Chapter Text
PART ONE
TWO GHOSTS
December 2013, London
Harry meets up with him at Heathrow, he’s just landed in London after being in LA for a week, and Louis arrives with the plane from New York an hour later. He’s in one of the VIP-rooms with his security guard when Louis walks through the door, in sweatpants, his usual white t-shirt and a snapback covering most of his hair. He looks tired and jet lagged, just as Harry does himself. But that’s how both of them have looked for the past half a year now. Constantly exhausted.
He wraps his arms around him, curls his entire body around Louis and forces him to shrug his backpack off his shoulders so Harry can hug him tighter. The small hands fist his jumper and a cold nose presses into his neck as they rock back and forth in the middle of the room. Ten days since they last saw each other. Harry pulls back so he can kiss him, only to be interrupted by Louis’ guard clearing his throat.
“Yeah, right, save that for later, boys. Let’s get you home.”
They come through the door around nine thirty that evening, with heavy suitcases and even heavier eyelids. Louis locks the door behind them, makes sure the gate is closed and the cameras in the garden are on, as Harry carries their luggage upstairs. It’s oddly quiet as he drops it in the middle of their bedroom and tries to breathe in the smell of being home. Eight months. For eight months they’ve been on tour, and no one but the cleaning staff has moved across these floors.
He ignores the knot in his chest as he walks over to the window and lets the fresh, cold air in. It’ll be good, he thinks to himself. If they just eat something, get some sleep and unpack in the morning, everything will feel at peace again, he’s sure of it. Soon enough, he’ll feel his tense shoulders sink and the familiarity of being back home will hit him.
He hears Louis talking on the phone when he comes back downstairs, judging by the tone of his voice he’s ordering pizza. Harry shoots him a smile as he walks into the kitchen and finds him by the open window, making their order as a cigarette hangs between his two fingers.
Louis hangs up and looks at Harry, “Got you pepperoni,” he says and takes a long drag of the cigarette. Harry holds back an impulse to tell him to put it out, the house smells weird enough without the smoke clinging to the walls, but he bites his tongue, doesn’t think he can handle an argument right now.
Instead he nods as he pushes himself off the counter and goes out into the hallway, grabs Louis’ laptop from his backpack and spends the next upcoming ten minutes trying to figure out how to make the thing connect to their TV that hasn’t been used, much less updated, in eight months. Eventually he manages to make it work and puts on an episode of Breaking Bad before he sinks back against the pillows on the couch. He pats one of the dark green pillows beside him, tries to get the itching out of his body. Green pillows. For some reason, he had remembered them as navy blue.
Louis comes into the living room after a few minutes, pauses in front of the coffee table and stretches his arms over his head, back cracking as he lets out a puff of air.
“It feels weird,” he says, once he’s sat beside Harry on the couch, curled up against his side and with his feet covered in the thick, blue Captain America blanket Liam got him last Christmas.
“I know,” Harry replies with a sigh.
“It’s been what, seven, eight months? Since we lived together here…” Louis continues, gaze fixated on the screen even though he’s so obviously not paying attention.
“We’ve been in the house in LA a bit,” Harry says and presses his nose into Louis’ hair. Even though that doesn’t make much sense, because their LA house has never felt like home, they have never referred to it as anything else but a holiday house maybe. It doesn’t count as home, neither does their other flat here in London, or the one in New York.
This house is home because it’s what they mean when they say they are homesick, when the bunk beds on the bus become too small and the need for something other than a hotel room grows. In this house, it’s their stuff laying around and their clothes in the wardrobes and their pictures on the walls. It’s the only place they’ve brought their own furniture to, the house that replaced the rented flat in Princess Park.
“Yeah, I guess,” Louis mumbles and leans into Harry’s side.
They sit like that, in their living room, a place that all of sudden feels too big for them, after spending the last half a year on a tour bus, until the pizza arrives and Louis untangles himself from Harry to go and get it for them.
It’s only a bit past ten when they’re done eating, and the leftovers are stuffed into the empty fridge. As Harry keeps carding his fingers through Louis’ hair, he tries hard to ignore the uneasy feeling growing inside him. The uncomfortable, numb knot tying up in his chest that all new places give him, whether it’s a hotel room or a new arena. But everything is so quiet. They’re home, watching Netflix in their own couch for the first time in so many months, and all he can think about is that he hasn’t seen Louis in ten days, and nothing is like it should be after that long apart. They should be all over each other, instead Louis’ body is a dead weight pressed against him. They’re home, and how terrifying is it, to feel so numb in your own house.
He makes it until eleven before he asks Louis if they should go to bed.
As they walk up the stairs, Harry starts to feel the restlessness in his limbs. The stress that comes from sitting down from too long, the anxiety that comes with having nothing to do, nowhere to be.
They brush their teeth beside each other and don’t have to squeeze tight together to make both their faces fit in the mirror. They undress and Harry folds their clothes as Louis showers, placing them neatly in the drawers. After Harry has showered, they pull the curtains down and crawls into the bed – their bed, and despite the fact that there’s plenty of space for both of them, Louis still shuffles over to Harry’s side and gets his body curled up behind him as three quarters of the space is left empty. Fucking king size mattress, why on earth did they think they would need that. He rolls over to let Louis spoon him because that’s how they always do.
Used to. It’s been a while since they slept together. Even longer since they had sex.
He tries not to think about it.
Louis has never been great at tiptoeing. On second thought, neither has he been great at staying quiet in general. Usually Harry wakes up for just a few seconds or so before he falls back asleep, whenever Louis uses the loo or goes to get a bottle of water in the middle of the night.
Tonight, is different.
When he hears Louis not that quietly tiptoeing out of the room, he slowly sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. As he rubs the back of his neck and tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, he listens to the sound of Louis making his way down the stairs. Harry looks around in the bedroom and shakes his head when he realises that Louis didn’t bother putting any clothes on. Knowing him, he’ll be cold as ice when he gets back and bug Harry about it, that’s one thing for sure.
Eventually he gets up as well and pulls on his boxers. He grabs the jumper he wore last night when they got home, the grey big one with fluff on the inside he doesn’t get to keep for himself very often. With the jumper folded over his arm he grabs a pair of socks from the drawer and makes his way downstairs.
It would have been pitch black in the house if it wasn’t for the full moon coming through the big windows. As he steps into the kitchen, his eyes burn as they get used to the cold fridge light that washes over the room. Louis stands right in front of it, with the door handle in his hand and tired eyes scanning the empty fridge.
Harry leans against the door frame as he watches him. Louis just keeps staring into the fridge, until he eventually shuts his eyes and closes the door. The only source of light goes back to being the moon coming through the window, dancing over Louis’ naked body, making him look even smaller, even thinner, even more fragile. Harry still hates himself for not noticing earlier on when Louis started to lose weight this summer, how he replaced food with cigarettes and Red Bull, until he wasted away. Even though Louis has told him a million times it has nothing to do with Harry, they both know that’s a lie.
He’s still beautiful though. Harry will always find him so beautiful. Even now, when he’s got dark circles under his eyes, when he’s clenching and unclenching his fists as he always does when he’s getting restless. Even now, Harry finds him so beautiful.
As he stands there and waits for Louis to notice him, he desperately tries to understand why the weird, anxious knot in his chest hasn’t yet untied. Why doesn’t he feel at peace, why is he looking at Louis and wondering how he’ll act once their eyes meet? Why does this house feel so wrong, when it’s the place he’s been missing the most for the last eight months? He’s been counting down the days to get home, and now he’s here, watching the man he loves, and wonders why on earth it doesn’t feel enough.
After what seems like a lifetime but is probably not more than three quiet minutes, Louis turns around and reaches for the jumper Harry’s holding. He slips it over his head and holds onto Harry’s arm as he balances on one leg to put on the socks.
“I’m hungry,” he says quietly, the voice breaking through the air between them like a tornado, making it feel too loud and misplaced. Harry almost frowns at him for a split second, then he meets Louis’ exhausted eyes for the first times since he came downstairs. He catches his rambling thoughts the moment his heart starts sinking in his chest. Because never once, for as long as they’ve known each other, has he thought of Louis’ voice as too loud or misplaced… and now, he feels like he can’t stand either of their voices.
Maybe Louis gets it, because he looks away and presses his lips together as he lets go of Harry’s arm.
If there’s burning behind Harry’s eyes when he nods and puts on a kettle, then no one but himself will know. If there’s a sniffle slipping past his lips as he digs through the freezer to find the old bread slices and a jar of frozen jam, then Louis pretends not to notice. If there’s a murdering noise from the microwave as he heats the poor food, then at least it’s a good cover up for the second sniffle. He has his back turned to Louis as he puts jam on the bread and wipes the tears that managed to escape through his thick walls of protection.
He takes more time than he needs to put the bread on a plate and pour the tea into the cup. They don’t have any milk, so he doubts Louis will drink it, but at least it’s something. When he eventually turns around, he’s collected the food in his hands as well as himself and takes the few steps towards Louis where’s he’s sitting on one of the bar stools by the window. He’s playing with his packet of cigarettes, letting it slide over the wood on the table and then picks it up to flip it over. He’s probably in need for a smoke, Harry can see it in his restless fingers. How much he needs a distraction. It’s all about distractions.
He sets down the poor plate and even poorer tea in front of him. Louis sees his trembling hands and if he thinks something about it then he’s kind enough not to comment on it. Instead he shoots Harry a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Harry brushes Louis’ fridge out of his forehead with light fingers as he wonders why he’s not as happy as he used to be.
Louis leans into his touch with closed eyes while Harry tilts his head back and swallows down the knot in his chest that has found its way up his throat by now, making it harder to properly breathe. He continues to card his fingers through Louis’ hair, simply because he’s so scared one of them will say something if he sits down on the other side of the table. Louis eventually let his head rest against Harry’s bare chest, making the knot in his throat ease up a bit, only to grow again when he feels the wetness from Louis’ cheek against his skin.
They haven’t been… great, the last couple of months. It was less and less conversation, less laughter, less hanging out just the two of them, and more of seeing each other briefly during the days, doing the shows at night and then getting the post-show adrenaline out between the sheets.
Maybe Harry is naïve, but he really thought everything would fall back into normal as soon as they stepped through their front door. They’d fall into the habits of being in love, being in a proper relationship, as soon as these walls they chose together swallowed them. His hands would be all over Louis’ body, his heart filled with need and his brain focused on loving him and him only. Naïve or not, he could never imagine his fingers would feel as numb and hesitant running through Louis’ soft hair as they do now.
Louis must feel it too, because a sniffle slips past his lips when Harry’s fingers accidentally stop for half a second. Harry is terrified of saying a word, he’s terrified of what might come. An argument. A fight. A confession. Or worse. He’s so scared of mentioning anything that can suggest that they’re not okay.
Harry’s shoulders are shaking by the time he pulls Louis off the chair and sinks down with him to the floor. His knees give out beneath him and he doesn’t want to go down alone, he can’t, not yet. They slump against the wall, Louis curls up in his lap and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders as Harry buries his head in Louis’ neck. He feels his face getting wet by the constant flow of tears spilling over and the way Louis trembles in his arms doesn’t help at all. When he tries to pull Louis even closer and hold him even tighter to make his body stop shudder all he gets as a response is a broken sob against his shoulder, which echoes through the cold kitchen and the knot in Harry’s throat almost makes it all the way up.
“Baby–” his voice cracks before he’s even managed to get half of the word out, and Louis just shakes his head and presses his fingertips harder into Harry’s skin. Harry’s only in his boxers and there’s nothing for Louis to hold onto, so his hands try desperately to get under Harry’s skin. He pulls and scratches and tries so hard to get closer, almost like he’s almost drowning.
His cracked voice hangs in the air, making the room feel even bigger, even wider, ever colder and for a short moment, when he opens his eyes, he doesn’t recognise in which part of the kitchen they’re sitting.
Louis is not close enough. He’s all wrapped up around Harry and their chests are pressed so tight together it’s almost hard to breathe, and he’s not close enough. Harry has his face in Louis’ neck, he desperately tries to suck in breath after breath, just to feel the scent of Louis tickling in his nose. Nothing happens, instead he smells airplane and cigarettes and it’s nothing like Louis at all. A sudden outburst of panic raises in his chest as he tries to breathe in more and more of Louis, his lungs are burning because he doesn’t let any air out, he just keeps inhaling until he feels like he might explode. All he needs is the scent of Louis. Of his Louis. His heart is a numb rock in his chest and his shoulders are shaking so badly, there’s a ringing in his ears which doesn’t stop.
He can’t find him. Louis is right here in his arms and Harry has no idea where he needs to start looking.
It hurts when Louis tugs harshly on his curls and pulls him away from his neck. The cold air hits his hot wet face and it burns, just as much as his lungs burn when he finally exhales and Louis presses their foreheads together.
“Breathe, you fucking idiot,” Louis cracks out and his eyes are all bloodshot and there are rosy spots over his neck. His lips are swollen from nervously biting them and there’s a wrinkle between his brows as he scans Harry’s face. He almost knocks the breath out of Harry’s lungs once more.
God, he misses him.
Harry tries to exhale again but it comes out as a sob that’s been tickling in the back of his throat for way too long now. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the panic in Louis’. The constant panic, the stress in Harry’s chest that’s been there for so long now, every single time he’s had Louis in his arms. It feels like when you miss a step while walking down the stairs, and your heart and lungs are about to jump out of your body. Constantly, for so many months when they’ve not been okay, Harry has felt just that certain panic. Like he keeps missing steps.
“H… Harry, it– it’s okay, we can fix this,” Louis whispers but not even his voice could calm Harry down right now. Instead he has a sudden impulse to pull away from him, get as far as away as possible, it hurts too much, god it burns him. Eats him from the inside. Everything scratches and Louis is not close enough. “Baby…” Louis tries again and when his voice breaks for a second time Harry can’t take it anymore.
Never once during the first two years with Louis did Harry doubt they’d make it. There wasn’t a single piece of unsureness, of hesitation. They were going to marry each other, they were endgame. After they’d had the time of their life in the band, they would build a little family together. Harry knew in the bottom of his heart when he was seventeen that it was all he’d ever want. All he’d ever need.
And now he sits on their kitchen floor with the same man in his arms and suddenly he’s not sure anymore.
He buries his face in Louis’ neck once more, without trying to breathe in the scent of him this time. Instead he just holds him so tight, as close as he possibly can, and ignores how familiar every single curve of Louis’ body feels in his arms.
It’s not his love for Louis he doubts. Harry’s pretty satisfied with the fact that no one will ever be able to love Louis as much, as intensely, and as whole heartily as he does. No one. And it’s not their love that’s the problem.
Because it was all they used to need.
They sit like that until Harry’s bum is cold against the kitchen floor, until Louis is shivering despite wearing the warm jumper. Until his eyes are oversensitive and itchy from all the crying, so every blink feels like too much. Until the knot in his throat has grown to a point where it’s just a constant press over his chest, like someone has tried to squeeze him into a way too small t-shirt. Until their edgy breaths at the top of their lungs are replaced by normal breathing. Until every exhale doesn’t feel like the last anymore.
The clock on the microwave shows four thirteen when Harry finally dares to glance at it. If it was summer, the sun would be slipping through the windows by now and they’d hear the birds sing in the garden. Though, summer is far away, and Harry has forgotten how warmth feels. Instead the pitch-black sky still swallows them, and even the moon’s light seems to start feeling tired, because it fades and abandons Harry and Louis on the kitchen floor.
Sometime after Harry starts running his fingers through Louis’ hair again, the room finally shrinks and goes back to its normal state. The walls are no longer that far apart, and the door frame on the other side of the room doesn’t feel like a marathon away anymore.
He doesn’t know which one of them starts moving, but eventually they’ve hauled each other up from the floor and made it up the stairs, into their bed, and Harry wraps his arms around Louis and lets him move around for several minutes until he’s comfortable, with his still clothed feet pressed between Harrys calves and his head tucked under Harry’s chin. He buries his nose into the feather soft hair and tells himself that for tonight, he’ll let everything be broken. The dawn is already creeping through the curtains, the press over his chest hasn’t eased the slightest, and he knows they’re both preparing for a fight, or a talk, or an end to everything in just a few hours.
This is not who they used to be.
And the numb press tightens over Harry’s chest
as he tries to remember how it feels
to have
a heartbeat.