Archive of Our Own

PRELUDE

January 25, 2011

Nineteen year old Louis grabs Harry’s hands, wraps them tight in his own as he entwines their legs together. And it’s all too much, for a moment – Harry’s emerald green eyes staring back at him, the smile on his kiss-raw lips, the shock of sweaty, sex ruined hair falling around his face. He feels his eyes start to well up without warning, a tear dropping down his cheek before he can stop it.

Harry’s face turns from bliss to concern immediately. “Lou, what is it? Did I do something wrong?”

Louis lowers his eyes and shakes his head, kissing the tops of Harry’s knuckles, pressing his cheek into his fists. “I just love you, Haz,” he whispers. It’s such a new thing, to be able to say this, but he says it all the time now; like it’s a tap he can’t shut off now that he’s allowed himself to turn it on. “I love you so fucking much. It terrifies me.”

Harry unclasps one of his hands, pulling Louis’ chin up to face him, not comprehending. Louis is always the joker, the confident one, the leader – in the band, and in their relationship, as new and overwhelming as it is. He was the one who’d convinced Harry they could do this, in secret if they had to; he is the one whose vulnerability is so thoroughly hidden from the outside world by his extroverted personality, his too wide smile. “Lou, Lou, baby,” he murmurs. “Why does it terrify you?”

Louis blinks, the tears still coming. “You’ll leave me one day, I know. You’re so bloody young. This can’t last. It just can’t.”

Tears spring to Harry’s eyes as he presses his body even closer to Louis’, his hips flush against the older boys’. “It will, Lou. I know it will.” He can’t believe he’s having to be the one to dole out assurance, having to convince this ridiculously fucking perfect boy that he’ll never want anyone else. He might only be sixteen – seventeen next week – but he has this incredible certainty that he’ll never fall for anyone the way he’s fallen for Louis. The very idea is unfathomable.

“How do you know?” Louis asks, looking up through tear coated lashes. “How can you possibly know that?”

Harry looks at his boyfriend intensely, cupping his cheek in his hand, wishing he could convey everything he is feeling in an instant. “Are you ever going to leave me?” he asks quietly.

Louis shakes his head violently, clasps Harry tighter. “Never,” he says, with vehemence.

Harry smiles, leaning forward to press his lips softly to Louis’ forehead. “ Well, I’ve got a secret for you, Louis Tomlinson. I am never, ever going to leave you either.” He grins as he pulls back, rubs their foreheads together, touches his thumb to the corner of Louis’ lips. “You’re going to be stuck with me for a long, long time.”

***

It was the Take Me Home tour that ended it; that’s what Louis has always blamed. Incredible to think that spending eight practically uninterrupted months together could tear apart a relationship, but there you go. Life’s full of fun surprises like that, as Louis is well aware.

Before the tour began, they’d lain in bed one freezing morning in London and sworn to each other that they’d get through it, Harry’s arm wrapped tight around Louis’ waist, his lips against his chest in a promise. They knew they’d be separated whenever they were in the public eye, and they knew they’d have to keep their distance on stage. A “special” – and largely redundant – meeting had been called a few weeks before they were set to leave, to ensure the boys knew exactly what would be expected of them on the road. Unsurprisingly, they were to do absolutely nothing to feed the speculation on their sexualities any further. The freedom of the Up All Night tour would be nothing more than a nirvana like memory. After Harry had cocked up his “relationship” with Taylor Swift quite as spectacularly as he had, and the two boys had made absolutely no attempt to hide their glee when it ended, they were skating on thin ice. They knew they’d have to watch themselves. But how bad could it be?

By the end of the tour, even performing wasn’t enough.

He almost laughs at the irony now. They’d been ordered to keep their distance on the road, but by the time it was all over, they could barely stand to be in the same room.

The very day they got home, Harry packed the rest of his things, threw his key on the counter, and left.

***

December 24, 2013

It’s been Louis’ 22nd birthday for 45 minutes, and half his arm is starting to lose all feeling. He’s elbow deep in the bathtub, which is overflowing with ice, water, and enough alcohol to drown a small island nation. He sighs in frustration, leaning back to poke his head out the door.

“Niall!” he yells over the music, as his blond bandmate walks past. “Niall, you tosser!”

Niall spins around with a little too much enthusiasm given his inebriated state, grabbing the door frame for support. “What?”

Louis groans as he continues to scrabble around in the ice. “Do you actually need this specific beer? Is it life or death? Because I’m about three seconds from frostbite, mate, and I still cannot find it.”

Niall doubles over in laughter, slapping his thighs in delight. “Mate!” he splutters. “It’s your birthday! If I can’t make up a fictional beer and make you freeze your arm off tryin’ to find it on a day like this, when can I do it?”

Louis' mouth drops open as he wrenches his hand out of the ice. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Niall throws his head back in glee, tears now streaming down his face. “That was fifteen minutes ago! I thought you’da given up by now! You must be more pissed than I thought!”

Louis shakes his head, eyes murderous, as the blood starts to return to his fingers. “I swear to god, I need a new band.” He plunges his hand back into the ice, grabs the largest chunk he can find, and shoves it down the front of Niall’s jeans before the younger boy can react. Niall screams in shock, swearing so loudly as he tries to extract the ice that half the party turns to see what the commotion is. Louis cackles wickedly, clapping his still half numb hands. “There’s more where that came from mate!”

It’s at this point that his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. Still laughing at Niall, he slides it out and glances at the screen.

His heart stops for a moment as he sees who it is.

Harry.

He stares in shock at the screen, suddenly paralysed. He’d thought that there was absolutely no chance of hearing from Harry on his birthday; had even decided that Harry probably wouldn’t even remember the date. He saw a picture on Instagram a few hours ago showing Harry out somewhere with Nick, Aimee and Ian, surrounded by an impressive array of cocktails. Maybe he’s drunk and sentimental. Maybe he’s drunk and angry. Maybe he’s just pocket dialled him, for crying out loud.

Niall, who has by now managed to remove the offending ice, peers over his shoulder with a sharp intake of breath.

“I reckon answer it, Tommo,” he says after a pause, his hand on Louis’ shoulder. He knows with certainty that Harry and Louis are going to sort this out soon – they’re Harry and Louis, for god’s sake. All the boys are positive that whatever this break is, it’s temporary. “It’s your birthday.”

Louis turns to him, the phone still buzzing in his hand. “Aren’t I supposed to be happy on my birthday?” he asks quietly.

As Niall starts to reply, the phone stops ringing. Louis sighs, tears forming pinpricks in the corners of his eyes. “Well. That’s that then.”

Niall puts his arm around his shoulder, squeezes him. “Sure you don’t wanna call him back mate?” he asks gently. “It’s insane that you two haven’t talked since we got back. It’s been two months! Your birthday seems like a good time.”

Louis shakes his head, squeezing Niall back in silent thanks. “Don’t think so.” He pockets his phone and grabs two beers from the top of the pile, plastering a smile back on to his face and blinking quickly as he hands one over. “Back to the party, hey?”

***

February 26, 2014

They’re in a warehouse in Central London, three hours into shooting the video for the next single off the Where We Are album, and Harry is contemplating putting his fist through a wall. Ben Winston has quite literally cornered him, and is, for want of a better word, begging.

“Haz, I know you don’t want to do this,” he sighs, his expression sympathetic. “I know it’s gonna be really hard. But we’ve just got to push the big, friendly, happy band thing with this video. We’ve got no choice. You know what the press has been like. The fans are terrified you lot are on the verge of breaking up.”

Harry sighs, runs his fingers through his freshly styled hair, avoiding Lou Teasdale’s disapproving glare. “We’re doing our best, Ben. I thought we were alright at the Brits last week.”

Ben nods. “Your performances are still good, course they are. But anyone with even a moderate amount of brain capacity – or anyone who’s over 12 – can tell there’s something seriously off. And that interview with Scott on Monday was a fucking disaster.”

Harry nods, shuddering at the memory. It had been the only live whole band interview the boys had done since they got home from the TMH tour, and you could have cut the tension with a knife. Louis had stormed out the minute the cameras had stopped rolling, in front of a live studio audience. “I know,” he mutters. “I know it was a fucking disaster.”

It’s been almost four months since the tour ended, and the other boys could not have been wrong in their prediction that Louis and Harry’s break up would simply be a phase. Other than work commitments, Harry hasn’t either seen or spoken to Louis since their return. Both boys have even threatened to quit the band at several points since the TMH tour, but the threats were hollow and they knew it: they’re contractually obligated to get through this album and the stadium tour, even if it kills them. Their PR are pulling out all stops to cope with the situation, trying desperately to paper over the cracks. Press and appearances have been cut to an absolute minimum, and the band’s been split in two as often as possible when they’ve had to appear on camera. But despite their best efforts, even the most casual fans have started to suspect something is up, and the powers that be have decided to put the foot down.

For Harry, today, like every day he has had to spend around Louis since the break-up, has been absolutely fucking torturous.

Ben clasps Harry’s shoulders, his face verging on desperation. “I am under the strictest of instructions – meaning if I’d like to pay my mortgage, I’ve got to do it – to make a video where you guys look like the happiest bunch of five best mates the world has ever seen. You don’t have to give me much, alright? We’ve got editing geniuses here. But there has got to be at least a couple of shots where you and Louis are in the same fucking frame with some sort of physical fucking contact. Something that looks at least vaguely like old times, something to calm your fans down. An arm around his shoulder, a high five, just something. Please? I am begging. I am on my knees here, Haz. It’ll take ten minutes. A few shots of the two of you, a few shots of all five of you. The rest can be done in post.”

Harry gives a short, hard laugh. “Funny, isn’t. They used to force you to shoot us apart; now they’re forcing you to shoot us together.”

Ben smiles tiredly, shaking his head. “I know, mate. It’s shit.”

Harry sighs, and locks eyes with his friend. “Alright, I’ll do it. It’s a good thing I love you, mate.”

Ben grins in relief, wrapping him up in a big bear hug. “It’ll be over before you know it,” he mumbles into his shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, the single is pumping in the background and Louis and Harry are facing each other with grim expressions on their faces. Ben’s got a few shots of all five of them looking happy enough, with Louis and Harry keeping their distance, and now he needs at least a handful of shots with the two of them interacting.

Harry clears his throat, catches Louis’ eye for the briefest of moments. “Come on,” he says, averting his glance again. “Quicker we do this, quicker it’ll be over.” He puts an arm around Zayn’s shoulder and holds the other out to Louis, still looking anywhere but at him. “Ben, we’ll give you one chorus with our arms around each other, and then we’ll give you a couple of high fives. That’s it.”

Ben whoops in the background. “That’ll do, boys! That’ll do! Just try to look happy, for the love of God!”

He cues the chorus and the boys sing along, Harry plastering a smile to his face as he mouths the words. He concentrates on giving the impression that he’s having the time of his life with his four best pals, rather than only just managing to supress an urge to run away screaming. He just barely succeeds.

He keeps his arm awkwardly draped around Louis until Ben yells “Cut!”, and not a second longer.

***

April 20, 2014

It’s 2pm, it’s two weeks since he officially ended his “relationship” with Eleanor, and Louis is still in his pyjamas – though this is debatable. Do you call them pyjamas when they’re actually the ancient, comfy clothes you wore yesterday, which you happened to sleep in, and you’ve still got on the next day? Or have they morphed back into being clothes again once you’ve got out of bed? Louis gave it some thought about an hour ago, but it became very clear very quickly that he didn’t care.

Louis doesn’t care about much these days. He’s struggling to even muster up a modicum of emotion about the Titanic rerun that’s playing on the telly. Unfortunately, there is some incredibly persistent person banging on his door, and for the first time in four days, he decides to answer it.

As soon as he opens the door an inch, Zayn lets loose.

“What the actual fuck, Lou?” he demands, flinging the door open and storming inside. “I’ve been there for ten minutes!”

Louis flops back down on to the couch, knocking two curry containers on to the carpet in the process. “Sorry mate. Wasn’t sure who it was. Thought you’d give up eventually.”

Zayn manages to shift enough rubbish to clear a space for himself on the corner armchair and sinks into it, demonstrably fuming. “The seven calls in a row didn’t tip you off?”

Louis shakes his head. “Phone’s on silent. In the bedroom. It’s amazing it’s on at all actually. Called mum before, thought I should let her know I was alive.”

“Well, it would have been nice if you’d let one of us know. We’ve all been worried sick.”

Louis snorts. “Now you literally sound like my mother.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Can you just cut the crap for a minute? You know we’ve all been worried. If you’ve just turned your phone on you must have had about seven hundred texts. I decided to come over today and just bang on the door for hours if that was what it took.”

Louis smiles, despite himself. “Well thanks, mate. I’m sorry. I just needed some time away.”

Zayn softens as he takes in the litter strewn living room, concern replacing anger on his features. “So have you been going mad, or what?”

Louis laughs again, his eyes on the floor. “Well. I’ve been better.” He pauses, cracks his knuckles, stretches his neck. “It’s been hard, finishing it with El. Harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Well, it’s been a while, Lou. It’s fair enough that it was hard. Even if it was… what it was.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I just – I hadn’t realised what a support she’d been, in a weird way. With all the crap we took, all the rumours – we were kind of in the whole thing together, I guess.”

“That makes sense,” Zayn replies. “It was a pretty fucking big lie you had to keep up.”

Louis nods. “I know. Two and a half years of utter bullshit.”

Zayn laughs softly as Louis continues.

“And, you know. I… I’ve been thinking about it. About my part in it.” He pauses, lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “About how I probably could have fought it, the Eleanor part, at least, if I’d really wanted to. But I think maybe I always went along with the whole fucking thing, because...” Louis trails off, looking down at the carpet, his eyes suddenly ashamed as he struggles to find the correct words.

“Why?” Zayn asks, gently. They’ve never really had this conversation, not properly, and certainly not sober. It’s probably about time they did.

Louis looks Zayn in the eye for a moment, shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “I don’t know. I think… I think part of me wanted it. Part of me wanted to be locked up safe in that fucking closet, you know?”

Zayn nods, waiting. He’s always thought this, but never dared say it. He’s always been worried by how Louis hides so much of himself, how he’d play the arrogant clown when deep down he was probably the most sensitive member of the band. Zayn is one of the few people who are aware that Louis has known that he was gay, with remarkable certainty, since he was fourteen years old. So he’s always wondered if Lou having hidden his sexuality for so many long years has almost made this kind of pretence the norm; made it easier for him than confronting reality.

Louis continues after a few moments. “So I didn’t mind keeping her around. The oh so natural photo ops and the ridiculous fucking tweets and the shooting down gay rumours whenever we could. Part of me wanted to do that, even though it was all such bullshit.”

Zayn leaves another pause before breaking in. “So what changed? What made you end it?”

Louis lies back on the couch and closes his eyes. “It got to a point where I couldn’t do it anymore. After a while, I just – I couldn’t stand it anymore, you know?”

Zayn nods. “You did the right thing, Lou,” he says. “Maybe – maybe you and Haz might be able to work some stuff out now. You realise we’ve got that little thing called another world tour coming up?” he asks, a slight tease in his voice. “Next week, to be exact?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You know, that had completely slipped my mind. Where would I be without your wisdom?”

Zayn frowns. “I’m serious. You’re going to be seeing him every bloody day. You should at least try to talk to him before we start. Give him a call one day.”

“Oh, he’d answer, would he?” Louis snorts, as he sits up again. “Miraculously told you he wants me back, has he?”

Zayn sighs. “I’d tell you if he had.”

“Exactly.” Louis smirks at Zayn smugly, though he’s not sure he’s got much to be smug about.

“It’s just that you’re as stubborn as each other,” Zayn protests, though he knows it’s going to fall on deaf ears, just like every other attempt anyone has made at convincing Harry and Louis to at least talk. “That’s all it fucking is.”

Louis shakes his head. “Mate, it’s not that we’re as stubborn as each other. It’s that we’re finished, and we both know it. There’s not gonna be some big reconciliation. It’s not a fucking movie.” He gets up angrily off the couch, heads toward the kitchen. “You want a beer, or do you want to keep giving stupid advice?”

Zayn throws his hands up in defeat. “I’ll have a beer.”

***

July 12, 2014

It’s possible that Harry will never again feel as much relief as he did the day the Take Me Home tour finished, but the day the Where We Are stadium tour ends comes a bloody close second. At least on the first tour, he and Louis had started off with a relationship, only losing it in pieces as it went on. Now, they’ve just wrapped an entire tour – much shorter than TMH, granted, but arguably far more intense – without a word being spoken between them off stage, unless it was absolutely necessary. It had been, without exaggeration, the longest three months of Harry’s life. The other boys had done their best to share their time between the pair, and there were always crew, staff, and mates coming and going, but it was still an exercise in torture.

He walks through the front door of Nick’s apartment (and his apartment, he reminds himself – he’d only moved in officially a few weeks before the tour started), emptying his lungs in an enormous sigh of relief as he drops his bags in the hall. He takes a moment to breathe in the familiar smell, for a moment almost brought to tears. Just then, he hears Nick’s footsteps approaching, and breaks into a wide grin as his best mate appears around the corner.

“Harold!” Nick cries, holding his arms out. Harry steps forward eagerly, wrapping Nick up in a tight hug. “Thank fuck I’m home,” he mumbles into Nick’s neck. He hears Nick chuckle against him, rubbing his back. “Thank fuck you are.”

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the two of them sprawled across the lounge sofas, Nick props himself up on one elbow and fixes Harry with a serious expression. “Alright, I’ve heard everything else. Pretty sure I know Niall’s entire diet for three months, but you’ve still not mentioned him yet.” He coughs, raising his eyebrows. “Louis, I mean.”

Harry gives a small laugh. Could “him” possibly be anyone else?

Nick continues. “Last time I asked, you just said it was a fucking nightmare and you didn’t want to talk about it… do you still not?

Harry sighs, tossing his head back on the cushion, his eyes to the ceiling. “No, I don’t not, it’s just – I don’t even know what to say about it. It’s like – it was so fucking painful, but I almost got used to it, you know?”

Nick nods, waits for Harry to continue. Most of the time when this subject comes up, Harry slams shut immediately. If there’s any chance of him opening up now, Nick’s keen for it to happen.

“Like, there was no uncertainty about it,” Harry goes on, his voice flat, almost expressionless. “It wasn’t like, oh maybe Louis will talk to me today, because I knew he wouldn’t. And he knew I wouldn’t. It just… it was what it was.” He gives a small, harsh laugh at the inadvertent reference to Louis’ chest tattoo before continuing. “We literally did not speak, I mean unless we absolutely had to. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. It was like we were total strangers. Worse, though. More like two people who hated each other more than I would have thought was possible.”

Nick’s frowning. “But, Harry – you don’t hate him, do you? I know you think it’s over for good… but you don’t actually hate him, do you?”

Harry looks over at Nick, tears in his eyes now. “I honestly wish I did,” he says hoarsely. “It would be so much fucking easier if I did. But he’s… he’s still Louis, you know?” He pauses, vivid memories like still photographs racing through his mind. “And there’d be these moments, you know, these moments where we were on stage, and for just a second we’d make eye contact. We’d be singing or he’d be making some stupid joke or we’d both happen to be laughing at one of the other lads at the same time. And there’d be this second.” Harry swallows over the lump in his throat as a tear starts to slide down his cheek. “There’d be this second where for an instant, we’d be us again. We’d be Harry and Louis. And none of this shit had ever happened, and we’d never ended, and we still loved each other like mad, and we were still in on this amazing, incredible inside joke, where it was the two of us against everyone else out there. Where there was no one but us.”

Nick is silent, his heart breaking for his best friend. Harry looks as broken as he has ever seen him, and that is saying something; Nick has seen Harry at rock bottom. His was the first place Harry went after the Take Me Home tour, and he barely left his couch for weeks.

“And then we’d catch ourselves, and look away, and I’d remember,” Harry continues. “I’d remember that none of that was true, and it was like… it was like losing him all over again. Like being punched in the stomach, like for a second I’d forget how to breathe. Right up on there on stage, in front of thousands of people, my fucking heart would break all over again.” The tears are flowing freely now.

“And so now I just…” he trails off, rubs his hands roughly over his face. “I think I just need to never see him again, Nick, honestly. Never again. Band’s on “hiatus” now, whatever the fuck that means. I don’t even reckon the other boys think it’s working anymore. I reckon this is probably the end of 1D, and if it’s the end of 1D, then maybe I can just lock Louis Tomlinson up in a very small box in my brain and never open it ever again.”

Nick sighs. He may not be the world’s top relationship expert, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that it would take a small miracle for Harry Styles to fall out of love with Louis Tomlinson. “Do you think that’s gonna work, Harry?” he asks.

Harry rolls over and locks eyes with Nick, his own red and swollen as he gives a small smile. “I think it has to.”

***

January 2, 2015

Louis knows something significant must have happened when his phone goes off for about twenty minutes straight as he lies on the couch ignoring it. It’s just gone 9pm on a Saturday night, and he’s home alone, halfway through his second bottle of wine. He’d like to pretend this was out of the ordinary, but it isn’t, not anymore. Louis’ closest relationship is with his couch these days, that and a bottle of wine. Of course, he’s still got some good people around him – Zayn’s probably his best friend these days, Niall and Liam are still in touch pretty regularly, and he still talks to Stan once a week or so – but since the band went on hiatus six months ago, Louis’ life has taken on an increasingly cyclical pattern of nothingness, alcohol, more nothingness, and more alcohol. God knows he’s got no need to work – it’d take him a few lifetimes or an addiction to illicit drugs to burn through the millions he earned, and continues to earn through royalties, from his time in One Direction. So it’s pretty hard to develop any sort of motivation at all. When you’ve got all the money you could ever need, and when you wake up in the morning and you can’t think of a single think you actually want to do with your day, why the fuck would you get off the couch?

If Louis had taken the time to really think about it, he might have wondered if he was verging on clinical depression. But really thinking was something Louis had given up on a while ago.

Eventually, he can’t stand the noise anymore, and heaves himself off the couch to stumble toward the kitchen bench. He gapes when he picks up his phone and sees the notifications – thirty-four missed calls and seventeen text messages. He notices most of the calls are from numbers he doesn’t know, and presumes they must be media. He scans the names on the texts before reading them, and stops in shock as he sees that one of the first is from Harry. He taps the message open.

I’m sorry if this affects you in any way. In any interviews I do, they’ll be told in advance you can’t be mentioned. I’ll leave you right out of it and deny anything I have to. Gonna lie low anyway.

Louis shakes his head, completely uncomprehending. “What the fuck is going on?” he asks aloud, as he exits Harry’s message and reads through a couple of others from the boys, and one from his mum. There’s still nothing that explains what has happened – they’re just checking in to see if he’s ok. Ok about what?? Exasperated, he opens up Twitter. He deleted his own account several months ago because he couldn’t stand the relentless questioning from fans, but he set up another account under an alias (almost entirely so he could monitor Harry, if he’s honest; follow his life from afar like the stranger he has become). He goes directly to Harry’s feed, and almost drops the phone in shock when he reads the top three tweets, all sent just over an hour ago.

@Harry_Styles Hello everyone. Time for a bit of an announcement. Hang on to your hats.

@Harry_Styles For a little while now, there’s been a bit of speculation about my sexuality. I would like to take this opportunity to confirm that I do identify as gay.

@Harry_Styles I hope this doesn’t change how any of you feel about me, and I’d like to thank all my friends and family for their incredible love and support.

As Louis is reading the tweets for the third time, still in utter shock, the feed refreshes and another tweet appears, immediately followed by a second.

@Harry_Styles And I’d like to thank you all for the huge amount of support on here over the last hour. You are all total legends. Much much love.

@Harry_Styles And no, since you’re all asking, I am not dating @grimmers – he is my best friend and flatmate but that is all! Though he is rather fit for a pensioner.

Louis grips his phone as though it is life support as he sinks slowly to the floor, staring at the screen. He frantically searches Harry’s mentions, and the top tweets are led by public messages of support from Harry’s nearest and dearest – Gemma, Anne, Robin, Niall, Lou, Nick (who first tweets him a congrats, and then tells him he’s changed the locks after the pensioner tweet), Cal, Ed, Johnny, James, Ben. From how quickly they responded, it’s clear they all knew exactly when this was coming. Louis scans the rest of the tweets for the next few minutes, and is amazed by how overwhelmingly supportive they are. There are the usual trolls, and a few horrified fans, but they’re few and far between. He shakes his head. Only Harry fucking Styles could come out and be this swamped with love.

His phone starts ringing again, and it’s Zayn this time. He swipes the screen to answer it before he can stop himself.

“Hello?” he says. He can tell he sounds completely out of it.

Zayn’s voice is soft at the other end. “You’ve seen?”

Louis nods before realising Zayn can’t see him. “Yep. I… just now. Was ignoring my phone, but… yep. Just now. It’s – yeah. I’ve seen.” He’s not making a lot of sense, he knows. For once, it’s not just the wine.

“It doesn’t mean everyone’s gonna know about you two, you know,” Zayn says quietly, after a pause. “I just got off the phone to him. He says his management will put your name on the black list for interview topics. It practically is now anyway.”

“Yeah, he – he texted me. He said that. But… but even if he won’t answer questions about it – everyone will know. It’ll be in all the articles, no fucking doubt about it.” Louis puts on a posh reporter accent. “There was always intense speculation about his extremely close relationship with his former bandmate, Louis Tomlinson. I can see it now. Followed by the million and one pictures that just will not fucking die on the internet, where we’re looking at each other like -” Louis’ voice breaks. “Like… that. You know. Like we’re in love.”

Zayn sighs. “I know. I said that to him. And he said if he’s really pushed, he might even say that he did have feelings for you back in the day, but he never acted on them because you were straight. He thinks that might be more believable than saying there was never anything there at all. He really doesn’t want to make this hard for you, Lou. He says he just couldn’t stand lying anymore. For himself, he had to do it.” There’s a brief pause. “I’m… I’m proud of him.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Want me to come over?” Zayn asks.

Lou nods, his voice shaking as he responds. “Yep. That – that would be good.”

***

February 2, 2015

The helium balloons have started their gradual drift toward the ground. Harry watches one bobbing near the heater vent from his almost horizontal position on the couch, mesmerised by its gentle movement. He’s definitely quite drunk. He was doing pretty well until the speeches and cake, but after most of his family had gone home, spirits were brought out and shots were had. Oh well. You only turn 21 once, he thinks to himself.

It’s just gone 4am, and almost all of the guests have finally drifted off. Liam made it to 2am before heading home, which is pretty good for Liam these days, but Zayn and Niall are still sprawled on the couch opposite him, sharing a bottle of peach schnapps that god knows who had gifted to Harry. Cal’s still here, but made it to the guest bedroom about half an hour ago, and even Nick crawled off to bed not long after 2am, despite Harry’s protests. “The world doesn’t stop because Harry Styles turns 21, you know, Harold!” Nick had retorted. “Tomorrow’s Monday, you realise? Some of us have to be up at bloody 5am!”

No one else is left, and Harry’s relieved. He had a great night – he really did – but it had also been an exhausting blur of people. He’d originally wanted a small party, but when he’d started to draw up the invitation list, starting with his main friends and family, he simply couldn’t help adding person after person. He’s been feeling particularly grateful for the people around him of late, as his treatment by the media and fans hasn’t all been roses and sunshine since his coming out a month earlier. The people who truly love him, on the other hand, have been unbelievably supportive, so he didn’t want to leave anyone important out. In the end, there were over 120 people squeezed into their apartment at the party’s peak, which was an impressive physical feat in itself. Harry had spent the night making sure he spoke to everyone at least once, which meant he’d ended up practically ignoring his closest friends. He’s glad to end the night with Zayn and Niall, two of those who have been around for the longest. He’s overcome with love for both of them all of a sudden.

He sits up slightly, props himself up on an elbow, looks over at them both. “You guys – you guys are the best. You know?”

Niall laughs, and Zayn smiles. “You’re drunk.”

Harry laughs. “So are you!”

Niall holds up the bottle of peach schnapps in a salute. “That we are.”

Harry smiles before resuming a serious expression. “You are though, you know that yeah? You boys – I don’t know what I’d do without you. And Liam. Even if he’s a piker.”

Zayn takes a swig from the schnapps and sits forward. “Mate, you’re pretty amazing yourself, you know. Didn’t you listen to our speech?”

Harry beams proudly. “Yeah. Did you really mean all that?”

Niall cackles. “You mean the “Harry’s Hideous Headgear Over The Years” slideshow part?”

“No!” Harry exclaims, laughing. “Though that was pretty hilarious. But I mean the serious stuff.”

Zayn nods, smiling softly. “We did, believe it or not.”

Harry returns the smile, and gets up off the couch, kicking Zayn’s and Niall’s feet lightly as he walks past them. “Good.” He wanders over to the wall above the fireplace, where an enormous photo board that Gemma put together has been on display all night. He scans the photos, a small smile on his lips as he takes them in. While there are a bunch of photos of Harry growing up, and with other family and friends, he finds his eyes drawn to the band photos first. Their very first photo together just after they were put through on the X Factor; a shot of them performing at Madison Square Garden; shots from the Brits, the VMAs, the Teen Choice Awards; a shot on stage at Wembley during the WWA tour; a few different photo shoots; candids at rehearsals. Then there are others of various groupings and pairings within the band – he and Liam backstage on the TMH tour, arms around each other at a radio interview; he and Niall playing golf, backstage with the Rolling Stones, Niall on Harry’s shoulders in a swimming pool; he and Zayn on top of the Empire State Building, mugging for the camera as they stuff cake in their mouths, and sitting on the couch with Liam across their laps in Harry’s flat.

He then comes to the reason he’s been avoiding the photo board all night – the shots of him with Louis. (“I can leave him out entirely, if you want? Even crop him out of the band pics?” Gemma had asked. “No,” Harry had replied. “Leave him in. It’s supposed to show my life, isn’t it? He was my life, for three years. He has to be there.”)

There are exactly four photos, and Harry’s eyes linger on each one far longer than necessary. The first is the two of them at the snow, on the trip they took with Stan in 2011, a close up of their smiling faces, their noses and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. The second he spots is from 2011 as well, in Italy in October, Louis’ arms around Harry as they sit on a motorbike. Someone had tweeted that one, he remembers; looking at it now, how anyone could have seen it and not believed they were together is beyond him. The third is from Louis’ 21st, taken in their hotel room just before they went down to join the party. A copy of that photo never left Harry’s pocket throughout the entire Haylor debacle; a physical reminder that all this was worth it if he could keep the one thing that mattered most to him in the world. The fourth is from Valentine’s Day 2012, a selfie Harry took of them in front of the Eiffel Tower, when they had half an hour’s worth of sightseeing in what was an insane day of press.

In each photo, they look blissfully happy, and ridiculously, stupidly in love.

Zayn and Niall both walk up behind Harry and put their arms around him as he stares at the final photo. The simple gesture brings tears to the corners of his eyes.

“Shit, sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head and wiping his eyes aggressively. “I’m fine, I’m totally fine. I’m over him, I am. It’s been more than a year, for god’s sake. I just… I just never thought that I’d have my 21st without him. Without hearing from him, even.” He inhales and exhales deeply. “Never thought I’d have any birthdays without him, to be honest.”

He pauses, looking from Niall to Zayn. “He really is completely done with me, isn’t he?”

Zayn sighs and says nothing, remembering the conversation he’d had with Louis that morning. He’d tried – in vain – to get him to consider contacting Harry for his birthday; Lou was having none of it. He’s not a friend, Zayn. He’s an ex. That’s all. It’s in the past.

“You’ll have to see each other at the Brits in a couple weeks,” Niall chips in quietly, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder and passing him the schnapps bottle. “Maybe you’ll have a chat then.”

Harry snorts as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. “Yeah, like we talked so much on the last tour?” he asks bitterly, taking a large gulp.

Niall and Zayn glance at each other, helpless expressions on their faces.

Harry sighs, running his fingers through his hair, before throwing his arms around both boys again, sloshing a significant quantity of schnapps onto the carpet in the process. “You gotta find me a boy sometime soon, lads. And not one of those stupid models Nick keeps trying to set me up with. Someone decent.” He takes another large swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth. “It’s about time I found someone else to fall in love with.”

***

June 18, 2015

It is four months to the day since Louis last saw Harry, at the Brits in February. Even though One Direction had been on hiatus for over six months by that point, they had been nominated for a host of awards from their last album, and there was no way he could avoid going. It’s not a night that Louis wants to remember, or that he is in truth able to remember with much clarity, given that he’d had four shots of vodka before even arriving. He’d thankfully been spared making a total fool of himself by Liam physically dragging him out of the ceremony as soon as it ended, but the pictures the next day had still not been good. One Direction’s Louis Tomlinson legless at the Brits, as he snubs Harry Styles: Nursing a broken heart?, the Mail had run with, suggesting Harry’s recent announcement might have had something to do with it. As Louis had predicted, the media had been relentless in their speculation about Harry and Louis’ history since Harry had come out, and rumours of their feud have only intensified, now that it could plausibly be painted as a messy break up rather than just a falling out between mates. In the papers, Louis’ behaviour at the Brits practically turned the whole affair into indisputable fact.

Louis hid in his apartment for a week, then called his mother, texted Zayn and Stan, and got on a plane to Italy.

Right now, he’s sitting on a stool nursing a glass of vodka and lemon at his favourite bar in Siena, the small Tuscan city that has been his home for the last three and a half months. This place is dark and small, perfect for someone in hiding, which is essentially what he is. He prides himself on how utterly incognito he has managed to become. He has grown a shaggy beard, his unkempt hair falls almost to his shoulders, and he is a deep shade of brown from the hours he spends in the sun, labouring at a farm just out of town. He long ago abandoned any attempt at vanity, and wears loose fitting clothing which hides his still fit frame. He keeps his distinctive tattoos covered whenever he is in town, on the off chance that some long suffering fan might break his cover. So far, so good.

No one recognises him, and if he’s honest, he barely recognises himself. Louis Tomlinson of One Direction seems like a distant dream to him now, a bizarre character belonging to a ludicrous alternate reality. He has put so much distance between that life and his current existence – both literally and metaphorically – that he often struggles to believe that any of it ever happened. That he was once a member of the biggest boyband in the world, with an annual salary in the millions. That he was on covers of magazines, and plastered all over the internet. That he performed in packed out stadiums all over the globe, had eleven million followers on Twitter, and was swarmed by insatiable fans everywhere he went.

And perhaps the hardest notion to fathom of all: that Harry Styles, his bandmate and best friend, was in love with him for three years.

And maybe it was never true, Louis thinks, on his worst days, when he is still utterly broken, when his bitterness is all he can see. He’s having fewer of those lately, fewer days where it takes every ounce of willpower he has just to get out of bed. The work is good – hard, back breaking stuff, so exhausting he barely has the energy to think. He takes on any extra shift he can, even though he knows his bank account is still in the millions. He needs to be busy. He’s never going to be the tallest or biggest worker, but he’s strong, and he’s good at his job. He likes that. He needs that.

It’s the evenings that are hardest, when the sun starts to go down, the workers go home, and Louis no longer has the purpose that the day’s work affords him. Most nights, he gets the bus into town, sits in the Piazza del Campo reading alone or talking to someone back home on his phone as the light fades – often Zayn, sometimes his Mum, sometimes Stan, Liam or Niall – and then heads to the same bar. Occasionally people try to talk to him, but he brushes them off fairly easily. He’s picked up quite a bit of Italian by now, but he pretends that he hasn’t. He is desperately alone, but some days he thinks he’s finding a certain strength in his solitude as well. Some days he thinks he’ll be okay again, one day. Even find someone. Start again.

But as he thinks back to the sight of Harry smiling for the cameras on the red carpet, four months ago today, this is not one of those good days. He drains his vodka as the barman approaches. “Un’altra vodka?” he asks. Louis nods, as he always does, and the man pours him another.

***

September 14, 2015

“Welcome back,” Alan Carr says warmly to camera. “We’ve got Mumford and Sons performing for you a bit later, but first up, we’ve got quite a treat. He’s the former boyband heartthrob who destroyed the hopes and dreams of thousands of young women when he came out as gay earlier this year. He’s a looker, he’s a bloody talented musician, and he’s a good friend of mine. It's Harry Styles!"

The applause is raucous as Harry descends the stairs, greeting Alan with a big bear hug at the bottom. Alan squeals and fans himself as he breaks away, beaming at the audience. "Ooh, he's a bit of alright, isn't he?" he exclaims, the audience whooping and clapping in response. Harry laughs, taking his seat on the sofa, as Alan settles into his armchair.

"Alright, first things first, Harry," Alan begins, as he lifts the lid on his drinks cabinet. "What are you having to drink? I should have something to your taste, I would think… I've got Cosmopolitan mix – Pina Colada – something else pink and frothy – "

Harry groans and laughs, shaking his head, as the audience eats it up. "I'll just have a beer, thanks mate."

Alan laughs and grabs two beers, handing one over to Harry. They clink their bottles together and Alan settles in, crosses his legs. He turns slightly away from camera and gives Harry a hidden wink. They’ve planned this interview to within an inch of its life, but Alan knows Harry’s still nervous. You’ll be fine, the wink seems to say.

"Well," Alan begins. "Can I just say, and I mean this in the most inappropriate way possible, you are looking absolutely faboosh." The audience cheers. "I’m quite sure that sound you can hear is thousands of teenage girls' hearts breaking all over the bloody globe, yet again."

Harry chuckles, taking a swig of his beer. "Nah, no way. They've moved on, I reckon."

Alan raises his eyebrows. "I very much doubt that, Harry.” He grins broadly. “Now – we'll get on to your career and all that boring stuff in a minute, I promise – but we've got to have a bit of a chat about your love life for a minute, if you don't mind. I'm at risk of spontaneously combusting if I don't get to ask you a few juicy questions."

Harry throws up his hands in mock defeat. "I'm all yours."

Alan squeals again, placing his hand against his heart. "Music to my ears!" As the audience laughs, he recrosses his legs and assumes a more serious expression. "No, really. We're gonna do this properly. Now - we haven't seen a lot of you since you came out so bloody spectacularly in January. Have you been avoiding the press?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, you could say that I guess. It was a pretty big decision, and I just wanted to lie low for a bit."

"Fair enough, fair enough,” Alan replies. “But we're all dying to know more about it, even though it's yonks ago. Can you tell us what made you do it?"

Harry pauses, taking another sip from his beer. "I'd been thinking about it for a while. I never wanted to do anything that was gonna hurt the band, and I was worried that people would turn against me, you know. So I waited until we were on a break, after the stadium tour was over."

"And then you just – what, got up one day and decided to send a tweet that stopped the globe?"

Harry laughs. "Pretty much. I didn't want to do some press conference or interview or whatever. I kind of just wanted to be sat on my couch with my family, and send a few tweets. Get it over with quickly."

Alan scoffs, shaking his head. "This young generation, honestly. Can't even get off their arses when they're coming out to the nation." The audience cracks up.
"I know, pathetic, hey?" Harry grins.

Alan takes a sip from his beer, and fixes Harry with a stare. "Now. I want to talk a bit about your image. One of the things that's got my knickers in a knot the most since you came out, is a bunch of folk in the media bleating on about how your image was all fake, that it was concocted to sell records and send all the fangirls mental.” He sits forward, his tone genuinely serious for a moment. “But I reckon – I reckon it's the bloody papers and the internet and the telly and whatever else that made you into Harry Styles, Serial Womaniser, Casanova Extraordinaire, not you. I never saw you do a single bloody thing that suggested any of that crap was true."

The audience bursts into a spontaneous cheer at that, and Harry looks out at the sea of faces with intense gratitude, a smile from ear to ear. He turns back to Alan, eyes shining. "Thanks for saying that, mate. I really appreciate it.”

“It must have been tough, then?” Alan asks. “Having to put up with all those lies being written about you all the time, and not being able to do a ruddy thing about it?”

Harry nods, eyes downcast for a moment. “It was tough, yeah. I don't want to complain, because I've been so unbelievably lucky to have had the success I've had... but the media thing... it was always hard.” He pauses, shakes his head. “It was like they jumped on this totally fictional idea of me, really early on, and then just ran with it for the next three years, without a shred of actual evidence. Every time I was anywhere near a girl, according to the papers, I was suddenly sleeping with her, and probably half her friends. I kind of had to step back from it a lot, and just laugh at it. It was the only way to avoid going completely mad."

Alan nods. "I seem to remember one mag trying to say you'd had 412 girls in a year, at one point?"

Harry lets out a hoot of laughter at that one. "That was actually one of my favourites, because it was so ridiculously absurd. More than one new girl every day? Really? Come on!"

Alan winks at him conspiratorially. "And we're sure it wasn't 412 lads in a year?"

"No!" Harry laughs. "It most definitely was not, no."

"So... I have to ask, you know I do. Can you tell us any lucky lads that might have had a taste of some of Harry Styles' gravy?"

Harry buries his head in his hands as the audience cracks up. "Oh god," he says as he sits up again, blushing a bright shade of crimson, despite having been prepared. "No, you know what, I think I'd rather not."

Alan pouts. "Awww, come on! How about - how about I throw names at you, and you just have to say yes or no. How's that?"

"I am absolutely not playing this game," Harry says, his voice slightly strained as he banters. Harry knows exactly what's coming, but he's tense all the same. Lying has never been his forte.

"Oh come on, be a good sport,” Alan says, in a tone that makes it clear he’ll brook no further argument. “Alright, I'm just going to start, and we'll see how we go. Right! Number one. The obvious. Nick Grimshaw."

Harry grins. "No."

Alan gasps. "Not even a drunken snog?"

They didn't actually plan this answer, but Harry decides he's got nothing to lose. May as well be at least partly honest; he knows Nick won't care. "Hmm," he smirks. "There may have been one or two drunken snogs."

Alan claps in delight as the audience squeals and claps. "I knew it!! That's an exclusive, ladies and gentlemen!"

"But that's it!" Harry exclaims. "He's honestly just my best mate."

"Alright, alright." Alan rolls his eyes at the audience. "Next person on my list then. Jaymi Hensley. Union J's dreamboat."

Harry shakes his head. "Nope."

"He's quite fit though, don't you think?” Alan asks, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. “And single, last I checked?"

Harry grins. "He is quite fit, correct. I don't actually know him, to be honest! We've met a few times, that's it."

"Well, we could do something about that. I'll make a note. Alright, next person – Louis Tomlinson."

Harry smiles, tensing his stomach, but otherwise – he's pretty sure – outwardly maintaining his calm. "Nope," he says, as lightly as he can manage.

"Really?" Alan says, sounding shocked. He and Harry had decided that Louis had to be mentioned, and even that Alan had to push it a bit, or no one would buy the authenticity of the interview at all. While the majority of the media speculation regarding Harry's current love life continues to revolve around Nick (apparently if two gay men live together, there's no possible way that they're not sexually involved), articles probing into his history with Louis continue to pop up, more or less considering the case closed. Louis having disappeared off the face of the Earth hasn't exactly helped the situation, either. If they didn't address it now, Harry and Alan decided, people would ask more questions than if they did.

"Really," Harry confirms, twisting the beer bottle in his hands.

"You two were always incredibly close - you didn't even have a crush?" This is the safe path Harry had decided on long ago, so the answer comes relatively easily.

"Well, I wouldn't say I didn't have a crush." He locks eyes with Alan, and thanks the gods again that he decided to do this interview with someone who is on his side, and who’s always known the truth. "I mean, have you seen him?" he asks, deliberately baiting the audience.

Alan hoots with laughter. "I have indeed, Harry, I have indeed. He is quite delicious." He pretends to consult his notes. "Well, that brings me to the end of my list of Harry Styles' potential love interests. You'll have to keep us up to date, now you've emerged from out of under your rock."

"Promise." Harry crosses his heart solemnly.

Alan grins. "Now, let's talk about your music. You're actually a bit of a singer, I've heard on the grapevine? And you're getting back into it?"

Relieved, Harry settles back into the couch, the tough part over. He exhales deeply. "I am, yeah," he replies, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Doing some solo stuff, putting out a single before the end of the year hopefully. It's pretty exciting..."

***

December 13, 2015

There are less than two weeks to go before Christmas, and Siena is more beautiful than Louis has ever seen it. Garlands of bright lights zig zag along the narrow cobblestone streets; an enormous Christmas tree fills the Piazza Salimbeni, and the buildings ringing the circular Piazza del Campo are all strung with lights as well. Louis can't help smiling when he walks around the town, watching the kids press their noses against the colourful shop windows filled with panettone and gift wrapped presents, skip around in their warm winter clothes, ask their parents how long they have to wait until Babbo Natale comes. It reminds him of home.

Right now, he's sitting in one of his favourite restaurants in town, tucking into a steaming bowl of ribollita. Opposite him sits Luca, laughing across at him as he accidentally splashes a large drop of soup down his shirt. Louis flicks some back at him in revenge, grinning.

They haven’t given whatever they’re doing a name yet, but Louis supposes that by now, Luca is more or less his boyfriend. It just feels odd to say that word; he actually prefers the Italian word ragazzo, because it seems to carry less gravity. But they've been seeing each other for just under two months now, exclusively, so he's pretty sure that's what Luca is. He's 26, a masters student at the University of Siena, and lives in an apartment in the centre of town with two friends. Louis has taken to staying there three or four nights a week, whenever he doesn't have an early shift at the farm. He and Louis met one night at a bar, when Louis glanced up to see one of the best looking young men he'd ever seen watching him from a couple of metres away. With a sudden rush of blood to the head, Louis had smiled over at him, and that was that.

They'd talked for two hours that night – Luca's English is excellent, though Louis' Italian is not too shabby these days – and Louis had felt as though some key was being turned, as though he was truly relaxing for the first time in almost two years. Only forty minutes into the conversation, he'd decided to tell him who he was. He even told him a bit about Harry, making Luca the first new person he'd confided in since it ended. He's wondered ever since what it was that made him sure he could trust this dark eyed boy, but he somehow knew that he could. Almost two months later, he hasn't regretted it for a moment. Luca has kept his secret – even, impressively, from his younger sister, who was apparently a pretty big One Direction fan back in the day. Thankfully she still lives with their parents in Verona, so Louis hasn't met her yet. Oh well; he'll deal with that if it comes to it. He can't stay hidden forever.

Slowly, Louis' heart has begun to mend. He's not in love, he's pretty sure - not yet - but when he wakes up in the morning in Luca's strong, tanned arms, he feels like he could be, one day. And that's enough, for now.

He finishes the last morsel of soup and sits back, rubbing his stomach appreciatively. "Buonissimo," he says, smiling. Luca laughs. "I think that's one of my favourite Italian words you say. You say it with such passion. BuonISSimo. When I hear it, I want to cook you delicious food all day, just so I can hear it another fifty times."

Louis laughs. "Now this is a plan I could get on board with!"

"But then of course," Luca frowns, "you'd get fat, and I'm extremely shallow, so I'd have to leave you. So it's in your interests that I am useless in the kitchen."

Louis pretends to glower back at him. "Oh, right, you only want me for my incredible body, I forgot. I do have a brain, you know!"

Luca rolls his eyes. "Sure, sure." He intertwines his feet with Louis' under the table, and smiles. "You're just too good looking. I forget."

Louis is smiling back and is about to open his mouth to suggest dessert, when he suddenly becomes aware of the music playing in the background. It's some generic station, top 40 - he's been barely paying it any attention all night. But now there's an instrumental introduction to a song playing that stops him in his tracks.

It couldn't be, surely?

Luca frowns, noticing Louis' sudden freeze. "Che c'e'?"

Louis is about to reply, when the vocals begin. Now you were standing there, right in front of me.

Holy fuck, it is.

I hold on, it's getting harder to breathe.

"Lou, what is it?" Luca is sounding concerned by now, but for the moment Louis is still unable to respond. He stares at the speaker against the wall; he can't comprehend how this can be happening.

All of a sudden, these lights are blinding me.

Louis finds his voice. "Can you – can you hear that song?" He is genuinely wondering if he is the only one who can hear it; if he's finally lost his mind.

I never noticed how bright they would be.

Luca pauses, listening. "Yeah, but I don't know it. What is it?"

I saw in the corner, there is a photograph.

"It's... it's old."

No doubt in my mind it's a picture of you.

"I mean – it was never released."

It lies there alone in its bed of broken glass.

"What do you mean?"

This bed was never made for two.

"It's – it's Harry. Solo."

I'll keep my eyes wide open...

"Your Harry?"

I'll keep my arms wide open...

"Yeah," Louis answers, still staring at the speaker, unblinking. Don't let me go. "I mean – he's not mine," he says, in a daze. Don't let me go. "You know what I mean. Harry Styles." Don't let me go. "Yes."

‘Cause I'm tired of feeling alone.

Louis listens intently to the song in a state of disbelief, barely registering when Luca extracts his feet from their tangle under the table. He's come thousands of miles away, literally hidden himself in a distant Tuscan town, and somehow Harry's voice is drifting out of the speakers in his local restaurant. It feels like an invasion, a violent slap in the face; the cruellest possible reminder of the past he’s tried so fucking hard to leave behind. Of course, he hasn’t been able to avoid hearing the occasional One Direction song, but this – this is something else entirely. This is Harry, solo. This is Harry singing the song that he wrote for him.

Luca coughs quietly after a few moments. "This song, does it mean something? Other than it being Harry, I mean. Is there – c'è una storia?"

"Yeah, there's – there's a story," Louis replies, still a million miles away as the song reaches its bridge. "Kind of. Harry... he wrote it for me. A mate of his wrote the music. But he wrote all the words. We were going through a rough patch and he..." he trails off, tears springing to his eyes as he remembers the morning Harry walked into the bedroom with his iPod deck, curled up next to him on the bed, and pressed play. He remembers breaking down, sobbing, clinging to Harry and promising. I never will, Haz. I never will. "He was scared I was going to leave him," he whispers.

Louis turns slowly toward Luca, whose eyes are pained, but also sympathetic. God, he's a good person, thinks Louis. "I'm sorry," he says, blinking away the tears, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. "It was just a bit of a shock, that's all. I don't – I don't talk to anyone back home about Harry. I had no idea he was going solo. And I never thought I'd hear that song again." He takes Luca’s hand, squeezes it tightly. "I'm just being an idiot,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don't worry. Non ti preoccupare."

That night, as Louis makes love to Luca in his old wooden bed, he stares at the compass inked on his bicep as Harry's voice plays over and over in his mind.

***

February 17, 2016

Harry’s hanging out with Gemma as a belated birthday celebration – she was overseas for the actual day, and Harry whinged about it so much she promised she’d take him out the very night she got back. Right now, they’re both stuffed to the brim with Mexican food and margaritas, smiling at each other in satisfaction. Harry’s been incredibly busy the last two months – not One Direction level busy, but not far off. His first single as a solo artist dropped three weeks before Christmas, and he just narrowly missed out on the Christmas No. 1, coming in second to Taylor Swift’s latest smash (the hilarity of which is not lost on Harry). But he managed to hit no. 1 just before New Year’s Eve, and the single has dominated the charts since. He’s been on every chat show, radio program and magazine front cover in the UK at some point in the last two months, it seems, and after over a year’s hiatus he’s found he has actually really enjoyed returning to work. The celebrity thing he could take or leave, but it’s a brilliant thing performing again, doing something he believes in again. And he’s writing furiously, two thirds of a solo album complete already, three songs written with Ed, others with various songwriting mates, a couple alone. It’s an exciting time for him – terrifying, but thrilling. He knows this is all he ever wants to do.

Just as Gemma downs the remains of her third margarita, the opening bars of Harry’s single start to play on the restaurant’s stereo system. Harry glances over at the owner, who winks at him as the waitress next to him stares unabashedly in Harry’s direction. He’s been out for almost a year now, but the adoring fangirls don’t seem to have let that stop their fantasies.

The vocals kick in. Now you are standing there, right in front of me.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the fact that she’s barely seen Harry since the song took off, but Gemma decides to ask the question that’s been on her mind. “Doesn’t it hurt, Haz?” she asks quietly. “Performing this song all the bloody time? Hearing it everywhere you go? When you wrote it for him?”

Harry takes a large gulp of his drink before answering. He knows he can’t lie to Gem – it’s impossible. She’s practically got a third eye when it comes to him.

He looks her in the eye. “Yeah. Course it does.” He sighs, twirling his glass so that the coloured drink threatens to spill over the edges. But I – I love the song. Sam loves it. We wanted to release it. It felt right.”

Gemma nods as the chorus swells, her brow creased. Harry wonders where this is going. It’s been a long time since Gemma has asked him about Louis. He always tells her he’s doing well these days, which is true, more or less. He’s working again, he loves living with Nick – even if he’s not a massive fan of his latest boyfriend – and he’s no longer got anything to hide. He feels incredibly lucky to be where he is right now. He’s still single, but he’s been dating again. None have really gone anywhere yet – the most significant was one boy who he dated for a couple of months before it fizzled out amicably – but he’s not giving up. He’ll find someone that makes him feel like Louis did, one day. He has to, surely.

Harry’s train of thought is interrupted when he realises that his phone is buzzing next to him on the seat. He just misses the call, and then sees that Niall has called twice, and Liam three times. “Sorry Gem,” he says to his sister, grimacing. “My phone was on silent – I’ve got a bunch of missed calls from the lads. Do you mind if I quickly call back? They’re probably just pissed but…” He stops talking as a text comes through from Liam, saying simply Emergency. Call me. “Fuck,” he says under his breath, glancing up at his sister, and immediately makes the call.

Liam’s voice is shaking when he answers. “Harry. Where are you?”

“I’m – I’m out with Gem. What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Zayn,” Liam blurts out. “He’s been in a car accident. It’s really fucking bad, Harry.”

Harry feels the room give a slight spin, and grips the table for support. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Liam is crying now as he responds. “It happened a minute from my place. He was on his way round. I was talking to him on speaker phone, and then I – I heard this massive fucking smash.” He barely draws breath as he continues, the words spilling out rapid fire. “I literally ran out of my house and down the street, found the car on Baker St when I followed the sound of the sirens. It was completely fucking destroyed, and Zayn was still in there. This drunk fuck had cleaned him up completely as he came round the corner. The ambulance got there just as I did. He just… they’ve taken him to hospital. I’m driving there now, Niall’s on his way. Perrie is too, I called her too. He was unconscious Harry, bleeding everywhere. There was so much fucking blood.”

As Liam speaks, Harry snaps out of his initial shock and throws money on to the table, mouthing Zayn – car accident to Gemma. By the time Liam has taken a breath, Harry is running down the street toward his car. “Li, which hospital? Where?”

“The Royal London.”

Harry wrenches open his car door and jumps in, Gemma close behind as she leaps into the passenger seat and slams the door. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there quick as I can. Ten minutes, max.”

Before he can hang up, Liam barks, “Wait, have you been drinking, Harry? Don’t get in the car if you shouldn’t.”

“Only two drinks, Li. I’ll be fine.”

“Well just fucking get here in one piece,” Liam replies, his voice cracking again.

Harry nods grimly as he hangs up and starts the engine, grips the steering wheel. Dear God, he thinks, though it’s a long time since he’s prayed. Please, please let him be ok.

***

February 18, 2016

Louis is shaking as he sits in the back of the taxi, as it crawls through the peak hour London traffic on its way to the Royal London Hospital. He can't believe how long the trip is taking. Several times he has had to physically bite down on his bottom lip to avoid screaming at the driver, when he's stopped at an orange light Louis would have run, or paused to let someone into the lane. Louis just needs to get to the hospital, an hour ago, five hours ago. Last night, when Zayn was first taken there. Or he should have been there when it happened. Maybe he could have stopped it.

Niall had called him last night, just before midnight Siena time. It was a quick call; there wasn't a lot to be said. It's bad. He's got a serious head wound, multiple fractures, internal bleeding. He went straight into surgery. We don't know when he'll be out. He might not make it.

Come home.

Louis had been asleep in bed with Luca when the call came, and he started to shrug on clothes and throw some of his belongings together almost as soon as Niall uttered the first sentence. He called a taxi, and took it all the way to the Florence airport. In his panicked state he couldn't think of a quicker option – neither he nor Luca had a car – and it wasn't like the ridiculous expense was an issue. At Florence, he was able to jump a plane to Milan leaving in just over an hour, but he wasn't so fortunate at Milan, having to wait over four hours before the next flight left for London. Niall had called him again just before he'd boarded, to let him know Zayn was out of surgery, but they had no idea how he was yet. He said he'd call as soon as he knew. Three hours flying time later, and after a literal run through Heathrow (he hadn't bothered to check baggage), he’s finally now only a few minutes from the hospital.

Until he was halfway to Milan, the only thought repeating ad nauseum in his mind was might not make it might not make it might not make it, without any particular power attached to the words. He thinks dully now that he was probably in shock. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and blissfully mind numbing shock is no different. As reality kicked in, tears had started to fall silently down his face as he gazed out of the aeroplane window.

The tears have stopped again now, but he cannot stop the shaking. Even all these miles away, Zayn has remained Louis’ number one source of support. They have some form of contact almost every day, and talk on the phone at length every few days. He’s Louis’ rock, as clichéd as it sounds; the one person who has seen Louis at his absolute worst and still, somehow, loves him like a brother. As he watches London go past, Louis can’t stop picturing him, lying alone in a hospital bed. In his mind, he’s bruised, cut up, tubes coming out of him, bandages tight on his limbs. But even in his worst imaginings, Zayn is still breathing. He’s still alive. He simply has to be.

If Louis is honest with himself, however, he has to acknowledge that the fear coursing through his veins is not just about Zayn. As the shock had worn off, a second realisation had come to him, when he’d considered the fact that he was returning to the UK for the first time in a year. With a sudden gasp, which would have been almost ludicrously comical in different circumstances, he'd realised Harry would certainly be at the hospital.

As his taxi finally pulls up outside the hospital’s front entrance, Louis is ashamed to admit that he’s unsure what is terrifying him more.

He pays the driver, grabs his shoulder bag roughly, and runs the few metres toward the entrance. Niall had texted him just after he’d landed to tell him they were in the waiting area on the third level, so he sprints directly to the lift and stabs savagely at the button, cursing under his breath when it takes almost a minute to arrive. A few seconds later, he is stepping out of the lift on the third floor, and before he even has time to get his bearings he hears Niall's voice. He turns toward the sound, and there they all are.

Niall is standing, talking to Zayn's mum and sister. He can't quite catch what they're saying, but his accent is unmistakable. To his right, Perrie sits with her mum on one side and Jade on the other, her head in her hands as her mum rubs her back. Opposite them, Liam is pacing back and forth, his eyes on the ground, and behind him Louis sees Gemma sitting forward in a chair. Sitting next to Gemma, coming into view as Liam turns and paces back to the right, is Harry. He is leaning back, his head against the wall, eyes to the ceiling, motionless.

Louis feels the impact like a physical blow.

There is a split second where he almost turns and runs away; where he thinks, sorry, I can’t actually do this, this is impossible. But before he can move, Niall glances to the side and sees him. "Lou," he says heavily, stepping forward, and as everyone else turns Louis forces his feet to walk toward them. He collapses into Niall's arms, and the sudden warmth brings it all home in an instant. He might not make it. Louis bursts into tears as Niall squeezes him tight.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Lou says, choking back his tears as he pulls away. "I just – fuck. How is he?"

Niall's eyes are red and swollen, his voice croaky as he responds. "He's in intensive care. The doctor came to talk to us a couple hours ago. I knew you'd be in the air by then, so I didn't want to bother you again until you got here. They said the surgery went pretty well, but he's still in a critical condition."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Louis demands, as Liam steps over and puts his strong arm around his shoulders. "Is he going to be alright?"

Niall shrugs his shoulders helplessly. "They don't know, Lou,” he says quietly. “He says it could go either way."

The tears continue to run down Louis' face as he turns to Liam, who envelops him in a tight hug. He wipes them away as he stands back, turns toward the others, while deliberately avoiding eye contact with Harry or Gemma. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know you've all been here for hours. I just..." he trails off. "I can't believe it."

Perrie walks over to him now, wraps her arms around him and starts to cry quietly against his shoulder. "None of us can believe it, Lou," she whispers.

Lou holds her tightly for a few moments, then turns to embrace Jade, followed by Zayn’s mother and his sister, and Perrie’s mum, apologising to them all again. For what, he’s not even sure now. As he steps backwards after the last embrace, he sees that Gemma and Harry have stood up. Gemma glances sideways at Harry, looking unsure for a moment, but then steps toward Louis with her arms outstretched.

He returns the hug gratefully, and then steps back, locking eyes with Harry for the first time in almost a year.

Harry is impossibly tall – could he have somehow grown even more, in the last year? – and heavier around the shoulders than Louis remembers him. While Louis has lost part of his summer tan, Harry is as pale as Louis has ever seen him, the effects of the London winter evident on his white skin. He has dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his unkempt hair falls messily into his eyes before he sweeps it to the side in a gesture that Louis knows so well his stomach leaps. He is gazing at the bearded, long haired Louis almost like he is seeing him for the first time, drinking in the details slowly. To Louis, he is utterly, devastatingly beautiful.

They both step take a small, awkward step forward at the same time.

“Hey,” Louis says quietly, his voice betraying him with its slight shake.

Harry says nothing as he steps forward to close the gap between them, and wraps his arms around Louis. There is nothing tentative in the movement – the embrace is as strong and as desperate as a hug has ever been between them. Louis melts into it, his arms wrapping around Harry’s back, his face burying into his neck, nose brushing his curls. He breathes in Harry’s familiar scent, and can feel Harry doing the same. The smell is intoxicating, the feel of his arms around him overwhelming, a catalyst for a rush of memories which instantly flood through his brain. He almost sags under the weight of what he has lost.

They grip each other for several moments longer than necessary, before breaking apart. Harry has fresh tears in his eyes as he steps backward.

Louis speaks softly, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t live without Zayn, Haz.” He uses the old nickname without even registering. “I can’t.”

Harry nods, pain in his eyes. “He’s gonna be ok, Lou,” he replies gently. “He has to be.”

***

March 23, 2016

Perrie hovers awkwardly near the front door, her keys bouncing in her hand. "I'm sorry to rush out – I didn't know you'd both be coming..." she trails off. What she means to say is that she doesn't know how they’ll cope alone together in her absence. She'd been just about to leave for a rehearsal, having scheduled Louis to take the next "shift", when Harry had turned up at the doorstep. They had been carefully avoiding this scenario for the last week, since Zayn had been let out of hospital, but it was bound to happen eventually.

Harry smiles at her sympathetically. "Pez, it's not your fault I stuffed up the schedule. I'll just stay for a bit now, then take off. You get going."

She nods and smiles somewhat warily at them both. "Ok – thanks. I'd be surprised if he wakes up at all in the next couple of hours. He's just taken the oxycontin, he'll be out for a while." She pulls the door open and glances back. "See you in a bit."

Harry watches the door swing shut and then turns slowly toward Louis, who is leaning against the sideboard in a failed attempt at nonchalance. His fingers drumming incessantly against the cupboard below give away his nerves, and Harry's glad he's not the only one struggling with this situation.

"Should we – have you checked on him?" Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head. "No, literally got here thirty seconds before you did."

"Right," says Harry. "I'll just duck my head in." He steps out of the living room and down the hall, gently pushing Zayn's door open.

As Perrie predicted, Zayn is in a deep sleep, absolutely still apart from the slightest rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Harry is still affected by the sight of his tiny body, despite having seen him almost every day since the accident. He was kept in intensive care for over two weeks, and was in hospital for a month altogether, despite regaining consciousness six days after the initial surgery. Miraculously, the doctors say that he appears to have suffered no long term brain damage, but his body is a long way from healed. His left leg is still in plaster, and his torso is still bandaged, his fractured ribs still healing. His severe whiplash means that he still wears a neck brace whenever he sits up, and his already skinny frame is verging on skeletal. Most of the bruises have faded, but the jagged scar on his forehead is likely to be permanent. Harry has taken to calling him Potter, which Zayn tolerates, probably due to the enormous number of painkillers he's still on daily. Harry doubts he'll get away with it once the dose drops off.

Harry steps toward the bed and sits down on the chair next to it. "Hey mate. Good to see you."

He's become accustomed to these one sided conversations in recent weeks – at least half the time, Zayn is asleep.

"So I fucked up the timetable, and now Louis and I are here alone with you. And you're out to it, so I'm gonna say this is basically the first time he and I have been alone together in... " He counts back. "Must be two and a half years. Pretty crazy, huh?" he gives a small laugh, watching Zayn's eyelids as they flicker slightly. He must be dreaming. "It's a little bit awkwaaaaaaard." He draws the last word out as an attempt at humour, his right foot nervously bouncing up and down on the carpet. "I dunno whether to go talk to him or..."

He stops talking as he hears footsteps behind him, and turns as Louis enters the room. "Oh," Louis says, coming to an abrupt halt. "I thought – thought I heard you talking. Thought Zayn must have been awake."

Harry gives a small smile. "Nah. I just talk to him, even when he's asleep. Bit one sided."

Louis nods, not returning the smile. Fuck, Harry thinks. I've got to get out of here. "So I – " he starts, just as Louis blurts out "Want some tea?"

Harry does his best to hide his surprise. "Um, yeah, sure. Tea is good. Sure." God, he's babbling like an idiot. Louis steps out of the room and heads to the kitchen, Harry following behind.

As Louis flicks on the kettle and grabs the teabags, Harry gets two mugs out of the cupboard and places them on the bench, then turns to get the milk out of the fridge. It's the most trivial of domestic dances, but it’s a ritual they did a couple of hundred times in that long distant life, and it’s still shatteringly familiar. It does nothing to calm Harry's nerves, so he decides one of them had better start talking.

"So. Italy," he begins. Promising start. "How's – how's Italy?" Oh for crying out loud, he thinks. Is that really the best you can do?

Louis seems willing enough to run with the pathetic attempt, much to Harry's gratitude. "Italy's good," he replies. "I'm in Siena, a town in Tuscany. It's beautiful. I'm working at a farm – was working heaps in the summer, but there's been less work since winter rolled in. Just picking up again now. But it's good. I love it, actually."

Harry smiles, nods encouragingly. "That's great."

"Yeah." The kettle boils, and Louis pours the water into both their mugs, handing one to Harry. "It's a world away. That's the best thing, I think. I had to get away.” Harry hears the unspoken from you, and Louis seems to sense it. “Just the fans and everything, you know,” he says quickly. “I haven't been recognised once in a year."

Harry laughs a little at that. "I barely recognised you myself."

Louis gives him a smile in return. "Yeah, I'm not exactly 1D material these days." He pours the milk into his tea, stirs a spoonful of sugar in.

“So does anyone even know who you actually are?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head. “No one knows, apart from…” he trails off, uncertain. Decides to say it. “Apart from my boyfriend.”

Harry’s shoulders seize and his stomach clenches, and it’s all he can do not to audibly gasp. He bites his lip and does his best to mute his reaction, but he can tell that he does an appalling job when Louis glances away, seemingly to spare his embarrassment. Fuck. Why didn’t someone warn me? he thinks angrily. They must all know.

Louis glances back, his cheeks flushed. "And how are you?” he asks hurriedly. “Doing pretty amazingly, from what I've seen."

Harry forces himself to answer lightly, bring his mind back to the conversation. "Yeah,” he replies, attempting to draw his lips into a smile. “It's been great, actually.” At least that much is true. “Loved the year off, but it's great to be back into it, and for people to actually be liking it."

Louis looks down at his tea, swirling the spoon long after the sugar must have dissolved. "Well," he says, the shadow of a small frown creasing his brow. "It's a pretty fantastic song."

"Yeah. Well." Harry pauses, unsure whether to continue or not. Fuck it, he thinks. "Guess I owe part of it to you."

He regrets it as soon as he says it. Louis looks up, and their eyes meet for a beat, two. Harry doesn't know what he can read there, but it's not good. Pain, certainly. Anger, to a degree. Resignation? Disappointment? A mix of all of the above, perhaps.

Louis suddenly places his half drunk tea on the counter, and checks his pocket for his keys. "Ok, I'm gonna – I'm gonna go. Are you right to stay here?"

Harry nods, looking down at this hands, his I can’t change tattoo staring back at him. "Sure, no worries. I've got nothing on til tonight."

"Good. Thanks," Louis says, halfway out the door before Harry can blink. Just as Harry is taking a large gulp of his tea, Louis' head pops back around the doorframe.

"Do you want to get a drink sometime?" he blurts out. Harry swallows his tea the wrong way, and starts to choke. "Sorry. You know. Just to catch up properly. As friends, of course," Louis continues, stumbling slightly over his words. "It's been a while."

Harry places his tea on the counter, still spluttering. Speaking is clearly not an option, so he nods, gives a thumbs up.

Louis nods quickly in return, and is gone again before Harry can respond. He takes a deep breath, coughs the last of the tea out of his windpipe as he hears the front door slam shut.

"I'd love to," he says quietly, to the empty kitchen. “As friends.”

***

March 24, 2016

Harry: Good to have a quick chat yesterday. Hope I didn’t annoy you.
Louis: Don’t worry, you didn’t. Still want to catch up?
Harry: Sure. I could do tomorrow night?
Louis: Cool. That works. Where?
Harry: Really don’t want to get papped..
Louis: Yeah, me neither. What about mine? Pizza?
Harry: Sounds good. 6 ish alright?
Louis: Yep. See you then.

***

March 25, 2016

Louis is absolutely not panicking, except that he most definitely is. He’s changed his clothes four times (and is still extremely unhappy with the end result), and is now on his hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom tiles. He knows this is a classic case of stress cleaning, and there is little to no chance that Harry is going to notice the state of his bathroom tiles, but he needs to be doing something. Harry’s due to arrive any minute now, and he is just not prepared for this. He feels quite genuinely ill. He cannot believe he suggested it. What in god’s name was he thinking? It was the tea, the standing in the kitchen, the flashback to how they used to be. It messed with his already addled brain.

Just as he is contemplating texting Harry to tell him he’s come down with a sudden case of scarlet fever, the doorbell rings. Fucking hell. He throws his gloves into the cupboard under the sink and walks down the hall to the front door, opening it with what he hopes appears to be confidence.

Harry is standing in the doorway, a tentative smile on his face. He’s wearing a simple blue t-shirt and skinny jeans, black ankle boots and the usual chains around his neck. He’s bothered to vaguely style his hair, and he’s holding a bottle of wine. He is stunning.

“Hey,” he says, a hint of nervousness evident in his voice.

“Hey,” Louis replies, stepping aside to let him in, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Almost two hours later, they are sitting at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. Harry has his legs tucked up underneath him, while Louis’ are resting on the coffee table at an angle. They’ve spent two hours discussing everything but their former relationship, and it’s going remarkably well. They’re on to their third bottle of wine, which may have something to do with it.

At various points of the night, Louis has almost started to think this might work, this friends thing. Maybe they can do this. But then Harry’s looked at him in a certain way, stretched his neck, thrown his head back with laughter, run his fingers through his hair, and Louis’ stomach has lurched every time, and he’s remembered what this boy used to be capable of doing to him. Is still capable of doing to him, apparently. All these gestures and movements that are so incredibly familiar, all these years on. As the wine has gone down swiftly, he has become so comfortable that he has almost slipped up, half a dozen times. Almost said “love” at the end of a sentence; almost leant over to push Harry’s curls out of his eyes; almost squeezed his leg as he refilled his wine glass. How do you un-learn these behaviours, he wonders? How do you remember that you can’t do any of this anymore, when this boy who was once yours is in front of you, and so little about him has changed? He tries, time and again, to remind himself of Luca’s existence. He remembers his words as he rushed out the door six weeks ago. If you don’t come back, Lou, I’ll understand. Of course I’ll come back, he’d said. Of course I will.

And now here he is, drunk in his London apartment with Harry, and this boy in front of him is all he can see.

There’s a lull in the conversation when Harry cracks his neck for at least the sixth time that night. “God, I’m getting old,” he mutters.

Louis waits a beat, and then decides to dive in, his now significant level of intoxication allowing him to push a boundary he knows he can’t cross. “You’ve been doing that all night,” he says. “D’you want a massage?” He asks the question in what he hopes is a casual tone. Mates do that, right? Surely.

Harry glances quickly over at him, appears to hesitate. “You… you sure?”

Louis nods, scooting over on the couch before he can stop himself. “Yep. I’m good at massages, remember?”

Harry chuckles, as he shifts down to the floor and Louis takes his position on the edge of the couch, legs on either side of him. “I do remember, yes.” Without hesitating, Harry whips his t-shirt off, throwing it aside.

Louis is glad Harry is facing in the opposite direction at this point, because he is sure his facial expression has just failed spectacularly at remaining neutral. Harry is now seated between his legs, the muscles of his bare back rippling with each movement. Fucking hell, thinks Louis. Be cool.

He rubs his hands together for warmth (and to calm his nerves, if he’s honest), and begins to massage Harry’s shoulders, tentatively at first. The sensation of Harry’s warm, smooth skin beneath his fingertips is so startling familiar, and so unbelievably, simply, good, that it is all he can do to keep his breathing steady. He gradually applies more pressure, working his hands in circular motions. He begins to chant an inner monologue. Luca Luca Luca.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, and well, that’s the end of that. “That’s incredible, Lou.”

Louis continues to knead Harry’s shoulders, working his way down to his shoulder blades as he tries desperately to calm himself down. It’s not working; not even close. He can feel himself getting increasingly hard, as Harry continues to make appreciative noises. He slows his pace, in the hope that this will bring some kind of calming influence to the whole process, but unfortunately Harry seems to prefer it.

“That’s so fucking good, Lou,” he murmurs, his voice low. And that’s about as much as Louis can take. His cock is aching, straining against his jeans.

He stops abruptly. Here it is, he thinks. Here’s the tipping point. Here’s the bridge I can’t cross.

He crosses.

Without warning, he leans down and places his lips to Harry’s skin, at the curve of his neck. Before Harry can react, he sucks hard at the spot, as his hands grip Harry’s sides. Harry gasps loudly, but doesn’t move. As Louis lets up and pulls away, Harry spins around to face him. His pupils are dilated, and through his skinny jeans, Louis can see that he is incredibly hard. There’s a moment where they stare at each other, wide eyed and uncertain.

Then Louis surges forward, connects his lips with Harry’s, and well. There’s no going back now.

The kiss is hot and desperate, their tongues immediately finding each other as their hands grab at each other’s bodies. God, how had Louis forgotten how fucking amazing this was? Harry, stronger as ever, pulls Louis down off the couch and on top of him. They strain against each other as they kiss, Louis’ shirt off before he has even realised. Harry moves his hand down to the bulge in Louis’ jeans, palming it rapidly before unzipping his fly. Louis takes his own jeans off and hurriedly undoes Harry’s fly, pulling the jeans down forcefully. Within seconds they are both naked, flush against each other, their cocks leaking as they rub together. Panting, Louis pulls away for a moment, looks down at the boy below him. “Fuck, Harry, you are so fucking hot,” he gasps. “Nothing on you, Lou, you are so fucking beautiful,” Harry replies, crashing their lips together again, and seizing Louis’ cock in the same movement. Louis gasps, shockwaves running through his body as Harry starts to move his hand swiftly. He’s knows he’s not going to last long if this keeps up.

He still Harry’s hand, breaks away from the kiss. “Wanna taste you,” he breathes out, and Harry nods frantically. “Yeah, Lou, please.” Louis moves down Harry’s body, sucking hard on his nipples as he does so, his hand working away at Harry’s shaft. When he reaches his cock, he kisses along his length, licking along the bottom before taking the head into his mouth. Harry moans and rocks forward involuntarily, apologising immediately. Louis runs his tongue around the head and then takes Harry down as far as he can go in one swift movement, gagging slightly as Harry’s cock hits the back of his throat. Harry swears loudly at the contact, and Louis starts to move up and down, sucking on the head with each movement.

Harry whimpers. “Lou, I’m not gonna last, it’s not gonna be long.. fuck... holy fuck, that is so fucking good.” As Louis continues to move, taking Harry to the back of his throat as far as he can stand, he takes his own cock in his hand and starts to pump vigorously. He’s incredibly hard, precome leaking from the tip as he feels the familiar churning in the base of his stomach begin. Harry is starting to shake now, his thighs bucking involuntarily around Louis’. “Lou – any second – just…” – he suddenly bucks forward violently, swearing loudly as he feels himself release down Louis’ throat. Louis takes as much as he can, before pulling away and letting the last drops of come run down his chin.

He’s close himself now, he can tell. He grabs Harry’s hand and places it on his cock, and Harry snaps out of his post orgasm daze, starts to move his hand rapidly. Within seconds, Louis is arching his back, and spilling all over Harry’s stomach, hot and wet. He collapses on to the floor next to him, and they both gasp for air.

***

March 26, 2016

Sunlight is peeking through the curtains, slowly illuminating the total disarray in Louis’ bedroom, when Harry opens his eyes. After a brief recovery in the living room last night they had moved to the bedroom, kissing their way down the hall like a couple of sex mad teenagers. Harry lies still as he remembers throwing Louis roughly on to the bed, going down on him, Louis clutching at the sheets and almost screaming his name. He remembers desperately scrabbling for the lube, working Louis open with his fingers, then entering him faster than he should have, fucking into him as Louis tugged at his own length and begged for it, begged Harry to come inside him. He remembers Louis coming all over himself, and Harry following shortly after, spilling into him and collapsing on top of him in exhaustion. And just as sleep started to take him over, as he lay curled into Louis’ side, he remembers whispering God, I’ve missed you. He remembers hearing no response.

As he adjusts to the light, he feels Louis stir. At some point during the night, they’ve changed positions, so Harry is now spooning Louis, his right arm wrapped tightly around him. Louis coughs quietly, and rubs his eyes, turning slowly to face Harry as he does so. His eyes are startlingly blue in the dull morning light, and Harry is taken aback for a moment. He’d forgotten how beautiful he was, somehow. Maybe he’d forced himself to, somewhere along the way.

“Hey,” says Harry quietly.

“Hey,” Louis responds, his eyes unreadable.

There’s a long pause, with neither of them sure what to say. Harry eventually breaks the silence.

“What’s his name?” he asks quietly.

Louis’ eyes drop, guilt etched into his features. “Luca,” he responds, almost a whisper.

Harry nods. “Lou and Luca,” he sing-songs softly, a failed attempt at levity. He takes a deep breath, and asks the question which scares him most. “Do you love him?”

Louis keeps his eyes trained downward. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “We haven’t – said that yet. We’ve only been together four months.”

“But you’re… you’re exclusive?” Harry asks.

Louis nods. “Well. Until now.”

Harry rolls on to his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling fan. He waits a long beat, as anger starts to bubble in the pit of his stomach. He’s surprised to find how close his resentment is to the surface; how readily accessible the bitterness is. He has built a new life for himself, but clearly no matter how well he tells himself he has moved on, he still hasn’t forgiven him. He has carried the weight of pain and confusion and hurt around with him for two and a half years.

Maybe it’s time he finally let some of it out, he thinks.

“It’s pretty funny, really, isn’t it,” he begins. He knows this can only end badly. Right now, he doesn’t care.

“What?” Louis asks warily. “What’s funny?”

Harry laughs, without a trace of humour. “Well, you know, it’s hilarious really. I mean, when you first told me you had a boyfriend, I thought, wow, Lou is finally accepting who he is. He’s finally developed some balls. But then I thought about it and realised, no, nothing’s changed at all.”

Louis sits up, leans on one hand looking down at Harry, who looks back defiantly. “Don’t fucking start this Harry.”

Harry ignores him, plowing on. “I mean, look at you! “ He barks out another laugh. “You have to run off to a foreign country, grow your hair, grow a beard, make yourself completely unrecognisable, before you can actually have a boyfriend. It is genuinely fucking hilarious.”

“Oh, what, you’re so amazing because you’re out now?” Louis scoffs.

Harry shakes his head. “Nothing to do with amazing, Lou, just honest. Not hiding, like you always were with me. Like you’re still doing.”

Louis’ eyes flash with anger, his jaw clenching. “Oh, so it was my fault we weren’t out. Is that what you think, is it?”

Harry sits up, locks eyes with Louis. “You know as well as I do that we could’ve fought management, if we’d really wanted to. If we’d been serious about coming out, they couldn’t have stopped us in the end.”

“They could have fucking sued us, Harry,” Louis snaps. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We were millionaires, if you recall,” Harry retorts. “And we made them millionaires. They needed us.”

Louis throws his hands up. “Right, right. Of course. So let me get this straight, if you’ll pardon the pun. If you’d had your way, we would have come out back then. We would’ve rocked up to a press conference holding hands and told the world we were in love. We wouldn’t have given a shit about what that could do to our careers, to the other boys, to all the fucking people that 1D employed. We would have just said, fuck them all, what we want is more important.”

“I’m not fucking saying that.” Harry’s voice is ice cold, the words coming thick and fast. “I know we couldn’t, not then. I’m just saying that it suited you, perfectly. It suited you to walk around holding hands with Eleanor, playing the “loved up” couple. It suited you to have articles written about you and your pretty brunette girlfriend. It suited you to rant about gay rumours as those they were insults. It suited you to hide then, just like it’s suiting you to hide now. It’s easier. The path of least resistance.”

Louis gets up from the bed, points his finger at Harry, his features flushed. “Don’t give me that fucking bullshit, Harry. I hated it. I fucking hated it. I still hate it. But you don’t get it. You never will.”

“What don’t I get, Lou?”

“You don’t get what it would be like for me to come out,” Louis says aggressively. “It would be totally fucking different than it was for you.”

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. “What?”

Louis starts to pace back and forth, glancing up at Harry intermittently. “You weren’t “the gay one” from the minute the band was formed,” he begins, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t grow up with everyone around you thinking you were gay. You didn’t have to learn from fucking high school onwards to fight everything about yourself – your way of speaking, your mannerisms, even the way you fucking walked. To the average person who wasn’t really paying attention, you looked more or less straight, Harry. And then they turned you into Harry Styles, the big hetero slut, and you were sorted. Straightest man in England! Fuck, Harry, those last couple of years in 1D, you were being about as openly gay as someone could be without actually sucking a guy off on stage, and still, ninety per cent of our fans thought you were fucking every second chick that walked past.” He shakes his head. “If we’d ever come out together, you know how people would have reacted? Total fucking shock about you. About me? Yeah, saw that one coming.”

Harry stands up from the bed, faces Louis from the opposite side of the room. “What the fuck does any of that matter, Lou, even if it’s true? What does it matter if some people suspected you were gay? You were! You are!”

Louis shakes his head. “You’ll never get it, Harry.”

Harry takes several steps around the bed in Louis’ direction. “So your reasoning for not coming out is that you don’t want people saying “I told you so?”” he asks. “That’s actually it?”

“Of course not,” Louis snaps. “That’s just – it’s part of it. You don’t get it.”

“Look, the way I see it, it’s pretty fucking simple, Lou,” Harry replies. “It doesn’t matter what your justification is. It comes down to the basic fact that you were never, ever going to fight for us. For me. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s so fucking true. You just fucking gave up on us. And I always knew. I always knew you would, in the end.”

Louis stares at Harry with a look of disbelief. “What the fuck are you saying? You always knew I was going to give up?”

“Of course I did!” Harry cries. “It was too fucking hard for you to be gay, too fucking hard to be with me. I knew you’d never take a gamble on me. I wasn’t worth it, to you. We weren’t worth it. It was easier to just let me go, to push me away.”

“So it was me who pushed you away, was it? When you were the one who moved out, if I recall?”

“Of course it was you, Lou,” Harry hisses. “Don’t even fucking try to pretend it wasn’t. Do you remember that fucking tour? You got further and further and further away from me, until I could barely speak to you. Everything I said and did was wrong. Maybe I was the one that left in the end, but you may as well have herded me out the door with a fucking crowbar. I was so fucking committed to you, Lou.” He throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head. “I was 19, for crying out loud, and I still knew that I wanted fucking everything with you – I wanted to marry you, I wanted to have kids with you, I wanted it all. You knew all that. You were the one who threw it away.”

Louis is yelling by now, as he steps toward Harry, stops within a foot of him. “What a pile of absolute bullshit!” he cries. “You thought I wasn’t committed enough to you? Is that actually what you’re saying?” He points to his right arm. “These five fucking matching tattoos weren’t any indication that I might have been kinda serious?”

Harry shakes his head. “You were once. Not by the end.” His voice drops, a sinister growl. “I would never, ever have left you if I’d thought you still felt the same.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I can’t fucking believe you’re pretending you were the injured party, Harry.” He smirks mockingly. “I mean, you were just so, so devastated when we broke up, weren’t you? Straight into the arms of Nick Grimshaw. Big fucking surprise, that was. Didn’t see that one coming from a thousand miles.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Harry snaps. “There’s never been anything between me and Nick.”

Louis snorts in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“Ok, do you want to know the exact truth?” Harry replies. “I’ll fucking tell you. I don’t have anything to hide, remember? I’ve slept with Nick on exactly two occasions. Both times we were drunk and both times we just laughed about it the next day. And I made out with him in the back of a taxi on a third occasion, drunk yet again. That is our entire sexual history. And it wasn’t until almost a year after you and I broke up that it happened for the first time. I didn’t run into his fucking arms, Lou. He was a mate, he let me stay with him when I had nowhere else to go, and in the end it made sense for me to move in. He is literally the most important person to me in the world, apart from Mum and Gem. But there’s nothing more. You cannot bring Nick into any of this.” He pauses, steps closer again, until their faces are only inches apart. “And don’t you dare fucking tell me I wasn’t devastated,” he spits, his voice cracking. “I was completely fucking broken when I lost you.”

“What, and I wasn’t?” Louis asks incredulously. “You have no idea. You have no idea what it’s been like. It took me so fucking long to get over you!”

Harry laughs bitterly, blinking away a tear. “Well, I’m so glad to hear you’re over me.”

Louis clenches his fists in frustration. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He gestures to his tattoos again, tears springing to his eyes as well. “I can’t even look at my own fucking body without seeing you, Harry. I can’t get rid of you. You’re like a fucking sickness that I just cannot fucking kick.”

“Well you seem to be doing a pretty fucking good job of it,” Harry snaps. “I’m sure Luca thinks you’ve “kicked” me pretty fucking thoroughly.”

Louis steps backward. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he says flatly. “Get the fuck out of my apartment, Harry.”

Harry throws his palms up in mock defeat. “Oh, I’m going. Don’t worry.” He grabs his phone from the bedside table, brushes angrily past Louis and walks out to the living room to get dressed. A minute later he’s pulling on his shoes and looking for his wallet when Louis steps into the room. His eyes are swollen, his face pained. He looks defeated.

“Harry,” he starts, quietly. “I didn’t – “

“It’s all right, Lou,” Harry interrupts, just as he finds his wallet between the couch cushions. “Don’t worry about any of this. You’re set, aren’t you? You’ll go back to Italy as soon as Zayn’s better, and you’ll stay in fucking hiding until no one even remembers your name, and then maybe one day in forty years you’ll have the guts to let the truth out, and you’ll actually let someone love you.”

He walks toward the door. “Have fun with that,” he throws over his shoulder, without bothering to turn around.

***

March 27, 2016

Louis swears repeatedly under his breath as he listens to the phone ring. He can’t believe it’s come to this. He, Louis Tomlinson, calling Nick fucking Grimshaw for help. Fucking hell.

Four rings, five. Just as Louis is about to hang up and condemn this ridiculous fucking plan to the fiery depths of hell where it belongs, Nick picks up. “Hello?”

Louis takes a deep breath. “Nick. It’s Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

He hears what sounds like Nick half choking on something in the background. “Shit, sorry. I’m on a break, trying to inhale some sushi here. Caught me off guard a bit there.”

Louis nods, wincing. “I know, I’m sorry. I was hoping I’d just get your voicemail.”

“And miss the opportunity to catch up?” Louis can hear the smirk in Nick’s voice. God, he’s a twat, thinks Louis, not for the first time. “To what do I owe this extremely unexpected pleasure, anyway, Louis Tomlinson?”

“I – I mean, I was calling to see if, um…” he trails off. Fuck, Louis thinks. He’d practised this. Several times, in fact. Approximately thirty six, if he’s being honest. “I was wondering – I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Louis is sure Nick’s eyebrows will have clean left his forehead at that. “And what could I possibly do for you, Louis?” he asks, incredulously. “You were still a massive celebrity, last I checked? They cut off your royalty cheques overnight, ‘ave they?”

Louis jabs his fingernails hard into his left thigh in an effort to avoid abusing Nick down the phone. Honey, bees, all that, he thinks. Be nice, Lou. “I am still a massive celebrity, that is correct,” he says, in as even a tone as he can manage. “But I’d like to – I’d like to announce something. I’d like to do it publicly. It’s kind of important.”

“Right.” Nick’s tone softens then, and Louis realises that he’s heard the nerves in his voice, and he’s worked out that he’s serious. Perhaps Nick’s slightly less sadistic than Louis gives him credit for. “Ok. And so… you want to do it on the radio, I’m guessing? Is that what this is about?”

“I do,” Louis says firmly. “On Breakfast. When as many people are listening as possible. Tomorrow, if you can fit me in.”

“And what, pray tell, are you going to say?” Nick asks, sounding like someone who is incredibly curious but is desperately trying to give the impression that they are not.

Louis gives a small laugh at this pathetic attempt at nonchalance, some of the tension dissipating. “That I can’t tell you, mate.”

There’s a pause, and Nick hums thoughtfully. “Not to do with our Harry, by any chance, is it?”

“Couldn’t say,” Louis replies.

“So I’ll take that as a yes then. But it’s nothing… nothing that’s gonna make a fool of him, is it? Since you’ve given up your protective mother hen bit, that’s fallen to me, Louis. I’m like a bloody lioness with a cub. I’ve no problem with laying you out in the studio if you say the slightest word against him. Or setting Puppy on you. That dog’s a lot more mental than she looks.”

Louis laughs again, but there’s no humour in it this time. “Don’t worry, Nick. If anyone’s gonna be made a fool of, it’s gonna be me.”

***

March 28, 2016, 7.45am

When Harry’s phone goes off at 7.45am, he is somewhere between awake and asleep, fragments of his dreams repeating as he slowly regains consciousness. He sticks his arm out of the warm duvet and blindly feels for his phone, managing to knock both his watch and a glass on to the wooden floorboards. Remarkably, the glass doesn’t break, but it makes a hell of a noise. He’s certainly awake now.

Grumbling and swearing under his breath, he manages to focus on his phone screen. It’s Louis, which is surprising enough, given the scene two days ago. But the content of the message is even more bizarre.

Be listening to Grimmy’s show just after 8am.

Harry swipes open the message, sure there must be more to it. But no, that’s all there is, just that one sentence. What the hell? he wonders, literally scratching his head. Somehow Harry thinks the odds of Louis deciding to spruik Nick’s show just because he thinks it’s quality radio are fairly slim.

He rolls out of bed, goes to the bathroom, decides he has time for a quick shower. He presumes Nick must be interviewing Louis about something. Maybe Louis has decided to stay in the UK, is using this as his reintroduction to society after a year away. Maybe it’s just some prank on Niall or something, and Louis is just texting Harry as a form of olive branch. Maybe it’s – who knows. He’ll just have to wait, he tells himself, and then proceeds to mentally play out forty-seven different scenarios. He’s nervous, all of a sudden; he notes absently that his hands are shaking slightly. There’s something about the tone of Louis’ text, combined with what happened between them the other day, that is making him suspect that something significant is about to go down.

By the time Harry’s out of the shower and has turned the radio on, the news is just finishing up, and Harry is definitely not breathing at his regular pace. They go straight to a song afterwards without a link, but as it’s ending Nick’s familiar voice comes through the speakers. This must be it, thinks Harry, as he towels his hair more vigorously than necessary.

“Aaaaand that was Can’t Keep Me Down, by the lovely Rita Ora,” Nick announces. “Great record that, isn’t it Finchy?”

Matt agrees. “Great track.”

“It is indeed. Right, now we’re on to something a little bit special. I’ve been saying all morning that we had a surprise guest coming up just after 8, and it is now just after 8, so, let’s welcome him – it’s Mr Louis Tomlinson!”

There are claps in the background, and a whoop from Fiona. “How you doing Louis, you alright?” Nick asks.

Harry is glad that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed as Louis starts to speak, because the sound of his voice coming across the airwaves knocks the breath out of him. Christ, when will this ever fucking stop, he thinks to himself.

“I’m good, Grimmy, you?” Louis says.

“I’m well, I’m well,” Nick responds jovially. “We haven’t seen you round these parts for a while!”

Harry hears Louis chuckle softly. “No, it’s definitely been a while.”

“So where in the world have you been?” Nick cries. Harry still marvels at Nick’s ability to appear genuinely interested in questions that he already knows the answer to.

“Been in Italy,” Louis replies. “Tuscany, to be exact.”

“Ooh la la,” Nick hoots. “Lucky for some!”

Louis laughs again. “Yeah, it was pretty great.”

“And so, you’re back now, are ya? And you just wanted to drop in to see your pals at Radio 1?”

“Well,” Louis replies with an intake of breath, and Harry can hear the strain in his voice as he continues. “I’m back, yeah. And I dropped in because I – because I need to – I want to clear a few things up. Set the record straight.”

Harry leaps off the bed. Surely, he couldn’t be planning to – no. Definitely not. Impossible.

“Ooh,” Nick responds, with a laugh. “Sounds serious.”

Louis laughs quietly before continuing. “Well. It’s kinda serious, yeah.”

There’s a pause, and Nick jumps in. “Alright, I’ll put my serious face on. Let’s do this properly.”

Harry knows exactly what Nick’s doing, and loves him for it; knows that Nick can tell how nervous Louis is, and he’s teasing him to get him through it. Harry wishes he had someone helping him through the situation in the bedroom, because right now he is most definitely not coping. What the fuck is happening? He starts to pace manically back and forth.

He hears Louis draw in a deep breath, and then begin, his voice unsteady. “For a long time now, there’s been a lot of talk about me and Harry. Harry Styles. Back in the day, a large number of our fans thought we were together, in a secret relationship. They thought there was this huge cover up going on, that Harry and I had been together since The X Factor. I personally shot down those rumours a number of times.”

“I do remember that Louis, yes,” Nick says. Harry wonders if Nick knows what Louis is about to say. Harry wonders if Louis knows what Louis is about to say. He’s sounding kind of formal, like he’s rehearsed it, almost. Fuck, this is unbearable, Harry thinks. He twists his hands together like an anxious mother, keeps pacing. Surely, he won’t – no. Of course he won’t.

“These days, it’s pretty much the opposite,” Louis continues. “The media, and even most of our fans these days it seems, think that Harry and I hate each other, that we never saw each other towards the end of the band apart from for work, and we’ve lost all contact since. They think our falling out was a major reason the band split up.”

There is a brief pause, and Harry stops pacing, stares wide eyed at the radio as though it could explode any minute. Which, a second later, it may as well have done.

“What I want to say today is that both those rumours are actually completely true.”

Harry literally drops to the floor, his knees giving way without warning. There are several seconds of completely dead air, and Harry realises that whatever Nick thought was coming, it wasn’t that.

Suddenly Matt cuts in, presumably in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “You mean,” he begins, coughing. “You mean, you and Harry were actually in a relationship – but now you hate each other?”

Louis exhales heavily. “Hate each other is a bit strong. I don’t know what you’d call it. But until very recently, we hadn’t spoken in almost two and a half years, other than for work.”

Harry hears Nick take a large gulp of water, and he seems to regain the power of speech. “Right. Right. So do you – do you want to tell the listeners about you and Harry then – before you – before you split up?” he stutters, like he’s totally at sea. Harry barely notices, so desperate is he to hear the next words out of Louis’ mouth.

“I do,” Louis replies firmly. “I don’t want to go into too much detail. But I think the fans deserve to know, after all this time.” He waits a beat before continuing. Harry is literally holding his breath, still on the floor, his mouth still agape in shock. “Harry and I fell in love when we were contestants on the X Factor, and we were in a committed relationship for three years. He was, and still is, the love of my life. We hid the relationship partly due to our management practically forcing us to, but partly because we were scared.” He pauses, and Harry can imagine him shaking his head. “Not we, I. I was scared.”

“So what’s made you suddenly decide to say something, Louis?” Nick asks, in a tone more gentle than Harry has ever heard him use on the radio.

“I – I had a – a bit of a chat with Harry a few days ago. And he said he’d always known things would end like this, because he’d always known I’d never have the guts to come out, to be with him. And a lot of what he said hit very close to home.” Louis’ voice cracks slightly as he goes on. “So I guess I’m doing this today to tell him that he’s right. I didn’t have the guts then, and it was easier to hide. I did give up on us. But I need to tell him now that I do have the guts, finally, and that I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to find them. And that if he’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to him. And I will never, ever give up on us again.”

“And do you think he’ll take you back?” Nick asks, not a trace of mockery in the question.

Louis sighs before replying. “To be honest, no, I don’t. I’m sure he won’t give me another chance. I’m sure I burned that bridge a long time ago. But I – I had to try.”

“Well,” Nick says. “I think it’s pretty bloody wonderful that you did.” Harry can hear the broad smile in his voice. “So we’ll see you soon, hey Louis? Thanks for dropping by.”

“No worries mate,” Louis replies, the slightest tone of relief coming through now that it’s over. “Thanks for having me.”

Nick links to a song, and Harry is out the door within thirty seconds.

***

March 28, 2016, 8.17am

Louis is sitting on an office chair just outside Nick’s main studio, and he is shaking as he grips the mug of steaming tea that Ian pressed into his hands a moment ago. Nick ran back into the studio to do a quick link after the first song, and Matt has now cued up two more songs and an advert to run directly afterwards, because one glance outside the studio suggests that Nick is not going to be back on the mike any time soon.

Nick is crouched in front of Louis’ chair, hands on both his knees, trying to make Louis’ wide eyes focus on him. “Louis. Louis. It’s alright. It’s gonna be fine.”

Louis shakes his head frantically, spills hot tea on his jeans in the process. He barely flinches. “No, this is definitely not alright, this is definitely not fucking alright. It’s been –“ (he checks his phone for the twenty fourth time since the interview ended) “ – six minutes, and he hasn’t called. Or texted. Or sent up a flare. Anything. He hates me! He fucking hates me! Which I knew, already. I mean, I fucking knew that.” He is talking at a million miles an hour, his voice high pitched and, Nick thinks, he is possibly genuinely hysterical. “What the fuck was I fucking thinking? This was the most fucking insane thing I have ever done.”

Nick nods in agreement. To be fair, he’s still in a bit of shock himself. “It was – yeah, it was pretty insane. But it’s not – Louis, please calm the fuck down. You’re going to have a heart attack. Listen to me. Harry loves you. He has always fucking loved you, even if he pretends he’s over you these days.”

Louis chews madly at his lip, staring back at Nick. “How the fuck do you know he’s pretending?”

Nick shrugs his shoulders, his eyes warm. “I know Harry, Lou. He can do a lot of things, that boy, but lie is not one of them. He’s absolutely rubbish at it.”

Louis takes a huge gulp of the scalding tea without blinking, and Nick wonders if he has somehow become numb to all physical pain. “You!” Louis suddenly cries, his voice strangled. “What if he’s actually in love with you? Are you in love with him?”

Nick shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Louis, I swear on Eileen Grimshaw’s future grave that Harry is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him.”

Louis narrows his eyes suspiciously. “He told me, you know,” he accuses, jabbing his finger into Nick’s chest. “I know you’ve shagged him.”

Nick’s head drops into his hands. “Oh, god. It is too bloody early in the morning for this.” He glances toward Ian and Fiona in desperation, looks up at Louis again. “Yes, ok, I’ve shagged him a couple of times. But you haven’t exactly been a monk, have you? I heard there was a certain Italian stallion in the mix?” Nick raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Louis’ eyes drop, remembering the hour he spent on the phone to Luca last night, ending it all. He’d decided to tell him the absolute truth; Luca had been upset, of course, but not the least bit surprised. He thinks guiltily that perhaps Luca always knew his heart belonged elsewhere.

He’s about to reply to Nick when he hears Fiona gasp, and Matt exclaim.

“Harry!”

Louis glances up, and there he is, standing in the doorway.

His hair is still wet from the shower, and he’s wearing a pair of track pants and a white t-shirt, the wings of his birds peeking out over the neckline. He’s barefoot, and he’s clutching his wallet and phone in his hand. He’s out of breath, his green eyes fixed on Louis’ blue, a spot of colour on both his cheeks.

And he’s just – there he is.

They stare at each other for a moment, stunned and unblinking, as Nick and the rest of the crew bid a hasty exit back into the studio, almost tripping over each other in their hurry. Louis swallows hard as he stands up and puts his mug down, and manages to find his voice.

“You – you were listening?” he asks, redundantly.

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, tries again. “I was, yeah.”

Louis digs his fingernails into his palms, in an effort to still his shaking hands. “So,” he says, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. “What did you think?”

A smile cracks across Harry’s face at that, and he lets out a bright laugh. “What’d I think?”

Louis smiles tentatively back, not ready to let go of his terror quite yet. “Yeah...?”

Harry crosses the room in four quick strides, wraps his right hand around the back of Louis’ neck and his left around his waist. “I thought it was pretty fucking great, Lou.”

He surges forward and pulls Louis into a kiss. Louis almost collapses with the strength of it; for a moment, it’s all too much, all too overwhelming. But Harry’s strong arms steady him and he licks back into Harry’s mouth, moaning slightly as their tongues make contact. They grip each other tightly, Louis’ hands running through Harry’s curls, Harry’s hands moving up and down Louis’ back as they deepen the kiss.

After a minute they pull apart, and Louis feels his face may split open from the intensity of his smile. Harry rests his forehead on Louis’ and cups his cheek in his hand, and his eyes are sparkling as he grins madly back at him, their bodies still pressed together. And that’s – that’s another thing Louis had somehow forgotten; what it feels like to have Harry Styles look at you like you are the reason he gets up in the morning, like you’re everything he could ever want. A tear drops down Louis’ cheek as he presses their lips together again.

“Heyyyy!” Harry exclaims. “No tears allowed! It’s not that awful to be snogging me again, is it?”

Louis laughs, blinking them away. “Happy tears,” he replies, still unable to control his smile.

Harry grins and pulls him into a kiss once again, until they’re distracted by a knocking sound to their right. They pull away and look over, and there’s Fiona, Ian, Matt and Nick all cheering and waving on the other side of the glass, Nick holding up a piece of paper saying “ABOUT BLOODY TIME!” Both boys groan and wave back, Harry taking Louis’ hand in his and pumping it in the air, a victory salute.

Louis pulls him back into an embrace, burying his head in the side of his neck, breathing him in deeply as their arms wrap tightly around each other. He feels Harry shudder, hears a sniff. “Hey,” he whispers, his nose nudging just below Harry’s ear. “I thought no tears were allowed?”

Harry smiles into his neck, pulls him even closer. “I just never thought I’d get you back.”

Louis’ eyes moisten again as he responds. “Well, I’m not going anywhere now.”

Harry pulls back, looks at Louis intently. “I love you so much, Lou,” he whispers. “I always have.”

Louis gulps as his tears spill over, running down his cheeks and past his smile, still impossibly wide. “I love you too, Haz.”

EPILOGUE

December 24, 2016

It’s been Louis’ 25th birthday for 45 minutes, and he’s elbow deep in the bathtub, which is overflowing with ice, water, and enough alcohol to drown a small island nation.

Just as he’s about to give up, and is planning the abusive diatribe he’s about to deliver, he manages to locate the beer Niall is after. He shakes his arm vigorously to bring back the feeling, and walks out to the kitchen. Niall is leaning up against the bench, chatting up Liam’s friend Katie in what he clearly hopes is a casually suave manner – it isn’t – and Louis hands him the beer, before turning around and coming face to face with a fairly drunk looking Zayn. All these months later, Zayn has almost completely recovered from the accident, though the scar across his forehead is still clearly visible. But as Harry had predicted, the “Potter” nickname had been outlawed in no uncertain terms the day Zayn came off the oxycontin.

“Lou, Haz is looking for you,” Zayn says now, taking a swig of his beer. “I think it might be cake time.”

Louis claps his hands like a child. “Yes!! Cake time!”

Just then, Harry pops his head out of the living room, wearing a grin from ear to ear as he catches Louis’ eye. “Come on, everyone in the living room!” he calls out. “Cake’s happening!”

Everyone in the kitchen troops into the living room – Niall performing a series of complicated hand gestures behind Katie’s back that are clearly designed to ask Louis what he thinks his chances are, but Louis pretends he has no idea what he’s trying to say – and Harry ducks back into the kitchen. Louis winks over at Stan, who has his arm around his girlfriend Chai’s shoulders. Stan winks back, and raises his beer in a salute. Just then, someone flicks the lights off, and Harry emerges from the kitchen a second later, carefully carrying an enormous cake lit up with candles. “Happy Birthday to you…” he begins, and everyone joins in. By the time the song has ended, Harry has placed the cake – a large rectangle, decorated by Harry himself to resemble a football field – on a table in front of Louis. Their eyes lock as they smile at each other, Harry gesturing toward the cake.

“Go on,” he says. “Blow out the candles. Don’t forget to make a wish.”

Louis bends over and takes a deep breath, blowing out all the candles in two goes (which is impressive, given that Harry had insisted on having the whole twenty-five of them placed around the edges of the ‘field’). Everyone in the room claps, and Liam starts a “Hip hip, hooray!”. When the noise begins to die down, and someone has turned the lights back on, Louis holds his hands up for silence.

“I just wanted to say a quick something, if you don’t mind.” He grins. “Actually, it’s not every day you hit your quarter century, so I’ll do it even if you do mind.” Everyone laughs, Niall doubling over. All these years on, Niall still finds everything that Louis says absolutely hilarious.

Louis turns toward Harry and intertwines their fingers together, as Harry beams back at him, his eyes shining. God, he’s beautiful, Louis thinks.

“I just wanted to thank you all,” he begins. “For coming tonight, of course, but it’s more than that. Just for sticking around in general. I was – I was pretty bloody painful for a long time there. Even ran off on all of you, all the way to Italy, although I guess by then I’d been such a twat for so long that you were all probably glad to get rid of me for a while.”

He pauses, looking down at his and Harry’s hands. Harry squeezes his hand tightly in encouragement.

“So I’m just – I’m incredibly grateful that somehow, there’s so many of you who still give a toss about me. I feel so, so lucky.”

“We feel pretty lucky that you give a toss about us too, Lou!” Stan calls out, to applause.

Louis grins. “Thanks mate,” he laughs. “Big love to mum and Dan as well, and my crazy sisters,” – he smiles over in their direction – “and a special mention to Stan and the 1D boys, who are basically my crazy brothers.” Stan, Niall, Liam and Zayn all whoop in response.

Louis pauses for a moment, a lump suddenly forming in his throat. “And I’ve got to say a special thank you to this boy standing next to me.” He feels Harry’s hand tighten again, but he can’t look at him for now. He’ll cry if he does, and Stan will never let him forget it. “I spent a bloody long time thinking I’d lost him – also known as the ‘Louis is a twat’ period – and there’s not a day goes by that I don’t remember how incredible it is that I got him back. So I really don’t plan on letting him go.” Everyone claps, as Louis chances a glance in Harry’s direction. His eyes are glistening, and he leans over and plants a kiss on top of Louis’ head.

“Oi, get a room!” yells Niall, and well, that’s the end of the formalities.

Louis spends the rest of the night trying to make sure he talks to everyone, and vaguely attempting to make sure nothing gets broken (he fails). The smile barely leaves his face all night.

Three hours later, Harry and Louis have finally seen the last guest out the door (it was Niall, because of course it was), and they’re standing in the kitchen, surveying the incredibly impressive mess.

“Can we leave this til morning, Haz?” Louis whines. “Can’t face it. Too traumatising.”

Harry laughs. “Sure, we can wait. I’ve actually been amazed at your domestic prowess lately. What is it, two meals you’ve cooked in the last month? And maybe three loads of washing you’ve done, without a single flood of the laundry?”

“Ha ha,” Louis retorts. Comeback of the year, that one. “You’ve tamed me very well, Harold.”

Harry grins, stepping over to Louis and wrapping his arms around his waist. “So what did you wish then? When you blew out your candles?”

Louis smiles coyly. “Can’t tell you that! It won’t come true!”

Harry pouts. “Aww, come on. Just whisper it. I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

Louis grins, leans forward and presses his mouth to Harry’s ear. “You’ve got to keep it a secret,” he whispers, biting lightly on Harry’s earlobe before continuing. “I wished that we’d be together forever.”

Harry pulls back, shaking his head in mock disappointment and rolling his eyes. “Lou!” he exclaims. “What a waste of a wish!”

Louis frowns, confused for a moment. “What? Why’s it a waste?”

Harry smiles, leans their foreheads together. “Because that’s going to happen anyway, you idiot.”

Louis’ heart leaps, and as he leans in to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, he wonders how it’s possible for anyone to be this happy.