“Hold on,” Louis chides when Harry pushes him lower; his hands are shaking, and he needs a second to steady himself, lest he get lube all over the bed.

“Can’t,” Harry whines miserably. When Louis looks up at him, he’s got one hand tangled in his own hair, pulling it away from his face sharply, and his hips won’t stay still, drawing figure eights in the sheets. “Need you, Lou, come on.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, awed. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t stop to make it slow. He will, next time, but it’s not what Harry needs, not when he’s like this. They’d never even been naked together before today, but Louis only needs a single look at him to know.

He slides one finger in easily, Harry’s body tensing around him, taut for a few seconds before he relaxes and exhales on a moan. Louis sucks a bruise into the soft skin of his thigh while he pushes in deeper, down to the knuckle, making sure Harry is used to the slide before he adds another finger.

He’s writhing now, clenched tight around Louis and alive with pent-up energy above him on the bed, one of his fists curled loosely in the sheets, the other running down his chest, distractedly thumbing at his own nipples. Louis has half a mind to stop him, to reach up there and pull Harry’s hand away by the wrist, but the sight has him paralysed. Harry’s skin is hot, shiny with sweat, flushed and just begging to be taken apart. He doesn’t have any inhibitions, doesn’t try to hold back the sounds that make their way out of his throat, the sounds that Louis is stroking out of him.

It’s a little like looking at the entire universe spread out right in these sheets, all his. It makes Louis’s head spin.

“Another one?” he asks. Harry keens, biting the corner of his pillow, a stark white against the deep pink of his lips.

Louis adds a second finger carefully, going slow enough that Harry tries to move down on the bed and meet Louis’s hand. He’s tight, even like this, and Louis’s blood pounds in his temples when he imagines being inside, getting to fuck into Harry while he looks like this, all gorgeous and disheveled. He strokes along Harrry’s walls, in and out, building up a rhythm that makes Harry’s legs twitch.

He rubs his cheek over Harry’s thighs, the pale skin meeting the slightest bit of stubble he’s let grow in the past few days. He leaves it reddened, beautifully sensitive, hot under his lips when he presses a kiss there, then leaves a trail of love bites. There’s something animalistic in the pleasure it gives him, looking at something that he’s left on Harry’s body, that’s going to stay for days to come, going to remind Harry of him even when they’re not together.

He crooks his fingers, searching for Harry’s prostate; when he finds it, barely brushing it before he slides away, Harry all but shoots off the bed. The arch of his back should be impossible, but he stays that way for a good few seconds, all but begging for Louis to come back, to finish him off.

“Please,” he says, actually begging. He barely sounds like himself, his voice stuck somewhere deep in his throat, and his chest is rising and falling with a dizzying speed.

Louis leans forward and takes him in his mouth, sucking on the head of his cock as he moves his fingers right back in, relentless. Harry whines helplessly, sinks his fingers into the mattress, and comes with the most beautiful sound Louis has ever heard.

He sucks him through it, swallowing everything he’s got to give, running hands over his feverish skin. He wipes his fingers in the sheets, and Harry is too out of it to even tell him off.

He kisses every bit of Harry’s body that’s within reach as he makes his way back up, pressing pecks into his hips and his stomach and the column of his throat. Harry is lying with his limbs spread out, breathing hard, his eyes glazed as he looks up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Louis whispers into his jaw.

Harry takes a deep breath, then lets it out with a weak laugh. “Hey. Hey,” and he moves, finally, tangling his fingers deep in Louis’s hair, intertwining their legs, giving Louis the intimacy he’s been craving without being aware of it. Harry knew, though, and of course he did.

“Hey,” he says again. He presses a smile into Harry’s collarbone. “How was that?”

“I—really? You’re really asking me that?”

“Can’t get better without performance reviews,” Louis grins. Harry’s looking down at him now, his eyes as green as they’ve ever been. He looks like a complete wreck in the most delicious way, and what’s best, he’s smiling at Louis like he hung the moon.

He shakes his head, and runs a thumb along Louis’s cheek. “I love you,” he says, low and serious. “This was the best sex of my life, and I’m never letting you out of this bedroom.”

Louis laughs. Harry leans down trying to catch his lips, and he meets him in the middle.

Kissing Harry feels like coming home. Not just now, though Louis has missed it greatly in the ten minutes he was occupied with something else; it’s like that every single time, whether they’re snogging against the wall at the back of the house while hiding from Liam or sharing a peck before Louis gets up on a horse and disappears down the track. Every single time, Louis’s world stutters for a second, and he’s reminded that he’s got somewhere to belong now. Someone to belong to.

They look at each other when the pull away for air. The gentleness in Harry’s eyes is like a physical touch, soothing on Louis’s overheated skin. He thinks he sees now, why Harry had been so terrified to love again. Louis feels as if he were holding Harry’s heart, whole and beating, in the palm of his hand, and could drop it if he so much as breathes wrong.

“Nap?” Harry suggests, his eyes already closed. Louis is both half-hard and bone-tired, and he doesn’t need any convincing.

“Should I get off you?” he asks, though he’s not really sure who’s on top of who at this point. They’re both wrapped around each other so tight Louis feels Harry’s every movement as if it were his own.

“No!” Harry says immediately, tightening his arms around Louis. “Absolutely not. Stay right here.”

Louis grins, feeling heavy as sleep pulls at him. He presses one last kiss to the middle of Harry’s chest, then lays his head there, listening to Harry’s heart beating.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry mumbles. One of his hands has come down to rest on Louis’s leg, wrapped around the knee right where the scars sit.

“Mhm?”

“I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Louis looks at him, at the angles of his face softened with sleep, the flutter of his lashes where they catch the last sunlight of the day.

“Me too, darling,” he breathes, smiles, already falling head-first into a dream. “Me too.”

It’s dark when Louis wakes up. Harry is still breathing peacefully underneath him, the air is freezing cold on his skin, and—

And his phone is ringing.

He almost breaks his neck diving to the floor, intent on shutting it up before it wakes Harry. He finds it buzzing along the floor in the back pocket of his discarded jeans, and he flips it in his hands blearily, trying to decline the call. Once he sees the screen, though, two things catch his attention:

One, it’s two thirty in the morning.

Two, it’s Liam calling.

“What’s wrong?” he barks into the phone, picking it up without thinking and trying to orient himself in Harry’s bedroom in search of his own clothes. He pauses when he doesn’t get an answer from the other end, just strange, shaky breathing.

“Liam,” he says, trying his best not to panic. “Liam, is that you?”

More silence. Another long breath, an exhale straight into the microphone, and then a single, heart-wrenching sob.

“Jesus,” Louis whispers, tugging on a t-shirt that probably isn’t his. “Liam, babe. What happened? Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” Liam sniffles on the other end. Relief slams into Louis like a freight train. “I’m fine. Sorry, I’m fine.”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Louis tells him, zipping up hoodie that definitely belongs to Harry. He’s been awake for all of two minutes, but he knows already that he has to leave, and he’s taking a piece of his boy with him. “Where are you?”

“Home,” Liam replies. There’s a shuffling noise on his end of the line, then the echo of footsteps. “I guess. I have to move out of here.”

Dread pools in Louis’s stomach as he grabs the duvet and pulls it over Harry’s naked body, pressing a hurried kiss to his forehead. He thinks he knows what this is, and if he’s right—

“She’s gone,” Liam says, without prompting, and breaks into what sounds like a fresh wave of tears. “She’s gone, Louis, I’ve cocked it all up, what am I going to do—“

“Liam,” Louis says, trying to be authoritative. He steps into his shoes without tying them and takes the stairs of Harry’s enormous complex three at a time, holding on to the railing for dear life. “Listen to me. Are you in bed?”

“No,” he says. “No, smells like her, I can’t—“

“Okay,” Louis interrupts. “Okay, babe, listen. I’m on my way, yeah? I’m coming, but I have to hang up so I can call a cab. I want you to get a blanket and lie down on the sofa, just. Try and relax for a second.”

Liam snorts. “Relax,” he mumbles, but Louis can tell by the rustling on his end that he’s stood up. “Wait, did you say—you don’t have to come here, Louis, it’s your day off, I wouldn’t want to—“

“Shut up,” says Louis. “I’m coming, and I’ll make a pot of tea, and you can cry as much as you want, just—hold on for a little while, okay? Hang in there. I promise you’re going to be alright.”

He’s jogging down the street now, knee creaking unhappily because he jumped out of bed without so much as stretching, trying to catch sight of a cab. It’s a bloody Wednesday night, the alleys all but empty even in the city centre, wet and shiny in the streetlights.

“Louis,” Liam says, small, sniffing into the phone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Louis’s heart breaks. He runs once he rounds the corner, intent on getting to his best friend, waving at every car that passes just in case.

“Neither do I, babe, but we’ll figure it out,” he promises. “I’ll be there soon.”

And he hangs up then, even though it makes his chest hurt, knowing Liam would keep him talking. He dials a cab company instead, and he’s sitting in a car in five minutes, rattling off Liam’s address and trying to looks a little less frazzled than he feels.

He’d like to have a stress cry right about now, but the cabbie is already looking at him with suspicion. It’s just—God, he was so happy a few hours ago, so content he can still feel the remnants of it clinging to him, and now he’s had to leave Harry, his wonderful, wonderful boy, alone without so much as saying goodbye. And his best friend is heartbroken on the other side of London, probably searching his kitchen cabinets for the booze that Louis threw out a long time ago.

All of it will seem a lot less dramatic in the light of day, he’s sure, but right now—right now, looking at the flashes of the night sky scattered between high-rise buildings, he just wants to bury his head in his knees.

He types out a text to Harry on the way, already missing him, guilt gnawing at his stomach because he hadn’t so much as left a note: i promise i havent left liam needd my hlep be back as soon as i can love u so much. it’s not his best, but he can barely see the keyboard through the cloud of sleep and tears that hangs in his eyes.

Harry won’t be angry, he knows that. If anything, he’ll be concerned, but this—it feels wrong.

He overpays the cabbie horrifically when they finally pull to a stop in front of Liam’s building, just throwing out the first notes that he grabs when he reaches into his wallet. He runs across the road, lets himself in, and suffers the stairs all the way to the fourth floor.

Liam’s door is ajar, and the horrible feeling stirring in Louis’s gut gets stronger.

“Liam?” he calls, shouldering in and taking off his shoes. He’s met with silence. “Liam,” he says again, and peeks into room after room. What he finds makes his blood pound in his ears with a sense of urgency, the worst kind of adrenaline fizzing in his veins.

The kitchen is a mess – a couple of plates are lying broken in the sink, and there’s an haphazardly swept pile of shards on the floor. There’s a couple of dents in the wall, and bare nails littering the plaster like black holes where pictures used to hang. It’s like a cheesy movie set; Louis would almost laugh at how ridiculous it looks, but the weight of how real it is sits heavy on his shoulders. This is Liam’s actual flat, the table where he and Louis and Sophia had brunch not three weeks ago, the walls that they all painted when they moved in, a couple of months before Louis got himself stuck in hospital. Louis has a plethora of happy memories here, and seeing it this state makes breathing quite hard – he can only imagine how Liam feels.

The bedroom looks even worse, all half-filled drawers and wardrobe doors hanging open, the empty hangers rattling like branches in the wind. The rug has gone from the bathroom, and there’s a cracked perfume bottle lying on the tile, forgotten like it’s been accidentally swept off the counter. Even the hallway is a mess of wrinkled carpets and more missing frames, their silhouettes dark on the sun-bleached paint.

It’s a bloody carnage.

He finds Liam, finally, right where he’d told him to be – curled into a ball on the sofa with his back to the room, blanket drawn tight around his shoulders. He’s trying to pretend that he’s asleep.

“Hey,” Louis says softly, and the urgency he was feeling leaves his body in one enormous exhale. It leaves behind a dark, sticky kind of sadness. “Thought you weren’t here.”

Liam’s shoulders still, then shake, like he’s deciding whether to give up his act. Louis crosses the room and sits next to him, effectively making the decision.

“You told me to relax,” he says into the cushions. He’s buried his face so deep his ears are only just visible.

“That I did,” says Louis, wrapping a hand around his ankle. “How are you?”

It’s a silly question, and Liam laughs when he hears it. “Fine,” he says. “Feels like m’ life’s over, but I’m fine.”

“Your life’s not over, babe. I know it feels that way right now, but you are actually going to be fine.”

Liam snorts. “Let me be dramatic for a second, will you?” he says, finally turning over. He looks—better. Better than Louis would’ve expected from the way he sounded on the phone, anyway.

“Only if I can give you a cuddle.”

He snorts again, but wastes no time rearranging himself on the sofa until he’s within reach, and Louis can wrap his arms around him. He feels exactly like he did when Louis hugged him goodbye after work a couple of days ago, warm and heavy and just this side of smelly, because come on, Louis, who has time for showers when there are races to be won?; and yet everything has changed. It’s there, hidden in the uneven rhythm of his breathing, even though he’s putting up an impressive front.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says into his hair, and ruffles it to distract from the thickness that’s crept into his voice. “I’m so sorry, babe.”

Liam sniffles. “I just—just don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

“I wish I knew,” Louis tells him. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

Liam squeezes him a little tighter. It hurts, but he’s not going to complain. “Can you,” he hiccups, “can you do me a favour?”

He’s crying again. His tears are hot and clammy on Louis’s neck, and he just wants so badly to be able to stop them; instead, he’s fighting a lump in his own throat.

“Anything,” he says, and means it. He’d reach out of the window and tear down the sky if it would make Liam feel better.

“Can you check up on her?” Liam asks, surprisingly even considering the tremor that’s running through his entire body. “When you leave, I mean. I’m—she was really upset, and I’m so worried, but I don’t think—I don’t think.”

“Yeah,” Louis jumps in before he’s finished speaking. “Of course, yeah. I can do that. I will.”

It’s going to be painfully awkward. He already dreads it, if he’s honest with himself, because Liam was his friend before Sophia was, but he loves them both, and this—this whole thing. It makes him feel like he’s drowning.

He feels, bizarrely but all the more desperately, like he needs Harry to help him through this.

“Thanks,” Liam says. He continues crying in complete silence, not letting out so much as a hint of a sob, and Louis stares into the ceiling and ruffles his hair to try and make him laugh.

“What happened?” he asks when he can’t stand the quiet anymore. “With the flat, I mean. The kitchen’s a mess.”

Liam inhales. “She was just trying—trying to get out, packing her stuff. I told her I’d send it over later, but she already had her bag out, just throwing things in, and she knocked some off the plates off the shelf—“

“Did she take the mugs?” Louis asks, tentative but sure, somehow, that talking about it is what Liam needs.

They had a pair of those ugly his and hers mugs that Liam bought at a street market when he was fresh out of school, off-white with dinky hand-painted flowers and chipped handles. Sophia was very loud about how much she hated them, and she’d only agree to drink from hers after they’d gotten together all over again, acting like they were freshly in love even though it was their fifth try at a relationship.

“Just the one,” Liam laughs, and then bursts into heartwrenching sobs.

“Oh, babe,” Louis murmurs, and wraps one of his arms firmer around Liam’s shoulders. He’s powerless here, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. “I’m sorry.”

“I love her so much,” Liam gets out, one of his hands curled into a fist in Louis’s t-shirt. “I love her, Louis. Why isn’t that enough?”

Louis wipes away a stubborn tear. “I don’t know, Li,” he says, hugging Liam to him like he can physically keep him together. “I don’t know.”

They stay there on the sofa, sniffling and clinging to each other, until the sky turns a dusty blue and the streetlights go out. Louis orders Liam to go to sleep several times, but he stubbornly stays awake, asking Louis hopeless little questions that break his heart.

“You’ve got to go to bed sometime,” Louis tells him when the clock on his Blu-ray player reaches the end of another hour and displays a bright red six. “We’ve got to get back to work tomorrow. Can’t have you falling asleep on me while I’m trying to jump an eight-foot fence.”

“God,” Liam moans, his voice raspy from all the crying. “God, we have a race next week.”

“Yep,” Louis smiles a little, happy to steer the conversation to a more comfortable topic. “We’re moving up to class two.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” says Liam, and there’s a little spark in his voice, a hint of the playfulness Louis was looking for. It’s a victory.

“I am,” he replies, patting his best friend on the head. “We’re coming in first this time, you’ll see.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, quiet. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

Louis hopes, against hope, that exhaustion is finally starting to catch up with him. “Bed?” he tries again, moving to support him while he stands up, but Liam pulls him right back down.

“Can’t,” he says, and his breathing picks up suddenly, panic-fast. “There’s no way I can—no.”

“I could change the sheets?”

“No,” he repeats. “It’s not just—I can’t. God, I’m gonna have to go to a hotel.”

“You can stay at mine,” Harry says from the doorway.

Harry says from the doorway.

Louis’s head snaps up so fast he gives himself a crick in the neck, but the wave of relief that hits drowns out everything else. Harry looks messy-haired and rumpled and sleepy, but the sight of him is enough to make Louis feel a thousand pounds lighter.

“What are you doing here?” he and Liam ask at the same time, though in very different tones. Liam, caught off-guard, starts furiously scrubbing at his face, as though he could make Harry believe that he hasn’t just spent hours crying into Louis’s shoulder.

“Neighbor let me in downstairs,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets and a small, sad smile on his lips. “And the door was open up here. I should have knocked, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Liam sniffs, scrabbling to hide all his dirty tissues under a throw pillow. “It’s fine, I just—I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I can go, if you’d like. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Don’t, Louis wants to shout, wants to propel himself across the room and straight into his arms, because he’d wished—he wanted Harry here with him, and somehow, impossibly, Harry knew.

“Don’t be silly,” Liam stands up and tries a smile. It sits a little lopsided on his face, but it’s a good effort. “Tea?”

Carefully, Harry looks at Louis, searching for answers. Louis’s desperate eyes must give him one, because he turns to Liam and says: “Love some, thank you.”

Louis is very near ecstatic to see Liam up and moving, and he wants to follow him to the kitchen and make sure he’s fine, really he does, but—

“Hey,” Harry says, low and worried, so worried, wrinkles all across his forehead. “Everything okay?”

Wordlessly, Louis shakes his head. He untangles the blanket that’s trapped his legs and runs across Liam’s living room straight into Harry’s arms.

“Hey,” Harry says again, and he holds Louis steady, holds him sure even though he doesn’t know what’s going on. “Lou.”

“Sorry,” Louis says as he holds on to the lapel’s of Harry’s coat, face buried in his neck, breathing him in until everything gets a little easier to take. He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, runs his hands through his hair, across his face, down his chest. Harry’s here. “Sorry, I’m—sorry, fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Harry pulls away, just enough to see into Louis’s eyes. “You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry I ran out,” Louis says, the need to apologise heavier on his tongue than any other words he might want to say. “I didn’t think—I panicked, and I had to—“

“Louis,” Harry stops him, gentle and stern all at the same time. “It’s okay. You texted me, remember?”

Louis does, but only vaguely. He remembers heaviness in his chest, and being short of breath, and the lights of London by night glinting off his phone screen as he tried to think of something to say.

“Right,” he says, and his hands find Harry’s, slotting their fingers together. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I was worried,” he frowns. “About you, and about Liam,” he says, just as there’s a crash in the kitchen.

“I’m fine!” Liam calls before Louis can run inside in a panic, but he’s still tense where Harry’s holding on to him.

“Is he okay?” Harry asks.

“No,” Louis tells him, and it’s the truth. “You heard him, I really—I really don’t think he can stay here right now.”

“I meant what I said, Lou,” says Harry, with that brand of earnestness that’s entirely his own. “If he needs to get away, he’s going to mine.”

Louis smiles. “Did you ask him if he wants to?”

“Nope,” Harry smiles back. “I pay him. My word is law.”

He makes to go into the kitchen, but Louis pulls him back by the collar and gives him a kiss.

“I love you,” he says, and Harry beams in response.

“Love you,” he replies, and pulls Louis behind him by the sleeve.

They find Liam bent over a teapot, idly stirring a spoon inside it. His hair is drooping into his eyes, and it takes him a while to realise that someone else is in the room.

“Oh,” he says once he straightens up and spots them in the reflection of his gleaming cupboards. “Sorry, taking a while. Couldn’t find the tea.”

He looks exhausted in the new light of the morning, dark bruises under his eyes and a web of creases fading on his cheek from when he dozed on Louis’s shoulder. His clothes are hopelessly wrinkled; he looks like a very sad kicked puppy, and Louis wants nothing more than to wrap him in a blanket and stick him in a bed.

He squeezes Harry’s hand, then lets go, and crosses the kitchen to wrap around his best friend.

“Let’s drink this,” he taps the warm ceramic of the teapot, “and then leave.”

“We can’t just—I have to call first, book a room somewhere?” he’s frowning, speaking slowly like he’s not sure if he’s saying the words right.

“I already told you, you can stay at mine,” says Harry, and takes a careful step closer. He checks with Louis, a hesitant look, before he reaches out to touch Liam’s forearm. “I’m so sorry, Liam.”

“Thanks,” Liam whispers, smiling ruefully.

“This is the least I can do for you, yeah? I’d be more than happy to have you.”

“Come on,” Louis pats him on the chest. “You sit down, Harry’ll get some cups out, and I’m going to go and pack you a bag.”

“I feel like a baby,” says Liam, but he sways on his feet even in the three steps it takes to get to the kitchen table. “I can pack my own clothes. And I can’t—Harry, are you sure?”

The smile that Harry gives him warm Louis all the way down to his toes.

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he pours the tea. “You can stay as long as you need. Forever, even, the house is big enough that you can avoid me when I get on your nerves.”

Liam smiles a little. It looks genuine.

“Plus, you can get more work done this way.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Liam perks up. Louis would make fun of him for being a workaholic, but he’d really be the pot calling the kettle black. “You’re right. We’ve got a race in six days.”

“So you’re coming?” Harry grins.

Liam grins back. It’s weak, but it’s there, and Louis suddenly realises that a few toothy rays of morning sun have crept into the kitchen.

“I’m coming,” he says, and squeezes Louis around the waist.

They’re all going to be okay.

As Louis soon realises, there is an issue with Liam staying at Harry’s – namely, Louis has no reason to leave anymore. Niall comes by every other day to “hang out”, as he puts it, and he does Louis’s physio with him in between raiding Harry’s kitchen and regaling Liam with stories about that one patient of his who has a really smelly bellybutton.

They’ve also abandoned the concept of working hours, staying up drinking beer and talking strategy long into the night, then getting up at dawn to get the most out of the track before it gets too warm outside. Harry trails them everywhere, asking endless question and holding Louis’s hand just because he can; it’s very, very difficult to convince himself it’s time to go when it gets dark, and most nights, he ends up curled around Harry in the master bedroom.

Liam seems to flourish under the influence of nature, Harry’s cooking, and Martha’s terrifyingly delicious smoothies. It also helps that Louis and Marshmallow run their race, then another one, and win them both. Impossibly, she gets moved up to class two, and they enter fixtures with names that Louis has actually heard of before. He gets an article in a Donny paper, complete with his picture, and his mum sends him a dozen copies. Harry giggles when he reads it and realises it says the Styles stable, but he also cuts it out right there on the kitchen table, puts it in a frame, and hangs it above the fireplace.

On a absurdly humind day in late July, Louis walks inside the house to the sight of Harry stretched out on one of the fancy sofas in the lounge. He’s wearing a loose pair of joggers and nothing else, waving a hand around as he tries to dry his freshly painted nails and using the other one to flip through a Basquiat book sitting on his lap.

He’s so absorbed in it he doesn’t notice Louis enter, and he takes advantage. He tiptoes across the room, his steps muffled in the rugs, and lets Harry know he’s there by tugging on the tie that’s holding his bun together.

Harry doesn’t so much as flinch. “You walk like an elephant,” he says, unimpressed, but Louis can see the sharp cut of a dimple in his cheek. He hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder and kisses it, breathing in.

“I missed you too, darling,” he grins, and waits until Harry’s finished the page to ask for a kiss.

“Hi,” Harry smiles when he connects their lips, licking into Louis’s mouth just the way he likes. “Are you done with work?”

“It’s too hot,” Louis says – whines, really. He’s spent the last two hours in the corral with Liam, trying to help him fix a log in the fence that Marshmallow had kicked down. He feels the sun on his skin even in the protective shadow of the house.

“I know,” says Harry. “I went outside for a while, but it just didn’t work.”

Louis laughs. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping yourself cool,” he says, and reaches out to pinch Harry’s nipple. He just manages to duck the touch, kicking his book to the ground as he tries to move across the sofa without ruining his nails.

“Stop that,” he says, eyes sparkling, “and join me.”

“In being half naked, or lying on the sofa?”

“Both, please,” Harry replies, already going for the hem of Louis’s vest.

“I’m sticky.”

“Don’t care, I want a cuddle.”

“Harry—“

“Lou.”

Louis almost feels giddy when he finally gives in and strips, dizzy from the heat and overjoyed to be with Harry again. They were apart for less than five hours, and neither of them actually left the property, but Louis has missed his boy. There’s nothing wrong with that, thank you very much.

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Liam is wandering out there somewhere, and will probably come in any second. He’s also very much aware of Harry sprawled on the sofa with his arms open and a smile on his face, and really, Liam has seen way worse.

“Hello again,” he kisses into Harry’s collarbone as he crawls over the back of the sofa and manages to land without kneeing Harry in the balls.

“Hello,” Harry replies, burying his nose in Louis’s hair. “You smell like horse.”

“’S what happens when you spend the morning sitting on top of one,” Louis says. He wiggles until they’re side by side, the warm skin of their torsos touching in a way that’s wonderfully sticky and grounding and real. The spot where Harry’s shoulder meets his neck still smells like the lemon body wash they used in the shower that morning, and Louis presses his face there contentedly.

“How was she?” Harry asks.

Louis laughs. “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic cuddle. A sexy cuddle, even.”

“I mean—I can make it into foreplay if you want,” says Harry, and the smile is already audible in his voice. “Oh, Louis, I wish you could’ve spent the morning sitting on top of me.”

“Oh my God,” Louis shrieks, unable to curb his laughter. “I can’t believe you.”

“You’re the one who complained,” Harry replies. When Louis looks up at him, he’s wearing his smug face – the one that makes his look like a satisfied toddler. A gorgeous satisfied toddler, but a toddler nonetheless. “I was just trying to have a conversation.”

Louis kisses the grin right off his lips. “I wasn’t being serious, smartarse. I don’t mind a work cuddle if it’s with you.”

“You’re too sweet to me,” Harry says, and his smile softens. “Ruins my fun.”

“Says you, Mr Let’s Get Married And Have Seventeen Babies.”

“I never said that,” he laughs, dimples prominent in both his cheeks.

“Did so,” Louis pecks him. “You were tipsy though. Maybe you don’t remember.”

He’d been more than tipsy, if Louis is honest. Completely hammered would be more accurate – they were celebrating his and Marshmallow’s first win, and Harry had broken out a very expensive bottle of tequila.

“I—really? What did you say back?”

“I said,” Louis grins and throws one of his legs over Harry’s hip, “let’s do it. And then you fell asleep on top of me.”

Harry covers his face. While he waits to see his eyes again, Louis can’t help tracing the wonky lines of his hand; can’t help imagining a pretty rose gold band settled low on his ring finger, worn with time.

“I love you,” Harry says. The tips of his ears have gone red.

“Love you too,” Louis kisses him on the chest. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’re very comfortable to sleep under.”

“I take it back,” he says, peeking out from between his fingers with an eye that seems to be laughing. “I hate you.”

“Come here,” Louis laughs, burying both his hands in Harry’s hair and pulling gently until he tips his chin up and lets his palm slide off. “There you are,” he says, and proceeds to snog the life out of him.

It’s wonderful and lazy, warm like the summer air around them. Harry keeps smiling into the kiss like he just can’t stop himself, and Louis—Louis feels like he’s got the whole world at his fingertips.

“We’ll get to do that, you know,” he mumbles when they separate, just far enough that his words meet Harry’s lips as he says them. “Get married, and have the most bloody gorgeous wedding. William and Kate who?”

“Will we ride through the city in a carriage?” Harry asks. His eyes look suspiciously shiny, and he cups Louis’s face in his hand, then tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Course we will,” Louis smiles. “They might even close a couple roads for us if we give them enough money.”

“Paying off the City Council, how romantic,” Harry grins back at him, his cheeks red. “What else?”

“Well,” Louis pretends to think, drawing an absent-minded heart on Harry’s chest. “We can have enough kids to start our own football team, how about that?”

“I’d like that,” Harry says. He’s beaming so wide it must hurt a little.

“Good,” Louis leans in for a kiss. “We’ll have it all, gorgeous. Get ready.”

“Born ready,” Harry shoots back. “Would marry you tomorrow if I could.”

“I have physio tomorrow,” Louis pouts. “Thursday would work, though.”

It’s then that they crack up, slumping into each other and mouthing at skin as they laugh. Louis is filled to the very brim with bright, fizzing happiness. He settles on Harry’s chest, listens to the rumble of his voice and the strong beating of his heart, and wonders how he ever got this lucky.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Harry says, rubbing at a knot he’s found in Louis’s shoulder, “how was Marshmallow?”

“Good,” Louis sighs, content. The summer heat has crept inside, and pulls heavily on his eyelids. Maybe he’s got time for a nap before Liam barges in and demands that he do something or other. “We finally jumped that fence.”

“The five foot?”

“Yep,” Louis replies, smiling a little at the palpable excitement in Harry’s voice. “Nice and clean, landed well. I even managed to stay in the saddle.”

Harry chuckles. “I’m so proud of you both,” he says, and presses a kiss into Louis’s hair.

“It’s all her,” Louis promises.

“Our little miracle horse.”

Louis laughs, and looks up to where Harry’s eyes are already on him, green and endlessly warm.

“You’re my miracle,” he grins.

Harry beams right back. “And you’re mine.”

Louis leans up for a kiss, and Harry gives it to him happily, running warm hands over Louis’s naked back. Louis wishes he could take a snapshot of the moment in its entirety – of the way his stomach flutters, and the shock of breath against his cheek when Harry breaks into giggles.

But then, he realises as he opens his eyes, he doesn’t need a snapshot to remember what being with Harry is like. He’s going to get to live it for the rest of his life.

Surprisingly, it’s not Liam’s untimely arrival that tears them out of their bubble – it’s, once again, Louis’s ringtone.

“Pick it up,” Harry mumbles against his lips, but doesn’t let go.

“Don’t want to,” Louis mumbles back, too absorbed in giving Harry a perfectly round love bite. “They’ll leave a voicemail.”

“Louis,” Harry says, in that voice that tries to be strict but really ends up impossibly fond. He reaches out to the coffee table, pushes away his bottle of nail varnish, and grabs Louis’s phone. “Pick up. I’ve got to wee anyway.”

Reluctantly, Louis pulls away and rolls off. He gets absorbed in the play of Harry’s muscles across his back, and only remembers to accept the call at the tail end of his ringtone.

“Hello?” he answers, without bothering to look at the screen.

There’s breathing on the other end, and Louis’s stomach suddenly feels like it’s filled with lead. He knows who that is.

“Simon,” he says tightly.

“Louis,” Simon replies, fake jovial. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“You’re the one who’s calling me. By mistake, I assume?” His voice is so hard it all but scratches his throat as it comes out, but Louis can’t help himself. His last encounter with Simon is still very fresh in his memory, intensely humiliating even though he came out the winner. That’s what every conversation with Simon is, really – a fight.

“Oh no, not at all,” Simon drawls. Louis can just about imagine him sprawled in his hideous Herman Miller chair. “I just happened to come across a copy of the Yorkshire Post, and imagine my surprise when I saw you right on the cover. It’s been a while since that happened, eh?”

“It has,” Louis smiles tightly. He stands up and walks across the room, not wanting to have this conversation on the sofa that’s still warm with Harry’s presence. “I was injured, I’m sure you remember.”

“Indeed. And what a horrible injury it was.”

Louis bites his lip and stares out of the window. A couple of horses are grazing nearby, hiding in the protective shadow of a tree. Liam is running up the hill just below the horizon, mallet over his shoulder and Bubble hot on his heels.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Well, Louis,” Simon starts. Louis’s name sounds like an insult coming out of his mouth. “Seeing as your…injury doesn’t seem to be a problem, I would like to invite you to sign a new contract.”

Louis blinks. “Sign—what? With you?”

“Of course,” he replies, and there is a smile audible in his voice. Louis wants to reach into the phone and punch him in the face. “This horse you’re riding now—you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you must see that she’s at the end of her rope here. Aintree is months away, and you’re not going to make it there.”

“You know nothing about horses,” Louis tells him, picking at one of the heavy curtains hanging on either side of the window. There’s an aggressively bitter part of him that wants to come out, inject his words with the same casual derision that Simon is so fond of.

He won’t let it, though. He’s better.

“You do remember the size of my stable, yes?”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re just money to you. My horse is just getting started, and I already told you – I look forward to running against you come April.”

“Really?” Simon asks, and some of his carefully constructed composure chips away. “You want to stay. There are no opportunities for you there, you have nobody to work the press for you, to build up your name again. Do you really want that?”

“It’s not a question,” Louis snorts. There are light steps behind him, and then Harry’s arms wrap firmly around his waist, chasing away every bit of tension that’s settled in his shoulders. “I’m staying here, and I want nothing to do with you.”

He laughs. He laughs, and Louis desperately wishes it didn’t make him feel small.

“I love you,” Harry whispers when he hears, kissing Louis’s shoulder. Louis turns his head just so, enough to see him looking red-cheeked and peaceful, breathing Louis in with his eyes closed.

“Fine,” Simon says, intruding on Louis’s peace. “Have it your way. I’ll give you double the money.”

Louis is startled into a laugh. Simon really, actually wants him. He’s not just calling to play his fucked up mind games, he actually—God.

“I don’t want your money,” he says. “I don’t want—you know what? Nevermind. Goodbye, Simon.”

And, before he has time to chicken out, he pulls the mobile away from his ear and ends the call.

The silence that follows is kind of deafening and kind of defining. He stares at the screen for a few seconds, expecting Simon to call right back, used to getting whatever he wants. He doesn’t.

“Babe,” Harry whispers when the quietness hangs in the air for too long, weighing uncomfortably on Louis’s chest. “Okay?”

“He wanted—“ he stutters, taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the situation. “He really asked me to come back.”

“He can’t stand to see you succeed without him, can he,” Harry murmurs, keeping his arms firm around Louis swaying them in place. “Thinks he made you who you are.”

Louis bites his lip. “Didn’t he?” he asks, eyes fixed on Liam and the yearlings, now sliding downhill through the grass.

“Of course not,” Harry smiles into Louis’s shoulder. “Not at all.”

And Louis believes him.

He tosses his phone behind them, aiming vaguely towards the sofa, then turns around so he’s facing Harry. The sun that slants in through the window paints him rosy and gold, with green, greenest eyes.

“Are you tempted?” Harry asks when Louis says nothing for a while, just drawing an endless swirl on Harry’s chest with the pad of his finger.

Louis blinks. “To go back?”

“Just asking,” Harry shrugs. “You can, if you want. I wouldn’t—hold it against you, or anything.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, going after the slightest hint of uncertainty that colours Harry’s voice. “I’d never. I’m at home here. With you.”

And he realises, just then, that he’s telling the truth. The realisation of it is absolute, and it feels like sweet honey spilling over his bones. This skin, these arms, the heart that beats so closely to his own they might as well be one – this is what home is. Who home is.

He thinks of his flat, left empty more often than not. He hardly ever finds himself missing it.

It’s not tall ceilings that make a home, or that fantastic shaggy rug mum gave him as a housewarming present. It’s not the best view in the city, or his dinky kitchen with burn marks on the ceiling.

It’s his favourite boy in the entire world. It’s this.

“Ever the romantic,” Harry grins, dimples sweet in his pink cheeks. “I love you.”

Louis leans forward, nestles his face against Harry’s neck right where his skin is the warmest. “Love you too, darling. Can I stay?”

“Tonight?”

Grinning, Louis takes his hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of forever, actually.”

Harry grins right back, “Please.”

A few days later, Louis gets in the saddle with a kiss still burning on his lips, and soars straight to victory.

The news catches him on a Monday afternoon, strolling down the aisle of a Sainsbury’s and trying to keep Liam and Niall in check. They’d talked him and Harry into a lads’ night, and then all but dragged Louis out to help them shop.

Niall is currently acting like a madman in the liquor aisle, and Liam, excitable as ever, is not far behind.

Louis has a headache.

“We’re not going to drink all that,” he tells Liam when he staggers to the trolley with a 24-pack of Carling. “Put it back.”

“No,” Liam says, and manages to deposit it between the seven variety packs of crisps that Niall insisted on. “Niall says we need it.”

“Niall has a shit taste in booze,” Louis replies. He’s playing with his phone, opening and closing the messages app. Harry hasn’t responded to his last text. He did say he need to get some work done, but Louis is bored. “Also—what is that?”

“Tequila,” Liam beams, holding up three very expensive-looking bottles. “Niall says—“

“You hate tequila,” Louis points out. He slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, suddenly interested. “You vomit every time you so much as smell tequila. What’s going on?”

Liam puts the bottles in the trolley, suspiciously red around the ears.

Niall bounds over out of nowhere, all but vibrating with excitement. Louis likes him without the clipboard and the ugly work clothes, but he could never have anticipated the amount of energy that lay under his workaholic surface. He’s been going since Louis’s training session at five in the morning, and he doesn’t show any signs of stopping.

“Louis,” he exclaims, like this is the first time they’ve seen each other today. “My good man. Tell me – have you ever had a salty chihuahua?”

“I really hope that’s a drink,” Louis replies, smiling a little despite himself.

“That it is,” Niall grins. “Prepare to have your mind blown.” He claps Louis on the shoulder, and then he’s off again. Louis barely catches him mumble something about pretzel sticks.

“Salty chihuahua?” he turns to Liam, and finds him staring into the distance, just past the soup cans. “Liam.”

“What’s that?” he asks, putting on a smile. A gear turns in Louis’s brain, little by little, and then—he can all but hear the click.

“Oh my God,” he says. “Liam, oh my God.”

“Let’s go get chasers,” Liam tries, but Louis already has fingers clenched in the sleeve of his jacket, not letting him move an inch.

“You like Niall.”

“We all like Niall,” Liam replies. He appears to be intently studying the tiles on the ceiling.

“No, you like Niall.”

“For God’s sake, Louis,” says Liam, but his exasperated act has too many cracks. He’s blushing underneath his beard. “We’re not in primary school.”

“You actually do,” Louis breathes. “You like him, this is the best thing that has ever—“

“Don’t tell him,” Liam tries to butt in, pouting sadly. “Don’t—“

“You like him. You like a boy, I can’t believe I lived to see this day—“

“Stop being a prick, Jesus—“

“You like Niall!”

Before Liam can murder him in cold blood right there in the canned foods aisle, Louis’s phone rings. Normally, he’d ignore it in favour of bullying Liam into a confession, but it’s Harry’s ringtone.

He picks it up automatically, ready to spill Liam’s secrets, but the fast breathing on the other end of the line stops him.

“Harry?” he asks.

“Lou,” Harry wheezes. Louis is suddenly on the verge of panic, but there’s something in Harry’s voice – something that sounds happy, even ecstatic. “Louis, you got in.”

Louis’s brain goes blank. “We got in…”

“The National! You’re on the starting list, please come home, I have to kiss you right now—“

“The National?” Louis shouts. Dozens of heads turn towards him, but he only sees Liam’s eyes as they widen, only hears Harry’s sweet voice. “No fucking way. Oh my God, are you serious—“

“I just got the call.”

Louis can just imagine him, sitting in his office with a breathless smile on his face, looking out to where Marshmallow is no doubt getting up to mischief with her herdmates.

He quite literally folds down on the ground, leaning back against a display of discount beans. There are tears stinging in his eyes, but the inside of his chest feels like a hot air balloon, expanding with endless happiness, with excitement.

He’s going to run in the National.

“I’m going to run in the National!” he tells the entire shop. Harry cackles in his ear, and Liam pulls him up into a clumsy, euphoric hug, and Niall slams into them mere seconds later.

There’s a member of staff walking towards them. Rationally, Louis knows they have to leave, but he feels frozen in place, in the moment, in the feeling of goosebumps all over his body and the kind of elation that makes him dizzy.

“I love you,” he impresses into the phone, wrapping an arm around Liam as he abandons their trolley and drags them all out. “Harry, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry laughs. “Come home.”

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” Harry points out.

Louis, too busy sucking on his straw, gives a non-committal hum.

“I’m serious,” Harry continues, sipping his own milkshake at a much more sedate pace. He looks peaceful, almost serene in the setting sun; there’s nothing about him to suggest he’s nervous. Louis is jealous.

“I know you are,” he manages to say. As soon as he lets go of the straw, his leg starts bouncing. The excited energy travels inside him spastically, ricochets from twitchy eyes to shaky fingers to impatient feet. He’s a mess, really.

“Come here,” Harry takes pity, putting his cup on the ground and extending an arm, opening his side. Louis slides across the hood and nestles under there, happy to be surrounded by Harry’s warmth.

He was finally brave enough to get his car out of Liam’s garage, and Harry got the honour of going on the first ride with him. They drove by the BHA offices and whooped with the windows down, and pulled into a drive-through when they got thirsty. They’re in a supermarket car park now, battling with their ginormous milkshakes while the sun goes down.

It’s not the most romantic of places – kind of barren, really – but nobody knows them here, and they’ve turned off their phones. Tonight’s for them, wherever it might take them next.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Harry asks, idly, like he already knows the answer.

“Probably not,” Louis responds, one hand sneaking into the pocket of Harry’s jumper. “You’ll have to knock me out.”

“Or wear you out,” Harry replies. Louis doesn’t need to see his grin to know it’s there. “Liam said he’s staying at Niall’s, we can be as loud as we want.”

“Always are,” Louis smiles, pulling him down into a kiss. “Wait—Liam’s staying at Niall’s?”

“I know,” Harry laughs. “I tried to ask what they were planning on doing, but he shut the door in my face.”

“You do realise we have got to get them together, right?”

Harry hums. “Maybe we should just let fate do its thing. True love finds a way, and all that.”

“True love has never met Liam Payne in denial,” Louis replies, and takes a small, calculated sip of his milkshake. “He probably thinks it’s too soon. After—you know.”

“It’s been a couple of months,” Harry frowns. “Probably more before they actually broke up, I don’t think that’s too soon.”

“Try telling him that,” Louis scoffs. “We’ve got to help them along.”

Harry makes a noise of agreement, leaning back on his arms. Louis watches him, watches the last rays of sun paint over his eyelids, and feels, for the first time in a good few days, calm.

“Ah,” he sighs. “Young love.”

Louis bursts out laughing. “You make it sound like you just celebrated your diamond wedding anniversary.”

“Our diamond wedding anniversary,” Harry chides gently, opening his eyes to look at Louis. “Besides, I just—I feel like I’ve always known you.”

“How do you mean?” Louis asks, letting his empty cup thunk to the ground and mimicking Harry’s position. He leans into him to press a kiss below his jaw, just because he can.

“I don’t know,” says Harry. His voice is as soft as the touch of the late March sun on Louis’s skin. “It’s just that…I think I knew since the beginning. From the first time you called me love, when we crashed into each other on the street. I knew I was going to love you.”

Louis’s heart feels too big for his chest. “You mean when you cleaned my cane with your ridiculously expensive scarf?”

Harry giggles. “I panicked,” he says, frowning playfully as Louis presses small kisses to his face. “I had no idea what I was doing whenever I was around you. Felt like the clumsiest person in the world.”

“Aw, darling,” Louis smiles at him. “I mean—you are, but—“

“Hey,” Harry drawls, and pushes back against Louis’s body until Louis is sprawled over the hood of his own car, feet just barely touching the ground and his boyfriend looming above him with a bright grin on his face. “That was uncalled for.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis laughs. “You’re not clumsy. You’re graceful and—and fluid, like a water dancer. A ballerina. A very coordinated baby deer—“

“Stop it,” Harry laughs, and doesn’t give Louis a chance to be a smartarse. He leans forward, hair tickling Louis’s collarbones, and gives him a very thorough kiss.

Louis sighs and melts into it, lazily tangling a hand in Harry’s hair. Every last bit of nervous energy leaves his body, disappearing into the air exhale by exhale. The sun is warm on his face, the metal of the hood warming his aching back. The whole thing makes him feel infinite, settled and calm and clingy – so cling he does.

Harry squeaks in surprise, but he lets Louis pull him down as he hugs him around the neck.

“You’ll be great,” he says, as if reading Louis’s mind is something he does every day. “You’ll leave everyone in the dust, and I’ll be at the finish line waiting for you.”

“You’re not supposed to know I’m freaking out,” Louis mumbles.

“It’s a little hard to miss, babe,” Harry huffs. His breath tickles on the back of Louis’s neck, just reminds him how very real and alive Harry is.

Reminds him that there’s something, someone, waiting to catch him no matter how this race goes.

There are two more days to go, and then it’s all over. He’s going to retire, and he can only wish, can only hope, that it’s with a Grand National win under his belt.

He’d dreamed about the track last night, even though he’s never actually been to Aintree. He saw himself on the back of a horse he didn’t know, jumping Foinavon, Becher’s Brook rising in front of him until it grew tall enough to obscure the sky, branches toppling to the ground with enormous thuds—then one of them swept him out of the saddle and he woke up shivering in Harry’s arms.

Point is, he’s not handling the nerves very well.

“Tell you what,” Harry whispers, still holding him even though he has to be in pain by now, bent over uncomfortably as he is. “When we come back home after, I’ll give you a prize.”

There’s nothing particularly suggestive in his tone, but Louis’s mind immediately goes there. He’s only human, after all.

“A prize?” he asks, pulling away with a grin.

Harry rolls his eyes longsufferingly, as if he’s not the one who woke Louis up at six this morning with some very insistent neck kissing.

“A prize,” he repeats, straightening up. Louis lets him go, but he keeps his hands on his hips, anchoring him firmly in the open vee of his thighs.

“Do I get to pick what it is?”

Harry leans into him, soft and gorgeous and biting his lip. “You do.”

Louis is torn. He imagines Harry spread out on in their sheets, flushed and messy-haired and with his hands tied to the headboard, at Louis’s mercy and so, so excited about it.

But then—then he imagines something else.

“I want to know what you do.”

“What I do?” Harry asks, perfectly innocent like he doesn’t understand. It makes Louis want to chase him around the car park like they’re kids until he gives in and tells him the truth.

“Your job, Harold. You talk about our diamond wedding anniversary, but I still don’t know what you do for a living.”

Harry blushes. It’s not the pleased little blush he gets when Louis manages a particularly good compliment, either – it’s a dark pink, real, embarrassed flush. He’s embarrassed, and that’s not a look Louis sees on him often.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he sighs, immediately sheepish. He’s only ever gotten anywhere with Harry by being patient with him. Maybe this isn’t—maybe he shouldn’t—

“I’ll tell you,” Harry says. He’s smiling, just a little. It goes a long way in reassuring Louis he’s okay. “I will. I’ll tell you right now, if you want.”

Wordlessly, Louis takes his hand and squeezes.

He takes a deep breath, chin buried in the fluffy fabric of his scarf. There’s a breeze that tosses his hair around on top of his head, sending curls and waves flying until Louis reaches up and tucks them behind Harry’s ear.

“It’s alright, baby,” he reassures. “I don’t care if you’re an assassin—I mean, I do care, but I wouldn’t leave you because of it. You’re not an assassin, are you?”

Harry gives a hopeless little giggle. “I write songs,” he says, so soft the wind almost carries it away.

“You what?” Louis asks, even though he heard.

“I write songs,” Harry repeats, louder this time, and his shoulders sag as tension seeps out of him. “I write songs, and then I sell them, and sometimes they get on the radio. It’s—kind of silly, really.”

“What,” Louis gasps. “It’s not silly. I can’t think of anything less silly than songwriting.”

His mind is instantly alive with images – of Harry behind that beautiful piano in his office, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbles something down; Harry pacing in the lounge while Louis and Liam are outside, chewing on a pen, humming note after note until he finds what he was looking for; Harry writing lyrics, jotting down everything that goes on in his gorgeous mind while Louis sleeps beside him.

It’s—it’s perfect. It’s exactly what Louis would have imagined him doing.

“Well,” Harry chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Mum doesn’t think so. She wanted me to go into banking like her and dad.”

“She’s wrong,” Louis says before he can talk himself out of it. “I mean—I’m sure she’s a nice lady, of course, but she’s wrong. You can do anything you want to do, and I bet you’re so good at it.”

“I’ve never shown you any of my songs,” Harry mumbles, but his reluctant smile has turned into a full-on beam. He’s unsuccessfully trying to hide it.

“I just know,” Louis shrugs. “Your office is full of poetry books, I bet you’re fucking fantastic, the next Lennon and McCartney even though there’s just one of you—“

Once again, Harry shuts him up with a kiss. It’s little more than a press of lips to lips, really, because they’re both grinning too hard.

Louis pulls him closer by his scarf, squeezes his little hip with his knees, put his hands on his chest and his waist and the dip of his lower back until he’s satisfied that his boy is feeling better.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, and it’s so earnest it puts a crack in Louis’s heart.

“You’re welcome, darling,” he whispers back, smiling. “Anytime.”

The sun is gone now, dipping lower below the horizon and pulling all the colours out of the sky, leaving shades of blue behind. The car park is quiet around them, save for the whistling of wind around the trolley shelters and the whisper of it in the trees across the road. Louis thinks he can hear Harry breathing.

There’s cold creeping into his fingertips, threatening to chase them both into the car any minute, but before they go, he takes Harry’s face in his hands.

“So,” he smiles, running a thumb over the sleepy purple underneath his eyes. “Have you written any songs about me?”

He’s joking, but Harry stops where he is, halfway to leaning in for a kiss. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“I have,” he admits quietly, the pink painting his cheeks again. “Wrote one last night, actually.”

The revelation feels like a drug in Louis’s veins, fizzing through his body until he feels himself blushing too.

“You wrote a song about me,” he says, beaming. “That’s like—Hollywood stuff. You’re a proper fairytale prince.”

“I try,” Harry beams back.

“What’s it called?”

“Um,” Harry coughs, sheepish. “Olivia?”

“I love you,” Louis tells him later, when they’re folded together in the backseat, half-naked against their better judgement. “I love you I love you I love y—“

“You’re never going to stop with this, are you?” Harry grins, undoing the button of his jeans. He bangs his elbow against the metal part of the headrest, but he braves through it.

“You wrote a song about it,” Louis says. He only sounds a little accusatory. “You love it.”

“I live for you, I long for you,” Harry sings, smug in a way that looks particularly attractive on him. The tinny recording on his phone did absolutely no justice to his voice, just this side of rough and downright aphrodisiacal.

“Hey hey,” Louis deadpans, but leans across the minuscule space between them anyway to give Harry a filthy, filthy kiss. “We should stop.”

“I know,” he whines. “But I literally can’t wait until we drive home. Sorry.”

“You look it,” Louis scoffs. He’s managed to roll down his jeans and pants, sitting bare-arsed on his Italian leather seats while he attempts to free his legs. It’s quite possibly the least sexy thing he’s ever experienced, and yet he’s been hard for going on fifteen minutes.

It’s something about Harry, he thinks, something about the graceful way he navigates the tiny space, about the play of his muscles underneath his skin as he struggles out of his clothes.

Louis was going to get in the car and drive, he really was, but then Harry played the recording. Now they’re—well. There’s something to be said for the power of song.

“You going to hurry up?” Harry grins, head tilted to the side because he’s too tall to sit up, an impish grin firm on his face.

“Why don’t you find the condom and lube instead of being a smartarse?” Louis asks. Harry smiles back at him in the most lovesick way, like he’s caught on to Louis’s secret strategy of making every insult on earth into a pet name.

“Already done,” he says, holding up a tube and a foil packet. Louis only just notices that his own backpack is lying open at his feet.

“Clever boy,” he grins, finally kicking his jeans off. The cuffs are tight enough to take his socks with them, and he’s immediately cold, but Harry is mostly naked and very, very fit right in front of him. His freezing toes will wait.

They meet in the middle for a deep kiss, legs and hands slipping on the seats. Harry moans beautifully when Louis goes straight for his arse. Louis keeps hearing that same voice on a loop in his head, singing along to a sweet, happy melody – the summertime and butterflies all belong to your creation.

“I love you,” Louis hums into Harry’s neck, where he’s working on a love bite. “It’s all I do.”

Harry laughs, a little frenzied, his nails digging into Louis’s back. A sheen of sweat has risen over his body despite the cold, hot and salty on Louis’s tongue.

He wishes, desperately, that he had the time or space to do this properly. It’s like that every time, no matter where they are or how they’re doing it – every time, he wants to get Harry to a bed, to get him flushed and moaning and trying to find friction in thin air before they do anything else. To take time biting his inner thighs, licking his nipples, kissing his chest until the frantic beating of Harry’s heart leaves a quiver in his lips.

They don’t have anything else to do tonight, he reasons. They can have another round as soon as they get home.

“How do you want it?” he asks, straight to the point lest he actually explode. It’s the quick, sudden kind of arousal that stirs in his gut, building with no way to escape.

“On my back,” Harry gasps out. Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry bites his lip to shut him up. “I’ll make it work, wanna see you, come on.”

Louis lets him go, watches him twist and slip and finally relax as he lies down, arms behind his head and fingers wrapped around a handle in the door. He manages to make all of it look mind-numbingly hot.

He’s back with him in a second flat, sucking on his tongue as he tries to open the lube without looking and get it on his fingers. Some of it dribbles down in the space between their bodies, a shock of cold on overheated skin.

“I can’t believe we’re having sex in public,” Harry laughs, trailing off on a gasp when Louis grips his thigh, moving it to the side for better access. Harry’s cock is hard and red trapped right against Louis’s, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement between them about what they want to do. “I feel so dirty.”

“Semi-public,” Louis protests, sucking a bruise into the thin skin over Harry’s collarbones. He keeps grinning for no reason, and it’s difficult to make it look the way he wants, so he goes back again and again until Harry’s squirming and shaking and tugging on his hair. “There aren’t any people. Besides, we’re in a car.”

“You know what they say about knocking if the car is rocking.”

“I think it was a house, actually,” Louis replies conversationally, dipping a finger between Harry’s cheeks. He’s half-falling off the seat, one leg kneeling on it and the other braced on the floor, but that only seems to intensify the jumpy excitement in his veins. “Ready?”

“Do your worst,” Harry grins.

Louis doesn’t need any more prompting. He lines up his finger and slides it inside Harry easily, and the now-familiar heat welcomes him right home. Harry tenses, just like he always does, the beautiful line of his back arching off the seat.

It really gets better every time, Louis thinks. There’s always something new to find, a way to crook his finger that makes Harry whimper, or a patch of skin that he’s never kissed before.

He finds it today when he slides a second finger in a moment too soon, spurred on by Harry’s pretty begging. He’s tight, too tight, and it must hurt a little if the way he clenches is anything to go by. Louis panics a little (a lot) and immediately goes to pull his hand away. Then, three things happen in very quick succession: one, Harry reaches out to touch Louis’s shoulder. Two, he shakes his hand vigorously as soon as Louis meets his eyes.

Three, he moans. It sounds like it takes all of his breath away, and it’s so loud Louis’s ears ring with it even after the sound has faded.

Harry looks—wild. His hair is strewn over the cream-coloured seat like little rivulets of water, messy and perfect, and his eyes look black in the absence of light. He’s staring at Louis with his mouth open, panting, and the little teasing spark has disappeared from his face, replaced by something that makes Louis feel a little like an animal.

“Fuck, Harry,” he breathes.

“That’s the idea,” Harry manages, knuckles going white around the handle he’s still holding on to.

“This good?” Louis asks, tentative, and pulls out his fingers a little only to drive them right back in.

Harry’s body ripples like a wave, unbridled and absolutely stunning. He gasps a sound that seems torn out of his throat, the hand that’s still on Louis’s shoulder tightening until Louis feels nails digging into his skin.

“It’s good,” Harry says, turning his face into the backrest. The flush has started creeping down his neck, painting a bright spot right in the centre of his chest. “It’s good, Lou, please—“

“Yeah,” Louis gasps, entirely shaken with Harry’s reaction, with the way he pushes back against Louis’s fingers, chases a stretch that has to hurt.

He works in and out of Harry’s body a little quicker than he normally would. He feels frazzled, wild, burning out of his skin with the force of the need he’s feeling. It’s something about where they are, he’s sure, but most of it is the immediacy with which Harry is chasing him, not letting him take his time like usual.

Still, he waits until the slide is effortless, until Harry’s body welcomes him, pulls him inside greedily.

He leans forward to kiss Harry’s neck, the side of his face, clumsy but too hungry to stop. The windows have fogged up around them, droplets of water trickling down and disappearing into the upholstery. A few of them glisten on Harry’s fingers.

“Want another one?” he asks, rutting against Harry’s thigh and desperately trying to stave off the orgasm that’s already building low in his stomach. He needs to be inside Harry more than he needs to get off.

“Please,” Harry says, turning his head and chasing Louis’s lips until they’re kissing, hot and wet. Louis runs his tongue along Harry’s when he works the third finger in, and steals the moan right out of his mouth. He lets out these uncontrolled, gorgeous little sounds, ah ah ahs that go straight to Louis’s cock, the tips of his fingers where he’s stretching Harry open as fast as he’ll allow himself.

“Shh, baby,” he says into the feverish skin of Harry’s jaw, keeping one hand on his hip to keep him from slipping off the seat. The way his hips are tilted towards the backrest makes it easier to find his prostate.

Harry all but melts underneath him when he strokes it, gentle but relentless, hyperaware of Harry’s cock trapped between them, smearing precome all over Louis’s stomach.

“Shh,” Louis says again, just to let out some of the air that’s sitting heavy in his lungs. The entire car smells like them, smells like sex, and he bets – hopes, but that’s neither here nor there – that the scent will linger for days. “Just relax for me, darling, that’s it. Can’t fuck you until you’re nice and stretched.”

“You suck at dirty talk,” Harry growl-laughs, stealing a kiss and all of Louis’s breath all at once. He’s sweating, a few strands of his hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are shining bright enough to be galaxies. Louis doesn’t quite know how he’s still capable of talking, not when Louis himself can barely string a sentence together.

“You love it,” he says, giving Harry’s bum a light-hearted smack. Harry’s nostrils flare, his eyes closing for the smallest moment.

“Fuck me, come on,” he says, chest heaving. “I’m ready, always ready for you, just—“

“Yeah,” Louis replies, genuinely dizzy as his blood rushes through his body like a wild river. “Hold on, hold on, I’ve got to—“

He breaks off on a moan when Harry reaches down as far as he can and squeezes his cock. He’s so close.

Harry whines when he pulls his fingers out, and Louis misses the heat of him immediately. His hands shake as he gets the condom on, and he gets lube all over his thighs, but he manages it before Harry sits up and decides to do it himself.

His knee twinges as he lines up, protesting the weight that he’s put on it, but it’s background noise compared to the sight of Harry’s legs, gorgeous and pale and never-ending, lifting to let him in. He rests one on Louis’s shoulder, bites his lip happily when Louis presses a kiss to his calf, and braces the other one of the roof.

Louis would laugh, but it’s just—too hot.

Harry sighs when Louis guides the tip of his cock inside him, only stopping for a second before he pushes on. They both moan when he bottoms out, their shaky breaths in perfect unison. Louis covers Harry’s body with his, and leans down far enough to connect their foreheads.

Just like that, the urgency is gone. A sweet, bubbly kind of happiness sweeps through Louis’s veins as he feels the heat of Harry’s body crawl through him, feels Harry’s ragged exhales against his own lips, feels every little twitch of his muscles where he’s holding his leg. The air is heavy, thick enough to cover them both like a blanket, to erase every sound that isn’t their hearts beating into each other, settling into a perfect, erratic rhythm.

Harry runs a hand through Louis’s hair, hopelessly clenching his fingers. Louis opens his eyes, and finds his boy already looking at him, unblinking and vividly green.

They hold each other’s gaze when Louis starts moving, slow and heavy the way they both like, meeting every roll of Harry’s hips. It’s when he speeds up that Harry’s eyes close and he breathes out, his hands on Louis’s neck, on his cheek, unwilling to let him go too far.

Louis feels every place their bodies touch like a brand. He feels every single breath that Harry takes, as if it the air was traveling through both their chests. He feels—he feels Harry tremble and shake and all but break himself open every time Louis thrusts, drawing out desperate little moans.

He kisses Harry’s neck, so softly he can just barely feel the pulse thudding underneath his lips; kisses his collarbone, his cheeks, and the dark pink bow of his lips.

They meet gently, kiss lazily like they’ve got all the time in the world. It feels like they do, right now, like they’re out of time and space. Harry’s lips are soft, almost tentative, the way they used to be before he got used to Louis kissing him. It feels like he’s learning Louis again, like they’re starting something anew even though they never stopped.

They’re making love, still, even cramped in the backseat of a car. Louis is so happy he could cry.

His next thrust is deep, thorough enough that Harry’s arms aren’t enough to keep him from sliding up on the seat, the muscles of his biceps straining. Louis just barely slips a hand between the door and the top of his head.

Harry grins, silly and blissful, as he meets Louis’s hips.

“This is ridiculous,” he whispers, arching his back. “We’re too old for this.”

“You’re twenty-two,” Louis whispers back, grinning as he shifts. He manages to change the angle, gets Harry moaning instead of talking, skin against sweat-slick skin. He is aching all over from trying to navigate the tiny space, but he wouldn’t get out even if he could.

He’s been teetering on the edge for what feels like hours, and Harry has gotten so loud he has to be close, too, but Louis wants—he wants to stay in the moment forever. There’s something perfect about it, sweaty and uncomfortable as it is.

“Love you,” he breathes as he dives forward, chest to chest and hitting Harry’s prostate with every thrust. He’s got tears pooling in his eyes, though he’s not sure where they came from. “Love you so much, my gorgeous boy, so good for me—“

“I love you,” Harry interrupts, so shaky he can barely speak but determined to get the words out. “I—God, fuck—“

Louis reaches forward with his free hand, finding Harry’s where it’s wrapped around the door handle. Harry lets go as soon as he feels him there, twists his wrist until he’s got his palm up, waiting. Louis intertwines their fingers, holds Harry in place as he slams in again and again, frenzied and overwhelmed.

Harry comes with Louis’s name on his lips, a desperate, drawn-out sound. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He’s the very picture of sin, the stuff of Louis’s most desperate dreams, arching off the seat. He’s endless, or so he seems to be. He’s the only thing Louis can see, the only thing he can feel, spilling over the seats like molten gold, clenching around Louis’s cock, he’s prefect, beautiful—

Louis sees stars when his orgasm finally washes over him, a flurry of colours he didn’t even know existed dancing on the back of his eyelids. Harry digs his nails into Louis’s back, holding on and still gasping for air, the two of them coming down together.

Louis’s skin feels sticky, clammy as the warm air around them meets the windows and turns into water. He could be stuck to Harry, for all he knows, and the prospect seems absolutely wonderful just then.

They’re slowly sliding off the seat, Harry on his back and Louis on top of him, pressing absent-minded kisses to his chest. Louis has still got one foot on the floor, and he tries to tense it to keep the two of them just the way they are for a little while longer.

Harry clears his throat. “So that was fantastic,” he says casually. Louis laughs.

“I love you,” he says, the only thing that seems to want to come off his tongue, and blindly navigates one of his hands into Harry’s hair. Harry curls into him immediately, purring like a cat and leaning down to kiss Louis’s forehead.

“You’re the kindest man in the world, do you know that?”

Louis smiles tiredly. “Because I let you seduce me in the back of a Mercedes?”

Harry tuts, but he’s smiling too. “I’m being serious. I never thought I’d find someone like you.”

“Baby,” Louis breathes.

“Didn’t think there were people like you, for a while. I just—I forgot how good life was, you know? You made me remember.”

Louis refuses to cry. He resolutely swallows around the lump in his throat, and tips his chin up to kiss Harry as gently as he can manage.

They stay close when they pull apart, smiling into the minuscule space between them. The corner of Harry’s mouth looks a little wobbly, but Louis can tell, by the sparkle in his eyes and the warmth in his own chest, that his oncoming tears are happy ones.

“You did the same thing for me, gorgeous,” he says, pressing the words into the soft skin of Harry’s cheek. “Hell, I used to think I had nothing to look forward to. What good’s a jockey without a leg, right? But you…” he trails off and pulls away, just enough to look Harry in the eye. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt, and he must look a right fool doing it, but there must be something about it – Harry looks at him for a quiet second, two, then takes Louis’s face in his hands and all but snogs the life out of him.

It takes them a few more hours to get home.

Aintree is the most terrifying racecourse Louis has ever seen.

“This is the most terrifying racecourse I’ve ever seen,” he tells everyone in the car. Harry, who is dozing on his shoulder, chuckles quietly.

“You can’t even see the racecourse,” Liam points out, as the only other person who is actually awake. He’s right, too – even the building itself is little more than a speck in the distance. “I promise it’s not that bad. You’ve seen it on the telly a million times.”

“This is not the telly, Liam,” Louis whispers aggressively. “I have to run it in less than twelve hours, I’m allowed to be losing my mind.”

Liam sighs. “Do that, then.”

Louis would normally expect to be talked down, but he can see why Liam is busy – as it turns out, six in the morning on Grand National Day is not the best time to arrive in Liverpool. Dozens of cars are sitting in the streets, rolling past the city’s park at a snail’s pace. There is a painfully turquoise Fiat crawling ahead right in front of them, and looking at it is giving even Louis a headache.

He’s buzzing with too much nervous energy to contain, and he desperately wants to wake everyone up and make them listen to his complaining. Harry had been up with him all night, though, and he looks comfortable where he’s snoring into Louis’s collarbone; Olly and Ellie are both in the very back, too far for him to reach, and if he disturbed Niall in the front seat, there’s a possibility that Liam would flay him.

So Louis sits, miserable and all but vibrating out of his skin, and watches the trailer through the back window. He thinks he can sense Marshmallow’s presence there, her energy that’s just as high-strung as his.

They stayed in Birmingham last night; she was so antsy Olly had to sleep in the stall with her, and she’d fidgeted all morning too, barely standing in place while they waited for Liam to back in with the car. It’s not like her to be nervous, but Louis knows, he knows. She can feel how different this one is, how important.

“Don’t worry, lovely girl,” he whispers to nobody but himself. “We’ll leave them all in the dust.”

The roads are a little less congested once they get out of town, and they arrive at Aintree a little before seven. The sun is already up, shining in through the windows hot and bright as everyone wakes up. Harry leans up to kiss him before he’s even opened his eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, an echo of the words he kept repeating last night, lying in bed wrapped around Louis while he was having a minor breakdown. “You’re meant to do this, remember? You’ve already won.”

“Good morning to you too, love,” Louis smiles at him, sorting out the tangled strands of his hair. It looks golden brown in the sunlight, shining like precious metal between Louis’s fingers. “Let’s go win us a trophy.”

Harry holds his hand and they all stumble out into the car park one by one, stretching like they’ve been cramped in it for days. Liam just manages to hand out the lanyards he’s got ready before an official jogs over to them, helping Olly to unload Marshmallow.

They lead her inside, and she goes calmly, if a little huffily. Louis watches her go with a heavy, warm kind of anticipation, because this is it. The end of the line.

Harry doesn’t let him go as they go through registration and paperwork and signatures, doesn’t let him go while a peppy young stable lad shows them around the stable, and doesn’t let him go when they get the go-ahead to walk around the track. Ellie and Niall have disappeared in search of breakfast, and it’s just the two of them and Liam peering around the obstacles. Bizarrely enough, Louis calms down further with every step he takes.

The Grand National had always been a fever dream, a distant someday that he’d whisper to himself when he snuck off to follow it on the telly in-between helping mum with housework. Even when Simon took a chance and signed him on, Louis never really saw this waiting for him at the end. He didn’t think himself big enough, good enough to run with the best of them.

Here, today, holding Harry’s hand and staring up at Becher’s Brook, he feels big enough to take on the world.

“What d’you reckon, then?” Liam calls from where he’s mapping out the first turn. He’s got a clipboard with him, jotting down some notes then frowning at them. It’s the way he looked when they first met at Simon’s estate, and Louis loves him something ridiculous.

“I reckon I’ll live,” Louis laughs.

Harry squeezes his hand. When Louis looks at him, he’s biting his lip, eyes on Foinavon right in front of them.

“They’re really high,” he says, with so much concern it makes wrinkles appear on his forehead. “The fences, I mean. Marshmallow seems so small in comparison.”

“She is,” Louis says. “We told you that very first time we met, remember?” He has to smile a little at the memory, thinking of Harry’s sheepskin jacket and red cheeks and eyes so bright they got underneath Louis’s skin and never let him go again. “But she can do this, love. She loves to run, you know that, and I have just as much faith in her as you have in me. We’re going to win this, both of us.”

“I’ll cheer the loudest, then,” Harry says, and a reluctant little smile plays with the corner of his mouth. Louis leans forward and kisses it into a grin.

The sky is a brilliant blue above them, the spring sun sprinkling warmth down the collars of their shirts, and the air echoes with birdsong. There is no madness just yet, no thunder of hoof falls rattling the ground underneath, no noise coming from the empty grandstands. It’s just Louis, his boy, and—Liam tugging on Louis’s belt loop until he’s forced to break the kiss.

“What are you—“ Louis starts, but Liam raises a stern finger in his face. Behind Louis’s back, Harry bursts into giggles.

“Not the time for canoodling,” says Liam, entirely serious even through the twinkle in his eye. “We’re on a schedule, gentlemen.”

“Are we,” Louis raises an eyebrow. “Because I could swear I saw you talking to Niall about bringing you back some crumpets when you were supposed to—“

“Enough of that,” Liam interrupts, but he’s definitely laughing this time. “I need to go check on our horse, and you’ve got to go and see if the valet brought all of your clothes. Weigh-in starts at twelve,” he pauses to look at his watch, “and it’d be good to get in early, so please be ready.”

“Yes, your excellency sir,” Louis salutes, holding back his laughter. Harry, who has no such qualms, is snickering in delight. He’s managed to take his shoes off, and he’s prancing in the wet grass like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Anything else?”

“I’d love it if you could shut up for five seconds,” Liam tells him. “But no, not until warm up. Two thirty.”

Louis pretends to write the time down into an imaginary notebook. Liam steps forward, slaps him upside the head, and then gives him a hug.

“I’m not going off to war,” Louis mumbles into his shoulder. “You’ll see me in twenty minutes when you’re panicking about only having three backup pairs of goggles.”

“Do we only have three?” Liam immediately goes to pull away, panicked, but Louis puts a hand on the back of his head and holds him in place.

“No. I brought all of my goggles, Liam. Literally all of them. We’re safe.”

Liam sighs. “You’re an arse,” he says.

“They do say that you are what you eat,” Louis replies, and Liam finally, finally breaks into real laughter.

“Get out of here,” he says, pulling away and squeezing Louis’s shoulders. “For God’s sake, get out.”

Louis salutes again, then turns on his heel. He finds Harry ready for the walk back, waiting with an outstretched arm and his trainers slung over one shoulder.

They walk down the course in comfortable silence, trading happy glances back and forth. It’s so very easy to forget that Louis is standing in front of a life-defining moment, and once he realises all over again, a ball of worry forms in his stomach.

That is, until Harry trips and almost pulls them both into the water ditch.

Aintree is not terrifying, Louis has decided – Aintree is a hole in time and space.

They spend the entire day there, running around like headless chickens, checking things and signing things and changing and warming up and sneaking kisses (that might only be him and Harry), but the whole thing feels like seconds. Before Louis knows what’s happening, it’s a quarter to five, and the tape is set to rise in precisely half an hour.

He’s bricking it.

Olly is holding Marshmallow in place, trying to keep her back until Louis gets the go-ahead to mount. She’s stepping from foot to foot, tossing her head, alive and fidgety. Their warmup did nothing to get rid of her nervous energy, and neither did Olly doing up her mane, even though that usually puts her right to sleep.

Louis, admittedly, feels much the same. Harry is squeezing his hand so hard his fingers are tingling, and the crowd is roaring out by the track; a wind has picked up, tossing Louis’s colours around, making his sleeves billow. He thinks he can see Niall and Ellie, their twin blonde heads bobbing in and out of sight until they’re settled in the first row, all but stuck to the railing. Louis feels touched, and exponentially terrified.

“Time to go,” Liam says, running up just as Louis puts his fingers to his mouth to bite his nails. Christ. Christ.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. “No way we can come back next year?”

“You’ll be fine,” Liam replies, stern, yet all but jumping in place. “It’s going to be over in less than an hour.”

“That’s not helping,” says Louis. He’s pretty sure he isn’t hyperventilating. Hopefully.

Liam claps him on the shoulder. “Up, come on. The Grand National doesn’t wait for anyone. ”

Louis grits his teeth, breathes out, and steels himself. This is his chance – the last one he’s ever going to get.

“Yeah,” he nods, though he can’t quite hear himself over the pounding of blood in his temples. “Okay.”

“Good luck,” Harry whispers. When Louis turns to look at him, he looks a little green around the edges. Despite his pale cheeks and red-bitten lips, though, his smile might be the warmest thing Louis has ever seen. “I love you, and you’ll win it.”

“I’ll win it,” Louis nods, patting down Harry’s collar. The certainty is heavy in his chest, soothing, and shining right back at him from Harry’s eyes. “I’ll win it all for you, gorgeous.”

“Go,” Harry says, with a smile so tender it couldn’t possibly be for anyone but Louis.

Louis kisses him like it’s the first time and the last. “I love you,” he says, grinning now, and then turns away before Harry’s smile lures him into another kiss.

“Let’s go,” he tells Liam, who immediately drops his clipboard. It clatters to the ground with a flat little thwack and makes Louis laugh.

They meet by Marshmallow’s side, her stomach expanding with shallow, nervous breaths. Louis hopes he can get her to regulate it before they get on the starting line – this is a long, long race for a horse of her build. She’ll need to listen to him if they want to make it to the end.

He grabs his crop, and untwists the strap of his goggles in the back. Breathes out again.

“Good luck,” Liam says as he crouches, lacing his fingers. “Be careful out there.”

Louis puts one foot in his upturned palms before he has time to pull away, just to get Liam’s hands dirty. “We will,” he smiles, crosses his reins, and grabs a hold of the saddle. “Always are, Payno.”

Liam sighs. “One,” he counts, rolling his shoulders. “Two,” and Marshmallow sidesteps away from them, huffing like she’s proud of her joke. Liam waits until Olly nudges her back to place, checks in with Louis, grabs his shin and grins as he says: “Three.”

They’ve probably done a thousand leg ups prior to today, and Louis springs right up into the saddle. He lands soft, and Marshmallow stills a little under his weight.

He can feel Harry’s eye in his back while he ties on, the line of his crop digging into his thigh, the evening sun still strong on the nape of his neck, probably turning it red. His heart flutters to life again, beating against his air jacket like it wants to make a break for it before Louis puts it through this. He can’t exactly blame it, either.

He closes his eyes and tries to keep a handle on the nerves. Everything is okay. It’s a beautiful day, there’s a breeze that feels just right on his hot cheeks, and he’s going to make it through in one piece.

His family must be somewhere in the grandstands by now, waiting for him to walk out. They’re here to see him succeed, he reminds himself, not throw up all over himself before the race even starts.

He hears, vaguely, the announcer’s voice boom over the course, but he can’t make out the words. They seem to spur Olly into moving though, and before Louis can work himself into a full-blown panic, or before he has time to jump out of the saddle and run, he’s being led to the starting line. He manages to turn around at the very last second too see Harry giving him a thumbs up and a smile, happily squinting into the sun.

“You going to be okay?” Olly asks, holding on to clip of his lead as Marshmallow tosses her head.

“Reckon so,” Louis says, and attempts a smile through the strap of his cap digging into his chin. “See you on the other side.”

“Don’t break a leg,” Olly grins, and unclips the lead. Marshmallow doesn’t give Louis time for a response and hurls right into the melee out on the turf.

The parade is just what Louis expected – lots of huffing and head tossing and nervous feet, the jockeys barely paying attention to their horses as they look over their shoulders trying to assess the first fence.

Louis, too, lets Marshmallow walk off some of the jitters and looks into the distance. The fences rise on the track like waves, building higher towards Becher’s in the back. The orange toe boards pull Louis in like a red flag would a bull, pulling him out of his seat before it’s time.

“Go steady,” the steward’s voice carries, ringing inside Louis’s skull. The crowd of horses moves like a sea, pushing closer to the starting line, turning in place over and over as the jockeys try to hold them back. A couple remain planted in place even as stable lads and trainers rush out to push them forward, but Louis doesn’t pay them any mind. His horse is more than keen to get this show on the road.

He finds a gap towards the outer circle, pulls Marshmallow in, and squares his shoulders. Liam’s endless pages of notes all flash before his eyes, lines that he’d highlighted yellow and orange and pink – forward left after Becher’s, cut in on the Canal Turn, CAREFUL ON VALENTINE’S. He’d made fun of them earlier, but they’re the only thing actually sticking in his mind right now, reminding him that he needs a strategy to win this.

There’s a beat of what feels like absolute silence. Louis shakes off his thoughts and squeezes the reins.

Here they go.

When the tape rises and he loosens his hold, Marshmallow shoots out like a bullet. Louis just about manages to wrangle her back before it’s time for the first fence – a lot of fallers there, Louis, can’t go too fast.

They sail over it in a beautiful, clean arch, and land fast on their feet. Louis’s limbs are shaking along with the ground underneath, forty horses running like thunder, but this, here, now—this is where he jumps in headfirst.

He pulls his horse in, and makes his way to the middle of the pack for the second fence, and the massive ditch on the third one. Marshmallow has to stretch there, extending her neck so far forward she nearly pulls Louis out of the saddle, but they make it to the other side. The fourth one is easy, and the fifth one – Louis counts them as they whiz by, and gets more excited with each landing as it rattles his bones.

Then comes Becher’s. It seems to loom much taller than it actually is, making Louis sweat when he thinks of the lower ground on the other side. Marshmallow has no way of knowing how far they’re going to drop, and he has to be the one to keep her balance.

“We’ve got this,” he shouts over the wind whining in his ears. “Run, lovely girl, come on!”

They rise along with a dozen other horses, the spruce just scraping across the soles of Louis’s boots, and then comes the tip. Marshmallow flounders when the ground doesn’t come up to meet them as fast as it should; Louis leans back, clutching his knees around the saddle and holding on for dear life. No amount of training could have prepared him for this, he manages to think – it feels a little like he’s weightless, floating outside the reach of gravity. Like he could fly right up to the sky if he let go.

The landing pulls him right back to the ground – literally. They land firm, if a little off-balance, and he lets the reins loose as she drops her head. A horse falls on their right, two more on their left, their jockeys rolling along the ground like ragdolls. Louis pushes on.

“We jumped Becher’s Brook,” he says as they cross Foinavon, even though the wind forces its way into his mouth and steals the words away. He’ll be shouting it as soon as he’s back on the ground, too, where everyone can hear him. Hell, he’ll probably get it tattooed right across his chest.

The Canal Turn comes up quite tame-looking, but he can see the track turning on the other side, the right angle making him a little sick. They’ve got horses on either side of them, and a couple of free runners on the outside of the track, ahead of everyone without the weight of their riders to slow them down. If any of them get this one wrong, they’re going down.

You’ve got to switch leads just before, he remembers Liam’s voice, going over the notes for the last time yesterday. Jump off the left and keep leading left through the turn. Don’t fuck it up.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he repeats to himself. “Don’t fuck it up, Louis.”

He slows down, trying to get some space to manoeuvre, should he need to. Marshmallow resists him, but only until another loose horse cuts right through their path and startles her into obeying. Louis’s eyes get caught on it for a second as it clears the fence and keeps running straight, but then Marshmallow squares up for the jump – and flies over it like it’s nothing. She lands left first, exactly the way she’s supposed to, and they balance out the turn without a problem. They push forward and over Valentine’s, careful but fast, and it’s then that Louis has the wits to look around.

They’re not quite middle of the pack anymore. They’ve managed to fight their way in with the front runners, the track almost clear ahead of them. Five more jumps, and the first round is over. They could win this.

Louis knew that, of course, but thinking about it and being here, with the prickly scent of spruce in his nose and the world rushing past like someone smudged it with a paintbrush, are two entirely different things. The thought renews his vigour, gives him the energy to keep pushing despite the pain he’s in, the sweat that’s running hotly down his back. They jump fence after fence with ease, stretching over ditches – and finally, The Chair looms in front of them.

This one’s their main worry, Liam had said, and Louis can see why now. Marshmallow is small; the raised landing on the other side plays to their advantage, but before they get there, they’ve got to figure out how to get over a six-foot wide ditch.

There is no strategy for this one. Just jump, Liam had said – and Louis is going to trust his horse to do just that.

The noise of the crowd breaks over them like a wave, thousands of voices getting lost in the wind as they pass the grandstands. Louis likes to imagine he can hear Harry’s voice cheering them on.

He pulls Marshmallow more towards the centre of the track before they come up on the jump, because there’s much more space now that they’ve lost a good half of the field. He doesn’t pay any mind to the other racers, or to the officials pacing worriedly behind the fence – it’s just him and his horse, and if they make it over this jump, they have a chance to go down in history.

He counts through her pace as they come closer to the toe board. One-two, one-two, one-two. She runs on the obstacle solid, confident, but as soon as they rise off the ground, Louis knows they’re in trouble.

It’s a bizarre feeling, flying over a fence – it takes a fraction of a second, but to Louis it always feels like a moment suspended in time, like he could take his feet out of the stirrups and go on a stroll around the track before the horse makes it to the other side. He has entirely too much time to realise that Marshmallow slipped at the last second – they’re making it over, probably even making it to the other side, but she hasn’t got her feet in order. They might land – they might not.

Cold, cold dread squeezes his heart when he feels her stretch, extending her legs so far forward it puts them even more off balance. He tugs on the reins once, trying to raise her head, to warn her about the ground on the other side; to slow her momentum for the moment she hits the turf. For fuck’s sake, this fence is where horses break their necks and die—

She stumbles. She lands clumsy and too wide, losing most of her speed, her head dangerously close to the ground. Louis gives her the rein she needs, grabs the saddle with one hand and thinks no, God no. Not again.

He glances to the grandstand, desperately looking for anything, anyone familiar. His family is nowhere to be seen; neither is Harry, or Niall, or even Ellie. They’re here somewhere, and their encouraging words are still ringing in his ears, but none of them are here now—now that he’s probably going to shatter his other leg too—

Marshmallow saves them. As if she was reading Louis’s thoughts—as if she wanted him to feel stupid for thinking she’d let him fall, she finds her balance and untangles her feet. Louis, shaky and a little shell-shocked, barely has time to stand up in the stirrups before she’s zipping down the track again, making up for the distance they’d lost.

“Fuck!” Louis shouts into the wind, hoping they’re fast enough that the spectators – and the cameras – won’t catch it. There’s a wave of adrenaline rocking his entire body, tightening his fists where he holds on to the reins as he urges his horse to push on forward. They make it through the water jump easily, and through the next four fences, and there’s still a whole lot of track to go, but there are horses in front of them – one, two, three, maybe more – that they have to outrun if they want to come in first.

Marshmallow seems up to the challenge, anyway. She thunders on like she’s not feeling any exhaustion whatsoever, like they haven’t just left two miles and twenty fences in the dust.

Becher’s is easy this time, and barely fusses either of them. Louis is quite certain they overtake Balthazar King, and grins into the wind.

Then it’s Foinavon again, and the Canal Turn, both of which Marshmallow takes on with next to no guidance from him. She always had been a fast learner.

They catch up with another horse on Valentine’s – the jock’s colours look unfamiliar, so Louis can’t quite tell which one it is, but he’s happy to leave them both in the dust. Marshmallow, too, seems fearless now – these fences didn’t stop her the first time around, and they certainly won’t the second.

They make it over the Booth, cross the road, and pass the Anchor Bridge in the distance. One of their competitors pulls up just before the penultimate obstacle, and there is one more horse left on the track in front of them.

One.

Louis has tears stinging in his eyes over fence twenty-nine, but he’s got them under control by the time they hit thirty – this is not the time for him to fog up his goggles. They jump over it shoulder to shoulder with Many Clouds. Louis feels a little bad for taking his second victory away, but it’s nothing compared to the blinding happiness flooding his chest.

“Heya!” he shouts, pulling on the until she speeds up, then letting her ride it out. They pull into the elbow, the finish line unobstructed in front of them. Louis’s entire body is shaking as he spurs his horse forward, with his voice because Harry asked him to leave the crop out; she struggles through the last two hundred yards, obviously at the end of her rope but pushing, still pushing, because that’s what Marshmallow does.

Many Clouds is thundering in just behind them, but they’re on the inner fence, and they’ve got a good two lengths’ advantage. Louis leans forward, all but lets go of the rein, makes himself as light as possible. He’s breathing heavy, and so is Marshmallow; the horizon is rippling in the distance, a blur of green turf and countless faces, the announcer’s voice ringing out hollowly above it all.

Louis closes his eyes.

Marshmallow switches leads, takes one last leap, and crosses the finish line.

It’s muscle memory that puts him back in the saddle, that pulls up his horse for him with shaky arms, that accepts back pats and handshakes from the other jockeys as they all meet at the finish. He’s got his eyes closed, his lungs struggling for breath, and only comes up in time to hear, loud and clear, the announcer over the speakers:

“First, number twenty-eight. Girl Almighty.”

It’s only now that he beings to realise—when he sees the crowd rippling in the stands as people head home to beat the crowds, and the owners glaring at him while they fuss over their horses; when he sees, amazingly enough, his friends running across the green and to him.

“Louis!” Olly is shouting, sprinting ahead of everyone and grabbing Marshmallow’s reins even as he jumps in place. “Louis, oh my God. Did you see that?”

Louis’s tongue feels fuzzy in his mouth, too big, like the last ten minutes robbed him of the ability to speak.

“He ran that,” says Liam as he, too, pulls to a stop in front of them, immediately leaning in to kiss Marshmallow on the nose. “Mate,” he says when he looks up at Louis, and there are tears in his eyes. “That was…”

Louis blinks, and looks up. There are people, so many people; the sky is still blue, and the little breeze is there too, the one that made him feel a little less nervous while he was standing at the start.

There is a reporter running towards them, and a dozen people with cameras right on her heels. Everyone, everyone, seems to be looking at them.

And then, then—

“I won the National,” he whispers, looking down at his hands. “We won the National?”

Liam laughs. “Yes we did,” he says. “Louis, we won.”

“We won.”

“We won!” Olly repeats, a brilliant smile hiding the smudges of dirt on his cheeks.

Liam, just as shaky and clumsy and Louis feels, wraps a hand around his wrist. Louis isn’t quite there yet, doesn’t quite realise what just happened, but he does know that he’s never seen his best friend this happy.

“Thank you,” he says, red-cheeked and looking torn between ten different emotions. “Louis, thank you, I never thought—“

“Thank her,” Louis manages a smile, and leans forward until his forehead is resting against Marshmallow’s neck. It’s damp with sweat, but so is Louis himself; it’s quite comforting, actually, a reminder that they really did this, and they did it together. “Did you see the way she held me up?”

“At the Chair? Course I did. Thought I was gonna have to jump the fence again,” Liam says. His smile turns rueful, just for the second that Louis looks at him. They share a look, just one, but it’s enough to know they’re both thinking the same thing – today’s the day to leave the past in the past.

Louis extends a hand, and Liam takes it. “Love you, mate,” he says.

“You too, you absolute twat. You should’ve pulled up after she stumbled,” his words are stern, but he wraps his fingers around Louis’s gloved hand and holds on. “Glad you didn’t, though.”

Somebody lets Niall and Ellie onto the track, then – Louis can’t see them just yet, but Niall’s shout of “Tommo!” is deafening.

They come into view soon enough, two bright heads of hair in Louis’s blurred vision. And behind them—behind them is a shape he’d recognise even with his eyes closed.

“Louis!” Harry calls, breaking right past Louis’s exhausted haze, and finally, finally, everything else trickles in.

The media people surrounding them suddenly have faces, and the questions they’re already asking make it to Louis’s ears instead of fading out into the air. It smells of turf, and horse, and Louis’s own sweat dripping down his face, and there are horses, there are vets and jockeys and stable hands, there’s cars driving along the track to bring the fallers back to the stables.

It’s the Grand bloody National, and Louis won it.

“Louis,” Harry says again, much closer now, pushing through a couple of photographers to get to him. His cheeks are wet, and he’s beaming.

He reaches for Louis’s hand as soon as he’s close enough, and Louis intertwines their fingers without a second thought. He uses his other hand to run a thumb across Harry’s cheek, even though he’s still wearing his gloves. He leaves the delicate skin there red.

“Babe,” Harry is smiling, smiling, so animated, happy. Louis would get right back out there and run ten more of these if it would earn him that smile. “You won.”

“Told you I would, didn’t I?” Louis asks, quiet enough that the cameras waiting nearby shouldn’t catch it. “Just for you.”

“Liar,” Harry grins. A few tears find their way onto his cheeks, some getting caught in his lashes. They glimmer there like diamonds in the setting sun, as beautiful as everything else about Harry. “This one was for you, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Did you watch?” asks Louis. He should be getting off the track, he knows, and off the horse, and into the press corner to get his trophy and pose with it until his arms hurt, but his boy is here, and he’s riding a wave of euphoria that’s only just rising in Louis. He can’t take his eyes off him.

“Course I watched,” Harry raises an eyebrow. “And only screamed a couple of times. You gave me a scare over there,” he points to the Chair, looking a mess just behind the fence.

“Sorry, darling,” says Louis, and takes off his gloves to feel Harry’s skin underneath his fingertips. “You had nothing to worry about, though. Our little miracle horse brought me home.”

Harry smiles. The softness of it makes Louis’s heart ache. “She did,” he nods, and presses the palm of his free hand to Marshmallow’s neck. “Thank you, my love.”

Marshmallow, exhausted as she must be, bends her neck and buries her nose in his pocket.

“Mr Tomlinson,” calls someone in the back, hidden by the people that have huddled around them. “If you and your team could come this way, please.”

“Right,” Harry murmurs. “You won.”

“I won,” Louis repeats, unable to contain his grin. “You owe me a prize.”

Harry gets a glint in his eye – Louis recognises it immediately. He smiles, squeezes Harry’s hand, and leans down.

When Harry puts his hand on Louis’s neck and kisses him, the din of the crowd falls away. They could hear a pin drop as Louis smiles and opens his lips, letting Harry slide his in-between.

“I love you,” Harry pulls away enough to whisper, and Louis responds in kind.

Then, Liam gasps next to him, and Niall laughs. A cacophony of questions descends, dozens of camera shutters clicking, making a bizarre kind of excitement pool in Louis’s stomach.

When Harry pulls him closer, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls his feet out of the stirrups, wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and lets his boy pull him out of the saddle.

It’s awfully romantic, and Louis can’t remember ever being this happy.

It’s a good thing that Harry’s holding him, too, because his legs give out as soon as he hits the ground. Every inch of his body is screaming in pain, but it only amplifies the experience, only heightens the excitement that’s rushing through his veins.

He presses one more kiss to Harry’s bottom lip, then pulls away. Somebody immediately tugs at him, trying to pull him towards the press, people shouting his name and asking him questions and taking picture after picture, noise that barely registers because he’s lost in Harry’s eyes, still.

“Congratulations,” Harry smiles, and thumbs at the corner of Louis’s eye. It’s only then that Louis realises he’s been crying. “Let’s go bask.”

Louis grins at him. When he turns to look around, Liam is already halfway down the track, waving at him while speaking to a Sky reporter.

He hugs his friends: Niall, and Ellie, and Olly; he gives Marshmallow a kiss on the forehead, and she nudges him in the stomach tiredly. He gives his boy another kiss, so thorough it makes someone in the crowd whistle.

Then he steps away, takes Harry’s hand, and walks to meet the rest of his life.

“Mr Tomlinson?” a tiny voice asks. Louis looks away from the screen of his phone to see a set of big blue eyes blinking up at him.

“It’s just Louis, love,” he smiles, and crouches. “Do you need something?”

The little girl – Emma, Louis is almost sure – sniffles and rubs a small fist over her face. “Mum an’ dad told me to go play, but I can’t find any toys.”

Louis hides a laugh into the sleeve of his jumper. “We don’t have a whole lot,” he nods. “We’ll work on that, okay? When you come back, you’ll have a whole toy shop to play with.”

“A whole shop?” her eyes go wide. She’s adorable; Louis feels a little like crying.

“Pinky promise,” he says, and she reaches out excitedly to entwine her pinky with his. “Tell you what. D’you want to go and have a look around like the bigger kids?”

Emma frowns a little, pursing her lips. A strand of hair falls into her face, swishing about in the breeze. “Mr Harry said I’m too small.”

“Well,” Louis grins, “Mr Harry is silly. We can have our own tour, just you and me. How about that?”

She jumps in place, already halfway out of the gate. “Will I get to see horses?”

“Of course!” Louis replies. “All of them. I’ll teach you all the names.”

“Yes,” Emma claps. “Yes, please,” she corrects herself. “Let’s go!”

And they do. Louis takes her hand, leading her carefully out across the cobblestones they’ve just laid in front of the house, navigating the easiest way for both of them with his cane. They take the tour route the opposite way, starting at the back of the house, where Liam and Ellie aren’t yet done with training for the day.

“Marshmallow!” Emma squeaks as soon as she sees her zipping down the track, and makes Louis smile.

“You know Marshmallow?” he asks, feigning surprise. The little girl looks up at him, the duh obvious in her raised eyebrow.

“She won the big race twice in a row! Everyone knows Marshmallow.”

“She races under a different name, though,” Louis boops her nose. “Not everyone knows what we call her.”

Emma beams. “I do! Can we please go say hi?”

Louis pretends to sigh, but he pulls her gently off the path and onto the grass, dew immediately soaking through his trainers. He’s supposed to be having breakfast out in the sun, waiting for Harry to finish the rounds and bring the kids back to the house, where Louis will teach them all about tack.

This is much nicer, though, no matter how grumpy his wet socks are going to make him.

“Marshmallow!” Emma squeaks once they’re by the rail, holding on tight to Louis’s hand like she’s worried the horse’s speed will pull her out onto the track.

“Hello,” Liam turns to them when he hears her. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question, but Louis just shakes his head. Later.

Louis bends down until he’s close to Emma’s ear. “This is Liam,” he stage whispers. “He trains our horses.”

“He has funny hair,” Emma whispers back. Louis likes her.

Liam glares a little, but he lets them stand there and watch. Louis lifts Emma up to sit on the railing, and she claps every time Marshmallow manages to clear an obstacle. They’d all had an inhumanely early start to the day, but she makes them smile, and Louis finds himself attached to her after less than half an hour.

They move on after the training session is done and Emma’s gotten to pet Marshmallow to her heart’s content. They’re slow as they make their way through the grass – Louis would prop her up on his hip, but it’s very much a cane morning this morning, his knee stiff and protesting the slightest movement.

The next stop is the little hill above the paddock that’s perfect for a nice view of the herd – it’s there that they run into Harry and his gaggle of kids.

Louis stops a little ways away, before his husband has a chance to notice him, and marvels at the sight. Harry’s got three girls just hanging off of him, grabbing at his sleeves and asking non-stop questions he looks more than happy to answer; the other kids are looking up at him in awe, listening to everything that comes out of his mouth with rapt attention. He’s flinging his arms out wide as he talks about the paddock and names the horses, all grazing in a little cluster just beneath the hill. He loves the kids, and they clearly love him; the whole scene makes Louis ache in the most pleasant of ways.

Harry seems to feel the very same when he turns around and spots Louis with Emma. His eyes go soft, and the grin on his face melts into a gorgeous smile.

“Hi there,” he waves as the two of them climb up the hill.

“Hi Mr Harry,” Emma waves back, running head-on into the group, presumably to find her older sister.

“Hi, love,” says Louis quietly, and gives him a peck on the cheek. It earns a chorus of dutiful ewws from the kids. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it going, everyone?” Harry asks his crowd. It takes a second, and then they all erupt into excited shouts, all but climbing over each other to get to the front and tell Louis what they’ve learned so far.

The sight of it makes his heart skip happily in his chest.

A few years ago, when the reporters on the finish line asked him what’s in store for him next, he never would’ve said it was opening a riding school. Now, he can’t quite remember what it’s like to not have hordes of children around the house, making more noise than should be humanly possible and spreading their infectious enthusiasm for all things horse. He loves doing this, more than he ever thought he would, and Harry is the same; so is Liam, when he has downtime between races and can actually help.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, mostly for Harry. “You just missed Marshmallow, though. You’re too thorough of a guide.”

Harry grins. “Marshmallow’s famous, they’ve all seen her before. They’ve never heard my story about the cat that got stuck in the drainpipe.”

“It’s not that great a story, babe,” Louis pats him on the chest. “I’m sure they’d rather watch the two-time Grand National winner train.”

Harry crosses his arms and pouts. Louis melts at the sight, then dissolves into giggles.

It’s not long before the kids get bored of standing around, excitedly yelling over each other and leading the way to where their parents are waiting with some tea. Louis walks with Harry, mentally preparing himself to give a lesson. He’s done it dozens of times, and he does enjoy it immensely, but it only took one instance of nine-year-old girls teasing him for his pronunciation of “bridle” to become self-conscious about it.

It’s good, though. Keeps him on his toes.

Louis’s knee feels better by the time everyone leaves. He and Harry decide to go for a ride – just the two of them and the remnants of a beautiful summer day. The sun is sitting big and orange just above the horizon, reluctant to leave, and it paints Harry’s hair golden as he squints into the distance.

He looks beautiful, utterly comfortable in the saddle, like he’s grown up in it. Louis kind of wants to get off his horse and hop up right behind him, though he suspects that Bubble would probably hate him for it.

As it is, he settles for holding Harry’s hand in the space between them as they walk down the hill, losing sight of the house. Harry smiles at him, tired but wholly content; Louis smiles back.

He’s settled in this, now, but he’ll never get used to it. Harry is the most familiar thing in the world, but Louis still feels a little shock of happiness every time he wakes up to find him on the other side of the bed. They’ve got wedding pictures and anniversary pictures and I thought you looked really pretty there pictures hung up in the rooms and halls and corridors of their house, pictures of them in the grandstands at the races, of them with Marshmallow, with trophy after trophy, with Niall and Liam after they pushed them into a broom closet and wouldn’t let them leave until they snogged. Their lives adorn the walls of their house, and Louis walks past all of them every morning just to remind himself of how lucky he is – but Harry, and only Harry, is the one who makes it a home. Louis would follow him to the ends of the Earth; it’s lucky, really, that they’re both perfectly content building a life right here.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Harry starts, grinning into the sunset. Louis waits for him to continue, but as they walk on, there’s only silence.

“You’ve been thinking…”

“Right. Um. You like having the kids around, right?” he asks. He’s acting sheepish, but there’s no trace of it in his tone.

Louis bites his lip. “Do you want to, like…do summer camps, or something? Sleepovers?”

Harry laughs. It rings out beautiful and clear in the quiet around them, echoing back off the hills. “I was thinking something more permanent, actually.”

It’s then that Louis gets it, and he has to stop his horse lest he fly out of the saddle with the zip of excitement that runs down his spine.

“Harry Styles,” he says, more accusatory than he’d intended. “Are you telling me you want to have a baby? Like—now?”

Harry stops Bubble as well, and turns around to face him. He looks like he’s holding back a laugh.

“Not right this minute,” he says, “but—yeah. Yes. Let’s have a baby. The first of many, obviously.”

“Are you serious?” Louis asks, even though the answer is obvious.

The thing is, he’s been thinking about it more and more, lately – they’ve been married for almost two years, and they’re not getting any younger. They’ve got so much space, and so much love to give, and he just knows, he knows that Harry will make the absolute best father.

He didn’t get as far as figuring out how to suggest it to Harry but, naturally, he needn’t have worried about that.

“Of course I’m serious!” Harry replies, pressing an offended hand to his chest. He’s smiling, still smiling, and Louis feels his own face contorting from a grin to a grimace as a lump rises in his throat.

He will not cry, for God’s sake.

“Come here,” he says. Harry looks confused, but he moves Bubble forward, coming closer. As soon as he’s within reach, Louis takes him by the collar, yanks him closer, and kisses him.

He ignores the sound of fabric ripping. It’s an old t-shirt – at least he hopes it is.

“Lou,” Harry mumbles against his lips, but he doesn’t make an effort to pull away, melting into it until he’s all but standing in his stirrups, warm and real in Louis’s space. “Lou—“

“Shush,” Louis grins. “Gorgeous boy, I love you so much, do you know that?”

“I figured that time you asked me to marry you,” he grins back. One of his hands has come up to cup Louis’s cheek, soft, soft. “And I love you too, but you didn’t answer the question. Babies, as soon as we can make them happen – yes or no?”

Louis laughs – giggles, really, because he doesn’t know what to do with all this happiness.

“Yes,” he gives Harry a peck. “Yes, oh my God. Yes. I would love nothing more.”

“Yeah?” Harry pulls away. His eyes are shining, reflecting the sky that’s starting to turn inky blue, the first stars shimmering right there in his irises. He’s so very real and just a little shaky in Louis’s arms, his universe of a boy.

“Yes,” he repeats again. “Yes, yes, yes. Please.”

And they’re right on the same page, then, because Harry whoops and hugs him and promptly bursts into tears. He laughs through them, though, and Louis himself blubbers a little while he holds him and runs his hands through his hair.

“We’re having a baby,” Harry says into his neck with a ridiculous smile.

“Mhm,” Louis nods. “You want to find some bushes and try right now?”

Harry pulls away with a cackle. He wipes his tears, and just like that, his brilliant smile is the only remnant of the conversation they just had.

That, and the star that seems to be in the process of exploding right in the centre of Louis’s chest.

This is forever, he thinks.

Duh, the pale moon in the sky seems to answer.

“Race you home,” Harry grins – and he and Bubble take off before Louis can get a word in.

He does race after them, but he doesn’t push too hard. There is no trophy to be won, not anymore; and he knows Harry will wait no matter how long Louis takes to come back to him.

It’s quite the miracle, he thinks as the wind whistles around his ears, that he’s found everything he’s ever wanted – and none of it lay beyond a finish line.

~fin