Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1815535.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Harry_Styles/Louis_Tomlinson, Zayn_Malik/Harry_Styles, Harry_Styles/
      Original_Male_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Rentboys, rent_boy_AU, Homophobic_Language, Drug_Abuse, Non-Graphic_Rape/
      Non-Con, Dubious_Consent, Physical_Abuse, Mental_Health_Issues, Post-
      Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Uni!student_Louis, Uni!student_Niall,
      tiny_passing_mentions_of_Louis/Greg, tiny_passing_mentions_of_Louis/
      Eleanor, tiny_passing_mentions_of_Louis/Nick_Grimshaw, None_of_which
      enter_into_the_actual_fic, Happy_Ending, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism,
      Enthusiastic_Consent, this_fic_also_has_consensual_sex_that_is_enjoyed_by
      both_parties
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-20 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 47775
****** i love you more ******
by shoulderbone_(lavenderforluck)
Summary
     Boys like Harry can't fall in love. But then he meets Louis. A love
     story in two parts.
Notes
     PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.
     This is pretty dark even for me. The first part depicts almost
     entirely all of the warnings mentioned, while the second part mostly
     discusses the aftermath of them, which I think you probably could
     read part II and most of it would make sense. I strongly advise
     discretion. This fic contains underage prostitution and sex
     trafficking, which is forced consent [which I consider non-consensual
     sex, or at the very least dubious consent].
     I decided to write this because I was reading some academic
     psychology journals a few weeks ago about UK prostitution and it's
     affects on women and under 18's, and then nearly a week after I
     somehow got roped into watching Pretty Woman and WOW, those two
     worlds don't match up. So I decided to write this and explore the
     idea of how people who are victims of this industry (which, it is an
     industry, and a grossly advantageous one at that) survive it, and
     rationalise it. And this was the product.
     I do not condone or think any of the things in this story are normal
     or okay. Just because I wrote it does not mean I agree with the abuse
     or sexualisation of what is depicted in this story. If you have any
     concerns or want more detailed warnings and don't mind explicit
     spoilers, message me and I will be happy to let you know. Also, I
     will very happily add more warnings if they're brought to my
     attention.
     ONE MORE NOTE, which is a little more lighthearted. So all of the
     slang used here is either what I've picked up from my friends or boys
     I've been around while living in London, as well as looking into
     area-specific slang from certain parts of England and watching videos
     of the boys speak. SO, all of the slang used should be up to date and
     relatively realistic.
     Special love to Lizz, and to my beta Miscie, the best in universe.
     Thanks & enjoy x
See the end of the work for more notes
***** part i *****
act i.
 
and Jesus said unto him, why callest thou me good? none is good, save one, that
is, God.
Luke 18:19
 
-
 
The night smells, burnt like summer. The asphalt radiates heat as Harry walks
down the middle of the street, letting his hands swing on either side, feeling
the way the city seems to pulsate underneath his fingers.
 
The breeze is sweet and putrid simultaneously; like fresh flowers and stale
beer. Harry inhales deeply, wishing he could close his eyes and wrap his
shoulders in the night. The stars would make an effective shroud.
 
He feels the twisting of his gut as he rounds closer to an alley entrance pub,
his thin jumper doing little to alleviate his body’s protest against the chill.
Summer in London was winter everywhere else, it seemed. Harry rarely felt
properly warm anymore.
 
He’s nervous - he can’t deny it. This is his first time seeking out blokes as
they trail out of the pub, relying on his own judgment. He’s never done it
before; they’ve always been brought to him. He aims first for men who make eye
contact with him as he stands across the alleyway, leaning against the brick;
second for the ones without wedding rings, and third for the ones with.
 
He has a goal to hit and he’s got six hours left before he’s expected back in
Hammersmith. He grits his teeth, hopes he strikes lucky. Hopes there are enough
men who will be willing or drunk enough to forget their own judgement, to be
roped in by his eyes, his mouth. Harry is counting on it.
 
St. James Park is a good area for this, as are most boroughs in Westminster;
Harry has been taught to go where the businessmen frequent from another boy who
he shares a room with sometimes. Zayn had been promoted to the street punters
for a few months now, and Harry sees him less and less even though they shared
a room when they pulled in tricks from home. It’s as if the wind has whisked
Zayn away and he’s been swallowed whole by the city, coming back only randomly
to crash on the tiny mattress.
 
He looks as if he’s lost weight, though Harry doesn’t actually know. He’d
learned not to ask questions years ago, to keep his mouth shut. He hopes Zayn
isn’t addicted like the rest of the boys and girls who go out lurking on the
street, signalling for kerb crawlers, but he knows. He knows it's only a matter
of time.
 
Twenty minutes of standing against the brick on the opposite side of the alley
and two men come outside, standing around and talking around their fags. One
departs, his briefcase tucked under his arm. The other lingers, eyes falling on
Harry, and Harry smiles.
 
Bingo.
 
-
 
Home is a trek at this time of night. He keeps his hand clenched tight around
the bundle of money, stuffed deep inside the front pocket of his jumper, nose
running. The tube has now closed, so he takes the bus back to his area. He sits
anxiously in his seat, curled up in the back away  from the drunkards and their
leers. His nose is running and it won’t subside, even when he rubs his sleeve
over his face.
 
He’s incredibly tired but still restless, his other fist furling and unfurling
with nervous energy. He managed to hit the amount that was set out for by
Marcus, but nothing extra to keep for himself. Harry tries to guess at what
mood Marcus might be in when he gets home; if the air will be stiflingly hot
and he’ll be shut in his room immediately, or if it the atmosphere will be
loose and relaxed, the windows in the back garden propped open, leftovers cold
on the hob for anyone to eat. He hopes for the latter.
 
He presses his cheek to the dirty window, breathing onto the glass. Blokes and
birds hold hands as they cross streets. Cars become a rare occurrence at this
time of night, buses and black cabs crawling the roads like insects. He wraps
his fingers tight around the money, sneezing into his sleeve.
 
Harry smells the inside of his jumper. It smells like sick and alley, like
cigarette smoke and old food. It’s not something to remember, not a smell to
come home to. There’s come on the inside curve of his thighs, tacky and dried
on his skin, which he feels again when he tucks his knees tighter to him. He
tries not to think about it, closes his eyes.
 
-
 
Hammersmith is the gate into the city, part residential, part industrial. It’s
a confusing part of London, surely not central, but not quite greater west
either. It’s convenient, being so close to the edges of Kensington,
Knightsbridge, Victoria, where the men go for dinners and business talk.
 
They’re ideal neighbourhoods for boys like Harry, who sneak around corners and
stay swathed in shadows, waiting to reel in the stray ones, the weak men. Wives
and children are forgotten. Everything is a transaction. Harry is a product to
be consumed.
 
They’re safer neighbourhoods, Marcus says. But Harry knows better. Nowhere is
safe.
 
Harry creeps into the small garden, hitching the gate back into place from
where it’s swung slightly off kilter, pushed around by waves of warm summer
air. The weeds are slightly overgrown, cigarette dish overflowing with stubs,
bins unminded. Harry has always found it slightly ironic how ordinary and
unassuming this house looks otherwise.
 
Inside, music plays softly from the stereo, the television loud and blaring
like it usually is. Alexandre is asleep on the front recliner, arm outstretched
over the lip of the chair like he’s a guard; the image isn’t far off. The
yellowish light of the front room makes Harry squint slightly; the ugly
cigarette stained walls peeling at the corners. It smells like old hamburger,
and his stomach rumbles loudly, left wanting.
 
Mira and Freya are in the kitchen, Freya sitting at the small dining table with
her head cradled in her arms, her nose bleeding. Mira is stirring something
gooey on the hob, cigarette in her mouth and her hair tucked underneath a
bandana. She barely acknowledges Harry when he enters, except to pass him her
cigarette, lipstick smeared on the edges of it.
 
He shakes his head, refusing and she tuts, her wrinkled, haggard face showing
signs of contempt. He asks, “Is there anything to eat?”
 
Mira laughs, “This isn’t a church. You want food, you figure it out with
Marcus.”
 
“I have before,” Harry argues, shrugging, hand still rooted firmly in his
pocket. “I get a meal after I come back. That’s what he’s said.”
 
“That’s what he said, yeah?” she narrows her eyes at him, but Harry isn’t
afraid of Mira. She’s set like a bulldog, holding the wooden mixing spoon like
a weapon she wants to use on Harry. “I’ve not heard of it.”
 
“Well that’s because we agreed on a new arrangement yesterday,” he points out,
“so maybe he hasn’t told you.”
 
“Take the cigarette,” Mira orders at him, shoving it back in his face, her
fingers dry and yellowed underneath his nose, “take the cigarette, that’s all
I’m giving you.”
 
There are maybe two or three inhales left on it, wet around the filter. Harry
takes it, pale hands shaking as he brings it to his mouth. He finishes it then,
standing over the sink and staring out at the overgrown back garden. He puts it
on the drainboard, eyeing a used needle and a pile of crusted dishes sitting
underneath the faucet.
 
“I’m hungry,” he whines again, and Mira turns around to face him, swatting him
hard on the back of the head.
 
“When Marcus confirms what you’ve said, then you get your bit,” she says
sternly, and Harry nods, the back of his skull smarting from the smack.
“Christ. Take Freya to her room, she’s getting blood on the table.”
 
Freya is a bag of bones, dead weight when he shoulders her, her skinny arm like
a fishing pole wrapped around his neck. Her head lolls on his shoulder, her
dirty blonde hair up in his nose. Harry tries not to inhale her stench too
deep.
 
Her nose is bleeding, and her knees are skinned and caked with blood and dirt,
but Freya doesn’t care about it right now. She’s too doped up to really even
recognise Harry as he hauls her into one of the small rooms and towards the
mattress in the corner, a sleeping form already in the bed next to hers,
unmoving. He thinks it must be Jade. Freya kisses his hand when he sets her
down.
 
Harry wishes she spoke more English so he could tell her that he’s sorry. He
doesn't know what possesses him to want to apologise, but something in him
does. Instead he pulls the blanket up to her shoulder, pushing stringy strands
of her hair out of her face.
 
He can hear Mira in the kitchen on the phone, barking at someone, and he thinks
it might end up being a quiet evening. Most of the girls are out or in their
rooms sleeping. Marcus’ door is cracked open, a sliver of light at the end of
the hallway. Harry approaches his room like one would approach a deity; unsure,
fervent, excited, sickly.
 
He’s sitting on the side of his bed with his face away from Harry when he
enters, smoke filtering out of his mouth. Harry knocks on the frame, aiming for
polite. Marcus turns to him, his dark hair pushed away from his forehead,
purple circles under his eyes.
 
“Haz,” he says quietly, voice empty. That’s what they call him. “What do you
have for me, love?”
 
Harry thinks at one point he must have been very attractive. His personality is
one that conveys a sense of safety, a sense of belonging, which both scares and
intrigues Harry. He edges closer, his ruined Converse toe pushing aside a dirty
T-shirt. Marcus’ room is usually spotless.
 
“I hit,” Harry edges, pulling his hand out of his pocket, fingers releasing the
wad of notes. They’re creased with sweat and his hand smells like paper. He
wipes it on the leg of his pants.
Marcus counts it, nodding, folding it into his breast pocket. “Is this all of
it?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
 
Harry nods, watching as Marcus considers him.
 
“Well, you made what I asked,” he surmises, “but nothing more than that.”
 
“No,” Harry agrees quietly, “I didn’t.”
 
“If you had,” Marcus continues on, “I would have taken it. But then I would’ve
given it back to you, you could’ve kept it for yourself.”
 
“I know,” Harry nods, “Maybe it will get easier.”
 
Marcus lights another cigarette, blowing smoke above them out of the corner of
his mouth. “D’y not like going out? Thought you would’ve gotten tired with this
shit, Haz. Cooped up, it’s no good for a pretty thing like you.”
 
He swallows, “I know,” he repeats. “S’different. You’re not there.”
 
Marcus wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. He smells like old sweat and
tobacco, dirty yet familiar to Harry. “That’s sweet,” he murmurs into Harry’s
ear, “But this is good for you. It’s my way of showing that I trust in you.
Plus, you’re going to make more money this way.”
 
“Yeah,” he nods, curls falling in his face, “I can try.”
 
Harry’s thigh is gripped by the pink meat of Marcus’ hand and he shuts his
eyes, knowing where this is going. Harry counts his breaths, removing himself
as Marcus pulls him into his lap, biting at the flesh beneath his jaw. His
cigarette is dangerously close to Harry’s wrist and he moves it away shyly,
keeping his skin away from it’s embers.
 
“Come on,” Marcus urges, sliding Harry off his leg and down onto his knees in
front of him, “be good for me. Show me how thankful you are.”
 
“Mira won’t let me have dinner,” Harry says as he pushes down Marcus’
sweatpants, before Marcus’ attentions lay elsewhere and he goes without food.
Harry mouths around his cock then, fingers digging into his own thighs until it
hurts, a reminder not to gag.
 
Marcus’ hands come to thread through Harry’s hair, thankfully gentle tonight,
“We’ll fix you up, then.”
 
That’s all Harry asks.
 
-
 
Later he’s curled up on his own mattress, stomach full of McDonald’s meal and
tap water. Marcus had sent Mira out to go get Harry something to eat, hitting
her so hard on the neck that it pulsated after, red and ugly. She had glared at
Harry, who stood near the edges of the kitchen near a large pile of laundry and
tried to look apologetic. Mostly he was just hungry.
 
“You used to be a good boy,” Mira sniped, her accent like a whip as she smacked
his ear with her spoon again. She shuffled an old coat over her dirty house
dress. He had ducked out of theway of the second swing she took, waiting by the
window until she returned with his meal.
 
He wants to ask her when he stopped being a good boy, but he thinks he knows
the answer. Harry never used to ask for food, just picked at what he thought no
one would notice go missing, but then he turned sixteen and had starting
growing, legs stretching up like slim tree trunks. Marcus had been delighted as
the thin layer of baby weight Harry began to disappear, and Harry had been
introduced to the frequent, unpleasant pangs of hunger. He was always hungry
now. He couldn’t help it.
 
His nose is running again, and his curls are matted and sticky. He had wanted
to shower, but Jesy was in the toilet; she caused a riot when she was
interrupted, and he’d already had a long night. He hopes he can get up early
enough to beat everyone else out. He’s always tried to avoid blending in with
the smell of the house, the way it reeks like age and stale food and smoke.
 
The door opens, and Harry evens out his breathing, eyes shut tightly closed. He
can still taste Marcus in his mouth and he distantly hopes that he can sleep
now, exhausted and weary boned. The loose-spring mattress dips, and Harry holds
his breath, waiting.
 
“Hey,” someone whispers, and he blinks to find Zayn looking down at him, face
cast in darkness. “Budge up. Danny’s fallen asleep on my cot again.”
 
Harry does, scooting close to the wall, and Zayn crawls in, pulling up the moth
eaten comforter to their shoulders even though it’s warm enough without it. It
feels like some sort of protection. Harry knows better than to point out that
monsters don’t hide in closets and under beds anymore, they exist out in the
open, even in the room down the hall. Zayn knows without him needing to say
anything.
 
“How was it?” Harry whispers, and Zayn sighs heavily, brutal and wary. “Where’d
you end up?”
 
“What, you asking about boroughs, or whether or not I ended up on my stomach in
the back of someone’s range rover tonight?” Zayn asks, his smile bitter. He
doesn’t wait for Harry’s answer, instead jutting his chin and saying, “I kept
‘round Victoria.”
 
“Close to me,” Harry says, pressing his fingertips up to the soft skin
underneath Zayn’s eye.
 
He closes his eyes for a moment, “Yeah. Course. It was your first day out, I
wanted to make sure.”
 
“You shouldn’t have,” he argues, “Don’t wanna keep you from hitting.”
 
“I did, don’t be out of sorts,” Zayn dismisses, his mouth moving around Harry’s
hand, teeth nibbling gently on his knuckle. “I even made extra.”
 
“Yeah? Marcus let you keep it?” Harry sneaks his cold toes against Zayn’s calf.
Zayn’s not wearing sleep pants, just boxers, probably the black pair Harry
knows he owns. If Harry’s feet are uncomfortably cold, he doesn’t let on.
 
“Yeah,” Zayn whispers, nudging his nose into Harry’s neck, his mouth a hot wet
vacuum on his skin. “After he made me give him all the dope I got from one of
the punters.”
 
Harry grips the messy tuft of hair on Zayn’s nape as he arches up closer into
his space, pressing Zayn’s mouth further into his neck as if they could fuse
into one. “You shouldn’t be doin’ it anyway. Stay away from it.”
 
“Kitten,” Zayn sighs against his skin, and Harry wants to push him away for
using that name, something johns used to call Harry when Marcus would bring
them to his room, before he was renamed Haz. But Zayn doesn’t say it with
malice, but with a sweet, sad, condescending tone to his voice, like Harry just
doesn’t understand.
 
He does though. Harry does understand. He’s watched Zayn go from bedroom boy to
street boy, strolling for punters, getting into cars with strangers. He’s
watched as the light left his eyes until he was all pupil, all sadness. Hope
was a candle inside of Zayn, pressed out and smothered.
 
Zayn kisses Harry then, tasting like cigarette, nothing Harry isn’t used to. He
is bone structure, beauty, and hungry, sunken eyes. Harry wonders if he looks
much the same, if Zayn can sense the begging in his fingers as they grapple at
Zayn’s t-shirt.
 
It feels like a treat being touched like this, because it’s something Harry’s
never known outside of this thing with Zayn. Zayn asks and doesn’t push and
doesn’t touch to hurt. Harry tries to do much the same, to respect boundaries.
He’s not sure what they are, how to kiss and not brace himself for the bite,
how to ask for things. He is a product for consumption, a body for use. But
Zayn makes him feel like more than that.
 
Maybe it’s because Zayn sees the world the same way. The way they are with each
other, safe and quiet. It makes Harry feel like he’s getting back at Marcus and
all the men that touch him like he’s something dirty and needs to be thrown out
with the morning bins. He is not trash. Someone does want him.
 
Harry presses his fingers into Zayn’s back, rolling him on top, making his
hipbones poke into Harry’s stomach where they settle. Zayn bends his knees,
bringing one up between Harry’s legs and pressing down on his groin.
 
“You smell like other people,” Zayn says, tongue drawing a circle around
Harry’s belly button.
 
“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly, fingers threading through Zayn’s hair, feeling
the leftover styling wax on his skin.
 
“No,” Zayn returns roughly, leaning over Harry, brushing curls out of his face,
“Don’t you ever be sorry for what you are.”
 
Zayn brings Harry off with a saliva-slicked palm, first ghosting over his
boxer-briefs and then dipping inside to feel smooth skin. Harry is embarrassed
that he hasn’t showered, that his dick is tacky from where a punter asked to
come over his hips, but Zayn doesn’t say anything, just kisses the side of
Harry’s face and makes him come, makes his toes curl up. He’s had six clients
tonight, which is about average for Harry, and he hadn’t orgasmed a single
time. What he does isn’t about that. It’s never about that.
 
“Let me touch you, too,” Harry whispers as he reaches for Zayn, voice wrecked
from earlier. But Zayn pushes Harry’s hands away, nodding his cheek into the
lumpy pillow they share. He digs around Harry’s bed for a wet wipe, sweeps it
around his stomach and between his thighs, cleaning Harry up like he’s a child,
and Harry would be embarrased, is embarrassed, except that he’s also grateful.
 
“I’m not in the mood to be touched,” Zayn murmurs and Harry falls quiet,
respecting that. He wishes they had that right all the time. That sort of
freedom feels like a faraway dream. Harry nods, curling closer into Zayn,
bringing his knees up and folding them in between them to keep his feet warm.
 
“Wake me up before you go tomorrow, please,” Harry whispers, fingers tucked in
Zayn’s clenched palm. He looks up, squinting at Zayn’s face in the dark, but
he’s already asleep.
 
-
 
Harry sleeps most of the morning, Zayn wrapped tightly around him, chin tucked
over Harry’s head. He feels greasy and terrible when he wakes, rolling Zayn off
of him and tiptoeing down the hall to the toilet. Mira is making a terrible
racket in the kitchen, but she’s only yelling at the telly, and Alexandre is
laughing; Harry imagines his big belly jiggling as he guffaws.
 
He pushes open the door to find Danny washing his face, eyes tired and glassy.
“Haz,” he nods, “Alright?”
 
Harry nods, “I need a shower and a piss, Danny.”
 
“Course,” Danny nods dumbly, and Harry glances at the purple bruises on the
insides of Danny’s elbows, the cut over his eye. Danny doesn’t mind, just
clears out his mess out of the sink, stopping the water and drying his face on
an old shirt. “Cheers.”
 
Danny and Zayn used to be like brothers. They’re not anymore.
 
There’s a broken needle in the toilet, and Harry tries to fish it out without
touching the stink inside of the bowl, stained with blood and old shit. He
manages alright, flushing until it doesn’t reek and pissing quickly. The lock
has been broken on the door for ages, so he jams it up with a broom Mira broke
over Zayn’s knee once. It makes a good stopper though. The shower is lukewarm
but Harry doesn’t care, shrugging out of his clothes and washing as quickly as
he can. He shivers, can’t help it, but washes his hair with the soap he and
Freya share, feeling immediately better.
 
“Oi!” Jade pounds on the door, “Five minutes, then I swear I’m kicking it
down!”
 
Alexandre yells at her from the front room and she quiets a moment later. Harry
feels the stutter in his heart as he hurries, washing between his legs and bum,
bending over to make sure he’s clean, the water making the scratches on the
undersides of his thighs burn.
 
He’s not sure what kind of morning it is, if there are punters already inside
the house, or if Marcus is waiting until later to let them in. Mira seems to be
directing her anger only towards the television so far, and Alexandre only
likes the girls, uses them as picks for between his teeth whenever he feels the
urge. Harry doesn’t want to put his dirty clothes back on, but he doesn’t want
to risk going out into the hall with only a towel.
 
He brushes his teeth and tries to finger comb through his curls, unruly and wet
as they drip onto his shoulders.
 
Footsteps sound a moment later, and then comes a quiet knock on the door; Harry
opens it to find Zayn’s sleepy face blinking at him. He looks exhausted, but
unharmed. He smiles.
 
“You’re all clean, are you,” Zayn teases, plucking Harry’s toothbrush from him
and sticking it in his mouth. “Smell nice.”
 
“Yeah,” Harry nods, “ Freya n’ me, we split a bottle of shampoo last week to
share.”
 
“She’s got more hair than you, Hazza,” Zayn says, tapping the toothbrush on the
ledge and spitting. “How’s that fair?”
 
Harry shrugs, doesn’t care. He gestures his thumb outside into the hall. “Walk
me back.”
 
“No one’s going to try and fuck with you,” Zayn furrows his brow, but Harry
doesn’t relent until Zayn’s walking in front of him, one of Harry’s hands
clutching his towel closed and the other holding the hem of Zayn’s sleep shirt.
Upon reaching the room, Zayn closes the door behind them and Harry drops his
towel, searching for clothes in his corner of the room.
 
“You look thin,” Zayn remarks, striding across the room to prop open their
window. Zayn’s mattress is bare from where it’s been stripped, presumably by
Danny, who crashed there last. Danny’s mattress is propped up against the wall
to block out the light, which Zayn rectifies a moment later, kicking laundry
out of the way before letting it fall down on the ground, allowing some light
into the room.
 
“Yeah, well,” Harry supplies, because he’s got no other explanation for it. He
feels like he might be sick, he’s so hungry, but it’s something he’s grown
accustomed to. “Marcus hadn’t told Mira that I’m allowed a meal in the
evenings, but now he has, so.”
 
Zayn looks over at Harry critically. “If you earn more, you can buy your own
food.”
 
Harry frowns, queasy at the thought of being with more than six punters a day.
“I don’t think I can take any more. I don’t think I…”
 
“Yeah, forget I said that, it’s shit,” he shakes his head, coming to sit down
next to Harry, fingers pushing wet curls back from his forehead. Harry slips
into a clean pair of pants and a long sleeve shirt with a hole in the elbow.
His other pair of jeans are tucked between his mattress and the wall, still
clean from the last time he, Zayn, and Jesy went to the laundromat in
Shepherd's Bush.
 
“Look, you and me, we can pool together what we have and split the meals,” Zayn
figures, but Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t want to owe Zayn anything. Zayn
is the only person Harry doesn’t owe, and he wants to keep it that way.
 
“No, I don’t want to do that,” Harry dismisses, laying down on the bed to slide
his jeans on, noticing now the way they slip on easily without any resistance,
a thumb’s worth of a gap between his zip and his waist where he pulls at them.
“I’m fine, Freya and me share breakfast, then I eat at Gregg’s mostly for
sausage roll, or - “
 
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten then?” Zayn pokes at him.
 
Harry is proud to say, “Last night before bed,” his chin jutting.
 
He feels Zayn’s sigh rather than hear it. “Alright. But you tell me, Haz. You
tell me when Marcus shorts you. You’re all I got, kid. You’re the last good
thing.”
 
-
 
The sun is high in the sky and the sweat collects on the back of Harry’s neck
underneath his hair. Jade is sitting criss-cross on the small cracked patio
they have in the back garden, painting her toenails. Harry is elbow deep in
soap suds, stacking clean dishes on the side of the counter. He’d been given
the kitchen to clean from Mira, who had handed him the rest of her cigarette
and refrained from hitting him with her spoon.
 
Harry watches as Jesy hangs wet lingerie on the line for it to dry, her legs
shiny from the coconut oil she rubs on them to help her tan. He can smell Freya
before he sees her as she comes up behind him, their shared shampoo thick in
his nostrils as her hair drapes over his shoulder.
 
“‘Azza” she murmurs, kissing his ear. “Thank you.”
 
She doesn’t specify why, perhaps she can’t yet. Harry doesn’t need her to
anyway, just accepts the couple of strawberries she gives him from a plastic
Tesco carton. Alexandre must have gone shopping. Freya’s lips are blood red,
her fingers sweet as she drags them over his lips once, giggling. She must be
his age, or possibly younger.
 
They all sit in the house and stir about lazily, anxious and waiting for night
to fall. Alexandre watches the door like a guard dog, eyeing them all without
much intent. Harry tries to keep out of his line of sight as he always does. It
isn’t until late afternoon, and Harry’s been staring at the shadows that cast
from his window for the past hour, that front door slams.
 
He peeks his head out and catches a glimpse of Danny and Ant. They’re laughing,
pooling a bunch of small containers on the counter as they sit and start to
dole it into correct  amounts and into little baggies, Ant rolling up a bill
and snorting a line. Alexandre follows suit. They sound like hyenas they way
they laugh, barking and predatory, and then Jade comes inside to see the
commotion, getting roped into their chaos like a girl caught fire.
 
Harry shuffles into the bathroom, hoping for some privacy, but Freya is sat on
the floor, leaning against the lip of the tub, a tourniquet around her skinny
arm. She smiles at Harry, eyes half closed. He listens to the noise outside, a
ravenous crowd with no entertainment and he sighs, sitting down next to Freya
and leaning against her. She stiffens against him for a moment before reaching
over, running her fingers through his hair.
 
She whispers something in Ukrainian and then lets out an exhale that sounds
almost like a dry sob, leaning against the lip of the tub and closing her eyes.
Harry watches the sink drip above them.
 
-
 
Marcus sends him out without giving him something to eat, demanding he hit
higher tonight. Harry takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he walks
through St. James again, Big Ben lit up in the night sky, a golden beacon.
 
He’s not sure how he’s supposed to get more without asking for more, and he’s
never done that before. Marcus always sets his prices, tells him what to do,
tells him when he’s done good. Harry feels separate from his body, trying to
sell something door to door that he doesn’t even know the value of. It’s not a
good feeling.
 
He doesn’t stand outside the pub again, even though it had been easier once the
night had started to roll on the previous night. Zayn had advised against it,
telling him that he didn’t want to draw too much attention. Regulars were never
good when you were on the street, because you didn’t want men like that knowing
where your spots were.
 
Zayn had perfected the art of becoming smoke because he had no flame left
inside of him. He tells these things to Harry to protect him. Harry knows this,
but instead he feels a little put out each time, the sun in the mornings always
a little less bright. It’s as if the world dims with the new day’s dawning.
 
His first pull is behind a Nandos and he asks for sixty, near surprised when he
receives it without much of a fight. He’s a nice looking lad, this punter, if
Harry could look at him correctly, but the man pushes Harry onto his knees,
pressing him into the concrete of the restaurant wall, and Harry opens his
mouth, waiting perfectly still.
 
His neck is sore from the angle, but there’s no real damage and Harry lingers
down another alley, pulling his jumper over his fingers, wiping at his runny
nose. The chill of the evening is picking up, and it goes through Harry like it
doesn’t even have to try.
 
A car tails him as he ambles down a side street through St. James,and he
pauses, eyes flashing when he turns to stare into the headlights. He can’t see
the driver, of course, with the light in his eyes like this, but he takes his
chances. Maybe it’ll be a slow evening and this is all Harry will end up
getting. Marcus wants him to hit higher than he had before.
 
The window rolls down and Harry leans in. The man looks like he’s in his
forties, white, wedding ring. He’s driving a beamer. Harry licks his lips when
he asks for two hundred; the man doesn’t even blink, and Harry almost laughs to
himself, sad and giddy when he crawls in.
 
In the midst of Harry bending over the leather seat, bum high in the air, the
rich punter grabs his hips so hard he feels they might pop out of place,
slapping his bum hard enough for Harry to feel the burn several minutes after.
He does it again and again and Harry leans on his aching wrists and scabby
knees, rigid and unable to move.
 
“Take it, fucker,” the man demands, his voice taunting and horrid in Harry’s
ear; he smells like steak dinner and chips and it only serves to makes him
hungry. Harry does as he says and takes it, shivering against the breath down
his spine, sick with himself. He takes it. He takes it.
 
Harry stumbles out of the car holding the money tightly to his chest and
pushing it into the pocket of his jumper, holding it firmly behind his fingers.
His bum is stiff and hot like a fresh sun burn and he tries not to walk with
his thighs too close together. The man had worn a lubricated condom. Harry
counts his blessings and moves on with the night.
 
He’s hit top goal before one in the morning, his jaw slack, and he trips
through St. James again, crossing by the pub he hung round the night before.
It’s closed up, it’s windows blacked out. There’s a boy outside, locking up. He
turns to look at Harry, his jean jacket pulled up around his neck.
 
“Hiya,” the boy says slowly, and he rubs the scruff on his cheeks as he squints
at Harry. “Alright?”
 
“Yeah, sorry,” Harry murmurs, flushing when he realises he was staring. He
shoves past, trying to disappear into the darkness.
 
“No, wait,” a hand reaches out to grab at Harry and he shrieks without meaning
to, skittering backwards, arm flying out in defense. His other hand clutches
tightly at the wad of money in his jumper, his face heating.
 
He expects a punch, a kick, something to encompass him and distract him, but
when he braves a look all he sees is mirrored fright. The boy is standing there
with his hands up in what appears to be either defense or an apology, and his
eyes are fixed on Harry’s face, not the bundle in his pocket.
 
“Shit, sorry mate,” the bloke says, wide eyes catching light from the street
lamp. “I didn’t - I’m sorry.”
 
“Are you going to mug me?” Harry blurts, breathing heavy. “I don’t have
anything.”
 
“What?” his voice is littered with surprise and he shakes his head, “No. You
looked upset, I thought maybe - “
 
He stops then, smiles ruefully and looks around as he twirls the keys in his
hands. Harry watches him, waiting for a sudden movement, a plan of attack.
“Look, I’m sorry for scaring you. Can I buy you a cuppa?”
 
“What? It’s - nothing is open,” Harry says, skirting around the word No. He
should say it. He should say No and then run. Say it. Say it.
 
“Nonsense. There’s a Caffe Nero down the street that’s open ‘til 2,” the boy
presses on, and Harry feels himself shuffle, standing taller.
 
“I don’t know you,” his words feel like putty on his tongue. “I don’t know your
name.”
 
“Louis,” he supplies easily, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Like the Kings.
I’m sorry - again. Nevermind. I’ll let you go.”
 
Turn around, a voice nudges Harry. Run home. But Harry says, “No, that sounds
good. I’m tired.”
 
“Aren’t we all?” Louis smiles, teeth white and glowing in the darkness of the
alley. He has a smile only money and orthodontia can give you, and Harry walks
beside him with a few metres distance, watching the way he moves. He feels
apprehensive of himself, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is a
different kind of fear. This is a different kind of stranger.
 
A haggard looking barista serves them and Harry looks down at the rusted blood
on his trainers from a split lip a few months ago, the dirt underneath his
fingernails. He suddenly wants to turn away and hide his face from the bright
light, pressing his nose into his collar and searching for a scent. He hopes he
still smells like the shampoo from this morning, but knows he probably reeks of
filthy hands and strange sweat.
 
They sit, Harry facing the door, Louis with his back to the front entrance.
Harry sips an americano while Louis watches him over the rim of his breakfast
tea. Finally Harry says, “Do you do this a lot?”
 
Louis looks around. “What?”
 
“Pick up strangers from the alley, take them out,” Harry can’t help but
smiling, and he covers it with the sleeve of his sweater, dirty fingers tucked
into his palm so Louis won’t see.
 
“No,” Louis laughs, “D’you?”
 
Harry stills for a moment, thinking. Then he shakes his head, giggling, “No.”
 
“You’ve not even given me a name,” Louis says a moment later, stirring milk
into his tea after it’s cooled substantially. “Come on then. It’s only fair as
you have mine.”
 
“Haz,” Harry supplies, “Quite brutish, in comparison to Louis.”
 
“Not t’all,” he argues, smiling. “I like it.”
 
Harry feels insecure and free at the same time under Louis’ smile, his clear
blue eyes, now apparent in the orange light of the cafe, the way he looks at
Harry and watches his mouth when he speaks.
 
It feels like time has slowed down, the two of them the last to be served.
Louis arms are folded on the table, his interest obvious. Harry has half a mind
to turn away, to leave, but he doesn’t. He stays. It must mean something. Harry
needs it to mean something. He doesn’t feel so scared underneath Louis’ gaze.
 
It’s not hunger, Harry recognises a moment later. Louis is not staring at him
like he’s something to be eaten. Harry feels unsure at this realisation,
nervous about what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. He taps his foot, pushes his
curls out of his face.
 
Louis reaches out to grab Harry’s hand then, soft padded fingers running over
the black scabs on Harry’s knuckles. Harry flinches, yanking them out of his
grip and shoving them underneath his armpit.
 
“Sorry,” Louis mouths, his eyes soft. Harry bites his lip. “I just - were you
in a fight?”
 
“No, of course not,” Harry smiles then, sighing, but he keeps his hand between
his ribs and his bicep, away from the table. “Fell cycling. Scraped a few
fingers.”
 
“Sounds positively thrilling,” Louis teases and Harry flushes, looking down at
his dirty, embarrassing shoes. “Come on, we’re about to get tossed out.”
 
The air is a bitter reminder of the trip Harry has to make home. He shrugs into
his holey jumper, haunches drawn up around his neck. He nods uselessly to Louis
as they stand outside the Caffe Nero, feeling unsure and stupid.
 
“Well, I didn’t expect my night to turn out like this,” Louis shrugs, but he
doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with the unexpected turn, from what Harry
can surmise. “Thanks for indulging me in a late night talk.”
 
“Sure,” Harry mutters, “Thank you. Um, for the coffee.”
 
“Course,” Louis winks, “Is it incredibly stupid for me to ask for your mobile?”
 
Harry laughs, he can’t help it. Look at me, he can imagine himself telling Zayn
later, I’m a real boy now. They’d giggle about it on their thin mattress, duvet
pulled up to their chins, a draft trailing over their foreheads. It’s funny
because it’s not true, and it won’t ever be true.
 
“Don’t have one, sorry,” he excuses, and Louis does a exaggerated double take.
 
“What? How can you not have a - “ Louis stops himself then, “Well. I work at
The Abbey - the pub you saw me locking up, obviously. So drop by whenever you
like.”
 
“Why?” Harry asks bluntly, “Do you like me or something?”
 
Louis barks out a surprised laugh, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? There’s just
something about you. Plus, you’re fit. And fearlessly honest, I guess, too.”
 
Harry can’ tell if he’s lying or just taking the piss so he doesn't say
anything, just nods, chewing on his thumbnail. Louis smiles then, ducking to
look at his feet like they’re suddenly interesting. It’s not tense or awkward,
just quiet.
 
“Okay,” Harry says finally, “I’ll come round. See you.”
 
He thinks about Louis and the way he looked the entire bus ride home. His arms
were taut with muscle and tanned, and he had athletic looking legs, like he
played footie or ran. His face was thin, a little sharp, but healthy and flush
with colour, his blue eyes lit up. Harry never stood a chance, and he should
have left him in that alley before it ever even got this far. He doesn’t have
to see Louis again, he knows; it’s the one thing in the universe that isn’t
forced upon him, and still.
 
He remembers his lie, told so easily without even a thought, garnished with a
light laugh. Harry had asked, do you pick up people on the street like this all
the time? Because he does, and a small buried part of him wanted to know if
Louis did, too.
 
-
 
It’s tense when he returns to the house in Hammersmith. Jesy is crying in the
front room, her mouth bleeding, and Alexandre is yelling, his hand clutching
something above her head. Mira is nowhere to be found, but Harry doesn’t risk
sneaking into the kitchen for something to eat even though he feels like his
stomach might shrivel up into itself if he doesn’t eat soon.
 
He thinks about who else is left: Danny and Ant are probably still out selling,
sticking around club venues until three or four. Zayn is still out, from what
Harry can tell. Jade and Freya have customers in their rooms. Harry can hear
them as he moves down the hall into Marcus’ room.
 
He feels like his time with Louis is as obvious as a rash across his face,
spelling out exactly what he did when he enters the room. Marcus is sitting
behind his desk, drinking out of a flowery purple plastic cup that is clearly
not his. Harry can smell the vodka from here, cheap like drain unblocker.
 
“Hi,” Harry says, hand flapping uselessly. Despite the commotion outside,
Marcus is languid and quiet, smiling over the lip of his cup as he gestures at
Harry to come nearer. Harry comes hither, standing in front of Marcus with his
ankles pressed together. He pulls the wad of notes out of his pocket and
thrusts them towards Marcus.
 
Harry watches him count, Marcus licking his thumb in between shuffling the
cash. “Knew you’d hit,” Marcus says, pocketing the money again. “Didn’t go
over, though.”
 
No, Harry shakes his head. He chews on his lip. “I’m hungry. I haven’t had
lunch.”
 
“And why is that?” Marcus shrugs, disinterestedly. Harry shifts his weight on
to his other leg.
 
“Ran out of money,” he murmurs, watching Marcus through his lashes. “Didn’t
have any food.”
 
“Kitten, you don’t get anything if you don’t speak up,” Marcus scolds, pulling
Harry onto his lap and petting his hair, stinking of old nicotine and vodka,
his breath hot and unbearable on Harry’s cheek. “You want to help me out?”
 
He nods, looking away and slides off Marcus’ knee and onto the floor between
the vee of his legs.
 
Marcus laughs, pushing his shoulder and moving him away. “Slut for it,” he
grins, licking his lips. “A mate’s coming by, cutting me a good deal. You’re
going to thank him for me.”
 
It triggers a memory in Harry, the way Marcus says the words thank him and
deal, reminding Harry of when he was fourteen and Marcus said he could pay back
the rent he owed if slept with one of his mates. It’s a deal, this way. Fair
and square, he’d said. You’ll thank me for this.
 
“Okay,” he finds himself nodding, and Marcus rubs a wet, hot thumb over his
cheekbone, drunk and sweet with him.
 
“Good boy,” Marcus says. He pulls Harry up, pours him a drink from a Smirnoff
bottle, passing it to him. “Drink,” he motions to Harry, “All of it.”
 
The room is spinning by the time Harry manages crawls to his bed. He shuffles
out of his jeans, folding them between the mattress and the wall and rifling
around drunkenly for a condom in his corner. The half moon is battling with the
street lamp in Harry’s neighbourhood, shining through his window. Ant’s pushed
the mattress up against the wall again.
 
His stomach hurts, empty but for the coffee and alcohol Marcus fed him, barely
allowing him to get a breath. He waits quietly with his hand on the flat of his
stomach, staring at the ceiling and listening to his own breathing.
 
The door creaks open and he waits. Marcus’ mate is someone Harry recognises as
Adam because he used to ask for Zayn when Zayn was Harry’s age. He’s tall and
redhaired, balding, with bad teeth. He leers at Harry on the bed, closing the
door behind him, shutting out the light from the hall.
 
It could be worse. He could burn Harry, cut at him, rake his jagged dirty
fingernails into his skin until Harry bled. He could take Harry dry, tear at
him, force him without a condom. This is what Harry always tells himself: It
could be worse. Thank your blessings it isn’t.
 
He turns Harry over onto his stomach, holding the nape of his neck like he’s a
pup, pressing Harry’s face into the bedsheet. He struggles for a moment to
breathe, turning his cheek to the side and taking a breath. He wants to close
his eyes, but then he’s left vulnerable, relying only on  his other senses, so
he fixates on a crack in the wall to his right, tries to think of other things.
 
He wishes he was in a better frame of mind to float away and separate himself,
but he’s too drunk and his skin is sensitive and achy from earlier, dried come
flaking on the back of his thigh. Maybe that was Marcus’ intention in getting
him wasted, to cruelly make him stay present in the moment. They both know he
doesn’t need to be sedated any longer. He doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care
about anything.
 
Someone turns on music at some point, but all Harry can feel is the sweat
sliding down the canyon of his back and heavy panting in his ear, like a
thirsty animal. Adam wraps a hand around his neck, but Harry doesn’t protest
it, doesn’t even flinch. Someone starts to yell, a glass breaks.
 
The peaceful silence Harry felt earlier with Louis is now far away; the way it
was comfortable and quiet and Harry could almost see his own breath when he
exhaled. He tries to picture Louis’ face then, in the light of the cafe, then
again shadowed by the alley when he had offered an apology.
 
Everything about the night starts to escape him, far away, out of reach, the
ugliness of the truth shining through and overpowering anything good.
 
-
 
Later, he’s puking in the back garden, stomach emptying out the alcohol and
stomach acid. He holds his knees together, trembling, head pounding. He knows
his eyes are watering but he doesn’t care. Snot runs freely down his nose and
over his lip.
 
The grass is overgrown and it tickles his bare legs, crouched behind the house
in the dirty pit beside the patio in just his pants and an old zip hoodie.
 
“Shit,” someone says behind him, and Harry doesn’t have to turn around to know
it’s Zayn. He’s holding a cigarette to his mouth but not quite touching,
staring at Harry. “What happened, Haz?”
 
Harry spits, wipes his mouth. “M’sick.”
 
“Yeah,” Zayn says softly, like he’s trying to be aloof and smile but can’t
quite manage it. “Everything besides that?”
 
“I need something to eat,” Harry says, pushing his sweaty curls back from his
cold face, “I didn’t want to ask you, but I can’t…” his voice dies in faltered,
broken panic as he shivers. “I’m hungry.”
 
“You said Marcus figured that out,” Zayn whispers angrily, hushed. Smoke
funnels out of the side of his mouth, and Harry looks up to a furrowed brow and
a frown. “Fucking hell.”
 
“He said I need to speak up,” he excuses, shuffling away from his puke, hoping
there won’t be another wave of nausea, “I do ask. I tell him. But he forgets,
okay, and I don’t want to -“
 
“I know,” Zayn interrupts him, herding him back into the house, through the
kitchen and towards their bedroom. Ant is passed out on the couch, the
television blaring. “You need a shower. You fucking reek.”
 
“Shut up,” Harry snaps, turning around while he stalks to the toilet to glare
at Zayn. “I know I do. Fuck.”
 
Zayn closes the door behind them, crowding up into Harry’s space, chin jutting.
“Look,” he mutters under his breath like an apology, “it was rough night. Take
your kit off.”
 
Harry does as Zayn fiddles the shower head, leaning against the sink counter
and lighting a fag, smoke pilfering with the weak steam. Harry shivers under
the lukewarm spray, scowling at Zayn for no other reason than he feels fucking
awful. His head aches, even with the cool water against his forehead. He
washes, fingers gentle between his thighs and arse, softly touching the bite
marks on the back of legs.
 
He sees Zayn wince, decides to ignore it. Zayn hands him a towel and then the
shirt off his own back, gesturing with it. “It’s clean,” he says, “Put it on
when I got back.”
 
It smells like him, cigarettes and weed and his aftershave, something fresh and
salty. Harry slips it on, letting it fall to his hips as he ties the towel
around his waist. He takes the toothbrush from Zayn, poking him in the chest
with it, near one of his tattoos.
 
Zayn noses at his wet, soppy hair as Harry watches them in the mirror; the
dingy bathroom light making their skin look sallow and flat. There are bags
underneath Harry’s eyes, but no bruises, his green eyes dull and lifeless. He
feels Zayn kiss the back of his neck, an apology. What he’s specifically saying
sorry for, Harry doesn’t know, and he doesn’t much care.
 
“Bed, Hazza,” Zayn prods at him, walking together in the hall until they reach
their room. Harry shuffles in, but not before he catches a glimpse of Marcus at
the end of the hall, observing quietly, a phantom on the wall.
 
Harry strips his sheet and spreads out his duvet, folding it halfway so they
can roll under it like a sleeping bag. Zayn produces half a Sainsbury’s ham and
cheese sandwich from his rucksack, handing it over. Harry looks at it, then at
him.
 
Zayn seems to know what he’s thinking. “You don’t owe me anything for it,” he
shakes his head.
 
“That’s not how it works,” he finds himself whining. He pushes it away. “I
don’t want it.”
 
“Bullshit, you don’t,” Zayn curses, “take it.”
 
“No,” Harry protests, stubborn, though he feels his eyes unable to move away
from it, still tucked in the original triangle sandwich box. Zayn throws it at
him, the corner of it hitting him in the chest. He considers it again, then
relents. “For a deal.”
 
“I don’t want to deal,” he retorts, voice flat. “Stop arguing with me and
fucking eat it.”
 
He can feel that Zayn isn’t going to relent on this, so he takes the sandwich
and gingerly peels back the film, the bread still squishy underneath his
fingertips. Zayn is watching him, his eyes opal black, shiny in the dark as he
watches Harry, waiting.
 
The half sandwich appeases the sudden urgency, but only serves to make him more
hungry, abdomen cramping as he lays down, wiping crumbs from his mouth. Zayn
lies down next to him, pulling the corner of the duvet over them and tucking it
behind his shoulder.
 
“If making a hit means more food, Haz, then you have to hit more,” Zayn says
firmly, but there isn’t any anger apparent in his expression when Harry looks
over, just sadness and helplessness. “You’ll be starvin’, otherwise.
Malnourished.”
 
“I won’t. Marcus promised,” he whispers, but his words feel empty even to him.
 
“Marcus only cares about what you bring him,” Zayn reminds him, “The money. Not
you. He doesn’t care about you.”
 
It’s sacrilege of Zayn to speak this way about the only man who ever bothered
to take them in, Zayn from a drug addled foster family in debt; Harry, a hungry
runaway. No one looks twice at kids like them, ugly and poor, but Marcus did,
gave them a roof over their heads and some clothes. He even told Harry he loved
him. Told Harry he’d take care of him.
 
It’s the first memory of this life Harry can really remember; of course there
are pieces of his life before, but that seems like another lifetime now. Traces
so faint he has to squint to see them inside his brain, like flashes of a dream
he’s trying to recall but fails to grasp anything.
 
Zayn is smart, smarter than Harry, and he’d been by Marcus since before Harry
showed up, so Harry doesn’t protest it. Instead he snuggles into Zayn’s side,
his stomach rumbling, his temple throbbing from the evening’s proceedings.
 
He looks over Zayn’s shoulder to stare at the light coming in from the small
part of the window not obstructed by the mattress; the light of the street
lamp, having beaten out the moon, bathes their room in black and gold.
 
-
 
Harry seeks him out. He doesn’t mean to, except that he completely means to,
circles around The Abbey while he’s supposed to be looking for punters, seeking
out that familiar head of tousled hair, a jean jacket, black Vans.
 
He’s distracted and careless, not paying attention to what he’s doing. Harry
can’t help checking and double checking for any sign of Louis, too young and
too obvious to enter the pub himself. It’s half-eleven and a Thursday, which
means that while it’s busy, he should still close up at regular time.
 
There’s ground to be covered, and he should be on the other side of Victoria
Street, not hiding around the EAT bakery like someone who preys on young men.
The thought occurs to him before he can stop it, and he giggles in a fit of
irony.
 
He sucks a guy off for fifty quid, forgetting that’s supposed to ask for more
so he can hit more, completely disregarding Zayn’s earlier advice. He spits,
wiping his mouth, wishing he had gum or something so he doesn’t see Louis with
the taste of come on his tongue. It’s one thing to have spunk in his hair
around Zayn, but it’s an entirely different, horrific image to think about
being around Louis in the same condition.
 
He recognizes him immediately when he spots him, even with his back facing
Harry. Louis’ dressed in all black with a zip hoodie this time, not the jean
jacket that Harry’d assumed he’d be wearing. He forgets that most people rotate
clothes more often than he’s able to. Harry looks down at his jeans with the
holes in the knees, his holey jumper he wears every evening. He can picture
Zayn cuffing him over the head gently, saying that’s the least of our problems,
Hazza.
 
The thought makes him smile. Louis crosses the street, waving, eyes lit like
there’s a fire beneath them. “Hey!” he calls excitedly.
 
Harry waves too, fingers tucked around the outstretched sleeves of his jumper.
They start to walk without really discerning where they’re going, but Harry
knows they’re heading towards Westminster, Big Ben a long golden statue against
the navy fabric of the sky.
 
“How’ve you been, then?” Louis asks conversationally, his voice quiet and
sounding slightly scratchy, like he’s got a cold. He seems tired, but happy,
his mouth quirked into a small smile as they walk. “Didn’t come in and see me.”
 
“No,” Harry says abruptly, not sure whether it will scare Louis away if he
knows Harry is seventeen. “I’ve been okay. Busy.”
 
“Yeah?” Louis nods, “I remember. My A levels were a fright.”
 
“Right,” Harry agrees noncommittally. “I’ve got myself a Saturday job, too. So,
I’m. Busy.”
 
“That’s alright, then.” They start to approach South Bank territory, Louis
directing them to Millenium Bridge. Harry begins to smell the river. “It’s
probably cliche to say it, but this is one of my favorite parts of the city.”
 
He’s says it in a way that makes Harry believe it, even if he doesn’t agree.
Louis will continue liking it, and Harry finds something revolutionary in that.
Freeing, like whatever he says won’t determine the immediate outcome. He’s just
stating an opinion. It makes Harry feel stupidly fond.
 
“No,” he says honestly, even though it’s probably one of the most famous areas
in London, if not the most. “People visit it for a reason, don’t they?”
 
They walk on towards the middle of the bridge, Harry wheezing slightly from
climbing all the stairs, fingers pressing in between two of his ribs, easing a
stitch. “Yeah, that’s true. I think what I like most though is coming here when
it’s emptier, when it’s darker, when you can see it without being distracted or
caught up in the crowds.”
 
They stare out at the water for a bit, black and impassive and probably deep.
Harry feels an irrational strike of fear just staring at it. Louis knocks him
out of his reverie a second later, shaking his head and smiling.
 
“You hungry?” Louis asks, nudging Harry softly in his side.
 
“Yes,” he answers without thought, stomach grumbling. He wonders how much it
will cost him, until he realises that Louis has no idea about him, what he
does, and was just offering to offer. It makes Harry want to pin him against
the railing, threaten to throw him off, demand the truth of him. What do you
want from me, he imagines asking, I’m not good for anything else.
 
They end up back near the Southbank centre at the Wahaca food truck, Louis
insisting that he pay for both of their burritos, and they sit where there’s a
book fair being held. Harry’s never seen it before, but Louis says it happens
almost everyday, so he believes it to be true. It’s just that easy.
 
Harry tries not to eat too quickly, doesn’t want his meal to be finished just
yet. He watches Louis when he speaks, rice on his fingers when he wipes his
mouth, eyes crinkling when he laughs. Harry’s never seen someone with a smile
so contagious. He must’ve swallowed a light bulb as a kid, his teeth wattage
worthy.
 
“Fuck,” Louis says when he checks his phone later, after they’ve walked nearly
an entire loop around St. Margaret’s Cathedral, the neighbourhoods absent and
stark. The chill is starting to set in. Harry should be getting home, but he’s
not earned enough, he knows. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m going
to need to get the next bus back.”
 
“Yeah, course,” Harry nods dumbly, the reality of his situation starting to set
in. He feels edgy, dragging his blunt nails across his wrist, itching with
nervous energy. “It’s probably late.”
 
“No,” Louis groans, coming to a stop underneath an empty, dark Pret. He seems
to be pouting. “I don’t want to go. But I’ve got an early - thing. It’s a long
story. But the short of it is, I’ve got to run. I don’t want to though. I want
to stay here, and walk you home, and kiss you goodnight.”
 
Harry flushes, shaking his head, “It’s okay,” he finds himself smiling
genuinely, “I understand.”
 
“Yeah?” Louis asks, hand through his hair. He blows upward at his fringe. “I
like you, Curly. Dunno why. You’re just…” he shrugs, looking off into the
distance. Harry bites his lip. “I like the way you are.”
 
“Thanks,” he murmurs shyly, and then looks up at Louis through his lashes,
“I’ll come see you then after work, yeah?”
 
Louis smiles again, blinding enough to make Harry blink, “Saturday night? Don’t
stand me up, Haz. I’m counting on you.”
 
He makes a move then, and Harry stands still, waiting. Louis presses his chin
up with gentle cup of his hand, his grin fading as he leans down to kiss him,
just a soft, dry press of their lips. Harry holds his breath, waiting for the
punchline. It never comes. Louis pulls away then, looks down between them. He
sighs and Harry blinks, licking his lips over the taste Louis left.
 
Harry watches as Louis walks down Victoria street, then jogs to catch up with a
bus. He stands there in the cold until Louis gets on the the doubledecker and
he watches as it becomes smaller, swallowed by the city, until it disappears
completely.
 
-
 
act ii.
 
He’s short a 100 pounds, but he’s expected back, and Harry is torn between
staying later and trying to find someone else who might be interested or going
back. It’s a sticky, internal wrestle as he circles around all the alleys and
neighbourhoods he’s memorised. It’s as if the streets have dried up, not even a
fox in sight.
 
Harry feels the prickle of panic, but he swallows it down, flagging for his bus
when it pulls to his stop. He curls up in the back as it takes him back towards
West London, his fist in his mouth. He bites down, breaking a scab on his
knuckle, tasting the skin and the salt, licking at the little bit of blood that
surfaces. It’s choking, the anxiety, the way it crawls up inside of him and
gnaws at his insides. Poison, that anxiety, the way it creeps in, settles deep
within him, lighting his limbs on fire until all he can do is twitch in his
seat.
 
He can taste his own fear pressing down on his tongue, threatening to choke
him.
 
-
 
When you don’t hit on a given night, the paradigm shifts. Harry watches for
every shadow as he walks up the small front garden, the gate swinging behind
him and snapping against the fence, making him flinch. Even common noises are
shocking. His stomach is in knots.
 
Hiding only serves to makes it worst in the end; Harry has seen it enough to
know. As he enters, he can feel eyes on him, watching him, waiting for the milk
to spill, but when he dares look through his periphery he can meet a single
pair of eyes. It’s like they know before he knows, preparing for bloodshed.
 
Danny is getting counted out when Harry pushes into Marcus’ room, his nose
bright red and irritated. He looks like he’s lost weight, gaunt with a grimace
disfiguring his face. Marcus counts, shuffles, counts again, then folds it away
in his front pocket. He pushes forward two bags of full of mdma and a bag of
coke, which Danny tucks under his arm, eyeing Harry as he lets himself out.
 
He doesn’t want to be here. For a stupid moment he wills himself to have more
money in his hand, fingers clenched and sweaty, wrist shaking when he
relinquishes his hit into Marcus’ flat, outstretched palm.
 
Marcus counts and Harry holds his breath. “There’s only 410 here,” he says
finally, looking up at Harry. “Where’s the other 90?”
 
“I didn’t make it,” Harry whispers, swallowing visibly, “I couldn’t - “
 
“Oh, Kitten,” Marcus sighs like he’s distraught by it, but Harry knows better,
and he backs away with his hands raised when Marcus stands up, folding the
money and tucking it out of sight. The first backhand is expected, and Harry
feels the shock of impact before steadying himself, trying to watch Marcus’
movements without making eye contact.
 
The second comes as a surprise, and Harry’s teeth snap, nearly biting through
his tongue. He is knocked backwards into the wall when Marcus pushes him
roughly, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact when it hits a chest of
drawers. It sears with pain a few seconds later, and Harry cries out, putting
his hands up.
 
“Don’t you try to protect yourself,” Marcus snarls, pulling at Harry’s curls
and snapping his head back, “You deserve this. You brought this on yourself.
You’re making me do this.”
 
He’s right, and Harry knows as he licks the front of his teeth, tasting blood
from his tongue, hot and salty. The grip on his hair is tight and
uncomfortable, bringing on a headache when he’s a hit again, this time just
above the cheekbone, his skin catching on Marcus’ ring. It’s close impact and
Harry’s whole head throbs with it, but he doesn’t try to escape Marcus’
clutches.
 
“I’m sorry,” he moans wetly. “I’m sorry, Marcus, I - “
 
"All you are is trash, yeah? They'd take one look at you and put you out with
the bloody bins. No one would fucking blink if you disappeared, d'ya
understand?” Harry flinches when Marcus releases his grip, wiping spit out of
his eye and pulling his fingers away to see blood on them. "I've given you
bloody everything you've asked for. No fucking respect for me."
 
Marcus pulls at his arm, not giving him a chance to stand up and drags him out
of the room. Harry nearly screams, his arm threatening to dislocate. Outside in
the hall there is no one is to be found. He doesn't expect anyone to be there;
when Marcus is angry he hides away like waiting for a storm to pass, counting
himself lucky for every time the hurricane isn't pointed in his direction. His
ears are ringing.
 
He's pushed into the room he shares with Ant and Zayn, Marcus' foot connecting
with the bottom of his ribcage. Harry rolls over, feeling nothing but the
prickly awareness of the pain that will seep into his side once he can regain
his composure. He curls up, not daring to look at Marcus.
 
"You are a good boy," his hushed voice sounds above his head, and Harry can
feel a hand in his curls, yanking it back, forcing Harry to look at him.
Marcus' face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his skin yellowed like
nicotine stained wallpaper. "I know you can be better."
 
Harry knows what will happen next. He whimpers, yanking himself away from
Marcus' grip, pushing himself back to the wall with the heels of his feet.
"Stop," he sputters, searching for mercy in Marcus' face. He swallows, mouth
saturated with his own blood. "Please."
 
Marcus unbuckles his belt.
 
-
 
"Fucking Christ, Hazza," Zayn mutters under his breath for the third time, face
fixed in a scowl. Harry doesn't say anything in response, focusing on the brunt
cold of the frozen peas he's holding to his face instead.
 
They're sitting out the cracked step in the back garden, Zayn smoking a spliff
and Harry still holding the frozen peas to his cheek. His jaw aches in a way
that makes him unable to clench it shut, so he sits there like a git with his
mouth wide open. It's quiet, save for the occasional shout from Mira in the
front room and the respective thump-thump of Jade's bed frame against the wall.
 
He's exhausted and sore, his head pounding with a headache that will not
subside. There's a sudden urge to cry, hurt welling up inside him like a
balloon, and he swallows against it, leaning into Zayn's side. His bony,
angular should has little to offer in the way of comfort, but Harry will take
it.
 
Zayn sighs heavily, weary of it all. Harry says, "Do you think, if we never met
Marcus, we still would've been mates?"
 
"Yes," Zayn answers without hesitation. He looks over to Harry, blowing smoke
out of his mouth. "Why?"
 
"Just imagining it, suppose. Me in year 13. You in uni. What course would you
have studied?"
 
Zayn considers this. "English. Or Journalism. I like reading."
 
"I know you do," he sighs. "My face hurts."
 
Zayn clucks his tongue, stubbing his spliff and standing up. "Come on. Bed, you
patsy."
 
Harry sags into his side as they creep through the kitchen and away from the
scornful eyes of Mira, seated on the sofa and push into the bedroom. Ant is
absent, as usual. Zayn slips his hands under Harry's vest, pushing it up and
off his shoulders. He noses at Harry's shoulder, his hands trailing down the
plains of his back.
 
Harry sniffles, chucking the peas on the floor. "I still owe you. If you want."
 
Zayn shakes his head, pulling his own shirt off and tossing it. "You don't. Get
in bed. You're a right mess, Haz."
 
Harry is in too much pain to argue, and he falls to his knees and gingerly
crawls over near the wall, mindful of his elbow. He looks up at Zayn, pushing
his hair out his eyes. There are fingers of moonlight around the outline of
Zayn's body, falling on his skin like a white dust. Zayn observes him in
return, something quiet and sad twisted in his face.
 
It isn't until they're both settled that Zayn kisses him, just once, the same
way Louis had kissed him, like it was enough. "It's a nice thought, but you
can't be having dreams of us doing other stuff. This is our life, Hazza. This
is what we always will be. Nothing else."
 
Harry nods then, face running along his musty pillow. Zayn falls asleep soon
after.
 
When he closes his eyes, Harry expects to see Marcus taunting him in his
nightmares. Instead all he can think of is Louis; the way he was angry at
himself for having to leave, kissing Harry under that Pret cafe.
 
-


Marcus makes him go out the next night, despite the marks on his face and
chest, as the second phase of his punishment, but Harry expected it. Zayn grits
his teeth over his dinner, spooning soggy wheaties in his mouth, milk splashing
onto their bed.
 
“You look better than I expected you to,” he mentions as he shaves over the
sink, Harry sitting on the toilet bowl having a wee.  He flushes and tucks
himself back into his jeans, the fabric slightly uncomfortable. He’s not been
able to get his dirty washing to the laundromat this week and he’s out of clean
pants.
 
“What?” Harry asks, coming to the mirror to prod at the bruise under his cheek.
“Do not. I look dreadful.”
 
“No, obviously,” Zayn rolls his eyes, “I mean, you’re not...You’re okay. Like,
you’re not upset.”
 
“Suppose not,” Harry mutters, wincing. “We need to do some laundry. I’m getting
pretty desperate here.”
 
Zayn chuckles, rinsing his razor and storing it back in his pocket to be hidden
later in his room. He runs a hand through Harry’s curls unexpectedly. “A
haircut too, you mophead.”
 
“Yeah, fuck off,” Harry laughs. They sling on their coats, Zayn bumping
knuckles with Ant on the couch, obviously stoned, body flat like a wet cloth
draped over the cushion to dry. Harry hands him a cigarette as the front door
slams behind them. They nod at one another once, something sweet in Zayn’s eye
as they depart.
 
There’s something in the night air. Maybe he’s just restless, or sore, or
running on hunger and adrenaline, but Harry feels high, his body thrumming,
like the split second before a fist collides with his jaw. That moment when the
world just stops. He feels like nothing can touch him.
 
He hits one after the other, dragging in men to bring in double what he made
the night before, his head a perfect mixture of focused and distracted; the
pulsing bruise on his face serves as a reminder not to let himself get so
distant when he’s trying to pull. When his untainted cheek is pressed up
against gray brick in the back lot of a House of Fraser, it’s the memory of
Louis that keeps him driven.
 
It’s fucked up, but Harry does what he has to. The night is young, and men are
hungry.
 
It’s just past midnight and he’s got seven fifty rolled into his clenched fist,
shoved deep within one of his pockets. It’s been a good night for hit - a
random Tuesday never looked so deliriously fucking beautiful to Harry, teeming
with potential. He dares to call himself lucky.
 
Louis is standing outside with another bloke Harry’s never seen around before,
certainly never seen lingering around street corners, looking for a fuck. He’s
tall and broad shouldered, thin like he couldn’t gain a single stone if he
tried, his sinew muscle cord-like under his skin. He’s laughing, Harry
realises, drawn in by the sheer sound of it. He looks happy.
 
Harry lingers in the corner, not wanting to be outnumbered. He reminds himself
he doesn’t know Louis that well, and besides, who was he to that boy anyway. A
dreadful thought occurs to him; this could be Louis’ boyfriend or lover, and -
 
Well, it would make Louis like every other bloke Harry has ever encountered.
Soon enough though the blonde, smiling boy departs with a nod and a friendly
shout, something in what Harry thinks must be Gaelic, and Louis is left alone,
staring up at the sky between the tall buildings.
 
“Hiya,” Harry emerges then, shoving his other hand deep in his pocket. Louis
startles and whirls around, his face nearly splitting when he grins.
 
“Watcha, Haz,” Louis all but gushes, walking over to him, his dark jeans cuffed
at the ankle. He’s wearing printed purple socks underneath with his usual black
Vans. He looks good, his hair is styled differently or maybe just messier, his
cheeks ruddy like he’s had a laugh just now. “Hey, night walker.”
 
Harry freezes then, but when Louis doesn’t say anything else he figures it must
just be a harmless nickname and nothing else. Harry shrugs, relaxes and says,
“Hey, yourself.”
 
“How’ve you been, mate?” Louis asks, kicking a piece of glass out of his way.
They walk under a street lamp. “And Christ - what happened to your face?”
 
“Oh,” Harry touches his eye then, “I was playing footie and I got crushed
pretty hard. We - we lost.”
 
Louis’ eyes twinkle then, but he’s still looking at Harry’s face intensely,
“Footie, huh? You a big shot player?”
 
“Urm - defense,” Harry lies. He has no bloody idea. “Anyway, I’ve been good,
yeah. Keeping up with things.”
 
“Feel pretty nice to be out of school? One of me mate’s sister says she’s just
waiting for her results now. Same for you?”
 
Harry nods, not knowing what else to say. He looks out of over a stretch of the
city, the twinkling gold lights. “Where we heading?”
 
“Dunno,” Louis shrugs, “Would it be really over-reaching if I invited you over
for like, a drink and a movie?”
 
Harry’s never been asked that before, nor anything like it - he’s not even sure
what he’d call it. It sounds like a date to him, from the movies he used to
watch with Jade over a year ago, when they were closer. He doesn’t have to
think about it, however, when he opens his mouth to say, “Yes.”
 
“Yes?” Louis frowns, “Like yes, it’s over-reaching and I’m a prat, or yes,
you’d like to come over?”
 
Harry stares at him, confused. “No. I mean, yes. I would like to. Um, come
over.”
 
Louis sighs happily. “Okay, great. Yeah. Let’s wait at this stop for my bus.
11.”
 
They wait, Louis fiddling with his phone. “It’d be sick if you got a phone,
Haz,” Louis teases, looking up and shaking the mobile at him, “then I could
actually plan to see you, instead of just waiting for you to randomly emerge
from the darkness.”
 
Harry laughs, but he’s unsure if he’s actually being scolded. “I’m sorry,” he
says, then giggles again, “You make me sound like a creep.”
 
“Nah,” Louis shakes his head, his smile tender, “You aren’t. Just wish I could
talk to you more, s’all.”
 
The why is on the tip of Harry’s tongue when Louis flags down their bus. He
looks at it, watching Louis step on and swipe his oyster card. He’s leaving St.
James’ Park to go with Louis to his flat. It may take him ages to get back
home, and he hadn’t told Zayn when he’d be back. He’s risking a lot. He can
feel it, the adrenaline, the buzz of breaking the rules, humming like the
bruises all over his body.
 
He boards after Louis, pressing his own oyster to the card holder. Louis’ by
the stairs of the double decker, climbing them by two when Harry catches up to
him. The front is unoccupied, so they sit by the open glass, Louis’ feet tucked
up against the railing. The road stretches on beneath them, endless and dark,
but Harry doesn’t even notice, is watching Louis.
 
“What?” Louis asks playfully, “Why’re looking at me like that?”
 
“No reason,” he shakes his head, curls flopping, “You’re nice to look at.”
 
“Haz,” Louis sounds scandalised, but his cheeks are flushed prettily, “You
calling me nice looking?”
 
Harry laughs, he can’t help it. He’s filled with utter, uncontrollable delight.
“Yeah,” he nods, “I am.”
 
Louis smiles, teeth biting into his bottom lip. He shakes his hair out, then
pushes it back away from his forehead again. It’s overgrown, long around his
neck and ears. “I don’t compare to you, though. You’re just - you’re so.” He
stops then, pressing his fingers to his own mouth like he’s embarrassed.
“You’re beautiful. Shit, was that awful? That was awful.”
 
“No,” Harry shakes his head, feeling sick and giddy at the same time, “Thank
you.”
 
It’s never been said that way to him before. It’s honest, sincere. So tangibly
sincere Harry almost wants to reach out and touch it, grab it and keep it
inside him forever. He knows his ears are bright pink, but he doesn’t care.
 
Louis pulls him into a conversation about music, which Harry admittedly does
not know much about, unless he counts what he hears on the radio Mira keeps on
constantly to drown out the noise from the bedrooms, or whatever Zayn and Danny
used to shout at each other when they would get hyped up - errant and random
rap lyrics from when they were kids. But he doesn’t count that.
 
Soon their stop comes and Harry feels nervous all over again, his hands
sweating. His fist is still curled in his jumper pouch around the wad of money,
and he wonders if Louis notices and chooses not to say anything, or if it
hasn’t noticed at all. He wonders if Louis think he’s weird.
 
“I live over a Costa,” Louis explains with a wave of his hand, “It can be noisy
in the morning, but once in a while I’ll get a free coffee. I think the
barista’s pity me a bit.”
 
“Why would they pity you?” Harry asks.
 
Louis shrugs, “Well, during the rest of the year, I’m in an architecture
program as my graduate work and I get shit sleep, so.”
 
“You want to be an architect?”
 
Louis fumbles with his keys, unlocking the door and pushing inside. The air in
the apartment feels still and slightly chilly, like no one’s been inside all
day. Harry smells Louis all over, times a thousand, mostly his detergent and
shampoo mixed together - but something else as well. Something clean, bright,
that Harry thinks he quite likes.
 
“Yeah, I think,” Louis says after a moment, pushing his fringe out of his face.
His hair is terribly messy, but it looks nice, and his scruff on his chin has
grown out since the last time Harry saw him, creating a shadow over his jaw. He
is ruggedly, strangely handsome for someone who is rather petite otherwise.
Harry feels tall and awkward, his feet too large. “Mum always says I should
work hard. ‘Don’t get owt for nowt’ and all that rubbish.”
 
Harry peers around the flat. It’s mostly one room, with a double bed pressed
into a corner underneath a pay window, the blankets unmade. The surrounding
area is a graveyard of tennis shoes and random black articles of clothing
strewn all over. The living area is much more tidy, save for a desk stacked
with papers, rulers, a computer and a few text books that look old and thick.
The couch sags in the middle, but looks comfortable and clean, the coffee table
an old trunk littered with peeling stickers. He spins around to look at all the
posters pasted up on the walls. Some of them he recognises as bands Louis was
talking about earlier.
 
“Sorry it’s bit of a mess,” Louis excuses. Harry turns around to see him
tinkering in his tiny kitchen, pulling a pan out of cupboard with a sticky
drawer. “How does a midnight fry up sound?”
 
Harry’s stomach churns then, “That sounds amazing, actually,” he admits
truthfully. “I like your place.”
 
“It’s a dingy, sad excuse for a flat, Haz,” Louis admonishes, “But you’re kind.
So thanks.”
 
Harry comes into the kitchen gallery and leans against the counter, watching as
Louis pulls eggs from his pantry shelf along with a tomato. Louis has clean,
albeit small counters and only a few dishes in the sink, filled with water to
soak. He’s - well he’s one of the more neat people Harry’s ever met, but he
doesn’t have much to compare him to either. For some reason that makes him sad.
 
“Your eye doesn’t look very nice,” Louis winces when he turns around, fingers
coming to touch Harry’s face, angling his jaw for a better view of the bruise.
“I’ve got some cream to help with the inflammation, if you don’t mind.”
 
Harry nods, trying to keep still under Louis’ gentle, feather like touch. His
fingers are small and calloused, his nails clipped short and blunt. Louis
returns from a small bathroom near the front door with a tub of generic
arnicare in one hand and a flannel in the other.
 
Louis stirs the fried tomatoes and checks on the eggs on the other hob before
turning around again. “Okay,” he says, his blue eyes fixed on the damage on
Harry’s face. “Let’s patch you up.”
 
Harry lets his eyes close, revelling in the subdued, gentle touches of Louis’
hands on his face, his skin goosebumping pleasantly in response. He feels light
and airy, like he could slip into a dream state. When he blinks, Louis is
smiling at him, the skin around his eyes wrinkling slightly. It’s something
Harry would probably only ever notice this close.
 
“Can I kiss you now?” Louis says, lips nearly on Harry’s mouth, his breath hot
on his skin. He restrains himself though, waiting for permission. Harry feels
powerful with it, and he nods, leaning forward. Louis’ lips are the same as
last time, undistorted in Harry’s memory of their first kiss. His hands come up
to cup Harry’s cheek, fingers brushing back an errant curl, angling his face to
the side for better access. He tastes good.
 
Everything boils down to this, it seems. Harry can hear the sizzle of the
tomatoes frying, the pop of the oil, can feel the itch of the denim against his
groin without the protective layer of cotton, the counter digging into his
back, his aching ribcage. Louis’ lips, and how they both smile into the kiss,
the breach of his tongue in Harry’s mouth. Harry is entranced, lost in the
moment, the soft beginnings of a beard on Louis’ cheeks tickling his face, his
hands allowed to touch. It means something, maybe everything.
 
They separate after too short a moment and Harry protests it, nearly lunging
forward to bring Louis back to him. The eggs are probably burning, but he
doesn’t care. This simple interaction could abate his hunger as much as
anything if he really wanted it to.
 
Louis microwaves leftover sausage patties and they sit together with their
knees nearly touching on the soft, sagging couch. Harry works around his plate,
trying to pace himself and make it last. Only when Louis puts his plate down
does Harry finally let himself finish what’s left on his plate.
 
“So,” Louis leans into the back of his couch, socked feet up against the the
trunk. “I have to ask. Why’re you always out so late? It’s not that peculiar,
except that I don’t think you drink. Sorry, wait, do you drink?” he amends,
smiling.
 
“I - No, I don’t,” Harry says, “I just like walking around. It clears my head.
That area of London isn’t too dangerous.”
 
“No,” Louis agrees, “London is beautiful. Why I moved here.”
 
“Where you from originally?” Harry asks.
 
Louis smiles, “Can’t you tell? Well, Doncaster. Yorkshire and all that.”
 
“And you have family here, or in Doncaster?”
 
“Yeah, in Doncaster,” Louis nods, “My mum, a load of younger sisters, more than
I can count, really,” he chuckles. “But you, you, tell me about you. What are
your plans for next year?”
 
“I - “ Harry shrugs, “I dunno, yet. I guess I’m still thinking. What else is
there to say about me?”
 
“What do you mean, what else? You’re a person, you’re bound to have plenty of
idiosyncrasies. For one, that thing you do, with your hair. You shake it out,
then tuck it back into place. Why do you do that?” Louis smiles, clearly
teasing.
 
“Nervous habit,” he says, picking at the hole in his jeans, “I don’t realise
I’m doing it, half the time.”
 
“I make you nervous?” Louis grins, his hand touching the outer curve of Harry’s
shoulder. Harry shakes his head, laughing, only goading Louis more as he sidles
up next to Harry, “Admit it. I make you nervous!”
 
“No, you bloody don’t,” Harry protests, finger pointed at Louis’ chest, for
which he gets a pointed look in return. He relents, “Okay, a little bit.”
 
Louis preens, smirking smugly, then hops up to bring his laptop over, silver
and looking brand new. His sleeve slides up then, and Harry sees a tattoo
there, something dark and indiscernible. “We can watch a film, like I promised.
I had Sixteen Candles loading before I left for my shift, have you seen it?”
 
“No,” Harry shakes his head, “I think - isn’t it a romantic movie?”
 
“Yes,” Louis furrows his brow in skepticism, “Are you allergic to romantic
movies, even fantastically cliche 80’s ones?”
 
Harry giggles, surprised laughter bubbling out of him. He covers his mouth and
shakes his head no, and Louis breaks his stare then, a small smile tugging at
the corners of his mouth. “You’re too cute to resist, honestly.”
 
Harry can feel himself flush then, breaking eye contact with Louis and staring
at the screen intently, tugging on his fingers in his lap. Louis nearly plays
the movie before he pauses, turning to Harry then, “Are you needing to leave
soon?”
 
Harry frowns, “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
 
“Excellent. You’re staying for the film. Consider it sorted.”
 
He’s not sure how to ask it, but Harry has to know, “Okay,” he agrees, chewing
nervously on a thumbnail - he figures it’s best just to say it. “Are you going
to fuck me after?”
 
“What? Haz, for fucks sake,” Louis nearly chokes, pushing the laptop onto the
trunk and turning to Harry, his eyes wide. “God, is that what you want - “
 
“No,” Harry interrupts hurriedly, “No, this is what I want. I just needed to
know.”
 
“I don’t usually do that on the first date,” Louis says wryly, and Harry feels
like he’s under examination. “Or the few after that. I mean, sure there’ve been
one night - nevermind. You’re what, eighteen?”
 
Harry’s grateful for the guess. “Yes,” he nods. “It’s not young.”
 
“But it is young,” Louis insists, “I’m only twenty two, but I remember -
anyway. I just, when I like someone, properly fancy or whatever, I don’t mind
going slow. It’s nice to enjoy everything.”
 
Harry looks down, suddenly regretting he even asked. He should have known Louis
would think he was inexperienced, or possibly shy, like any other boy his age
would be. Louis looks insistent, but not angry, and so Harry doesn’t think he’s
in trouble. He looks up then, feeling stupidly foolish. “Slow would be nice,”
he says quietly. He’s never had that option before. It feels like a luxury.
 
“Yeah, I agree,” Louis lets out a relieved laugh, reaching out his arm and
pulling Harry closer to him, until Harry is pressed up comfortably into his
side, inhaling the scent of his detergent. It’s all he can do not to press his
nose in close to Louis’ breastbone and inhale deeply.
 
By the time the movie has ended, Louis is right on the brink of falling asleep,
eyes at half mast and blinking slowly, mouth droopy but still cheerful when he
kisses Harry goodnight. When Harry slips out, he makes sure the door doesn’t
make a sound when it closes behind him.
 
-
 
It only intensifies after that, a fire lit underneath Harry. He hardly sleeps
without dreaming of Louis, edging towards the next time they’ll able to see
each other. He wonders whether if this is similar to how Ant, Danny and Freya
feel about getting high, if they’re consumed with it, wanting it, craving it.
He shakes that thought though, Louis isn’t a detriment to Harry, isn’t hurting
him. It’s the opposite.
 
His good nature, his straight white teeth showcased by a perfect smile, the way
his skin feels against Harry’s own, it all serves to utterly entrance him.
Louis is snarky and clever and smart, and Harry - Harry cannot find fault. He
doesn’t want to find fault. Instead, he wants to bottle this feeling, devour it
again and again. Harry wishes he could pull down the stars and drape them
around their shoulders and hide Louis and him from the rest of the world.
 
He imagines a life where he was working a real Saturday job and waiting for his
A level results, riding a bike back to Louis’ flat in the evenings and cooking
dinner, waiting for Louis to return home from the pub. They’d make love only
when they felt like it. They could touch whenever they wanted.
 
Marcus is willing to let Harry go out and come back later, pleased with what
Harry’s hitting now. He even lets Harry keep some of the money, despite having
to make up what he didn’t hit the week before.
 
Harry doesn’t care. He drags Zayn to the laundromat in Shepherd’s Bush, paying
for both their laundry like he’s taking Zayn out on a date. They drag race the
wheeled cars around the empty space, all the washers churning in unison like
ticking clocks.
 
“I’m a king tonight,” Harry whispers into Zayn’s jaw, his fingers in Zayn’s
pocket as they stand in line at a McDonald’s in Hammersmith station.
 
“Yeah, you’re a proper prince,” Zayn smiles, fingers playing with the curls at
Harry’s nape, “Giving me the royal treatment with this chicken sandwich.”
 
Harry drops by the pub when he knows Louis is on his break now and then, only
beginning his night trawling for Kerb Crawlers afterwards so he doesn’t smell
like other punters and come. He starts showering in the evenings too, when most
of the girls are busy with Johns and Ant and Danny are out selling. This way,
Louis receives the very best of him.
 
Louis always asks, “You showing by later on?” He means his flat.
 
Usually, Harry shakes his head, “No,” he’ll answer, “But soon, I can come over,
I promise.”
 
Louis will kiss him goodbye then, holding Harry close like he can’t get enough,
like he’s in this as much as Harry is. Harry feels like he’s living inside of a
dream. A soft, muted dream that twists his stomach in happy knots, makes blood
flood his cheeks without being hit first. He is desperate to know what this
feeling is.
 
“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” Louis says. It’s a Friday, and the pub is
roaring. “Take this, just in case.” He’s handing over his black hoodie, which
Harry grasps gingerly. It’s worn out in the elbows and frayed at the end of the
sleeves, but it’s saturated in Louis’ smell, and warm. Harry slips it on.
 
“I’m suppose to meet a friend,” Harry lies, kicking gravel with the toe of his
scuffed shoe. “If I’m still out by the time you close, I’ll come by.”
 
“Please,” Louis says, kissing him again. “Please. I want to see you tonight.”
 
“Okay,” Harry says seriously, and Louis presses his mouth to Harry’s forehead
once before slipping back inside. Harry looks around the empty back alley, then
to the clouds overhead. “Okay,” he repeats to no one. It sounds like a promise.
 
-
 
The house is quiet when he gets shuffles in, his wet hair dripping rainwater
onto the shoulders of Louis’ hoodie and down his nose. Alexandre, as predicted,
is passed out on the recliner, remote still in hand. Jade and Mira are in the
kitchen, murmuring quietly to one another. There’s a punter on the couch, hands
running up and down his thighs, waiting. Harry spares no time.
 
He goes down the hall, pushing open Marcus’ bedroom door, only the bedside lamp
on. “Hey,” Harry calls, shaking Marcus where he’s fallen asleep in his
armchair, positioned near the desk. He smells like damp sweat and macaroni.
Marcus shakes, blink dazedly up at Harry, and Harry realises then that he’s
high.
 
He shoves the money at Marcus, waiting impatiently for it be counted. Marcus
counts, fumbles, counts again, before smiling up at Harry. “Look at you,
Kitten. Did well for me tonight.”
 
“Yeah,” Harry nods, breathless and irritated. “I’m tired.”
 
“Course you are,” Marcus nods, slouching back into his seat, his stained white
vest rumpled. He tosses a twenty pound note at Harry. “Here. You can have more
later.”
 
“But I - “ Harry almost argues, and then bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to
start a fight and get hit, then spend the rest of the night cleaning his blood
out of the carpet. He bends down to pick up the note, tucking it into his
pocket. “Thank you.”
 
“Where do you think you’re going?” Marcus asks, his voice rough. He grabs at
Harry’s arm, yanking him back in front of him. Harry stumbles, regaining his
balance against the arm of the chair.
 
“What do you mean?” he asks, standing up and rubbing his arm. “I gave you
everything.”
 
Marcus gestures to his crotch, “Not everything.”
 
His breath catches. He looks at Marcus, almost pleading. “Please. I told you,
I’m tired.”
 
“You think I give a fuck?” Marcus growls, yanking him down. Harry falls to his
knees, his forehead narrowly avoiding hitting the chair and splitting open. His
breath catches as his head is yanked back, Marcus’ grip tight in his hair. He
shoves Harry’s face forward then, until Harry’s mouth catches against the
denim. “Do what you do best.”
 
There is blood underneath Marcus’ fingernails. Harry finds that Marcus’ jeans
are already unbuttoned and he feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t even know
why. This has never affected him so much. His hands are shaking and he wills
them to stop. Marcus will smell his fear and it will only make him more
vicious.
 
It turns rough fast, Marcus’ hips ricocheting into Harry’s face, dick hitting
the back of his throat with such force that Harry nearly gags, bringing him to
tears. He closes his eyes, letting his mouth go slack and loose until he’s just
a hole for Marcus, something temporary and useful. Think of other things, he
tells himself desperately, think of anything else.
 
It’s hard. Harry chokes on Marcus’ spunk, sputtering. He doesn’t dare use
Louis’ sleeve to wipe his face.
 
“You’re crying like a little cunt,” Marcus spits at him, not bothering to tuck
himself back into his pants. He waves his hand at Harry, pushing the side of
his head away like he’s an annoying animal. “Go.”
 
Harry does. He strips off his clothes, turning the shower on as hot as it will
go and washes his hair, his mouth, his bum, until all he can feel is raw pink
skin and he can no longer taste Marcus on his tongue. The water turns cold. He
feels sick to his stomach and he leans over to puke against the tile, using the
shower spray to rinse it down the drain.
 
He promised Louis. Louis had looked so hopeful and so happy at the thought of
seeing Harry later, and Harry had fucking promised. He looks at himself in the
mirror, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth red and irritated. He wipes at his face,
frustrated to tears again, and swallows, setting his shoulders straight, and
 willing himself to calm down.
 
He finds a t-shirt in his room, tucked behind his mattress and the wall, still
mostly clean. Ant is passed out on his bed, no doubt just coming down from a
binge, tourniquet still in place on his arm. Zayn isn’t home yet, and for once,
Harry is thankful.
 
The front of the house is silent, the John on the couch now nowhere to be seen.
Alexandre is still asleep. Jesy is on the back patio step smoking a blunt, but
she pays Harry no mind. It’s all too easy to slip out the front door. Harry
wonders why he never tried before. He’d thought about it enough. Fear had
always held him back. The city had looked at him blankly and laughed in his
face. It had had nothing to offer, until now.
 
-
 
Louis’ flat isn’t hard to locate; Harry has always excelled at finding his way
in the dark. Fulham is quiet at this time of night and the dampness of Harry’s
hair is bitter against the moist air, post rain. It feels calm, somehow, the
streets at peace.
 
He rings the buzzer, tucks his hands under his armpits. He feels stupid,
wondering if maybe Louis isn’t in tonight. He could be out with his friends or
with that fit blonde bloke again or asleep by now. It would make sense. Harry
said he’d drop by the pub and he hadn’t. He’d gone back on what he’d said.
 
A moment later he hears footsteps down the creaky staircase and he backs up a
step, toes pointed together and overlapping a bit. He tucks his nose against
the hoodie he’s wearing, trying to warm it.
 
The door swings open and Louis stands there, mouth parted in surprise, wearing
sweatpants and a jumper. His face breaks into a smile then, “You’re late.”
 
“I know,” Harry rushes, “I’m sorry, something happened and I - “
 
“Hey,” Louis shushes him while tugging him inside. “You okay? You look - “
 
“I’m fine,” Harry shakes his head, mouth set in a firm line. “I’m better, now
that I’m here.”
 
Louis gazes at him, searching for something, but he doesn’t seem to find
whatever it is that he’s looking for. He turns then, still holding Harry’s
hand, his palm warm. “Come on.”
 
Harry follows Louis all the way up to his flat, leagues tidier than before, and
he suspects for a moment - less than that even, that Louis cleaned up for him.
Louis turns to him as soon as they door closes and locks behind them, kissing
Harry like he’s not seen him for days. It’s like the air has suddenly returned
to Harry’s lungs and he feels his body relax, enveloped in the comfortable heat
of Louis’ flat.
 
“You sure you’re alright?” Louis asks again, cupping both Harry’s cheeks with
his hands. He smells like the pub and cologne, his bedclothes, and Harry feels
drunk with the smell, instantly calmed. “You look like you’ve been cryin’,
love.”
 
Harry shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter. I just wanna be with you.”
 
Louis smiles, “Well you’re here now.”
 
They inevitably move towards the bed. Harry takes off his jeans and Louis’
hoodie, setting them down beside the bed. He’s thankful that it’s dark in
Louis’ flat because there’s a ring of purple bruises on his thigh from a rough
punter, a matching set on his arm from Marcus. Louis kisses him, threading his
hands through his hair as they stand close enough to the mattress that the
duvet tickles the hair on Harry’s legs.
 
“You want to lie down?” Louis asks, but it’s all courtesy and Harry appreciates
it. He likes being asked and he likes saying yes, an indulgence on his tongue,
something he savours. Harry nods, knees hitting the bed and he climbs on,
shuffling to the other side. Louis giggles at Harry when he gets tangled in the
sheets, but it’s lighthearted.
 
Louis is older than Harry and not just in years, but in the way he moves; sure,
confident, his presence solid and warm. He’s got definition in his arms and
tattoos threatening to take over what little bare skin he has left on his
forearm and bicep, a litany of pictures and designs. The way he crawls over the
bed, propping himself above Harry, makes Harry feel like Louis knows exactly
what he’s doing. It’s not an unpleasant feeling.
 
“You look good like this,” Louis murmurs, mouth ghosting over the crown of
Harry’s head.
 
“Like what?” he asks plainly, looking down at how he’s curled up underneath a
soft, sweet smelling sheet.
 
“In my bed,” Louis shrugs, “Sleepy and cute. Dunno, Harry, there’s just
something about you, like I’m always saying.”
 
“Thank you,” Harry says honestly. He reaches for Louis’ other hand lying on his
side and takes it, intertwining their fingers.
 
“You don’t have to thank me every time,” Louis reminds him. “I get it.”
 
Harry nods as he leans forward to kiss Louis, feeling young and shy in this
bed, surrounded by soft pillows and cotton sheets, his pants stretched out and
old, skinny legs marked and wobbly. His tailbone is bruised from the utter
abuse it suffered tonight and the night before, and Harry shifts, trying not to
put too much weight on it.
 
Louis cups the back of Harry’s neck to pull him forward, but his hands don’t
linger, so Harry can let himself sink into the kiss, tongue slipping into
Louis’ mouth, letting his lip be tugged gently between Louis’ teeth. He
swallows a whimper, pushing himself into the kiss more, feeling himself flush.
His chest and cheeks are probably bright pink.
 
He tugs Louis closer, grappling at his shoulder blades to pull their bodies
flush against each other, and Harry feels a spark in his abdomen when he
realises that not only is Louis hard, but that he is too. His dick is tucked up
against the seam of his pants, straining as Harry arches his hips into Louis’
and then he freezes, pulling back.
 
“No,” Louis murmurs, “It’s okay. I like it.”
 
“Yeah?” Harry breathes, pushing up against Louis again, “Okay.”
 
They rut against each other, mouths hot and wet. He’s felt like this possibly
only once or twice before, heavy and flustered, cheeks feverish to touch, and
that was with Zayn when they were too stoned to do anything else but clumsily
jerk each other off. It’s different with Louis. Louis touches and cradles and
asks and Harry wants to say yes, yes, yes everytime.
 
Harry’s needy now, wanting to come, the friction just shy of enough against his
dick, and Louis’ hand trails down Harry’s chest, pausing on the seam of his
pants. Louis backs away from Harry then, his lips shiny with spit. He brushes
the hair on Harry’s forehead back, his eyes focused in question.
 
“I could bring you off if you like,” Louis whispers low, making Harry’s stomach
jump, “Just like this. Or with my hand.”
 
He’s asking. Harry nods, pushing Louis’ hand down, low heat in his belly as
Louis’ fingers brush against his dick. It’s trapped between the fabric and his
hip, a little wet. He feels like he’s been set on fire in the best way
possible. He’d burn forever if it felt like this.
 
Louis does him one better, wrapping his hand around them both, twisting
clumsily to bring them both off. The muscle in Harry’s calf involuntarily
cramps when he comes, toes curling against the sheets. He can feel the warm
come on his stomach, messy and slippery. Louis slumps down next to him,
breathing heavy for a moment, warm air on Harry’s shoulder.
 
“That was good,” Louis whispers, kissing Harry again, gentle. “I’d say lets
shower, but you did that before you got here, so.”
 
Harry nods but he’s not really listening. He watches without much attention as
Louis flops out of bed, pulling his boxers up again and bringing a wet flannel
from the toilet, running over the tops of his thighs and then mopping it over
Harry’s belly. He flinches, it’s cold.
 
“Haz,” Louis breaks him out of his fog,” Y’alright?”
 
“Yeah,” Harry nods, “I’m - that was - I’m good.”
 
Louis looks at him again, his eyes wide. He’s grinning, but it’s apprehensive.
“You sure?”
 
Harry shuffles in the bed, pulling the comforter up to his shoulders. “Yes,” he
says, feeling tired and sore, his limbs shaken. They tingle with his orgasm.
Louis crawls in next to him, tucking his arm underneath Harry’s neck, rolling
him in. He gives Harry space to move away if he wants, but Harry chooses to
shuffle even closer. “S’nice. You’re nice.”
 
“You’re sex-drunk,” Louis teases from above his head. “Too adorable for your
own good.”
 
“Stop,” Harry shushes. He looks up. Louis is sleepy-eyed and flushed above him,
his eyes curved like tiny half moons, ignited with genial amusement. “I’m not.”
 
“Course,” Louis assures quietly, running a hand up Harry’s back like he’s
soothing him to sleep. Harry groans softly, sinking into the bed.
 
“I like this feeling,” Harry whispers into the side of Louis’ arm. He looks up
at Louis, at the side of his jaw.
 
“What are you feeling?” Louis asks him, blinking slowly. The city is still and
quiet outside, and even though they’re both bathed in darkness, Harry can see
the blue of Louis’ eyes.
 
“Free,” Harry murmurs, “Happy. Safe. I feel safe with you.”
 
Louis’ fingers come up from underneath the duvet to trace an invisible line
along Harry’s eyebrow, his touch feather light. It feels like a lullaby. “You
should,” Louis whispers, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t be safe.”
 
Harry only shrugs noncommittally.
 
“I could lie like this with you forever,” He admits, foolish and drowsy. He
rolls closer, lifting Louis’ other arm and wrapping it around his back so he’s
enclosed completely. Louis shuffles, pressing his mouth against Harry’s
forehead.
 
-
 
act iii
 
He wakes to dim light and a sudden, unrelenting wave of nausea, like he’d drank
too much water and gotten into the car when Marcus had been drinking. He can’t
move, feels as though every inch of him is burning, his joints torn and cut at
their seams, his head pounding. He stays quiet for what feels like only a few
minutes, but could have been longer, to regain himself, fighting back the waves
of pain that threaten to surface.
 
Harry blinks his eyes open and Zayn’s face comes into view, though he shuts his
eyes again when he immediately feels dizzy. There’s a sigh of relief and a wet
rag on his forehead, mopping at what Harry presumes is a cut. It stings, but at
least it helps him stay awake.
 
“Thanks,” he slurs finally, his mouth full of saliva.
 
He can hear Zayn’s bitter chuckle from above him. “What for?” he asks.
 
Harry groans. “The company.”
 
Zayn dabs underneath his eye then. “You’ve got shit taste, then,” he tries to
smile but it falls, reminding Harry when you pull a string through a loop. He
tries to take a deep breath and feels as though something is piercing his
lungs. Zayn puts his hand on top of Harry’s arm, pushing it back down against
the mattress. He shakes his head, “Don’t be afraid.”
 
Harry nods and Zayn fixes him with a look, jaw jumping like he has a tick.
“D’you remember what happened?”
 
He does. Slipping out when the sun was just peeking shyly over the river. The
bus ride home and smelling Louis in the spaces between his fingers. The bitter,
bright air of a summer morning. The happy jump of his stomach as he replayed
Louis’ goodbye kiss a thousand times over in his head.
 
He does remember. Marcus flinging Harry into the doorframe, nearly breaking his
nose. Tugging him down the hall by his hair, waking the entire house up. No one
coming out their rooms. Spit in his eye as he chokes on blood, bitter like
metal in his throat. The smell of his own urine as it runs down his leg.
 
Marcus’ hands around his neck, squeezing. You’ll never be worth anything more
than this, kid.
 
Harry had closed his eyes.I’m sorry, he’d cried. He’d begged. I’m so sorry.
 
Zayn helps him stand. The night is quiet and Harry can smell himself. He cannot
hear Mira in the kitchen, or the telly, or the girls with their punters in the
bedrooms. There’s no sound, just the quiet ringing in Harry’s ears. It’s
eerily, but he’s too out of it to care.
 
“I’m going to start the water for a bath,” Zayn murmurs. “Freya said she’d heat
up more hot water on the hob for ya.”
 
Harry nods, raising his arms and cursing under his breath when his chest
protests again. Zayn peels off his jumper, the collar of it reminding him of
his bruised nose. Harry shuffles out of his jeans, using the counter as
leverage. “Okay,” he holds out a hand, blinking heavily, “Be brutally honest.
How bad - how bad does it look?”
 
Zayn winces, taking him in, “Well. You’re wearing your pants backwards, looking
like you’re gonna yosh on me, all sick like, and you’re the colour of an
eggplant, mate.”
 
“Fucking hell,” Harry groans, “I’m gonna puke.”
 
He flushes it after retching, wondering if it was the remnants of Louis’ fry up
from the night before swirling down the toilet. He kicks off his boxers last,
stepping into the tub. Zayn returns a moment later with a pot of boiling water
to add to the lukewarm faucet spit, which Harry appreciates. He is an island in
the middle, not touching the walls. This tub is filthy.
 
Zayn sits down on the floor, leaning against the bath cupboard with his head
tipped against the counter ledge. He looks thin and tired, leagues older than
nineteen. Harry picks up a washcloth, slow and mindful of his injuries. Zayn
eventually tires of his cigarette, flicking it into the toilet and pulling a
small bag out of his pocket.
 
Harry watches as he taps it, separating a clump of coke and then wipes away any
wet with his sleeve, tipping it out on the bath mantel. Tiny snowflakes of it
fall onto Harry’s knee.  Zayn cuts with a sharp edge razor, then forms two
skinny lines.
 
He snorts, then looks up. “Take the other one.”
 
“No,” Harry refuses petulantly, holding the wet flannel against his shoulder.
“Fuck blow. You shouldn’t be doing that.”
 
“C’mon, fuckssake, Haz,” Zayn groans, wiping his nose. “You’ll be numb for a
while then knock out. Do it. You look like shit, probably feel like it too.”
 
“You reckon?” Harry asks coldly. He puts his sad eyes on, but Zayn just stares
blankly back at him, waiting for him to crack. Harry droops down, using the
rolled fiver Zayn left sat on the tub and snorts through one nostril.
 
“There’s a good boy,” Zayn says, “You’ll feel better soon.”
 
Harry doesn’t think so, but he doesn’t to say as much, and soon the water is
too cold for him to sit in any longer.
 
-
 
Marcus has given instructions that Harry is now to be kept confined to his room
for the time being instead of being sent out for kerb crawler bait. Harry would
have been grateful a month or two ago, but now the thought  of never leaving
this house again gives him a heavy feeling of dread. Alexandre is the one who
delivers the information, as Marcus won’t even bother being in the same room
with Harry at the moment. Harry understands; Marcus loves Harry most, and Harry
has hurt him.
 
Zayn kisses his forehead before he goes, gentle and unlike him, but Harry
accepts it all the same. “See you when I get back,” he murmurs, picking up his
fags. “Ice your face.”
 
The punters are ruthless and endless. Harry doesn’t even have time to clean
himself up before another one comes knocking, waiting to take him apart like
he’s a farm animal at the zoo. Harry wishes he could depart from his body and
watch from above like he usually does, separate himself, but the bruising
around his neck and chest keep him present and so horribly aware of everything.
 
His backside is abused and raw by the time the last one leaves, fucking Harry
so hard he felt his hips crick when his knees were tucked to his chest. He
shakes his limbs out, tingling and exhausted, finding a pack of wipes Zayn
keeps for this purpose and cleans himself up.
 
It’s for practical purposes only - Harry’s never been truly clean.
 
He’s caught glimpses of what clean feels like, of course. These few months
especially. He knows clean, in the way the night air feels when he’s just about
to hit the riverbank, salty and bitter. Clean in the way Louis’ flat smells,
like leftover breakfast and detergent liquid. Clean in the way he touches
Harry, gentle and reverent.
 
Just thinking of Louis brings tears to Harry’s eyes, and when he starts he
realises he can’t stop. He shudders against his arms, wiping his nose on his
sleeve, stomach tight and painful. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
 
-
 
Two weeks pass in much the same way before Harry finally breaks. Ant gives him
enough blow to make his heart pound in his ears, and once he thinks there’s no
chance of Zayn coming back through the door any time soon, he sneaks out the
bedroom window, landing neatly on his feet. His mouth is numb, but he doesn’t
care.
 
He fears that Louis will hate him for not dropping by or being able to call or
even having Harry’s real name. Even more than that, though, are the terrifying
thoughts of Louis not even remembering him at all - Harry could be just another
month long romance for Louisy, someone merely to occupy his time. He is a
lifetime for Harry.
 
The city is daunting, the bars rip-roaring with only a half hour until closing
time. Harry picks at his fingers during the bus ride until his cuticles bleed,
and then he sucks on them. Everything feels hazy and muted, like the clouds
hanging low in the pitch black sky are filled with static, making Harry’s head
buzz.
 
Louis’ just locking up the pub when Harry races into the alley way, wind making
the scrape under his eye burn. Louis’ wearing his usual black trousers and
black shoes, but tonight he only wears a t-shirt, worn and soft looking. He
doesn’t look angry when he spots Harry standing there, flushed and panicked.
Harry will take it.
 
“Haz?” Louis asks, brow furrowing, “What the hell - “
 
“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts, cutting him off. “Please believe me. I’m so sorry -
I - I would have come by every day if I could’ve. But I didn’t have - .”
 
Louis opens his mouth like he wants to speak and then shuts it again. Finally
he says “I’m sorry, I’m just really confused. At first I thought - like, we
were going somewhere. And then you just disappeared. Like that. So it was just
a one night stand, then. But now - “
 
“It’s not like that at all,” Harry protests, curls flopping as he shakes his
head. “I didn’t have a choice.”
 
“What do you mean?” Louis frowns, confusion evident on his face. “I don’t
understand. Explain.”
 
Harry swallows acidic city air, mouth dry. “I - “ he throws his hands to his
chest, pleading, “I can’t. But I promise - “
 
“Look, I knew you were some kind of bad boy - no last name, wouldn’t give out
your number, only show up at night - but like, I don’t fuck around with people
like that. I thought you understood,” Louis mutters dejectedly and the face he
makes breaks Harry’s heart. “I thought I made it clear how I felt.”
 
“No, I’m not - I’m sorry, I just - “ Harry breaks off, swallowing. His eyes
burn and he steps closer to Louis, yellow light thrown over them from the lamp
above. He extends his hands out for Louis to grab, holds them  there in the
air, still and empty. “I want to explain. You just have to trust me.”
 
“Trust you?” Louis smiles, but he’s looking at Harry plain and sad, “You make
me feel like - like I know you. But you’re a ghost.”
 
“M’not,” Harry protests, braving his palms against the soft material of Louis’
shirt, flat against his ribcage. “I promise. Please.”
 
“Okay,” Louis murmurs, his thumb brushing along the cut underneath Harry’s eye,
“You gonna tell me what happened to your eye then? And no bullshit about some
footie game.”
 
Harry looks down, lifts his own hand to keep Louis’ hand to his cheek. “No,” he
shakes his head, eyes full of tears, “I’m sorry. You just have to trust me.
Please, Lou.”
 
Louis’ eyes flash then, but he doesn’t remove his hand. “I’m arse over tits for
you,” he says, and then swallows visibly. “Alright. When will I see you again?”
 
“Haz?” a voice rings out down the alley, and Harry’s gut clenches so hard it
feels like he might be sick. He steps away from Louis abruptly, hands curling
into his sides. Zayn’s at the mouth of the alley, walking closer, his face set
and hard. “Haz!”
 
Louis looks like he’s about to ask what’s going on, his mouth set in defensive
confusion. Harry whirls around, heart stuttering as Zayn comes closer, until
they’re only a few feet apart.
 
Zayn regards Louis harshly, his jaw set and angular. There’s a cut above his
eyebrow that’s no longer fresh, but it makes Zayn look almost menacing, despite
his lithe frame. He turns to Harry, “What you’re doing out over here? And who’s
this?”
 
“Nothing, no one,” Harry shakes his head, wishing he could turn and face Zayn
to plead with him, but he doesn’t want to turn his back on Louis. He pushes at
Zayn’s chest then, “Let’s go.”
 
“What, this bloke have a hard time with your price?” Zayn snarls, glaring at
Louis. Harry barely braves a look at Louis and immediately wishes he hadn’t;
his face is angry and hard, defiance obvious in his stance. Underneath that, he
is utterly confused. Anything Harry might have said to change his mind a moment
ago is lost now. It’s written all over his face.
 
“No,” Harry shouts, pushing at Zayn again. “I said let’s go.”
 
Zayn steps back, palms flat in a show of peace. He’s not looking at Harry, but
at Louis, glaring at him like he’s committed some crime against them. Harry
knows this stunt, Zayn acting tough, his offense strong enough to make rough
punters and arsholes who bother them think that his defense might be just as
bad.
 
Harry is mortified. Zayn cups the back of his neck, pulling Harry with him down
the alley, not even sparing a glance back towards the pub.
 
Harry does. He looks back, eyes full of tears. Louis is standing there, hands
hanging pathetically by his sides, his face shuttered with confusion, and Harry
thinks, I’m so sorry. You didn’t ask for this.
 
Harry didn’t ask for it either.
 
-
 
Zayn’s angry with him, which is almost as bad as Louis hating him. “You are so
thick,” he growls under his breath as they walk up to the house, hand still
gripping the back of Harry’s neck. “If Marcus knows you’re gone, he’ll hit you
so hard your teeth will be knocked back into your fuckin’ head.”
 
“I know that,” Harry mumbles, not looking up. He does know, but Louis is worth
it and then some. Being a punching bag is nothing new to him, not when he lives
in a world where fists are a form of currency.
 
Zayn curses under his breath, spitting onto the concrete. “Who was that anyway?
You were standing there like you knew him.”
 
“No,” Harry shakes his head, “Dunno him.”
 
“Liar,” Zayn argues. “Who is he? A regular? We don’t do that sort of thing on
the street, Haz. He’s got to come to you, yeah?”
 
“He’s not - he’s no one,” Harry fights back tears again. “S’not someone who
knows me, anyhow.”
 
“You’re lyin’ to me,” Zayn says. He stops then there on the street corner, the
house just a few rows down. He puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders, forcing his
face into Harry’s line of sight. “Since when do we keep shit from each other?”
 
Harry doesn’t know, but it makes him feel even worse. “M’sorry,” he mumbles,
“He was just a friend.”
 
“A friend?” Zayn repeats, the hard edge of his voice fading with surprise. He
laughs then, cruelly, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “Boys like us - ”
 
“‘ - don’t have friends’,” Harry finishes for him. He wipes his nose. “But I
did. I was more than just a fucking - whore, to him. He didn’t even know.”
 
“Yeah?” Zayn grounds out. “And what, you think you were gonna be able to keep
something like that secret forever? That’s shit odds, you know that.”
 
“Piss off,” Harry yells, “I just wanted something that was mine.”
 
“That’s not how it works,” Zayn shakes his head, his voice breaking, and then
he regards Harry with a solemn face. “We don’t have nothing but the night. We
own the night.”
 
“No,” Harry disagrees. “The night owns us. Marcus owns us. Everyone owns us
before we do.”
 
Zayn doesn’t say anything, he knows Harry is right. Harry walks with his hand
in Zayn’s pocket and they sneak around the side of the house, Zayn pushing
Harry through the window. He lands painfully on his bum, his tailbone throbbing
with the impact. He rolls quietly, crawling to the mattress and kicking off his
shoes. Harry stares at the ceiling and thinks of all the days and months and
years he’s been confined to this room, and all the rooms before it, and thinks
that if he’d felt awful before, it’s nothing compared to how to he feels now.
 
-
 
He eats dinner with Zayn on the back patio step before they part ways for the
night; Harry back to his room, Zayn back out into the darkness of the night.
He’s sitting in a pair of Zayn’s track bottoms that they share for nights when
Harry can’t be bothered to wear proper trousers. Zayn is watchful of him now,
still tense from their argument the night before, but he doesn’t ask any more
questions about Louis.
 
Harry is grateful for small mercies.
 
“Be good,” Zayn says, running a hand through Harry’s curls before he steps off.
Harry shrugs, waving a hand and finishing off Zayn’s fag. Good. That word has
always been meaningless to him.
 
August is a sweltering, messy month, and the heat doesn’t dissipate until well
into the evening hours. Harry likes London because it’s never this warm and he
feels robbed.
 
His first John of the night is a man with a bald spot who's married and works
in southwest London. Harry started seeing him around when he turned fifteen,
and the John used to visit every few weeks or so. He’s all nervous energy until
he’s able to tie Harry up and bend him down on the mattress, fucking Harry’s
mouth as slow or fast as he pleases. The air in the room is sticky and hot,
reeking of come, but Harry closes his eyes and breathes through his nose,
counting dance steps in his mind. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
 
After that it’s a blur of different men, none whom Harry recognises. The
bedside lamp flickers on and off, bathing Harry in light and then snuffing him
out again.
 
The door opens for what seems like the tenth time, and Harry sits up, turning
to stare at the John and ask him what he wants when he stops, words caught in
chest. The punter he’s staring at isn’t a punter at all, it’s Louis.
 
Harry stands, heart in his throat. “What are you doing here? How did you - ?”
 
Louis stares at him in apparent disbelief for a moment, not saying anything.
His face is flushed. It looks like he’s shaved, perhaps earlier this morning.
His jawline is sharp, but otherwise he looks younger than Harry usually
perceives him. “I followed you back yesterday.”
 
“Why?” Harry breathes.
 
“I was worried about you last night. Two weeks of silence, then you show up at
the pub all upset and roughed up, going on about how ‘you weren’t allowed’. I
didn’t know what to think, thought maybe you had a shit father. Or you were in
a bad situation,” Louis explains. “But this.”
 
“You shouldn’t have followed me home,” Harry laments.
 
Louis doesn’t argue, just shakes his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. But
you lied about everything. And last night when you came to me I thought - I
thought I was doing the right thing.”
 
“Of course I lied,” Harry argues, feeling his chest constrict, “You were
perfect - you are perfect. You’re smart and you have a job and you don’t - I
just wanted - “ He swallows, cutting himself off. “You looked at me like I was
enough. Like I was okay.”
 
“You are enough,” Louis scowls. “You could have told me the truth - “
 
“No,” Harry protests vehemently, “I couldn’t have.”
 
The door bangs open and Alexandre stands there, eyes glinting from the hall
light, cigarette hanging lazily out of his mouth. “I heard yelling,” he says as
explanation, blowing smoke into the room. He points at Harry, but looks at
Louis. “Is this manky shit giving you trouble?”
 
“No,” Louis shakes his head, “Not at all.”
 
Alexandre’s beady eyes watch Louis carefully, looking for bluff. “C’mere,” he
says, and Louis startles, but Harry knows he’s the one being addressed. He goes
to him, dread heavy in his gut. “Look,” Alexandre explains, grabbing Harry by
his arm, yanking him down. He presses his cigarette into the skin of Harry’s
arm.
 
Harry screams, trying to snatch his arm away, but Alexandre holds him still.
“You can do anything you want to him,” he explains lightly to Louis. “They
don’t feel it much anymore.”
 
“Stop it!” Louis yells, but he stands still, smart enough not to move. “I get
it. He was doing what I wanted - it was just some role play.”
 
Alexandre shrugs, releasing Harry and pushing him down onto the floor. “Sure,”
he nods. “You paid. Enjoy him.”
 
The door closes and the light flickers again. Harry breathes harshly, cupping
his hand over his forearm. Louis looks utterly distraught and he walks to
Harry, bending down and taking his arm from him. Harry can’t help but flinch,
shouldering away from him.
 
Louis kneads his bottom lip through his teeth. “You need to get out of this.”
 
“I can’t,” Harry stumbles to his feet. He pulls off his shirt then, flicking it
to the bed. Louis stands as well and reaches out with a trembling hand to touch
a bruise the size of a peach on Harry’s hip. Harry juts his chin to the
mattress, then looks at Louis. “How do you want me?”
 
“What?!” Louis rears back, snatching his hand away. “What the fuck are you - “
 
“You paid,” Harry says, “You heard him. I’m what you paid for.”
 
“No,” Louis shakes his head firmly, picking up Harry’s t-shirt and handing it
back to him. “That wasn’t my intention. I wanted - I wanted to fucking see
you.”
 
“Haz,” he shakes his head, face screwed up and tense, “It’s killing me just
lookin’ at you. You need to get out of here. Come with me.”
 
“I can’t,” Harry repeats plainly. Just looking at Louis hurts him. “He’ll kill
you - and me. He’ll kill Zayn.”
 
“Who’s that?” Louis squints but then he rushes on, “That’s what they say, but
they won’t be able to find us.”
 
“I can’t. Zayn’s my brother - he protects me,” Harry pleads, “You don’t
understand.”
 
“The guy I saw last night, with the cut,” Louis deduces. He shakes his head. “I
can’t bloody well leave you here. I can’t leave you knowin’ this is what you’re
subject to.”
 
“I’m not subject to it,” he snaps, “Look at me. This is all I’m good at.”
 
There’s a moment then when Louis just looks at him in the dim orange light. His
hair is curling around his ears and pushed to the side, his black hoodie pulled
down a bit to reveal the tattoo on his chest. A few weeks ago Harry was
touching that skin with his hands and everything between them was different.
Louis did not regard him with anguish and pity, and Harry didn’t flinch under
his touch.
 
“S’not true, innit,” Louis stares Harry down, “I heard you last night, when you
were arguing. You know it’s not true.”
 
“Stop,” Harry cries, his eyes burning, “Please go. I don’t want to see you.”
 
“Haz,” Louis says quietly, but Harry shakes his head, pushing Louis away
towards the door. Louis grabs at Harry’s wrists, trying to catch his attention,
but Harry doesn’t want to look at him or talk to him. He wants to be left alone
to cry. He wants to forget any of this happened. Zayn was right; boys like them
don’t have friends like Louis, because boys like Harry end up with their hearts
in pieces.
 
“Go Lou,” Harry pleads one more time, his words falling flat in the silence
between them. He yanks his hands out of Louis’ grip and wipes messily at his
face. “Please.”
 
“Haz,” Louis sounds tired, and Harry crosses over arms around his bony torso,
thinks he’ll have a cry right in front of Louis, his throat closing as he tries
to swallow, tongue too fat for his mouth. But then Louis nods, downtrodden and
young without his scruff, and walks out the door without looking back.
 
-
 
“I like your voice,” Louis had told him, that night Harry had stayed over.
They’d both woken up in the middle of the night, kissing the taste of their
sleep stale mouths away and rolling around within the warmth of the sheets,
legs tangling. “All deep and slow. Reminds me of when you pull a spoon out of a
pot of honey.”
 
Harry had laughed quietly, kissing the skin of Louis’ jaw. “Thank you.”
 
“It’s true,” he’d protested. “I could listen to you talk about nowt all the
time. Tell me about the weather, I swear I’d be enraptured.”
 
“You’re just teasin’ now,” Harry had smiled, his eyes crinkling in embarrassed
delight. “I like your voice too. You’ve got like…”
 
Louis had waited, eyebrows raised. “You’ve got bite. Like you’re always on the
edge of making fun.”
 
“God, sounds like a real arshole,” Louis had rolled his eyes, but his smile had
stayed. He had reached over to trace his thumb over Harry’s dimple.
 
“Not at all,” Harry said. “You’re one of the best people I know.”
 
“Now you’re makin’ me blush,” Louis had laughed, “Enough with the sweet talk,
Curly. Get ready to be ravished.”
 
Harry disrupts the memory before it can go any further.
 
Louis had laid Harry next to him on the sheets, damp with their sweat and
smelling like summer skin, his back a firm line against Louis’ chest as he
pulled him off with his damp hand yet again. Harry’s head lolled onto Louis’
shoulder, his mouth reaching for the juncture of veins on his neck. It was so
much more than any of the sex Harry had experienced before. It wasn’t just
penetration and orgasm, it meant so so much more.
 
Louis had touched Harry differently, fervently. Sex with Louis was hands
kneading the taut muscles in Harry’s leg, teeth on his clavicle, fingers
circling around his nipples until Harry’s entire body was mapped with
goosebumps. Sex with Louis was kissing and taking their time. It was intimate.
It didn’t make Harry feel hollow, but made him feel full instead.
 
He watches Ant and Danny shoot smack in the kitchen over the sink, faces ashen.
Freya is sitting in the empty tub muttering to herself as Jesy has a go at Mira
in the living room, dishes breaking. He can’t hear anything but white noise as
he trips from the kitchen to the bedroom, back again and back again. Punters
hurt him. Marcus hurts him. His own head hurts him. It burns when he pees and
he knows he’s due for a check up that will never come.
 
Zayn is all he has, and Harry constantly eyes the blow and the benzos he keeps
by the bed now, like a remedy for the bad trip that’s their daily life. He’s
stopped telling Zayn to quit fucking with drugs, because Zayn has stopped
listening.
 
Life goes on.
 
-
 
It’s the middle of the day when the police storm in. They come like a red
flood.
 
The entirety of the house scatters; Mira to the back door, rollers still in her
hair and fag tucked between her fingers, Alexandre moving faster than Harry’s
ever seen him, his great belly jiggling as he grabbed baggies of molly and
coke, dropping them into the sink.
 
Ant runs, shouting into the bedroom to wake Danny. Jesy starts to cry, curling
around the doorframe; Jade a silent, somber shadow by her side. Zayn is nowhere
to be seen, and Harry panics then, scrambling back into his room to hide. The
banging gets louder and the walls seem to shrink in on them all.
 
There are too many drugs to flush. Freya, Harry, and Jade are all underage.
These are the things Harry only thinks of after the fact, no longer in any
danger from the police. Marcus has raised Harry to be distrusting of men in
uniform, who rape and beat boys like Harry, who bend the law themselves.
They’re no better than us, Kitten, Marcus had whispered. Leave ‘em well alone.
 
Marcus appears by his side, tugging on the collar of Harry’s thin shirt, “Come
on,” he orders through gritted teeth, dragging Harry back into the toilet and
choking up the door with the broken broom. Harry stumbles back into the wall
when Marcus lets go of his shirt, heart racing. Marcus is paying him no mind,
ear pressed to the wood of the door instead.
 
It’s the gleam of the gun from the light of the bathroom that gets Harry’s
attention, and he backs away into the farthest corner of the small room, near
the toilet and a pile of dirty towels. “We’ll be safe here,” Marcus says, not
bothering to turn around. Harry notices the sweat on his upper brow and the
general lack of cleanliness of his appearance, his gut sinking when he realises
Marcus is high.
 
His odds, at this moment, aren’t good. The cops storm the house, Mira is
screaming, Ant is cursing, his words ricocheting off the walls. The yelling
starts to blend into a cacophony of sounds too heavy and hard for Harry’s ears
and he flinches, body trembling on its own accord. He tries to think back on a
fumble made by Marcus or the boys, what tipped off this ordinary house in
Hammersmith, but he struggles to recall anything peculiar. He hasn’t even left
the house in near two weeks.
 
The silence is deafening, abruptly cutting through the noise like a vacuum.
Harry cannot keep his eyes away from Marcus and the gun, but he’s not truly
seeing anything. There are orders given by police and then a struggle, and then
silence again.
 
A knock comes at the door. “Daniel Marcus,” a voice booms, “We know you are
armed, and we know someone is in there with you. Surrender your weapon and no
one needs to be hurt.”
 
“Fuck you,” Marcus screams, twitching. “I’ll shoot us both if you don’t leave!”
 
“We are not going to leave,” the policeman returns, and Harry imagines him to
be tall and with gray hair to match the strong warmth of his voice. “We ask
that you please surrender your weapon and calmly step out of the lavatory.”
 
“You’ve got no evidence,” Marcus growls, but he doesn’t lean against the door
anymore, instead crawling into the tub, gun clinking against the porcelain.
It’s something Harry will never forge; the way the gun shone in the light and
Harry’s entire body shivered, wracking with nerves as Marcus sat in the tub,
skin sallow and sweaty. Not yet, Harry finds himself thinking, and he knows he
doesn’t believe there’s anything good left to him or that there’s any God at
all, but he finds himself asking anyway. Not yet.
 
“Everyone’s dead,” Marcus tells Harry. “They lined up ‘em all up in a row and
kilt em. Zayn’s dead. Ant and Freya. Shot dead.”
 
“I didn’t hear any gunshots,” Harry mumbles, trying to keep the panic out of
his voice.
 
Marcus shakes his head, “Nah, Kitten. They got silencers, you wouldn’t be able
to.”
 
He’s blathering fucking nonsense, higher than the heavens. Harry takes a deep
breath, holding it in his lungs until he has to exhale. His heart is in his
mouth. “Marcus,” he says slowly, “Please let me leave.”
 
“No,” Marcus shouts, instigating another round of yelling from outside. “If I
let you, they’ll kill you too, then me.”
 
“I promise I’ll ask them to spare you,” Harry assures him, thinking quick.
“I’ll tell them everything you ever did for me - took me in, fed me, kept me
alive. Since I was fourteen, you took care of me.”
 
Marcus nods, “I know I did. I’ll always love ya so fucking much,” he wipes his
brow.
 
“S’alright,” Harry nods, “I love you too. Please let me go.”
 
“I can’t go to prison, Haz,” Marcus murmurs. He looks younger than Harry has
ever seen him - skinny, lifeless, with sunken eyes and bad skin, his hair
thinning on top. He would have been good looking as a teenager, Harry knows.
All that is gone now. All they have here is a filthy tub and a gun. All Harry
has is his hands.
 
“I won’t let them,” Harry promises. He doesn’t reach out, frozen in his corner
of the room. He can feel himself start to cry, salt flooding his mouth. “I’m
sorry. Please.”
 
“No, love,” Marcus shakes his head and he seems peaceful now, sorted. He lifts
the gun to his chin and places it there like he’s resting just resting it
there, weary of the weight of it. He looks at Harry then, a sense of finality
in his gaze. “It’s me who’s sorry.”
 
The gun goes off and Harry feels something distinctly fleshy hit his cheek.
He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the spot where Marcus’ head was a moment
ago; in it’s place lay pieces of brain and bone, the gory resemblance of a
mouth and three teeth.
 
Harry screams, biting his hand, and the door slams open, two police officers
charge into the cramped area, taking in Marcus’ body. One of them dips down to
Harry’s level, hands free of any weapon. He approaches Harry like he’s a
wounded animal, trapped in a cage.
 
“It’s over,” the policeman says. He’s young and golden haired, a tattoo running
up his forearm. He is nothing like Harry pictured, his voice decades older than
his body. He looks nearly as scared as Harry feels.  “I promise it’s all over.”
 
-
 
act iv
 
He stays in a care home the following weeks, which turn into months. It’s less
tense than living at Marcus’, but still different enough to keep Harry on edge,
unable to sleep. He wishes he knew where Zayn was and he panics every time he
thinks of him, realising that for the first time since he was fourteen he is
completely alone.
 
Most of the other children in his section leave him well alone, because they’re
all younger. He’s got the body of a man now, he supposes, nearly six foot tall
with long legs and lanky arms. He’s in serious need of a haircut and one of the
girls who volunteers there during the day ties up his hair with an old scarf of
hers. He preens under her hands like a child. Sometimes he wishes he were still
small. He remembers when he was on the cusp of fifteen and Zayn used to hold
him down against the mattress as he screamed, withering with night terrors. He
feels too big and awkward to be held now and he laments it.
 
“Look,” a voice snaps Harry out his reverie, and he blinks against the harsh
October sunlight. Harry looks where he’s directed, a small cafe offering a fry
up for a fiver.
 
Liam is bundled in three layers, it seems, and Harry hardly feels the wind
chill. His nose is pink and he’s smiling. He looks softer without his uniform
on, someone Harry would have sidled up to him right away had Liam come upon him
while he was looking for punters -
 
He mentally shakes away his thoughts, reminding himself not to think that way.
 
“What do you think?” Liam asks him, gesturing back towards the cafe. It’s a
dive, but Harry’s sure it will serve a decent English. He’s hungry enough to
eat anything, if that counts. He nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of a
pair of jeans that are secondhand from Liam; they’re tight and black and ripped
in one knee, nearly too small for Harry, but they work. He’s not in any
position to buy new ones right now.
 
“Yeah, alright,” he nods. They sit in one of the small booths, Liam peeling
back a layer. He looks warm, at least. Clean cut and healthy. Harry smiles
grimly.
 
“So, how’ve you been then?” Liam says after they’re seated and left well alone.
Harry shrugs. He wants to ask Liam how it is you exist when your purpose for
existence has been taken away. Harry doesn’t know different from a man who
smiles and a man who will fuck him in the back of a car for fifty quid. He
doesn’t know the difference between hungry and empty either, figures they must
be the same thing because he’s been feeling it since the day he came into this
world.
 
Sometimes he doesn’t even know when he’s awake.
 
Life used to feel like a constant nightmare, but at least it hurt and Harry
felt something. Now it’s one long, monotonous dream. The day never ends and the
nights are too long. Harry wonders when he’s going to wake up with a backache
and Zayn’s greasy hair in his mouth, in their dingy room in Hammersmith. He
hasn’t yet, and a small part of him is still counting on it.
 
“Alright, suppose. I’ve concluded that my roommate Will isn’t trying to poison
my dinner after all,” Harry surmises. “He’s just off his head.”
 
“That’s good news, then?” Liam asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you talked to
your advocate about permanent housing?”
 
Harry shakes his head. “Laura’s busy, can’t be bothered. She’s still convinced
I can find my parents. I told her though, that I wasn’t about to do that.”
 
A waitress comes and takes their order. Liam reads it off, orange juice for
Harry, Americano for himself. The order never changes, no matter where they
decide to go. Liam is the only person Harry has left who’s connected to what
happened at the house in Hammersmith and the resulting trauma Harry suffered.
He was the only person that came to visit Harry in the child homes, and who
made sure to call consistently.It’s not his responsibility, and Harry is always
telling him he doesn’t have to come round if he doesn’t want to, half wishing
Liam will give in and never return.
 
The other half always hopes he’ll always come back.
 
It’s an unlikely, hesitant sort of friendship forged between them; firmer once
Harry realised that Liam was not interested in fucking him. Harry had even met
his girlfriend, a pretty bird named Sophia who’s still in university. Harry had
never seen anyone in love before. It was startling to see so plainly.
 
Liam talks about random aspects of his job or things he does with Sophia on the
weekend, and Harry is quietly thankful to be able to just listen and rest his
head, not having to be hyper aware of his surroundings or who he’s speaking to.
He’s uneasy, still.
 
A moment of silence arrives with their food and they eat, the hot, greasy food
welcome for Harry, who usually makes do with cold cereal and microwaved Tesco
meals at the child home. He fiddles with his fork idly, working up the courage
to ask Liam a question. “Can you look up an exact address for me, if I have the
partial?”
 
Liam wipes his mouth with a tissue, eyeing Harry. “Suppose,” he hedges, “What
for, exactly?”
 
“I have - a friend,” Harry explains. “Not related to - he wasn’t any of that
sort,” he says awkwardly, hoping Liam understands that he didn’t live in the
house with Harry. “He’s got like, a flat in Fulham. I know the house number,
but - I want to write him a letter.”
 
“We could just drop it off,” Liam suggests. “If you wanted.”
 
“No,” Harry shakes his head. He shrugs, awkwardly in his secondhand jumper. “I
want to send it, proper like. I can’t go by there unannounced, it’s too - “
terrifying. Liam nods, seemingly understanding what Harry means without him
having to actually spell it out.
 
“Yeah, alright,” Liam agrees, eating the last of his fried mushrooms. Harry had
cleaned his plate in half the time it’s taken Liam to finish his. “I can pull
it up on Google.”
 
“Thank you,” Harry says sincerely. Liam looks up and smiles at him, soft and
sincere, and Harry can’t help but return it.
 
Liam takes him to his appointment at the NHS clinic in King’s Cross, a bit of
trek from where they were originally. Harry voices his protests,but Liam is
sure, for the thousandth time, that he is fine with tagging along.
 
“It’s okay,” Liam reassures him again while they’re on the back of the bus.
“It’s good to have someone there, you know.”
 
“What,” Harry says flatly, “You think I’ve got one of those diseases - “
 
“No no,” Liam argues, shaking his head slowly back and forth, reminding Harry a
bit of a dog, “I didn’t say that and I don’t think it. I just think - I know
you don’t like being there.”
 
He’s right about that. Harry doesn’t like getting undressed in front of other
people and the smell of hospital makes him want to retch. Harry sighs, looking
out the bus window. It’s not yet a miserable day, the rain having let up a bit.
 
“‘Sides,” Liam says a moment later, “We can go to Marks and Sparks after, get
some envelopes and have afternoon tea.”
 
Harry smiles, relaxing into his seat and leaning slightly into Liam’s side.
“You’ve won me out, as usual,” he grins. “Never bloody quit.”
 
Liam laughs quietly, victorious. He ignores Harry’s sullen, quiet reserve,
never teasing him about being a mardy bum. Harry supposes it comes from Liam’s
background as a policemen, knowing how to deal with fucked up nutters and mangy
kids, but it’s also because Liam is genuine about all sorts, things that most
people would just overlook.
 
He knows that Liam worries that he’ll will be roped back into a life filled
with punters and kerb crawlers, and Harry wishes he could explain that Liam’s
got no cause to worry, because without someone like Marcus to take care of him,
Harry is useless.
 
His blood results and piss test are clean, drug and STD free for the first time
in the two months since he’s arrived at the children’s home, and Liam finds
this reason enough to celebrate with tea cakes at M&S. Harry feels light and
sorted about it too. It’s not exactly a clean feeling, but it’s a move in the
right direction.
 
Harry holds the paper and envelope Liam bought for him in his hands like he’s
afraid he’ll misplace it if he sets it down. It starts to rain on the way back
and he leans his head against the glass, Liam gone on to start his day at
Scotland Yard. Harry is constantly battling Liam’s presence, but once it’s gone
he misses it.
 
The smell of Autumn approaching reminds Harry of Zayn, the way his cigarette
smoke would furl and turn opaque. Harry used to sit out every night and watch
the smoke drift out into the overgrown back garden and Zayn would stub out the
cigarette before he went inside, leaving Harry out on the stoop. On his way in
he’d  lay his jumper on Harry’s shoulders, wrapping the sleeves loosely around
his neck like that would keep it in place.
 
Harry smiles at the memory, unseeing the city as it passes around him . His
heart hurts something fierce.
 
-
 
It’s not until just before Halloween that Harry receives anything in the mail.
He’s never seen Louis’ handwriting before and he reads and rereads the address
on the envelope, the way it’s printed H. Styles, Chatham Way, on the front in
loopy, uneven lettering. He smells it, foolishly expecting the envelope to
smell like Louis, but it’s only paper and smells as such. If he imagines it
well enough, he thinks can sniff out hints of the pub.
 
He waits until lights out for everyone in the boy’s room before opening the
letter under the yellow light in the toilet. It feels sacred and his fingers
shake as he holds it in his shaky hands until he forces it onto his lap so he
can read it properly.
 
Haz -
 
I’ve been thinking of you still and all of the ways I handled everything wrong
and I know I’m absolute arsehole for it. Thank you for writing me.
 
If it’s no matter to you, I’d like to see you again. I work nearly the same
hours as I did during summer, except for Tuesday and Wednesday. If not, you
write or call me back and we’ll arrange something else. A bloke by the name of
Liam Payne also contacted me with some very peculiar questions but we can talk
about that later. I’ve got some stories for you, and you for me, I’m sure.
 
I hope you’re doing well, Curly.
 
Louis xx
 
-
 
It’s late when he sneaks out. Harry’s not new to being quiet and invisible. On
the bus ride there, he smells the inside of his jumper, fiddling with the
prepaid phone his advocate had given him when he was first released from the
hospital. It’s the first time he can remember that his body’s not covered or
marked with sort of bruising. He still pinches on the sinewy meat of his legs
without thinking, searching for a cut to press at and irritate, but there’s
none to be found.
 
He tries to picture Louis and imagine just what he’ll look like. He pictures
Louis’ smirk, threatening to turn into a smile, the way his blues eyes light up
with mischief, kindness hidden just beneath. He’s an enigma in a jean jacket,
and Harry still can’t stop the small smile from blossoming on his mouth.
Despite everything, Louis remains a fixture in his brain, mostly untainted.
 
It’s cold. Colder than those nights Louis would give Harry his hoodie during
the late summer evenings, when the heat had burnt out and the familiar chill
had returned to the streets of London. Harry surveys the city and thinks of all
the things it never gave him, every time he so obviously needed help and it
refused. He’s never even considered that the city could give him anything
good..
 
And yet. Louis is a sun that paints the entirety of Harry’s sky bright gold. He
gave a pathetic, dirty kid a chance when no one else would. Harry bites on his
hand to stop from grinning, his leg thumping nervously until the bus drops him
at St. James’ Park.
 
He knows the way to the alley that’ll lead him to The Abbey. He doesn’t even
have to think about it, relying purely on muscle memory.
 
Louis is outside, standing behind the pub when Harry rounds the corner,
drinking something dark out of a tall glass and looking up to the sky between
the tall buildings. When he spots Harry, he kicks off the brick wall and stands
there. He doesn’t smile, or frown, but stares, like he doesn’t trust his eyes.
 
Harry walks to him and sticks out a hand for Louis to shake, “Hiya,” he says
slowly, like they just met. “My name’s Harry.”
 
“Pleasure,” Louis smiles, cheeks flushing happily. “I’m Louis.”
 
-


***** part ii *****
Chapter Notes
     PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.
     This chapter mostly discusses the warnings listed rather than
     explicitly depicts them. There is consensual sex in this, including
     intercurral sex and rimming. Everyone is of age (by US and UK
     standard) in this part.
the only heaven i’ll be sent to is when i’m alone with you.
take me to church, hozier
 
act i
 
-
 
The night was bitter with the hard clench of winter. Louis’ feet crackled on
the frozen pavement on his walk from the bus stop to his flat, the Costa cafe
locked and dark underneath. His fingers are pink with the cold as he lets
himself in, the handle sticking. He almost has a half mind to put his mitten
back on even though he’s already inside his flat.
Bug it. He hates this bleeding winter wasteland. London still does not boast a
winter similar to the likes of Doncaster, but all the same, it’s dreadful.
The lamplight is dimmed in his living area, the rest of the flat bathed in a
dark orange mixture. Louis fixes immediately on a small lump huddled underneath
the blankets, just a tuft of unruly dark hair poking out at the top. The
portable heater they use to heat the flat when the radiators sod off is placed
by the side of the bed, on high. 
Louis peels off his clothes, dropping them on the back of the couch despite
them being damp. He ruffles through a drawer for his warmest - or second
warmest joggers and a thick jumper, pulling on socks he wore day before last
from under his side of the bed. For good measure, he pulls on a hat, too. If he
looks ridiculous, well, no one is there to see him.
Harry keeps the flat clean enough to eat right off the floor since he started
spending the majority of his time here. Louis never sees him at it, and often
amuses himself with thoughts of when or how Harry manages to tidy the entire
flat without Louis ever catching him at it. He’s a sneaky one.
Louis crawls over the bed on his hands and knees, dipping down to kiss him on
his cheekbone. Harry mumbles, but doesn’t wake, his skin sweaty and feverish
from being bundled so tightly. He’s warm enough, Louis decides, so he’s free to
take the heater and put it under his feet to warm his toes. Part of him is
happy Harry is asleep, because Louis’ got stacks of course material to riffle
through and organise his sketches for tomorrow and he can’t do that quickly if
Harry is awake. Something about that boy just begs to be cuddled.
He ignores the damp clothes on the sofa, even though he does feel a tiny ping
of guilt. He knows Harry will snatch the laundry and place it later on top of
the radiator to dry so Louis can wear them again later if he chooses. He sits
down at his desk, rubbing his tired eye with one hand and pushing his abandoned
tea cup from this morning away from his work with the other.
There’s an email from his mum when he checks his laptop, along with a half-
loaded episode of Law & Order tab and a list of contact numbers for Social
Services. He smiles softly, too tired to probably give it any thought to how
Harry’s finally feeling comfortable enough to use Louis’ computer.
He’s nearly completed a project outline on word before Harry starts fussing in
his sleep, muttering under his breath. Louis pauses, looking over, waiting.
Harry is pink faced like he’s ill, eyes shut closed and mouth twisted into a
grimace. He does not look comfortable, but he is quiet, so Louis turns and
resumes his work.
By the time he’s finally able to turn in without feeling guilty about his
workload around half two, he’s near dead on his feet. Louis brushes his teeth
quietly, noting the scrubbed, pristine shine of toilet bowl, which he’s almost
certain has never looked so brilliant. He’s going to need to talk about this
with Harry.
It’s still hard not to call him Haz. He loves nicknames, because they
familiarise something to him and give people their own personal endearments,
like a private childhood joke. Harry is a name heavy on his tongue, a name
shared by one of his professors and one he always allocates with images of
business suits and astute power. It is not something he would assign to a boy
with wild curly hair and gangly, shy limbs.
Regardless, Harry stands, and Haz has to go. Louis will never call him that
again.
The bathroom mirror hanging in his loo paints a terrible image. He looks bloody
awful, blue bruises underneath his eyes from lack of sleep and new wrinkles
from the eyestrain as he studies late into the night. He needs a decent shave,
too, and probably a shower the next morning. Christ, this schedule is wearing
him out.
When he reemerges Harry is awake, blinking sleepily from his position in the
bed, gazing in the direction of the toilet. He makes no sudden movement or even
acknowledgements of Louis, which is common for him when he’s just woken up.
Sometimes Harry will lie there quietly like that for an hour or two, lost in
his own head. Louis is always both curious and wary of him when he sinks into
himself like that.
“Hey,” he whispers, taking off his hat and flipping it somewhere onto the
floor. Harry blinks languorously at him. “C’mon, ‘utch up.”
Harry gives him room to crawl in, both of them rolling towards the middle,
Louis thankful for the warmth Harry’s body radiates into the sheets as he
fidgets until he’s comfortable. Harry is gentle and subdued in such a way that
he could be watching someone get offed and still hold a conversation.
“Leave the light on a mo’,” Harry mumbles in that gravelly voice of his. Louis
nods, waiting, his hand hovering hear Harry’s chest but not yet touching him.
Harry will signal. “I had a nightmare.”
“Yeah?” Louis asks, raising his brows. “You can tell me about it, if you want.”
Sometimes Harry doesn’t want to, would rather curl into Louis’ side with his
head tucked in Louis’ armpit like he’s hiding there. But Harry nods, his brow
knitting together like he’s recollecting his thoughts from the air above them.
“I keep having this same dream where I walk into the flat and Marcus is sitting
in the corner of the room. But he doesn’t look like Marcus, he looks like -
dunno. Like a gargoyle version of him. And he’s holding this gun under his
chin. I keep thinkin’ ‘It’s okay, he won’t hurt you, don’t look at him’ but he
just sits there. I’m trying to - y’know, not look at him, but I can’t. He just
sits there and watches me,” Harry finishes, swallowing. He looks to Louis then.
Louis can’t help but check the corners of the rooms even though there’s no
need. “I think you’re just...your brain is just working out what happened,
love,” Louis concludes. “You wanna write it down?”
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “I’m tired. I just want to go back to sleep.”
Louis nods, and then reaches over to turn out the light. Harry’s hands find him
in the dark, clammy as they reach underneath Louis jumper, cupping the shape of
his ribcage. He can hear Harry sigh then, softly against Louis’ neck.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
Harry is already asleep.
 
-
 
It’s better than it was before.
 
-
 
His alarm wakes him up at arse o’clock in the morning, and he’s got a stiffy
tucked against his hip. He rubs his eyes, eyelashes fluttering. The late
January sky has bathed his tiny, clutter flat entirely in white light, and he
blinks against it. Christ, he’s got uni in two hours.
Harry is laid out beside him, his long legs covered in Louis’ too short pyjama
pants, feet crossed at the ankles. Louis’ laptop is sitting on his stomach and
he’s got headphones in, his hair wet and flat against his forehead. He’s
watching a lecture. Louis stares at him with bemusement at the pretty oddity
that is Harry, the staunch eccentricity that is; tall boy with gentle hands.
Seeks approval, kisses like a kitten to milk. Louis swears he'll never get used
to it.
He rolls over completely to face Harry, shuffling into his side. Harry’s hand
comes from where it was sitting neatly on his chest to brush along the tops of
Louis’ shoulders, fingers walking a line down his spine. He looks over then.
His cheeks are pale and concave on one side, leading Louis to imagine him
chewing on the inside of mouth.
“You’re up early,” Louis croaks. “Showered and everything.”
Harry nods, sliding off the headphones and closing the laptop. “I’m officially
enrolled in courses for GCSE’s,” he says, and then places the computer on his
bedside table, which is bare. It’s a bold contrast to Louis’ clutter of books,
knickknacks, and old CD’s he doesn’t need any longer but can’t bear to part
with.
“That’s wonderful, love,” Louis says. He snuggles back underneath the duvet,
seeking it’s warmth and avoiding his responsibility just a moment longer. Harry
slips under the duvet also, his feet chilly against Louis’ warm shins, and
Louis watches as he inches closer, his gangly body sliding noisily on the
sheets until he's close enough to nose at Louis' jaw.
"You smell good," Harry breathes. It’s said enough to lead Louis to believe it
must be a new discovery each time. Harry presses a kiss to the side of Louis'
mouth then, breath a sweet exhale on his upper lip. "And you're hard."
"It's morning," Louis excuses, running a hand through Harry's damp curls,
pulling him in for a proper kiss. Harry mewls into it, still soft around the
edges, hands coming up to clutch at Louis jaw. They roll slightly, a tangle of
shared limbs, Louis resting on top of Harry. He pauses, propping himself up on
his elbow above Harry's head and looking down at him. There's an errant curl on
his forehead, which Louis enjoys for a moment before pushing away.
"Hey," he says softly, pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead.
"Heeeeey," Harry drawls quietly in return. He strains his neck, a long white
column of his skin exposed as he reaches to kiss Louis again.
His second alarm goes off, and Louis groans, pushing up on his pillow to drag
himself out of bed, boner be damned. Harry protests the loss of the warmth, a
whine low in his throat. "C'mon," Louis cups Harry's thigh, his feet sliding to
the cold floors. "I'll let you sud my hair."
Harry giggles, following Louis off the mattress, unfolding his gangly limps
like a jack in the box. His shirt rides up on his belly and Louis indulges a
look as they meander to the toilet; still long and skinny like the bean pole
Louis met, except that he's put on a few stones since last August. Harry
flushes, pulling his shirt down past his sleep trousers.
It could be any of their mornings. And yet, it felt especially important.
They brushed their teeth side by side, Louis finding his ipod on the sink and
plugging it in, trying to get himself going. If he had a choice, he would drag
Harry back in between the sheets and curl up there for hours. Sleeping and not
sleeping, kissing, touching. Sometimes when Harry was tired he would just move
his mouth over Louis, not quite a kiss but something close, something intimate
that creates an indiscernible pain in his chest. Harry cannot help it; for all
the rough he’s been exposed to, he still holds tenderness in his haunches.
Harry scrolls through the ipod while sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs
crossed conversationally as Louis strips from his shower. Harry’s curls are
flippant and wild, but Louis likes them this way, messy and bedhead and not
very cute. It makes him look older than he is, less like a groomed overgrown
child.
“You left me enough hot water, didn’t you?” Louis asks conversationally,
testing out the spray. He drops a towel in the basin for when he’s finished.
Harry looks up, eyebrows raised.
“I think so,” he edges, “I - I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He fidgets nervously. Louis shrugs, “It doesn’t matter,” he says nonchalantly,
“Just curious s’all."
Tension dissipates from Harry’s shoulders like someone let the air out. Louis
steps in under the spray, willing himself to be more awake. His body lurches
under the water, and he counts the tile pattern uselessly until he hears Harry
step in beside him in the cramped shower stall. He turns, a bubble of laughter
escaping him when he sees Harry’s plastic cap covering his curls.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Louis asks, covering his mouth and
giggling.
Harry smiles endearingly and shrugs one pale shoulder, “I didn’t want to get
them wet again."
“You didn’t have to step in me with me, love,” Louis teases, “Could’ve gone
back to bed.”
“Nah,” Harry shakes his head. He reaches for the shampoo, his skinny body
folding to pick up the shampoo.
Harry is shy in all senses except in nudity, for reasons Louis won't explore.
 It should make him smug, like, we are naked together because there is nothing
as lovers we hide. If it was anyone but Harry he would have been proud of
catching a beauty like Harry, tall and nude and gloriously sweet, but instead
he's fumbling with awkward sadness.
“Besides,” Harry continues, breaking Louis out of his thoughts, “I wanted to
wash your hair.”
Louis rattles off about what he’s got to do today. “You coming back over
tonight?”
“I’d like to,” Harry muses, using his finger to wipe soap from above Louis’
eyebrow like one would to eat icing off cake. “I’ve got to go to this
appointment with Caroline. Now that I’m doing courses again, she wants to check
in.”
“You’re phasing out soon,” Louis smiles. Harry’s cheeks dimple when he nods.
“Well, just text me if you can’t. I work till late.”
There’s something dry in Harry’s laugh then, “as usual?” he asks. It’s question
that does not warrant an answer. Yes, Louis thinks morosely. As usual.
Harry rinses and steps out, and Louis lets himself admire the view of Harry’s
backside, the curve of his skinny, endearing arse. Through the sheer bath
curtain he can see the dark patch of hair between his legs now, growing back
like staking a claim on his forthcoming adulthood. He looks healthier with the
weight he’s put on, more like a human being. It’s like watching a person grow
back into themselves, and it’s unsettling, beautiful, and a little sad.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Harry calls out, leaving the door cracked. Louis
closes his eyes underneath the water, now lukewarm, before shutting it off.
 
-
 
Classes pass in a blur. Louis grabs a latte at some point, downing it within
ten minutes. He’s outside with a few friends from class when his phone goes
off, and he hurries for it, thinking its Harry. It’s Stan, however, and Louis
would usually let it go to voicemail, send a text in return - except he’s done
that to Stan for a few weeks now, and the guilt is eroding his gut.
“Stan, mate,” Louis chirps, stepping away from his circle of classmates and
walking off down the street a ways. “Alright?”
“Alright?” Stan returns, and he sounds jovial. “Just wanted to check in with my
best mate, see what he’s got planned tonight?”
Shit. “Oh - I’m not sure. Got loads of course work,” he excuses. “Listen, what
about next week?”
“Come off it, Lou,” Stan grumbles, “You owe me a pint for every time you’ve
blown me off. Which is around five at this point.”
“Sure, yeah,” Louis nods, checking his watch. “M’sorry, I’ve just been busy.”
“Yeah, busy being in love,” Stan teases, “I know what you’re like, Tomlinson,
when you’re all wrapped up in someone. Must be a real minger if you haven’t
brought them round the pub and introduce us.”
“Piss off,” Louis smiles, he can’t help it. Stan’s been his oldest mate and
only friend that relocated to London from Doncaster a year he did. “Shit, I’ve
got to go to class. Listen, I promise I will see you next week - swear on me
grave.”
“Cheers,” Stan says, and then hangs up. Louis sighs. It’s not that he - it
isn’t that he hasn’t told anyone about Harry, because he has: his mum, for
starts, when he had to explain why he didn’t come up for Christmas, and Niall,
who was his best mate and co-worker at the Abbey, which meant that there was
very little Louis could successfully keep from him.
It’s difficult. Harry doesn’t want to be around other people he doesn’t know,
especially other blokes, which Louis understands. Doesn’t change the fact that
it’s fucking annoying when his mates are all taking the piss out of him to come
out for a pint, and Harry is sitting curled up on the couch all sad and pretty
like watching a show on Louis’ laptop and Louis knows he’s in for the night.
It’s difficult, because Harry’s still seventeen, and he can barely bring
himself to admit he’s dating a teenager, let alone tell anyone else.
He even fibbed and told Niall Harry is nineteen, which is believable. Harry has
weariness about him that sleep won’t fix, no matter how many hours he gets.
Something is going to give soon. Louis’ no good at blanking his friends. Niall
already suspects, in that cheerful, unassuming way about him.
Niall says, “Give me love to Harry, alright?” with a weighted smile while he’s
cleaning pint glasses after a close out shift, like Harry is the an old mate or
perhaps the Missus,  and Louis will turn to him, nodding with what he knows is
obvious confusion on his face.  It’s as if Niall accepted Harry as a fixture in
Louis’ life before Louis even did, and it makes him hot and prickly all over.
Louis is distracted by the memory of Harry that morning in the shower, his eyes
half mass and sleepy, curls tucked under a shower cap Louis didn’t even realise
he owned. The crooked slope of his shoulders and the fragile skin on the inside
of his elbows; his t shirt clinging to his back where he hadn’t dried off
properly as he boiled the water for Louis’ tea. Harry bumping his nose into the
back of Louis’ neck, a silent goodbye before sending him off to class.
There’s something artistic about his body, gangly and thin and a little bit of
tummy; there is awkward beauty in the orchid spread of his pale limbs. It makes
Louis wish he had studied fine art instead of architecture just so he can give
name to the way Harry moves. He makes Louis’ everyday significant. He leaves
fingerprints around the apartment, places he’s touched when he thinks Louis’
not looking, until his mark is everywhere.
Louis knew he was a bloody romantic. With Harry he never stood a chance.
 
-
 
There are two voices talking inside his flat when he comes home that evening.
It’s already dark, the sun setting just after five, and Louis feels like he
could crawl back into bed and fall asleep now, never mind the stacks of
coursework he needs to complete tonight. Louis presses open the door and is met
with an image he didn’t ever likely think he’d see: Harry curled up on the
couch with someone else.
The broad shoulders marked sheathed in a dark jacket, the gaunt physique, the
impossibly angular jaw all seem familiar to Louis, but he can’t quite place
them until he realises who is looking at. His book bag falls to the floor with
a pathetic slump.
Harry jumps to his feet, Louis’ purple jumper too large for him in the arms but
still falling short on his abdomen. He’s wringing his hands together. “I’m
sorry,” he blurts out, and Louis furrows his brow together in confusion. Harry
closes his eyes in embarrassment. “Shit.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Louis murmurs like a kneejerk reaction,
though his eyes are fixed on Zayn. “You found him?” He can think of nothing
else to say.
Zayn stands up; dirty black boots making the floorboard creak. “Actually,I
found him.”
“Oh,” Louis is not particularly pleased to hear this. “How?” he asks lamely.
“I went to every children’s home in the fucking city, looking,” Zayn narrows
his eyes, and the statement feels strangely defensive, as if he’s won out a
competition Louis didn’t even know they were having. “I was just asking Haz if
you fuck him for his keep.”
“What the fuck?” Louis spits, shaking his head, “No. I’d never. How could think
that?”
Zayn laughs darkly, “What d’you mean, how could I? Can’t see any reason why
you’d let him stay without paying you something.”
“Harry,” Louis turns away from Zayn. Harry is shivering between them, his
cheeks flushed, as he stares at Zayn with some sort of feared reverence that
Louis does not even begin to understand. Harry pulls his gaze away, staring at
Louis, his fingers clutched together tightly . “Harry, didn’t you explain it to
him?”
“I did,” Harry says, but instead of stepping closer to Louis, he moves behind
Zayn. Louis feels his gut drop. “But he has a point.”
“No,” Louis argues. He glares at Zayn’s defiant, fixed jaw. “He doesn’t. It’s
utter bullshit. Get out.”
Zayn holds up his hands, “It never lasts,” is all he says, before shrugging on
his jacket again and flicking his box of fags. He looks over to Harry, jutting
his jaw. “C’mon.”
Harry stutters, his wide eyes gauging for Louis’ reaction as he moves towards
Zayn, almost literally clutching on to his coattails. He stumbles like a deer
just remembering to walk again, frozen in front of a car.
“Harry,” Louis croaks, feeling his chest constrict, “You can stay here. Don’t
go.”
Zayn’s already got his fingers wrapped around the edge of the front door, Harry
not far behind. “I’m just…” Harry struggles for words, hand gesturing
uselessly. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Louis argues, but he can feel something hot and ugly well up inside his
throat. He watches the hand snake around the back of Harry’s neck, holding him
there like a pup. He shakes his head redundantly, “Don’t be sorry,” is what he
finally settles on.
Harry nods, teeth worrying his bottom lip, staining his mouth red, and Louis
morbidly imagines blood dripping onto his chin. Without another word, they’re
both gone, and Louis is left in his empty flat with a sore shoulder and a bag
full of books, hours of coursework ahead of him.
 
-
 
He wakes with a dull ache in his gut like he’s eaten something sour. Louis
sighs, blinking up against the blinding white of his ceiling, his eyes glued
shut with sleep. The wind rattles against the window and the city is starting
spring to live below him, the front door of Costa opening and closing numerous
times. Everything feels very distant to Louis.
He fumbles with his alarm, turning it off, sighing against the pillows. The
other side of the bed is empty and untouched, as if his body still expected
there to be another human to make space for. The thought makes his heart heavy.
It’s cold outside, and the temperature had dropped below freezing the night
before. Louis can’t help but think about Harry.
The first person he calls is not someone he’s ever called before, and he feels
stupid and unnecessary even while dialing the number. He listens to the tone,
picking absently at his t shirt, his chest sinking every time he exhales.
“You’ve reached Officer Liam Payne’s voicemail, please leave me a message with
your name and number, and I will respond as timely as possible. If this is an
emergency, please call 999,” a beep comes a moment later.
Louis stutters, nearly hanging up, before spitting out, “Liam, hey. This is uh,
Louis. Harry’s -  Harry’s Louis. Look, he’s gone off with Zayn, one of his – I
don’t know. Christ, look, I think he might be sleeping rough. I don’t know –
just – look out for him, when you’ve got time.”
He throws his phone down on the pillow, rolling over onto his stomach. He wants
to scream but doesn’t because it’s over dramatic and futile, and the thought of
doing so makes him cringe. The never-ending, guilt inducing list of things he
has to accomplish today starts to roll like a ticking clock in his head.
An image of Harry enters Louis’ mind, his back curved and unprotected from the
wind chill in Louis’ wool jumper, too short on his hips, his ripped, black
jeans so worn in they’re almost faded gray, his lips bitten red, fingers pale
and purple as they tuck under his armpits.
Zayn’s face, distrusting and angry, the years between Harry and him, and the
power he wields. Louis doesn’t know if he did the right thing by calling Liam,
and he feels like a god damn snitch. He grabs his phone, trapped in the
bedcovers.
“Aye,” Niall’s voice is aching familiar and friendly, “Alright, Lou?”
“No, actually,” Louis swallows, “I’m really sorry about what I’m about to ask,
‘cos I know you’ve worked all bloody week but – “
Niall groans, “You need me to cover?”
Louis nods, even though Niall’s not here to see. “Yes. Please. I’m – ill.”
“Well, you certainly sound like shit,” Niall surmises, and then sighs. “You
want me to come round and baby you?”
“Nah,” Louis says, “Thank you. Owe you loads. Whatever you want. Swear on me
grave.”
Niall considers this quietly. Louis can hear the bustle of the Underground, and
then Niall curse under his breath. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll cover ya,” then he sighs,
“But you’re mopping the back for a week.”
“Easy,” Louis sighs, even though mopping is his second to least favorite thing,
“Done. Cheers, Ni.”
Niall hangs up without much else and Louis flops back onto his bed, blinking
against the pale interior of his flat. Its cold, but he can’t be fussed to find
the space heater and turn it on towards him. He rolls over to the middle of the
bed, pressing his nose to Harry’s pillow. It smells mostly of Louis’ shampoo
but underneath there are indications of Harry, and it floods Louis’ mouth with
longing.
Just yesterday he was waking up to find Harry with wet curls and cold toes,
eager to kiss Louis and touch him. The errant curl placed endearingly in the
middle of his forehead. His skinny ribs and long legs, feet pigeon toed while
they stood together in the shower.
And now.
 
-
 
The knocking on the front door startles him awake. Louis jolts, scrambling out
of bed and skidding towards the door, his feet tingling with the sudden chill.
He yanks it open, not daring to think that it’s Harry until he’s properly faced
with him, his stomach in his throat.
“Oh,” he says, and feels his shoulders slump, “Niall.”
“You don’t sound very pleased to the person who brought you soup,” Niall raises
an eyebrow, holding a Pret bag in Louis’ line of sight. “Are you even going to
let me in?”
Louis widens the door and steps back, “Shit, sorry mate, I’ve been…”
Niall settles in like Louis’ flat is his home, shrugging off his peacoat and
leaving it on the side of the sofa. He’s wearing a peculiar shaped jumper that
zips at an angle, his skinny legs sheathed in unfamiliar smart trousers. Niall
follows Louis’ line of gaze and rolls his eyes.
“I know, I know,” he excuses, pulling the soup out of the bag and setting it on
Louis’ trunk, followed by a bacon sandwich for himself. “I had a bunch of
interviews for some internship.”
“Shit,” Louis blows at his fringe, sitting gingerly down on opposite end of the
sofa, “Reckon you did okay?”
Niall considers this with a twist of his mouth, “Sure. Competition is tight in
the clinical world, but I figure I’ve scored well with one of ‘em.”
Then he says, eyebrows rose in question, “So where’s Harry?”
“He’s not here,” Louis says shortly, finding it hard to swallow suddenly. He
puts down his spoon.
Niall takes a bite of his sandwich and chews, gesturing with a piece of crust
at Louis’ chest, pointed like an index finger. “You’re not ill,” he settles on
finally. “You’re heartbroken. What happened? Yesterday you were fine.”
Fucking Niall. Louis shakes his head, “Nothing.”
“You’re taking the piss,” Niall swallows his food, and then he sits up, leaning
his elbows on his knees, “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been all over
whoever you’ve dated. Greg, Eleanor – even Nick, who may I bloody remind you is
not only our boss, but someone you still maintain you hate – “
“Nick and I never dated,” Louis cuts in firmly, but Niall just shakes his head.
“The point is not about you and bloody Nick, mate,” he says shortly, “The point
is, you’ve got no problem introducing us to every bird or bloke you’ve ever so
much as fancied, but then this kid comes out of literally – literally nowhere,
and he’s all moved in, and you’re quiet as a mouse. So give.”
“It’s complicated,” Louis excuses weakly. “You don’t wanna know.”
“First off,” Niall then does point a finger at him, “It’s always going to be
complicated when it comes to bleedin’ love. And second, I can decide whether I
want to know. Which I do. You’re my best mate, Lou. So tell me what’s going on,
and why I’m covering this shift for you later.”
Louis feels himself relent. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffled and
messier than usual from his lie in. “Okay,” he says finally, “I’ll tell you.
But you’ve got to promise you’re going to stay and listen the whole time. Even
if you don’t want to.”
Niall looks at him warily, “Why wouldn’t I want to? Christ, Lou, what the fuck
is it?”
Louis holds a hand to silence him, “Just listen.”
 
-
 
Louis wakes up in the middle of the night to phantom knocks only to find no one
outside; whispers of his name against the window only to realise it’s the wind.
He’s caught up nearly on his course work, which he thought was impossible, but
it feels half-arsed and not quite done the way he wants. He can’t find it in
him to care.
He returns to his schedule the next day. He can’t afford to become a hermit,
waiting just in case Harry stops by – he fears that day will never come again.
A part of him wishes they had taken more photos together so he could remember
all the different parts of his face, the uneven curve of his eyebrow, the
random freckle near his jaw, his floppy, overgrown hair all tucked back in a
headband.
Perhaps it was for the best they didn’t. Maybe it’ll make it easier to forget.
He buys an unnecessary house mat to put outside in his hallway just so he can
slip a spare key under it, incase Harry lost his own. He tells himself not to
call the children’s home, not to invade Harry’s life any more than he has. Liam
Payne never returns his call. Perhaps Louis was the only one who noticed Harry.
These are the thoughts that hurt most of all.
The temperature drops the following week, and Louis tries not to wonder if
Harry’s sleeping rough. Stan takes him out and gets him spectacularly pissed on
the first of February, and Louis passes out curled up in his bathroom near the
toilet. He’s not done it since he was in his first year of uni, and when he
wakes it’s to another mindless, achingly normal day. He almost wishes for the
hangover, so he could focus on something else besides the numbness in his
chest.
“I miss you,” Louis whispers to his empty flat, wrapped up in an older jumper.
He holds himself like he’s a child needing to comfort after a bad dream. “Come
back.”
Silence answers him, his somber, cluttered flat quiet except for the hum of the
refrigerator, the wind rattling the window. Louis sighs, slumping onto his
sofa, feet curled up underneath him.
It’s almost as if Harry never existed – not so much a fingerprint left in his
wake.
 
-
 
He jolts awake, a line of spit from where he’d fallen asleep on his desk to his
chin. He cringes, wiping it away, gazing in disgust at his now ruined floor
plan. His back aches from having passed out on his desk chair, and he’s sure
there is an indent in his forehead from where his hand was lying underneath.
Bugger.
A pounding at the door startles him a second later, and he jumps again,
creeping towards the door in the dark, his hand shaking as he reaches to pull
it open. It swings open to reveal Harry, leaning heavily on the doorframe. He’s
still wearing Louis’ jumper, but it’s dirty around the bottom, a hole in the
cable now.
Louis doesn’t care. “Harry,” he breathes, “You gave me a scare.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles, and he sounds far away and small, considering his
towering height. His curly hair is matted down and covering part of his face.
He looks fucking filthy and terrified, and it’s not so long ago that Louis used
to think this was how Harry normally looked, when they’d meet in the night
after Louis finished closing up the pub. But now he’s seen Harry underneath all
the grime of the street and the glitter of the being unknown. He’s know when
he’s clean, when he’s unhurt. Nothing could replace it.
“Don’t be sorry – “ Louis rushes, “Come inside. Are you okay? Are you injured?”
Harry stumbles inside, hands caught tight around his abdomen, and Louis wipes
his forehead, feeling suddenly hot with nerves.  He flips on the light near the
sofa and then balks in horror at the reddish brown stain in the middle of
Harry’s – fuck – Louis’ jumper.
“Harry,” he gasps, “Is that blood?”
“S’not mine,” Harry slurs, “Someone else’s.”
Who? Louis wants to demand right away, and he nearly bites back the word as if
it sat physically on his tongue. He swallows, taking an unsteady breath. He
stands close to Harry but doesn’t touch him. He smells like he’s been sleeping
rough and drenched in booze and cigarette smoke, and Louis wrinkles his nose.
He holds out his hand in front of Harry like a peace offering, “You need a
shower.”
Harry nods, not meeting Louis’ gaze. He doesn’t take Louis’ hand, preferring to
keep them tucked around his middle, and Louis lets his arm fall, though the
offer still stands between them. They both walk into the toilet and Louis leans
down around the tap, starting a shower.
It feels like before. It feels like when everything was awful and Harry would
throw himself into a panic without meaning to, his nerves getting one over him
until he burst from it. It feels like Louis finding new bruises and new scars
and knowing there are horrible stories behind all of them, duplicates of the
night Louis visited Harry at that crack den in Hammersmith. Louis thought
they’d made strides against all that bullshit and yet – it feels exactly the
same as the beginning.
He is incredibly tired, despite his skin buzzing with tension. In the bright
light, Harry looks sallow and hungry, his eyes bulging from his sunken sockets.
His hair is greasy and matted, and there is dirt underneath his fingernails and
around his neck.
“Here,” Louis murmurs, testing the water with his wrist, “It’s not bad. Have a
shower, you’ll feel better.”
Harry reaches out and grasps Louis wrist, faster than Louis anticipated him
moving. He gasps; he can’t help it, caught by surprise. Harry brings it to his
cheek, cupping his own jaw and staring at Louis hungrily. “Do you hate me?” he
asks pleadingly, “Please tell me you don’t hate me.”
Louis shakes his head, and Harry presses Louis’ hand hard enough that Louis is
sure it hurts him. “I don’t hate you,” he promises, and Harry’s eyes threaten
to spill over with tears. Louis’ other hand comes to frame his face. “I swear
it. I don’t hate you.”
Harry closes his eyes, nodding, a single tear slipping out between his lids,
catching on Louis’ thumb.
Whatever war was waging inside of Harry’s body seems to quiet, and he lets of
go Louis, nodding to himself.
Louis touches his wrist once he leaves the loo, the door closing behind him. He
inspects the skin in the dark orange light of his flat; it could bruise there,
flushed and angry as it is from Harry’s desperate handling. He hopes
despairingly that it does.
When Harry emerges, he stands in a pair of Louis’ pants and nothing else, his
wet hair dripping onto the hardwood floor. His body, even in the near
nonexistence light, is stretched like a canvas over bare bones and painted just
as much. Louis stands, wishing he could touch the bruises on his abdomen and
chest and wash them away.
“I figured you’d be hungry,” Louis gestures towards the kitchen counter, “I’ve
got to do shopping, but I made some dry toast until morning.”
Harry watches Louis as he moves around him, not turning his back. He nearly
devours the toast and jam Louis left out for him, taking the plate and rinsing
it in the sink. The protest of it dies on Louis’ lips. Finally he settles on,
“Do you want a jumper? Or at least a t shirt?”
“No,” Harry shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Louis can almost
see the goosebumps on his skin, risen like tiny white dots across his torso,
but he doesn’t contest that, either.
“Do you want to lie down?” Louis asks.
He nods, edging closer, “You first.”
“Okay,” Louis sits on the edge of the bed, keeping his hands on either side of
him. Harry looks like he might skid across the room again at any moment.
“Harry.”
Harry nods, crawling onto the mattress and sitting down, crossing his legs.
There’s a bite mark on the inside of his thigh, a grotesque purple colour that
makes Louis’ gut lurch. Harry takes a deep breath and says, “None of this was
Zayn’s fault.”
Fuck if it wasn’t, Louis wants to scream. Instead he says, “I’m not blaming
anyone. Just…tell me what happened.”
“I will,” Harry stalls, picking at the blanket. He looks up then, his pale skin
luminescent in the moonlight. He looks debauched and nervous. “Can I stay
here?”
“Yes,” Louis nods, “Yes, you can. No matter what.”
This appeases Harry, and he sucks in one of his cheeks, chewing on the inside
of his mouth. “We were staying at Zayn’s friends flat in Brixton. There was a
fight, and I got caught in the middle of it. But it wasn’t about me. S’bout
something else.”
“Do you want to go to the A&E?” Louis asks.
“No,” Harry shakes his head, “M’fine. Zayn put me in the other room, and gave
me something to drink to help calm me down, and I woke up and everyone was
gone. Zayn’s probably looking for me now,” Harry shakes his head, and his face
screws up like he’s trying not to cry, “But I couldn’t stay there. I needed – I
need you.”
Louis reaches out to comfort him, but Harry shakes his head, wiping his face,
and his hand falls on the blanket between them. “I’m so sorry I left. Zayn’s
the only thing close to family I have.  I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, hey,” Louis shushes him, “It’s okay. Look, its okay, Harry. I’m not
angry.”
“You aren’t?” Harry asks meekly.
Louis shakes his head, “No. I missed you something terrible, though. This flat
is empty and cold with you here with me.”
It just makes Harry cry harder, but at least he sidles up next Louis’ their
knees touching when they lay down. Harry fingers find Louis’ hand and tangles
them together. It’s quiet for a long while, Louis wide awake and unable to
sleep, Harry cold beside him. Neither move to get under the duvet.
Harry shuffles against the bedclothes until his mouth is a hot breath hovering
over Louis’ cheek; Louis turns to look at him and their mouths fit together.
Harry smells and tastes like Louis, but his tongue has the remnants of
something salty and metallic on it. His hands turn needy as they grip at Louis’
shoulders, tugging him on top.
He should stop this. He should stop because it’s fucking wrong and it isn’t who
Louis is at all. Harry is mewling mess underneath, face sticky with tears, hair
damping the pillow, his legs spreading around Louis, beckoning him closer. It’s
so difficult not to give in when he’s this wanton. Louis’ missed him so much.
The soft skin of his ribcage is taunting and familiar.
“Yes,” Harry urges him, hooking a leg around Louis’ backside. “Please.”
“Harry,” Louis groans, pulling away from him and propping himself up on his
elbow.
“Please,” Harry’s face contorts, and he nips at Louis’ mouth, “It’s the least I
can do.”
Louis’ blood runs cold. He wrenches himself out of Harry’s embrace, pushing him
away and leaning against the side of the bed, clutching at the bedding. His
stomach churns with nausea and anguish, completely gutted.
“Lou?” Harry asks quietly, sitting up. “Lou, what’s wrong?”
Louis sighs. “You don’t owe me sex,” he mutters angrily. He turns to glare at
Harry. “Don’t you understand? I’m not one of your fucking punters, Harry. I
don’t want to fuck you if you don’t want to.”
“I didn’t mean – “ he stutters, but the flush highlighting the tops of his
cheekbones tells otherwise.
“Yes, you did,” Louis argues. “Sex isn’t like that for me. It’s supposed to
mean something. It’s supposed – I want you to be my boyfriend. I want you to
live here with me because I fucking,” Louis looks at his hands, feeling himself
get more and more wound. “I fucking love you.”
“M’sorry,” Harry murmurs, and Louis can feel the tips of Harry’s fingers graze
down his back. “I’m sorry I don’t understand it better.”
“God, Harry,” Louis says his name like a curse, and then immediately retracts
it, “It’s not your fault. Listen, it’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. I’m
just – frustrated.”
“Okay,” Harry acquiesces. “Please come back.”
“No,” Louis shakes his head, “You go to bed. I’m going to stay up a little
while.”
Harry shrinks away; his naked torso skeletal and elongated in the middle of the
bed, his toes tucked together and turned in. He looks abashed and embarrassed
and Louis wants to soothe the worry between his brows, but it wouldn’t help
either of them right now. His hands shake with agitation and fretfulness as he
pulls the duvet over Harry, tucking it around his shoulders.
“I’m not angry,” Louis whispers into his ear, “I’m just going to study for a
bit longer, then I’ll come to bed. Go to sleep.”
Harry doesn’t reply, just blinking up at Louis with a sort of exhausted
reverence, like he’s still waiting for answers Louis doesn’t have. His fingers
curl out from underneath the blanket and he links their fingers together. Louis
sits there until Harry’s eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out.
 
-
 
Louis takes a drag off his bummed fag, and smoke drifts out of his mouth when
he sighs. It’s a windy, bitter morning, the kind that make Louis’ eyes tear up
from the cold and remind him of Doncaster. If he closed his eyes he’s sure he
could drown out the smell and sound of the city and sink into lush wet, grass,
the soft knolls, the dark, low clouds threatening rain that so frequented the
North.
“I don’t even smoke,” Louis excuses again, and Niall just shrugs, taking
another bite out of his cheddar Ploughman, chewing thoughtfully. He’s bundled
in a down jacket, a blue scarf tied up around his neck. They usually don’t have
lunch together, as Niall has a lab during Louis’ free hour, but apparently it
was cancelled. Either that or Niall is taking one for the team since Louis’
just about off his own head. He’s a good mate.
“So what he’d say when he’d shown up?” Niall asks, wiping crumbs from his
mouth. Louis wants to feel as calm as Niall looks, eyes narrowed from the wind.
Louis sighs, kicking the concrete wall that Niall’s piled their stuff onto.
“Mostly he apologised. You don’t even realise, like, he was absolutely soaked
in someone else’s blood. I just,” Louis stops, taking another drag and trying
to calm himself.
“And he told you what happened?” Niall asks, and then nods when Louis does. “I
think...."
“I think I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” Louis finishes wryly. He nods
to Niall, who’s still trying to formulate a thought, brows knitted together.
“Sorry. Go on.”
Niall chews on his lip. “I think so much awful shit has happened to him that he
doesn’t know it. Thinks its normal or summat. He’s been basically raised with
violence. Language is violence. Sex is violence. So he thinks like - ‘don’t
want Louis to hurt me’ - like I know you wouldn’t, mate. But think about it. If
that’s what he’s used to, he’ll want to prevent it. But he’ll also expect it.”
“Fuck,” Louis sighs, stubbing his cigarette and kicking the concrete again,
stubbing his toe. “You’re fucking right. Bugger shit wanking cockarse.”
“Let it all out,” Niall hums. He glances at the overbearing gray of the city,
reflected on the pale concrete outside Westminster University.
“Tell me what I should do,” Louis says, sitting next to Niall then. He’s almost
bothered and sweaty inside his jacket, but he doesn’t remove it. His lungs sort
of ache from the cigarette. “You know about all the brain fuckery. Tell me.”
“I barely know shit,” Niall rolls his eyes, but then he laughs, a million watts
behind his teeth like he swallowed the sun. There’s something familiar and
endearing about Niall and his constant laughter that Louis almost forgets the
frustrated knots in his gut. “I think you should just be there for him. Care
for him. Be honest, and like, try not to fuck up.”
“But I fuck up all the time, Ni,” Louis whines, headbutting his shoulder. “When
I met him I just...knew I had to be with him. I couldn’t think of anyone else
but him.”
Niall laughs, “I know you love ‘im. But maybe it’s time you realise that loving
someone and fixing them aren’t the same.”
 
-
 
It’s a slow night at work and Louis thankful to be drying pint glasses and
putting them back on the shelves, the monotony of the task letting him drift
away in his own brain. His mind is saddled with coursework and due dates and
the familiar tired ache behind his eyes, but above all that Harry is in the
forefront of his mind, Harry is the slam of his heart against his ribcage,
Harry is a shiver down the base of his spine, all of his hair on end.
He wants to go home to him. He tries to picture what Harry is doing at this
very moment but fails to; he’s never been able to figure out how Harry passes
time. Cleaning, Louis surmises, and napping, all laid out in the flickering,
weak winter sunlight like a cat sunning. Coursework provided for him by his
online tutor, since he probably has catch up. Harry’s long fingers, dipping
into his a cup of Yorkshire tea Louis keeps in the cupboard to test it’s
temperature.
The bus home is brutally slow, people getting off at every stop. Louis sits in
the back with his feet up, too agitated to even listen to music, starring as
central London bleeds out in the West London, and his familiar neighbourhood
starts to appear, the lamplights appearing like a rotating moon over his head.
Harry’s sitting on the sofa at the far end, reading something with his thumb
nail tucked in his mouth. He jumps when Louis closes the door, pushing the
laptop off his legs and standing up, the blanket pooling around his feet.
“Lou,” he says, “You’re home.”
“Sorry, I had to work late,” Louis murmurs.  The flat is the cleanest he’s ever
seen it. “Thanks,” he gestures, feeling spent and irritated, “The flat looks
tidy. You didn't have to.”
“I know,” Harry shrugs. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Harry,”  Louis sits, rubbing his forehead, “Look. Sit down.”
Harry narrows his eyes, balking, “Why?” he asks, a tone of defiance in his
voice. “Just say whatever you want. I can stand.”
Louis wants to argue just then, but then Niall’s voice sounds in his head,
steady and calm. Don’t fuck it up, Lou, he’d say. You’re fucking it up. Louis
bites his tongue instead, nodding to himself. “Alright, that’s fine.”
He turns to Harry. “First, I want to say I’m sorry for being an arse last
night. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It was wrong of me.”
“It wasn’t wrong,” Harry disagrees calmly, confusion like a curtain hanging
over his face, “I made you angry.”
“No,” Louis shakes his head, “You made me sad. And I expressed it by being
angry. Which is shit behaviour and you can call me a bloody tosser when I do
that. If you want to. You actually - fuck. Okay. What I’m trying to say is, I
love you. The reason I want you to be here and stay in my flat and share my bed
and eat together - that’s only because I love you. Nothing else. I don’t want
you to like, clean my flat. Or feel like you need to have sex with me because
you stay here.”
“I love you too,” Harry says automatically, and when Louis looks up he
recognises the rosy blush on Harry’s cheeks even with the dim light. He sits
down then so that Harry is above him on the other side of the trunk. Harry
averts his gaze, wringing his fingers. “But I don’t understand something.”
“Okay,” Louis says slowly, “what?”
“What do you get out of it?” Harry squints, “If I can’t give you things in
return for helping me. What happens when you fall out of love with me?"
“Harry,” Louis argues, “I’m not planning on falling out of love with you.”
He can hear Zayn's unspoken, it never lasts,  the night Harry left.
“Why not? So then you’re helping me, ‘cos something bad happened to me? Is that
it?" Harry runs a nervous hand through his curls, and he starts to pace in
short, erratic paces back and forth in front of Louis. “You feel bad because
Marcus shot ‘imself. And I had to watch.”
“It’s not that,” Louis says, and then backtracks. “I mean, yes, it is - what
you went through was terrible, Harry. Living there, being forced to  - “
“I wasn’t,” Harry cuts him off, looking at him in confusion. “Forced. S’what I
was good at. The only thing I’ve ever been good at.”
“That’s not fucking true,” Louis yells, throwing up his hands. He doesn’t miss
the way Harry flinches, but stands his ground, like he’s reminding himself not
to be afraid. “That’s a bunch of bullshit that’s been fed to you. I want you
here because I love you - why can’t you believe me?”
Harry’s shoulders slump, “No one’s done it before,” he finally says, and it
strikes a match in Louis’ chest, setting his insides a flame. “How should I
know?”
“I’m sorry,” Louis admits, “I’m not very good at being good to you.”
Harry turns to him then, staring at him in disbelief. His curly hair is pushed
back underneath a headband, but the rest of him looks achingly young and - not
innocent, but something in kind. He looks ready to flee, and Louis wishes the
opposite. Come here, he wants to say, usher Harry over and watch in marvel as
he’d fold his long body up until he was small and malleable. He wishes it
weren’t so harsh and misunderstood between them; the air could crackle like
lightning it buzzes so intensely.
“You must be taking the piss,” Harry murmurs, and he hugs himself. “You’re the
best person I know.”
“That’s a high expectation,” Louis smiles ruefully. “Look, I want to be with
you. You don’t owe me yourself. You could walk out this door and my heart would
be broken but I’d let you. I’d let you every time.”
Harry does walk over to him then, “I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay.”
Louis’ hands come up to frame Harry’s face, pulling him down towards his level
and kissing him softly, chaste, like they did the first time when Louis thought
he’d dreamed Harry up, the boy had been so bloody perfect, and his skin tingled
all over when they stood out underneath that Pret.
They fall into bed together, Harry’s skin smelling like Louis’ home, in more
ways than one.
 
-
 
act ii
 
Harry is due back in an hour. Louis kicks more of his shoes under the bed,
rubbing the beginnings of his beard along his arm to appease an itch. He’s
always been shit at planning events and even worse with surprises. He also
really needs a shave.
He dims the lights, stacking his uni work as neatly as he can on his desk,
using his laptop as a paperweight to flatten it down. He’ll never be the
cleaning manic that Harry is, and the flat still feels untidy and small, even
with all the surfaces cleared of Louis’ random keepsakes, books, and old copies
of the Evening Standard. He nearly gives up making the bed, instead just
fluffing the flattened, old pillows and throwing his hands up.  He wasn’t made
for this shit. His room growing up looked much the same.
The key turns in the lock just as Louis strikes his last good match, and
Harry’s face is illuminated by the shadow of the winter evening. He’s holding a
black bin bag behind his legs, full of what looks to be a blanket and maybe
some clothes, and his rut sack hanging off his shoulder is deflated.
“Lou,” Harry says his name like a question. He drops the bag and walks towards
Louis, who’s holding a small, sadly misshapen cake smothered in pink frosting
and lit with eighteen candles he found at Tesco for a pound. It glows like a
fire between them. Harry smiles, his brow knitting up in confusion. “What is
this?”
“Your birthday,” Louis says proudly, holding the cake underneath Harry’s nose,
“Two weeks late.”
Harry’s laugh is one bursting with surprised delight. “You remembered.”
“Course I bloody did,” Louis feigns upset, “Not every day you turn eighteen.”
Harry blows out the candles until there are just errant wisps of smoke drifting
between them, the smoky air sparking a nostalgic ache in Louis’ gut, and he has
a sudden flash of all the past birthdays with his mum, and then later his
sisters growing up. They eat cake with their fingers on the couch because Louis
owns five forks and they’re all dirty.
Harry snuggles into his side, licking frosting off his fingers and holding his
stomach like one would protect a baby. “You made that?”
Louis laughs, pulling his laptop off his desk and onto the trunk, arm still
around Harry’s shoulder as he sets up a movie. “Barely. Out of a box. Niall
hand to help over the phone before I set the kitchen on fire.”
“Niall, your university friend?” Harry asks, though he has before. “Sounds
patient.”
“Hey,” Louis says, “Don’t knock my skills.”
“M’not,” Harry says quietly, but then his smile tugs tellingly at the corners
of his mouth. “What’re we watching?”
“Another Molly Ringwald masterpiece. Be prepared for Pretty in Pink. It’s my
favorite,” Louis says, propping his feet up on his trunk and pulling the laptop
onto his knees.
Harry drags the blanket off the back of the sagging sofa, laying his head in
Louis’ lap. His long legs seem to stretch on forever, hanging off the end of
the sofa and dangling in midair. Louis can’t help but pull the blanket up to
Harry’s shoulders, pushing his sugary hand against the skin there.
Later, after the movie, after the stars have turned down for the night, after
Louis’ passed the point of exhaustion into the realm of stark awareness, after
the cake has been left to dry out in the kitchen, Louis shakes Harry awake
gently. There’s a small drool patch where he’d fallen asleep on the leg of
Louis’ joggers, a reminder against his thigh when he stands up.
“Hey,” Louis whispers, “You fell asleep. C’mon, to bed.”
Harry shuffles then, pulling the blanket up around his neck, blinking up at
Louis. “I had a dream we were eating birthday cake.”
“S’no dream, Harry,” Louis smiles, and sits on the trunk, leaning his chin on
his hand. Harry nods, face screwed up in consternation as he sits up, rubbing a
hand through his curls; sleepy and befuddled.
“Thank you,” Harry murmurs softly, and then stands up, blanket still held
around his shoulders like a cape.
He takes the four steps towards Louis’ bed and collapses onto the side of it,
feet still hanging off. He’s missing a sock, and Louis’ heart clenches at the
sight.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Louis shakes his head, shrugging out of his
jumper and making an effort to pull down the duvet around Harry’s massive body.
“I know,” Harry nods, reaching out and tugging Louis by his wrist until he
gives, tumbling half way on top of him onto the bed. Harry nuzzles the scratchy
hair on Louis’ unshaven cheek with his bare one, humming deep in his throat.
“I need to shave,” Louis remarks uselessly.
“I disagree,” Harry murmurs. He lets go of his clutch on the blanket in favour
of Louis’ shoulders, Harry's thighs clenching around his knee. His mouth is wet
and warm against Louis’ neck, almost soothing, if it weren’t for the semi
almost visible in Harry’s sleep pants. Saliva floods Louis’ mouth with just the
thought.
Louis suppresses a groan, pushing Harry gently away. “Maybe we should - “
Harry cuts him off, holding Louis’ wrist down and his piano thin fingers are
pale against the golden hue of Louis’ skin. “I’m not thanking you,” he says
solemnly, eyes wide and lips puckered in seriousness. “I just want.”
Louis feels the surprise bubbling in his stomach, and he exhales loudly. It
sounds vaguely like giving in. His hand grips the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling
him closer, and he can feel the exact moment Harry becomes pliant against him,
rolling into Louis’ embrace like his arms were molded for that exact purpose.
Harry whines in the back of his throat, hands scrabbling for purchase until he
can cling onto Louis’ shirt, pushing it up off his abdomen, and Louis breaks
away only for a moment to drag it up his shoulders and off his head.
Harry’s already kicking off his joggers, the leg caught on one foot and they
both burst into giggles, Harry coming up to swallow the sound right out of
Louis’ mouth. He’s needy like Louis’ never seen, pulling impatiently at the
rest of his clothes and whining when Louis pulls away to take the rest of them
off. Even in the dark, he can make out Harry’s blown pupils, his hands grazing
down his chest and touching the flush skin there.
Louis swings a leg over Harry’s thighs, the taut cords of muscle tense when he
trails his hands up Harry’s side, eliciting goose bumps in his wake. Louis’
tongue is too big for his mouth when he says, “You look – “
“Bad?” Harry asks, lifting a hand to touch Louis. His palm is dry and soft
against his arm, like thin paper.
“No,” he shakes his head vehemently, “Amazing. You know I think you’re
beautiful.”
Harry turns his head against the blankets, the hint of a smile just visible.
Louis leans down to suck a love bite into his neck, but decides against it and
just kisses him there plainly. He doesn’t need to mark Harry to remember this
later. It’s not about that.
“You gonna fuck me?” Harry asks, and it echoes the same way he said it a few
months ago, when Louis was under the impression that he was a very confident
college boy, confused and aggrivated in his own nagging virginity. He’d
laughed, then, aghast at Harry’s gull. His voice is still half-timid, half
expectant, and he tries to hide his nerves when he asks. Louis doesn’t laugh
this time.
“No,” Louis kisses him again, teeth tugging gently on Harry’s bottom lip. He
can feel the exhale of Harry’s breath on his skin, hot and smelling like
frosting. “If that’s alright, I’d like to do something else.”
Harry nods, a single curl falling in his face. He kisses Harry again, and
again, pressing down on him, his cock a hard line against Louis’ hip, separated
only by their of cotton pants. Louis edges down Harry’s legs, fingers tucked in
the lip of his underwear and sliding them off and down one leg. His cock lies
hard against his hip, red around the tip, and it makes Louis’ own dick twitch
in response.
His limbs are splayed in a way that looks like Harry is draped among the
blankets, fingers clutching at the bed sheets when Louis kisses the inside of
his thigh.  The yellow love bite Louis saw there a few weeks ago has
disappeared to no more than a shadow amongst Harry’s skin, and he kisses over
it.
Harry smells like a mixture of heady want and body soap, and more than
anything, like their bed. Louis runs his hands down his thighs, pulling them
apart and pushing one up over his shoulder. He thumbs at the slit of Harry’s
dick, watching it wet at the tip, earning a shudder in response. Louis puts
just the crown into his mouth, licking around the underside; finally sucking
him down until his mouth is full of Harry.
He can’t imagine being forced to do this all the time when you didn’t want to,
and then he quickly disposes of that thought, because he wants to make this
good for Harry, and he wants him to enjoy it. He rolls his tongue, and Harry’s
thighs jump, shivering under Louis’ hands. Harry threads his fingers through
his own hair, pulling gently; cheeks flush when Louis looks up at him.
Louis pulls off, taking a breath, Harry’s cock red and shiny next to him.  “You
ever been eaten out?” he asks roughly, his throat hoarse, and Harry shakes his
head hurriedly no, one of his curls sticking to his cheek. Louis clears his
throat, “You want to?”
Harry considers this, before nodding, his face blooming into a whole new shade
of red. When Louis was with Greg back during his first year of uni, he’d
usually turn on his stomach, excited pooled his lower gut as Greg played with
him. But Louis doesn’t turn Harry over, where he’s vulnerable and unable to see
on his belly.
Instead he leans over and nearly rips the bedside drawer out of its holding in
haste, throwing a bottle of lube in the bed sheets and distantly hopes they
don’t lose it. He leans up and kisses Harry, letting him taste Louis on his
mouth and arch up into the kiss. Harry’s hand comes up to clutch at the little
hairs of stuck to the back of Louis’ neck, holding him there, pressing their
bodies together so that he can thrust up against Louis, only his pants between
his own cock and Harry’s.
Louis pulls away, knowing he’ll nut off if he doesn’t focus, and Harry’s arms
fall back against the mattress, curled up around his head. He kisses the tiny
hair that swirls around Harry’s belly button, and then the v of his thin,
narrow hips, curling Harry’s legs up around his shoulders again and exposing
him. Louis, drunk off the feeling of Harry, and dick aching in expectation,
slips down and kisses his balls, drawn up in anticipation.
Harry’s body stutters and shies away the first time Louis licks at his taint,
unused to the feeling. Louis leans his cheek against the side of Harry’s thigh,
reaching for the tiny bottle of lube and opening it loudly so Harry can hear
it, too. He rubs the slick between his two fingers, reaching down to trace the
rim of Harry’s hole, chasing that touch with his mouth.
Louis can feel himself get into it then, kissing around the ring of muscle, and
then using the flat of his tongue to lick him around his fingers. He’s
distinctly aware of the sounds Harry is starting to make above him, writhing
underneath Louis’ mouth and whining, his back arching like a violin bow that’s
been wound too tight.
"Lou," Harry groans suddenly, and Louis can feel the light tug of fingers
abasing his hair. Harry looks wrecked  when Louis surfaces, flushed and leaking
onto his stomach, wrists bent at awkward angles where they lie against the
sheets.
With his legs quaking around his neck, Louis reaches up, kissing at the skin
where Harry’s thigh meets his hip, hand pulling him off impatiently. Harry’s
cock is hot and dribbling pre come, and he pushes steadily into Louis’ grip
with a pinched face, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip. He comes over Louis’
fist, making a mess over his own stomach; chest bright pink and heaving.
Harry exhales harshly, “Oh, my god.”
Louis smiles, breathing wetly against Harry’s hip, almost forgetting about his
own dick until Harry flips them over, sitting on Louis’ legs and bearing down
onto him, his hips rolling obscenely. He’s still half hard, his dick red and
sensitive looking. Louis bucks up into Harry, thinking he could probably just
get off like this if he tried, until Harry rolls off him again, just as
quickly.
He presses the little bottle of lube in Louis palm. “Fuck my thighs,” he
whispers hoarsely, and Louis feels his mouth part in surprise. Out of context
it’s one of the strangest suggestions he’s ever heard, but right now all he can
hear is the blood in his ears as Harry turns onto his side with his back to
Louis, an open invitation.
“Yeah?” Louis asks, just to be sure, his fingers pressing against Harry’s bony
hip.
Harry nods, his sweaty temple pressing against Louis’ cheek, “Yeah, I like it.
I want you to.”
It’s all the go ahead Louis needs before he slips his slicked cock between
Harry’s legs, fingers still curled around his hip when Harry presses back
against him, hips stuttering without much of a rhythm, but Louis is too far
gone to care, the bottom of his spine tingly white hot as his orgasm drags
closer, ever daunting.
Harry leans back against him, wrapping an arm around Louis’ neck and bringing
him closer for a kiss, breathing wetly over his mouth. From here Louis can see
the near invisible freckles and the exact centres of Harry’s blush, starting in
the apples of his cheek and spreading down to the long column of his neck and
through the middle of his chest. Something clenches harshly in his chest then,
just thinking of Harry, touching him, feeling the drag of skin against his
dick, and he comes with a surprised gasp, his orgasm hitting him like a wall.
He falls back against the mattress, shivering, and his breathing labored. A
moment later Harry appears above him, his cheeky smile softened by his sweaty
brow and sleepy, half-moon eyes. They’re both a slippery, sticky mess, but
Louis wants to enjoy a moment longer, pulling Harry down next to him and
kissing his nose.
“Heeeey,” Harry drawls. His impish smile does not match his voice; words
breaking like smoke over cracked wood set on a flame. “You alive in there?”
“Piss off,” Louis laughs weakly, and then he kisses Harry again, his lips
swollen and bruises from Louis’ incessant tugging and nibbling from earlier.
Harry’s smile falls but his eyes turn soft, supple in response to Louis’
affection. Louis pushes the damp mass of curls away from Harry’s forehead. “I
love you.”
“Love you, too,” is Harry’s husky response.
Later, Louis is unable to sleep. He loosens Harry’s hold on his waist and
crawls out of bed, minding the wet flannel they used to clean up with and their
clothes on the floor. It’s chilly in their flat, though Louis can’t remember a
time during the winter that it wasn’t. Tonight, he doesn’t mind the goose bumps
on his skin.
Harry rolls over in his sleep, shrugging the comforter up higher until it tucks
between his shoulder and neck.
Outside, the city is quiet around him, the day not beginning for another
several hours, and for this small sense of peace Louis is thankful. The new
moon is barely visible, even in the clear night, the sky like a navy blanket
pressing upon them all.
His stomach rumbles and he thinks of the birthday cake sitting on the counter
of his cramped galley kitchen, and then decides against it, fixated on the
street below him, searching for movement that isn’t there. He feels entirely at
peace, bones settles into place and body quiet.  
Harry’s black bin bag sits where he originally dropped it by the door. Inside,
Louis finds a frayed, thin knitted blanket with a discernable stain on the
corner. It smells so strongly of the brothel Harry lived at in Hammersmith that
Louis is nearly sent back there, and he brings it away from his face, pinched
between two fingers. It's powerful, how memory holds a smell.
Left inside the bag are two pairs of track bottoms, a thin, loose cabled jumper
that Louis recognizes instantly and has definitely seen better days, and dark
green scarf. He hangs the scarf up on the hook, and pushes the rest into his
washer with a load he was supposed to have started three days before.
Harry’s rucksack lie open and unzipped on the floor and Louis pulls out several
pairs of pants and a few rolled up socks, those of which are brand new. A
handful of t shirts, a toothbrush and folder full of his social services
documents, which Louis places gingerly on the counter for Harry later. He
shoves the rest of clothes in the wash and starts it.
At the bottom, folded neatly, he finds a black hoodie he thought lost months
ago. There’s a hole in the sleeve that serves as a thumb slot, worn in around
the edges. It doesn’t smell pungent like the quilt or stale and absent like the
clothes, but of cheap detergent, and the wear it has is from excessive care.
Louis feels his gut bottom out, holding the hoodie gently to his chest.
He tiptoes over to his wardrobe, pushing his rows of fluffy jumpers and random
band t shirts he’s acquired over the years, clearing out a space for Harry on
the other side and gathering a few Primark hangers and putting them there for
tomorrow. He hangs up the hoodie, looking naked and droopy as the only article
of clothing.
The night is tranquil and still, with the exception of the laundry machine when
Louis crawls back into bed. Harry groans in his sleep, his naked body bundled
tightly in a throw of blankets. Louis wiggles in next to him, skin appreciating
the immense heat he radiates; the way Harry’s bones seem to respond to Louis
when he curls around him, forever dwarfed by his height.
 
-
 
Loving isn’t fixing, Louis reminds himself.  Harry does not need fixing,
because Harry is not broken.
At best Harry is corners and elbows, step falling exactly in place with Louis
like he can’t walk to his own beat. At best Harry loves him, and at worst Harry
is lost without him, unsure how to exist on his own, as if his existence has
always entailed being attached to someone else. These are bones Louis doesn’t
pick at.
His sisters call him on a rainy, dreary Sunday, all sharing the phone and
shouting over each other. Harry’s long body takes up the entire sofa as he
watches something on Louis laptop, so Louis sits on the floor next to him,
looking up at Harry every so often and smiling, playing with the corners of the
new quilt that now belongs on the back of the sofa.
He can’t imagine not having a mum to wake up to every morning, not being fed or
cared as a child or not having someone to rely on when he was in uni, scared
shitless about his future and keeping up with his workload. Louis trusts
everyone implicitly and falls in love with friends, lovers, books and cities,
and he’s never known what it feels like to have absolutely no one. Harry knows
nothing else.
But now he has Louis. And he has a flat, complete with a constant draft and a
leaking washer and only five forks, a hand-me-down couch Louis found with Niall
on Gumtree when they lived together before graduate school. Harry is officially
moved out of the children’s home, and Louis looks forward to when their clothes
and books and clutter can take over the tiny space together.
They shower together in the mornings to save hot water, Harry’s hair flat and
nearly skimming his shoulders when it’s wet, and Louis always having to park
his fingers through it like drawing curtains to kiss him good morning.
Even with the shittiest days at work, when it’s busy and Louis’ split Guinness
all over his leg, and he’s got coursework and readings coming out both ears,
and even if he had time to take out Harry for meal, he doesn’t know if it’d be
plausible with their budget – when he stubs his toe and childishly whinges on
about it, or always steals the duvet in his sleep, or eats all the strawberry
yoghurt out of the mix pack – Harry is still there, waiting for him, at the end
of the night.
Love does not fix, but it can help heal; Louis doesn’t need Niall’s psych
degree to know it.  
 
-
 
Nick gives Harry a job busing tables a near month after Harry’s turned
eighteen.
Louis tries not to give himself away or hover, but his nerves are out of
control and it makes it hard for him to focus on pulling drinks for customers
and keeping up with orders. The Abbey is not a pub with a lot of youth; mostly
older men who have owned property in the area for generations or drop by for an
evening pint and a bit of footie after work. Nonetheless, they get their fair
share of tourists who've just done the Big Ben and London Eye route, and it’s
busy enough without them coming in hordes.
Harry mostly trails Nick around for a good part of the day as Louis stands
behind the bar and pretends not to be watching their every move. Part of him
knows that despite Nick being a pompous prat who thinks he’s too good for a
pub, and despite them having fucked on and off for a better part of last year
and never promoting Louis to lead bartender, he trusts him not to be a general
fuck up to Harry. He’s decent with new hires, at least.
Niall brings in a load of wash, stacking them in various places in low shelves.
Louis trains his eyes on the telly playing highlights up ahead, but Niall
catches him out anyway. “Don’t think you can get that stick any farther up your
arse at this point, mate.”
“Sod off,” Louis snaps, but when he looks at Niall he sees that he’s smiling.
Louis frowns. “Don’t be psychoanalysing me ‘cos I swear I’ll knock you out.”
Niall laughs then, hands up in defense, and Louis can feel the corners of his
mouth tug traitorously. “I don’t need to analyse anything; you’re an open book
for me to thumb through.”
Louis pulls a drink for an old regular, bringing back change for the bloke from
the register. “Please,” Louis mutters under his breath, “Do not ever mention me
and your thumbs in the same sentence again.”
“Happily,” Niall giggles, clinking two glasses together and serving two elderly
women. Louis watches as they’re charmed by Niall’s bright smile, all teeth.
“Look, he’s okay.”
“I’m not – “he protests, smacking Niall on the bum in immature frustration. He
pouts, crossing his arms. “I’m fine.”
“You’re about as fine as a Tyke spending his last ten pence,” Niall chides,
raising his eyebrow. “And Perrie’s on soon and she’ll be have our heads if she
catches us pissing about and these tables aren’t ready, so start wiping ‘em
down and stop whinging.”
He groans, muttering under his breath as he goes with a damp rag to wipe down
tables; Harry is setting up salt shakers and vinegar in one of the corners, a
black apron tied low around his waist. “Y’alright?” he whispers.
Harry looks up at him, eyes wide. “I think so. Nick is nice to me.”
Louis represses the urge to tell Harry that Nick is a bloody twat, but now is
not the time. “Sure,” he says instead, which is probably just as terrible.
“Yeah. Listen, if anyone gives you trouble, I’ll be at the bar, okay? You can
come ask me anything. It can be stressful when it gets busy.”
“Not as stressful as my last job,” Harry says, a smile ghosting the lines of
his mouth. Louis stares at him for a moment, jaw hanging in surprise, and Harry
bursts into a fit giggles, hiding behind his hand. “Sorry.”
“Oh, my god,” Louis says flatly, “I cannot believe you just – “
“I know, it was awful. I take it back,” Harry shakes his head, biting his lip
to hide his laughter, “Anyway. Thank you – I will. Ask if I need anything.”
Louis just shakes his head, grinning, “I’d kiss you, but,” he excuses, swinging
his towel. “Evening rush starts soon. Be on guard.”
“Right,” Harry nods, moving to another table. “I’ll do that.”
Niall is watching them from his post at the bar, and he raises an eyebrow at
Louis when Louis comes up to pull a pint of Stella.
“What?” Louis snaps when he can still feel Niall’s eyes on him after he’s
finished ringing up a group of four. Niall whistles low in his throat, shaking
his head.
“Nothing,” he says, then shrugs. “Harry’s just different that I pictured, is
all.”
Louis tries not to let his shoulders tense, even though it’s a knee jerk
reaction. “How did you picture him, then?”
“Dunno,” Niall admits, “After you told me his story, my image of him changed a
lot. I still knew he made you happy, but I didn’t understand how, or why. But
now, like, I can see it so clearly. He’s bursting with charm, and I bet if he
weren’t all in love with you, blokes would try to pull him left and right.
Girls too, I don’t doubt.”
“You see too much of everything for your own good,” Louis grimaces, flushing at
Niall’s observations. “What do you know about love, anyway, Irishman.”
It’s not exactly a question, but Niall chooses to answer it anyway, cuffing
Louis on the head as he passes. “Reckon I know more than you, but less than
Harry.”
They close up together, Harry slumped at the bar while Louis cashes up the last
the register. They ride the bus home together with their knees tucked in, Louis
leaning against the window and Harry against him. He’s not asleep, not with the
way he’s playing with his own hands, twisting and locking his fingers together.
“Tired?” Louis asks, eyeing the few people sitting up at the front as he tucks
his fingers just inside the hood of Harry’s jacket. “You’ve got a mid shift
tomorrow, very easy, just lunch. I’ll be there in the evening, around when you
get off.”
“Okay,” Harry murmurs, and then sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Liam’s taking me
out in the morning. Says it’s a surprise.”
“I thought you didn’t like surprises.”
Harry shakes his head, “I don’t. So I called Sophia and she caved and told me
he’s taking me shopping.”
Louis smiles, “Brilliant. Anything in particular?”
“Dunno, actually,” Harry furrows his brow in thought, “Can’t really think of
anything I need.”
Louis quietly disagrees, though he doesn’t voice it. Harry’s stash of
belongings are shrinking because so many of his clothes are too small or worn
to threads, and just last week he had to throw out a knitted jumper from from
Primark because there were so many holes worn into it that it wouldn’t keep in
the wash. His converse have splits in both the heels and are held together with
what Louis suspects is glue and positive thinking.
He’d tried to offer his shoes to Harry, as well as anything else, but they're
too many sizes different. When he’d complained about this Niall told him, in
his clinical voice, that it was better if Harry bought his own clothes, gave
himself his own identity, instead of just sharing Louis’ own. He’d had a point,
though it wasn’t necessarily an easy one to swallow. Louis didn’t have the
money between food and a flat and his monthly top up for another wardrobe for
Harry.
“Well, even so, it’ll be nice to have a new pair of trousers or something,”
Louis hums, “I swear that you’re growing again.”
Harry groans, “I hope not,” he pushes his nose into Louis’ shoulder, heaving a
sigh. “Already got loads of stretch marks down my back.”
“Everyone has those,” Louis dismisses, “You weren’t bloody born six foot. You
obviously had to start somewhere, just like everyone else.”
Harry squints up at him, wisps of his hair curling around the edges of his
beany. “You know what I think?”
“No,” Louis says stoutly, “Tell me.”
“I think,” Harry drawls, suspicion colouring his voice, “That I could have
spots all over my face or a hairy bum or summat, and you’d still find a reason
to defend it and tell me everyone was like that.”
“Not true,” Louis teases, “You would be able to tell well enough yourself if
the entire population had spots on their face, no matter any lie I told you.”
“Bug off, Lou, you know what I mean,” Harry pulls at Louis’ earlobe in
annoyance. “You just - you think I have no flaws.”
Louis leans down to kiss Harry’s forehead softly, and Harry closes his eyes at
the touch, looking down at their laps again. “I know you have flaws,” Louis
says slowly, “I like them just as well as I like you. Who would we be without
‘em otherwise?”
Harry doesn’t answer for a long enough time that Louis thinks he has fallen
asleep on his shoulder, which - Harry’s fallen asleep in stranger places. The
bath, for instance. But when Louis tears his gaze away from tracing the city
route to peer down at him, Harry is just blinking owlishly, staring at his own
hands , fussing with the dry skin around his nail beds.
One of them is cracked and bleeding in irritation, bound to be infected. Louis
untangles Harry’s hands, and brings it to his mouth to clean the wound, as if
Harry is his choice of worship and he's whispering a prayer.
 
-
 
 
He doesn’t see Harry until late into the night after his shift is over and he’s
closed up. At least he doesn’t have to mop the bloody back anymore, as Niall
has dutifully taken over that task after Louis had paid his penance. Louis
knows he has work to do but figures he could push it until tomorrow; right now
a long hot shower and going to sleep are the only things that sound appealing
to him.
The flat is empty when he arrives home, and Louis wills himself not to be
alarmed. Harry is a grown adult, he convinces himself, setting his keys down on
his trunk. He’s probably out for a reason like any other normal human being.
Still, the back of his neck tingles as he showers, listening for any
inconsequential noise over the spray, and his dream of a long hot shower
actually turns short, rushed, lukewarm one.
Harry comes home while Louis is in the middle of looking up concert tickets for
next summer and sketching a layout for his group planning class at the same
time. His fingers ache when he pushes back his fringe as Harry comes in the
doorway, wrapped up in a new winter coat and some mittens.
His cheeks look bitten by the wind, but he smiles, taking off his winter
clothes and hanging them on the hook by the door.
“M’just about to turn in,” Louis murmurs against his mouth when Harry bends
down to kiss him. He unfolds his legs from his desk chair, his knee popping.
“There’s leftover pad thai in the fridge. Go ahead and eat it.”
Harry slips out of his jeans, shaking his dick out in his pants and falling
into bed. “Nah, I’m fine.”
“When did you eat then?” Louis squints, cocking his head to the side. Harry
makes a noncommittal noise from the bed, his face pressed into the blankets.
“You’ve not had dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” Harry says. If it weren’t for the sleepy sigh around his
words Louis would imagine his voice to sound short and curt.
Louis opens his mouth to retort something among the likes of what growing boy
isn’t hungry but then decidedly closes it. He stares at the long line of
Harry’s back for a minute, trying to calculate the slope and volume of his
shoulders. It falls silent between them, but Harry is not sleeping.
He feels like he’s improving every time he doesn’t try to argue his way, seeing
as it’s what he’s done since he could learn to talk. Harry is not a good battle
mate, however. He gives in too easy, and Louis ends up knowing he’s not won
anything at all.
He switches off the light, brushing his teeth in the dark and tugging off his
jumper, crawling next to Harry quietly, his hand hovering near his shoulder. He
doesn’t touch him, though. There is a signal they have, a green light across
the moor.
“Hey,” he speaks quietly, “You okay?”
Harry grunts, shrugging his shoulders without turning around. Louis tries to
swallow feeling hurt, knowing it’s not about him and his petty ego. Harry’s not
even lying underneath the blankets, and it limits Louis’ ability to get
properly comfortable, seeing as that entails both pulling the duvet up to his
neck and curling around Harry like a small comma. He lies there on his back in
the dark, swallowing softly.
“Harry,” he whispers, not able to help himself.
It seems to revive something in him, because Harry rolls around, his large eyes
squinting at Louis, his chest pale in the darkness. He doesn’t look explicitly
upset, or angry, or anything. He stares at Louis impassively, arms folded up
underneath his cheek.
“I had a panic attack on the bus this morning,” Harry rasps. “I took the wrong
bus from Fulham Broadway to meet Liam and ended up in Hammersmith by accident.”
“Are you okay?” Louis asks.
“No,” Harry shakes his head, “It was humiliating. The other people thought I
was having a seizure or something. They made me sit in this office until Liam
fetched me.”
“They shouldn’t have. You’re not a minor. They shouldn’t do that,” Louis
argues. He tries not to picture Harry on the bus in a horrible state, unable to
breathe. “What’d Liam do?”
“Took me to a hospital,” Harry says quietly, his voice void of any emotion. He
swallows visibly. “Soon as they saw my record they wanted to do all these tests
on me.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” Harry’s tone turns harsh, and he frowns at Louis in the
dark, “Boys like me – we’re all on the street and we’re all hooked on drugs. I
told Liam I didn’t want any blood work done – that I just wanted to come back
home.”
“Shit,” Louis curses, and Harry rolls onto his back, rubbing a hand through his
hair. “Then he took you back, yeah?”
“No. Liam’s still a cop, even if he does help me. So we did the blood work. And
then he took me to this place after shopping…this clinic, where groups of
people talk to a counselor in turns. We sat in with them, and listened to what
they had to say,” Harry sighs heavily, “Then they asked me, and I said I had
nothing to say. Liam was upset after.”
Louis bites his lip. Harry doesn’t need him taking sides with Liam right now,
not when he’s so clearly upset and trying not to be. Louis aims for
conversational. “You didn’t say anything?”
Harry’s face screws up in retaliation before closes his eyes and takes a
breath, exhaling slowly out his nose. “I don’t want to tell strangers that I’m
sad. I don’t want anyone to know how hard it is to get out of bed, or about my
nightmares. I feel like an idiot enough as it is.”
“You’re not a bloody idiot,” Louis argues, shaking his head, “You’re a
survivor.”
“A survivor of what?” Harry asks him. “Every cop or counselor I talk to seems
to hate Marcus, but they forget that he was the one who took me in. You think
those child homes are any safer? He helped me. I wasn’t just a tramp to him.”
“At first, maybe,” Louis counters, “I know you don’t think so. I know it’s not
my place to say anything. But what he did wasn’t okay, and he wasn’t right to
do it no matter the circumstance. And you know that, I know you do.”
Harry turns to him, staring at Louis for a long while, his lip between his
teeth. Finally he nods. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up one morning and not
remember any of it. If I remember, I’ll relive it. I don’t know what I’m
supposed to fucking feel,” he pushes his hand over his heart, “It’s like I get
too sad and then everything turns off.”
The curse word feels harsh and unsettled coming out of Harry’s mouth, and Louis
nearly reacts to it. Harry stares up at the ceiling again, lost in his own
thoughts, but his hand is turned upwards on the bed, so Louis laces their
fingers together.
Louis chooses his next words carefully. “I think you should go back to that
group. Just to listen to what they have to say. I know your NHS counselor
wasn’t much use to you but…I’ll go with you, if you want.”
Harry considers this, “I’ll have a think.”
“Alright,” Louis swallows. “I love you.”
He nods, look morose and exhausted. Harry slides under the duvet, scooting back
towards Louis and finding his hand again, pulling it over his stomach. “Can you
hold me until I fall asleep?”
“Course, Harry,” Louis nods, pressing his warm body against the expanse of
Harry’s back, cooled from the exposed draft. He smells like the pub and like
the flat, and Louis rubs his nose on the back of Harry’s neck, a few curls
tickling his eyes. “I’m right here.”
Harry nods quietly, but doesn’t say anything else. Louis feels something sink
in his gut like a stone.
 
-
 
There’s a knock on their front door Saturday morning. Harry is in the midst of
putting the kettle on for boil, solemn faced and quiet. He moves around like a
ghost around the flat, and Louis can see out of the corner of his eye as he
cleans, wiping down surfaces and shuffling newspapers together to be recycled.
He doesn’t comment on it.
They were both up half the night and Louis knows his own face shows it, his
eyes puffy and sunken. He decidedly does not bring up the nightmares, instead
just settles into his desk and starts redrawing some of his notes, his eyes
blurry with exhaustion.
They both stop, looking at each other in confusion when the knock sounds.
Harry’s holding a dust bin and a broom, and he looks like a mop-head
Cinderella. He goes to answer the door. Louis cannot imagine who it is, and he
steadfastly does not acknowledge the inkling of dread starting to grow inside
of him.
Zayn looks better and worse than the last time Louis saw him. He’s smiling,
eyes twinkling in unadulterated joy at seeing Harry, wrapping his arms around
him as soon as Harry flings himself into his embrace. Louis stands up, gripping
the back of his chair tightly.
“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks, almost too quietly for Louis to hear. “I
thought we agreed that – “
“Louis,” Zayn looks over Harry, dark eyes shining with intent. Louis feels the
surprise at being addressed. “May I come in?”
Harry turns around, and Louis can see this is a battle he’ll never win. “Of
course,” he says roughly, and then clears his throat. I’ll make a cuppa.”
Zayn steps inside and closes the door behind him gently. He has similar
mannerisms to Harry, except intensified; more angular, shifty, and sharp,
surveying the room quickly, his stare intense and disarming. Louis can feel
Zayn watch him out of his periphery, and he tries not to be too shifty. It’s
strange feeling suspicious when you’re in your own bloody flat.
Neither of them sit down. “Are you okay?” Harry asks in confusion, “Have you
been hurt?”
“No,” Zayn shakes his head. He grabs both of Harry’s shoulders then, holding
him still like a child. “Listen. Ant’s been killed.”
Harry’s face drops, mouth parted in disbelief, and then he shakes his head
sadly. “How? When?”
“He was selling to the wrong person,” Zayn says roughly, “It happened last
week.”
“Last week?” Harry demands incredulously, “I saw you the other day and you
didn’t say anything.”
This is news to Louis. Harry never mentions Zayn, except in times of
reminiscing, which he keeps to a minimum. He realises how naïve he’d be to
think assume that the last time Harry was with Zayn was in that house in
Brixton – naïve to think that Harry saw Zayn as dangerous as Louis did. Harry
has a track record of loving destructive people; Louis is the exception to that
rule.
“I didn’t want to upset you,” Zayn shrugs, and then he touches one of Harry’s
curl in old, comfortable intimacy that Louis swears he isn’t jealous of. Zayn
is closer to Harry’s height than Louis is, but still not taller, and yet he’s
able to project this sense of hovering. His fingers are dirty when he reaches
up to fix Harry’s shirt collar.
“You should’ve told me anyhow,” Harry protests, “I’m not a child.”
“Sure you are,” Zayn dismisses harshly, jutting his chin, “Listen. Don’t be
afraid.”
The words trigger something in Harry, because he seizes, so still Louis would
believe he wasn’t a real human being. It’s as if all the air has been sucked
out of the flat. Louis stands motionless in front of the kitchen sink, unable
to tear his eyes away. He tries not to picture two caged animals, defensive and
battered.
“What is it?” Harry says quietly, and he tugs harshly on Zayn’s jacket. “What
else?”
“I’ve got to go away for a while,” Zayn murmurs quietly. It’s the first time
Louis’ seen anything on his face except anger and distrust. “But I’ll be back.”
“Why? What’ve you done?” he pleads.
“Nothing, Haz. Christ, listen to me. I’ve been talking with an advocate after
Marcus offed himself, trying to figure some shit out. And they called me back
about a family in Bradford. A family with my last name.”
“A lot of people are Malik’s,” Harry critiques. “It could be anyone.”
“I know that,” Zayn argues, “I know. But I called around, asking about them,
and the lady – the lady who was helpin’ me, she said they gave up a baby for
adoption in 1993. Said there is a paper in the Bradford hospital records that
could prove it.”
“They gave you up,” the edge of Harry’s voice sounds cruel, unlike anything
Louis’ ever heard. “They didn’twant you. Why would go back to them?”
“Fuck, Haz,” Zayn groans, glaring at Harry. “There could be a lot of reasons
why, and I don’t know any of ‘em. So that’s why I’ve rolled up my cot and I’m
taking a train to find out.”
Louis makes a step into living area, and like bursting a bubble, both Harry and
Zayn turn to look at him like they’ve just realized he’s here in the room.
Harry’s cheeks are flooded red with anger, and his fists are curled tightly by
his sides, ready to fight. Zayn stands opposite, withdrawn and annoyed, his
face ashen and hungry.
“That sounds like it could be you,” Louis says softly, “If such paperwork
exists.”
Zay nods calculatingly, but Harry whirls on him, face pinched in surprise.
“You’re not supposed to take his side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Louis holds his hands up, “I didn’t realise
there was a side.”
Harry turns to Zayn, poking him hard in the center of his chest. “You’re not
supposed to fucking leave me. You promised.”
“I’m not leavin', Haz,” Zayn says sternly, pushing Harry’s hand away with an
undiscovered gentleness. “I’m coming back.”
“No, you’re not,” Harry yells, “You’re going to find this family and they’ll
take you in and I’ll be here still, and you’ll never come back.”
“That’s not true,” Zayn shakes his head, “I love you more than that. You’re the
last good thing. I promise.”
“Liar,” Harry all but shrieks, getting himself properly wound up. He pokes Zayn
hard in the chest, grunting, and Louis nearly flies into action when he thinks
Zayn might retaliate, but he doesn’t. He holds Harry’s fist in his palm away
from him. Harry is not deterred. “It’s what you said always happens. People
always leave. You told me not to trust what anyone says, and now you expect me
to trust you to return. You’re a bloody liar.”
“I fucked up,” Zayn confesses hoarsely after a minute, “I should have protected
you. You need to understand, I’ve got to do this. They’re my family.”
“I’m your family,” Harry corrects him, breathing harshly. He’s all shaken,
wrenching his hand out of Zayn’s grip and rubbing his wrist like he’s been
injured, his breathing labored. Louis feels a pang pity, but he’s not sure for
whom. There are depths between them that Louis may never see or understand
completely. No one comes out fully from what they go through in life. There are
pieces that you leave behind and pick up on the way.
“You are,” Zayn admits softly, rubbing his eye with the butt on his hand. “I’ve
got your mobile. I’ll call when I get there.”
“I don’t believe you,” Harry spits, turning away from Zayn and holding himself.
Zayn looks down at his black boots, heaving a deep breath and shaking his head
quietly. Louis wants to go to Harry, but he stays rooted where he is. The
tension is thick enough to be tangible, like Louis could suffocate on it.
Zayn looks to Louis for a second time, his eyes rimmed red. He swallows
visibly. “I’m trusting you with the only – the only person I have,” he stutters
weakly, gesturing to Harry. “I would do anything for him. Anything. D’ya
understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” Louis nods seriously. Zayn is already striding towards Harry to embrace
him. Harry starts to cry in earnest, pushing at Zayn’s chest with futile anger,
rejecting his goodbye. The sight makes Louis heart constrict, as Zayn nods, his
raggedy rucksack hitched on one thin shoulder, his scuffed black boots backing
up towards the door. He had a walk that Louis could only describe as
fragmented, like an alley cat with a wrecked spine.
Harry blinks at him in surprise, face screwed up and blotchy. “Don’t leave,” he
says quietly, pleading. “I’m asking you. Don’t leave me.”
“Haz – “ Zayn shakes his head, jaw flexing. “I’ve got to go.”
The door closes behind him quietly, and Harry crouches down on his knees,
wrapping his arms around his head. Distantly, Louis wonders if his neighbours
or the customers of the Costa can hear the low, heart wrenching wail that
echoes through the flat, and he imagines people everywhere stopping on the
street to put their hand to their ears. Listen, they’d say to one another, it
must be a bird.
No, Louis would respond back with passive sadness, it’s a boy.
 
-
 
act iii
 
Something has broken inside of Harry. It is better than before, Louis thought
to himself, but it wasn’t like this. Harry’s trauma had been loud and
translatable, his adjustment hard but he preserved. Harry never believed Louis’
protests of him being a survivor, but there was no other word for it; he fought
against the nightmares, the anxiety and the terror. He fought against himself.
It’s nothing like this. Niall says that he’s dissociating himself, trying to
keep afloat after Zayn took off, but having a definition for it does little to
actually help Louis. For three days he stays curled up on his side of the bed,
never emerging to eat or go to the toilet or bathe. He doesn’t respond to
Louis’ touch, instead just stares straight ahead, his green eyes glassy and
unseeing. Louis never thought something so unresponsive could hurt him, but
Harry has surprised him before.
He covers all of Harry’s shifts at the pub, politely saluting Nick two fingers
when he questions where his new curly haired busboy is. It means he works
double shifts and long hours, but he doesn’t know what else to do. His hands,
worn and calloused from all the time he’s dedicated to his hopeful future in
architecture, are capable of little else. He is helpless to Harry and his own
brain. He is helpless to his own fucking heart.
Winter starts to dissipate without Louis realising, and it’s the first day in
many that he doesn’t need to wear his winter jacket, pulling out his favorite
denim one when he leaves in the morning. He bends down on the third day,
petting back Harry’s limp hair and trying to put himself in his range of sight.
“Harry,” he whispers quietly, “hey.”
Harry blinks, looking at Louis like his twin sisters did when they were
newborns. He doesn’t say anything.
“You’ve got to get up now, love,” Louis urges, “you need to eat and have a
shower.  You must be hungry.”
He thinks he’s made progress when Harry’s leg shifts under the blanket, but
then all he does is close his eyes again as if Louis had not said anything at
all. Louis bows his head, feeling a well of panic start to bubble up inside of
him. He’s going to be late for class.
He wishes he could call his mum, but there are so many things he’s left her out
of about Harry and his life in London that it doesn’t feel right to bring her
in on this. He’s starting to get desperate, fingers itchy and throat tight when
he thinks of Harry throughout his day, a nagging worry in his chest.
By the time he comes home he’s properly angry, throwing his shit on the floor
and marching over to the bed. He hates that Harry is damaged and he hates that
Harry is sad and most of all he hates that he can’t help. He hates that he
doesn’t know where to even start, and he hates that all he has in his useless
fucking hands.
“Get up,” he says roughly, yanking the blankets off Harry. He shivers, pulling
his legs up, shielding his face with his bicep, groaning. “C’mon, get up,
Harry.”
Harry blinks and doesn’t move, so Louis grabs at his wrists, hauling him and
pushing him to his feet. He's limp and unsteady, heavy like dead weight and too
tall for Louis to properly carry. He doesn’t protest Louis’ ministrations,
however, just stares at him.
Louis pushes at the small of his back towards the toilet, nearly hard enough so
that Harry tumbles to the floor and Louis wishes he would just fucking move.
“Go,” Louis edges, a bite in his voice. He’s hot all over, sweaty as he
wrangles all six feet of Harry in the cramped bathroom, starting the shower.
It’s probably too hot, or too cold, but Louis doesn’t know because he doesn’t
check. His reflection passes him in the mirror as he bends down to yank Harry’s
pants off his thin legs, and he doesn’t recognise himself.
Louis presses his foot against the back of Harry’s knee and he stumbles in,
grabbing the curtain and bracing himself against the tile with his shoulder.
Louis shrugs out of his clothes, throwing them haphazardly on the floor and
stepping in too, gasping under the ice cold water.
Harry is blinking at him owlishly, and it makes Louis see red, he’s so fucking
angry. It boils his blood, despite being pelted with cold water, his hair
falling flat against his forehead, and clenches like a fist in his lower
abdomen. He grabs at Harry’s chin, tipping his face down.
“Hey,” Louis shouts, “Snap out of it, Harry. Wake the fuck up. It’s time to
fucking wake up.”
He waits for a rebuttal that never comes, and Louis shoves him away, and then
pulls  him forward again, gripping Harry’s shoulders with his hands and shaking
him.
“Stop this,” he growls, “Zayn left you. And now you’re leaving me. S’not
fucking fair.”
Louis does the only thing he can think of and the one thing he thought he’d
never do. He pushes up on the balls of his feet and kisses Harry, pressing the
nape of his neck in close to hold him there. Harry tastes like sleep and
shower, and he holds absolutely still, a surprised gasp slipping out of the
corner of his mouth. There are drops of water clinging to his eyelashes.
Water hits Louis in the face. He tugs on Harry’s curls, and feels a slippery
cold hand brush up the curve of his back, and it’s not until he’s bitten nearly
through Harry’s lip that he starts to kiss back, teeth gnashing and tongues
brushing up against each other. Sex is about love for Louis; war for Harry.
This is a compromise Louis never thought he'd think of making.
There’s white noise and Harry’s laboured pant in his mouth. Louis backs up into
the tile wall, knocking off the bottle of conditioner sitting there, Harry’s
hands roaming, nails raking down Louis’ spine, making his skin burn. He gasps,
pressing his mouth harder into Harry’s, wanting to feel it. He wishes he could
wipe Harry's soul clean of guilt and free of anger, but it's never so easy.
It'll never be easy.
“Lou,” Harry shudders, pulling away from and leaning his wet forehead against
Louis’. His mouth is a bright, bloodied red, and he licks his lips over. “I’m
sorry.”
“Shh,” Louis shushes, snaking his hands over the curve of Harry’s shivering
shoulders, hugging him as tightly as he can. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his voice cracking as he says it over and over. “I’m
sorry.”
“No, Harry,” Louis admonishes quietly, trying to keep his grip tight on this
soaking wet, lumbering, miserable boy, “I’m sorry.”
He means it.
 
-
 
“You’re doing it again,” Louis reminds him, placing a hand over Harry’s nervous
leg, jumping up and down. Harry looks down, knocking his knees together and
then glances sheepishly at Louis.
“Sorry,” he shrugs, biting down on his smile. “I’m excited.”
“Surely not nervous?” Louis teases. Their stop is next, and they pile down near
the doors, Harry leaning against the assist bar, his long skinny legs sheathed
in tight black jeans.
Louis tries to imagine him objectively from a stranger’s view, taking in narrow
hips, broad shoulders, and a loose, easy smile. He looks like temptation with
dark curls and pink cheeks. Louis wonders with a pang in his chest if that’s
something Harry naturally radiates, or if it’s a persona he’s been conditioned
to take on.
Harry shakes his head, slipping his fingers into Louis’ jean jacket pocket as
they wade through ped traffic in Camden town. The city is starting to dim into
a strange, early evening purple, the wind chills still a last reminder of
winter. Their bellies are full with afternoon tea and tiny cucumber sandwiches
at Louis’ insistence, dragging Harry out last minute.
This boy makes his mischievous mind gentle. “Aren’t you worried it’ll hurt?”
Louis asks as they pile into his old favorite tattoo parlour, shivering against
the change in temperature.
“No,” Harry laughs like it’s a peculiar question, and Louis pouts, running his
fingers absentmindedly against the sleeve on his arm, remembering the hot
scratch of the needle.
Harry’s hair is disheveled and cute from the wind, his beanie forgotten in
Louis’ haste to leave. “I want it to hurt,” Harry says seriously, and Louis
cannot help if he watches the slow drawl fall from lips.
 
-
 
Louis traces the skin around the outlines of the swallows, freshly marked on
Harry’s skin. They’re watching an episode of Homeland Louis’ seen at least
three times, but Harry not all, their feet propped up against the trunk, thighs
knocking together ever so often.
“Stop,” Harry smiles, pushing Louis’ fingers away and clutching them in his
giant paw of a hand. “That tickles.”
“Can’t help it,” Louis shrugs, “I like ‘em.”
“Yeah?” Harry grins, cheeky with it, pushing to his knees and towering over
Louis. He kisses him once, mouth wet with his own saliva. “Well, I like you.”
“Me?” Louis asks, pushing a curl hanging down in front of Harry’s face out the
way. He shakes his head, fingers trailing down Harry’s bare abdomen, watching
his stomach clench underneath his touch. “Nah.”
Harry giggles softly; pulling up at the hem of Louis’ shirt until he gives in
to Harry’s incessant tugging. Louis sighs like it’s a grand effort to yank out
of it and lean back down on the arm of the couch. Harry sits back on his heels,
Louis’ knee still trapped between his thighs, and his fingers come up to trace
the lettering on Louis’ chest with a contemplative look on his face.
“What’s your happiest memory?” his question throws Louis, who purses his lip in
thought. He racks his brain, but only one memory can come to mind. Harry’s
voice is shy, not meeting Louis’ eyes as he traces the tattoo on his bicep. Far
away….
“I think it was this one time when I was eight or nine and my parents were
still together,” Louis settles on. “Lottie had just been born, and things had
been tense. There was a lot arguing and fighting. One night my dad came into my
room and brought me out and we all played this old card game at the kitchen
table – and my mum was laughing really loud at all my dad’s jokes, and we were
all just laughing. And I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I know,
they’re both carrying me to bed and kissing me goodnight.”
He hasn’t thought about that night in years, but as a teenager it was the
memory he went back to the most when he was reminiscing about his parents being
together. They had divorced a year later just after he had turned ten.
“That sounds really nice,” Harry says. “What’s your saddest memory?”
Louis doesn’t know where this all is coming from, and he doesn’t ask. It seems
important to Harry to know, or he wouldn’t be so sheepish about asking it. He
contemplates for a moment, running his finger down the length of Harry’s arm,
sighing.
“When I found out my mum had breast cancer the first time,” he considers, “When
I saw you in that bedroom, after your arm had been burned, and you were trying
not to cry.”
Harry nods again, one of his curls sticking close to his neck where he’s
pressed flat against his headband. Louis sits up then, tugging Harry closer as
he reaches up to kiss him, hands raking through his hair and pushing the
headband off, flinging it to the other side of the sofa. Harry’s hair is flat
in places and wild in others, and it makes Louis sear white hot with adoration.
“Can I ask you the same? What was your happiest memory? Or saddest?” Louis
asks, nipping at Harry’s bright red mouth.
Harry shakes his head, “I don’t know. Mine are all stupid compared to yours,”
Harry dismisses, his smile turned downward.
“No, c’mon,” Louis says, “They’re not stupid. Whatever they may be.”
“I woke up once to find Zayn crying, but he was all quiet-like about it,” Harry
recalls, casual and soft like he’s discussing the weather. Louis’ grip on his
wrist tightens marginally. “I remember the tears slide into his nose because he
was lying on his side. And I remember asking, why’re you upset? He told me that
he missed the woman that used to care for him, but she died and after his last
foster family he ended up there with Marcus. And he didn’t have anyone else but
me anymore.”
“Why does that make you so sad?” Louis asks, barely raising his voice above a
whisper. He thinks of Zayn and his skepticism of Louis, his wayward protection
and misguided care for Harry, the way they cling to each other like it’s them
against the entire fucking world. Louis doesn’t understand a love like that,
and maybe he should be grateful he never will. Boys like Zayn will always be
starved no matter how much they eat.
Harry sighs. “He was my protector, and I wanted to believe he was
like…invincible. But he wasn’t. Zayn used to get into a lot of trouble, pick a
fight with anyone. He was always getting into it with Marcus. I think, like,
looking back, he wanted to die. But he couldn’t kill himself, so he tried to
make other people do it. And it just makes me…sad. I feel sad for him.”
This is the most he’s ever talked about Zayn, and it starts to make sense why
Zayn touches Harry with such unsettling reverence. Louis remembers with tense
clarity the way they had argued that night Louis had followed them back to the
house in Hammersmith. Zayn berating Harry, boys like us don’t have friends.
Louis had thought him uncouth and cruel, a pimp in the making himself. Now he
realises his foolishness. Zayn was trying to protect him, to make him stronger.
He wasn’t being possessive over Harry for Harry’s sake, but for his own. Harry
was his only lifeline left.
Harry’s quiet for a pause, swallowing thickly. Louis manages a small smile,
brushing his cheek. “Right,” Louis says, “Now your happiest memory.”
“You’ll think it’s boring,” Harry warns, but Louis does not deter, raising his
eyebrows pointedly until Harry relents with a small sigh. “Alright, fine. It
was a couple weeks ago.”
Louis nudges his unburdened knee into the side of Harry’s thigh, nodding for
the rest of the story. The episode has ended on his laptop, and neither of them
saw much of it. It’s dark outside, but Louis doesn’t even remember the sun
setting. Being with Harry is like that.
“We’d both just gotten home from one of the group talks,” Harry says, furrowing
his brow, “And it’d been stormin’, and we we’re both soaking wet. You were
exhausted, I could tell, because when you talk it’s all blurry, round the
edges,” Harry presses a finger to Louis’ mouth as if to prove his point.
He goes on, “We’d both gotten shit sleep the night before, which was my fault
because I was goin’ pee like every hour. I could tell you had a lot to do, and
that you were cross about it. But instead you cleared your desk off and pushed
it up against the window and we drank tea and watched the rain. And I remember
thinking just about that moment, about the rain. Smellin’ it from the open
window. I wasn’t worried about anything else.”
Louis sits up again, his hands coming to cup Harry’s cheek, kissing him slowly.
He tries to pour everything into the kiss, his other arm coming to circle
Harry’s narrow waist and press him closer, making him arch up into it. He
doesn’t know why Harry’s words made him feel so charged, because it was just a
normal Sunday for them, and it always bloody rained in London, but it was
important to Harry. He remembers that day with renewed clarity now, and it
makes his skin tingle.
Harry inches farther up Louis’ lap, a soft sigh escaping him when Louis moves
to his neck, sucking on the blue vein bright against his pale skin. Louis noses
at the elegant column of Harry’s neck, breathing in his smell, fingers splayed
along his spine like it’s an instrument to be played.
Warmth spreads through his entire body, cotton in his ears as he kisses Harry
again and again, hips rocking up on their own accord. It’s not the most naked
they’ve ever been, still clothed from the waist down, or the closest he’s ever
come to fucking Harry –
But it feels intimate, Harry’s fingers clutching his arm, the quiet noises
slipping out of his mouth, the way he tips his head back when Louis finally
slips his hands inside the front of Harry’s pants – it feels like love making.
 
-
 
It’s a busy, nerve grating night at the pub, which is no different from every
bloody Friday Louis’ ever worked, packed with old gents and  parties of eight
and curious wide eyed tourists who don’t know how to pay with British notes.
He’s used to all the usual annoyances at work as he pulls pint after pint,
sending orders pack to the kitchen through the wall phone they have behind the
bar. Niall’s laughing good heartedly like the rush doesn’t bother him, much to
Louis’ chagrin; Perrie harping in that thick northern accent of hers in his
other ear. He bites his tongue, serving with a pleasant face and not much else
to say. He can’t help it if he’s crabby.
He’s not used to the constant urge to keep track of Harry with one eye while he
serves with the other, watching as his curly head bobs in between crowds and
table, his height and wild hair making it hard for Louis to miss. This is far
busier than Harry’s ever dealt with, and it sets Louis on edge. He wants Harry
to do well. He wants Harry to not lose it right as he’s clearing some lady’s
Yorkshire pudding.
Louis gets lost in the rush, nearly throwing his head back in exasperation when
another wave of people come in. Even Nick has a rosy flush, his usual pompous
smirk falling flat as he shouts directions to the line cook, his tall quiff
slightly deflated.
Niall slides up his against Louis’ back, his hand searing hot and clammy when
he grips Louis’ arm, “Hey, Harry’s in the back. C’mon, I’ll cover you.”
“Shit,” Louis curses, his stomach dropping. He tries to manage a smile at the
patron he was serving, and excuses himself, Niall’s loud voice already taking
over as he pours the lady a glass of wine. Louis weaves through people, pushing
them out of his way as gently as he can. The kitchen is hot and messy as the
waitresses scramble in search of their orders.
Leigh Anne comes up to him with a grim look on her face, her hair knotted up on
her head as she waves a spatula at him. Her apron is spattered with red meat,
and it makes her look dangerous, a woman to be reckoned with. “He’s in the
freezer. Perrie was talkin’ him round, some prick was harassing him and Nick
saw to it that he paid and left shortly after.”
“Thanks, Leigh – “ Louis calls as he rounds the corner, pushing open the main
freezer.  He shivers against the pleasant chill on his hot skin, taking a deep
breath for the first time in hours. Harry is standing there with his back to
him, arms around his torso.
“Hey,” Louis say quietly, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Harry nods, turning around. His eyes are red, and his jaw flexes, but
he doesn’t seem too shaken otherwise. Louis checks him like he’s looking for
bruises, knowing he’ll find none. He just wants to touch him without being
overwhelming. “M’fine.”
“Whatever that cunt said, it doesn’t – “Louis starts, but Harry shakes his
head, his breath coming out in opaque clouds.
“It wasn’t,” Harry starts, then stops. “He recognised me. From when I used – “
“Fucking wanker,” Louis curses, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
“He has a family,” Harry says wetly, “They were there, and I just froze up, and
he followed me and told me now that he knew where I was he – “
“He’s not going to do anything to you,” Louis protests vehemently, hand cutting
through the air with a sense of finality. “I won’t let him come even close.”
“Lou,” his voice has a sense of sad acceptance to it, like he’s lost something
he won’t get back. “I can’t – I can’t do this. I’m been trying so hard, but
it’s too – stressful. I’m sorry.”
Harry looks more upset at admitting his defeat than he does getting harassed by
an old punter, and Louis pulls him into an embrace, clutching him tightly.
Harry lies his head on Louis shoulder, taking a shuddering breath.
“Don’t be sorry,” Louis says into his hair, “You were amazing. You don’t have
to be sorry. It’s no big thing, love.”
“Yeah?”
“’Course. Your shift ends in twenty minutes anyway, and I’m sure Leigh Anne
could use some help with frying some more cod. Go on,” Louis grips him on the
shoulder, and Harry nods, biting his lip. Louis tuts him on the bum on their
way out, the pungent smells of the kitchen harassing his nose as he weaves
through people and shouting back towards the front of the pub.
Niall’s no longer smiling, rolling off a long list of orders as Louis starts
grabbing glasses. “Alright?” he says, swinging a damp rag over his shoulder.
“Dunno,” Louis says truthfully, his words harsh even for him. He amends,
“Maybe.”
“He’ll be okay,” Niall says, ringing up a large bill on the register, “You know
he’s strong.”
Louis isn’t able to respond, consumed by all the tasks to be done and patrons
to serve, but he doesn’t need to. It’s not the first time in their friendship
that Niall’s hit the truth dead on.
 
-
 
act iv
 
May sneaks upon them with bursts of rain and sunshine, and Louis finishes up
his second year with decent care, and it feels like recovering after a long
sleep, or illness. His eyes aren’t laden down with exhaustion and dryness, his
bones protesting the constant slump he adapted, spread out over his desk to
perfect his final presentation.
Niall greets him on his way out on his last day, looking just as relieved and
awful as Louis feels, heavy book bag making indents in his shoulders.  He’s mid
bite into a sandwich when he wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulder, tugging him
along the busy street.
Louis recognises the wrapper, “Hey,” he cries with indignation, “When you’d go
and see Harry?”
“My exam ended at half ten so I took a bus out to Fulham and had me a proper
sandwich,” Niall grins, swallowing, “I hafta say, Harry looks alright with that
hair net. The owner just loves him, strange lad that he is.”
“Yeah, Mr. Ludovicho has basically adopted Harry. I’m waiting for the day he
hands over the family business,” Louis rolls his eyes fondly, failing to nick
the sandwich out of Niall’s hands. “I can’t believe you went and saw him
without me.”
“Piss off, you see him every bloody day,” Niall chews, “I only see him when
he’s working. I swear he’s just about to warm up to me.”
“What? He loves you, Ni,” Louis laughs. Niall shrugs, smiling around a mouthful
of food that should be disgusting, and actually is, except that Louis is
flooded with endearing familiarity. They load onto their bus, climbing to the
top and spreading out among the front seats, ignoring the sigh of a disgruntled
man when Niall dumps his bookbag too close to him. Louis rolls his eyes.
Londoners.
“He’s just,” Louis finds the right words, continuing his thought now they’re
sitting down, “Shy.”
“Nah, he’ll come round,” Niall shrugs lightheartedly. “We could drop by again,
if you really want.”
“No use, he’ll be in the city with Liam this evening,” Louis says, rummaging
for his phone. “They’ve got a thing.”
It’s a group celebration for system kids have been in counseling for six months
and stayed clean throughout. Harry had been nervous about going and being
around so many people his age, and feared there would be someone there who
recognised him from his Marcus days. That’s what he and Louis call it now. It’s
easier to give it a perimeter, a phase that he’s bypassed. It no longer defines
him.
“Liam’s the friendly cop with a savior complex? Looks like a golden retriever?”
Niall pretends to have a think, kicking his legs up on the railing in front of
them.
“Yep, that’s the one,” Louis nods. He swats Niall’s leg with a rolled up Metro.
“And quit with the psych shit now, the year’s over. I don’t want to hear one
definition from the DSM for the entire summer.”
“You’ve robbed me of half my lines, then,” Niall jokes, “How am I ever supposed
to pick up birds now?”
“Please,” he shakes his head, “Of all your obvious shortcomings, attracting
beautiful women is not one of them.”
“What can I say,” Niall shrugs smugly, “Treating them like they’re not a piece
of skirt can go a long way.”
“Listen,” Louis holds up a hand, “I’ve heard every feminist rant you can throw
my way, and I’ve already joined your side. So save me the pep talk for today.
My brain is fried.”
Niall just laughs, elbowing Louis gently in the side.
Later, Harry comes home while Louis is packing away all his remaining sketches
into a drawer, not to be pulled out for at least another month. His hands are
incredibly sore and some of his fingers are bandaged from where his blood
blister broke. His invigilator told him cheerfully it wasn’t the first time a
student bled all over one of their exams.
He smells like fresh air and other people when he wraps his arms around Louis’
back, palms pressing flat into Louis’ torso. It’s only slightly better than
scent of deli meat, not that Louis cares. He turns around in the embrace,
kissing the corner of Harry’s mouth. He has cake breath.
“Hey,” Louis says, hands coming up to loop around Harry’s neck and play with
the curls there. “How was it?”
“Alright, yeah,” Harry nods indiscriminately, “We met with Sophia after and
they took me to Nandos.”
“Hmm,” Louis murmurs, “You don’t taste like Peri-Peri chicken.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and then shifts sheepishly. “I was going to bring home
some cake, but then I was hungry again on the bus, so I ate it. Sorry. It was
vanilla, so…”
Louis laughs, parting ways with Harry’s embrace to go survey the street below,
still lively with people enjoying the last remnants of sunshine. “I hate
vanilla cake.”
Harry nods, “I know.”
“Hey,” Louis turns to him, his smile betraying his voice. He runs his finger
along the window sill, feeling the breezy night air waft through his fingers.
“It’s warm and the night’s young. Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “There’s a carnival in
Hyde Park I passed my way home.”
“You want to?” Louis asks, “No promises on winning you a large stuffed animal.”
Harry laughs, light and carefree, “Never been to one.”
“Well, then it’d be wrong not to,” Louis smiles, grabbing his keys and wallet
and dragging Harry by the waist out the door. Harry slips his fingers into the
pocket of Louis’ denim jacket, sniffing the fabric, his grin devious and
pretty. Louis feels his stomach swoop like it used when he was kid.
 
-
 
The world is gold and purple, and Louis can’t hear anything but the tinkling of
different rides, twinkling lights flooding his periphery. This side of the park
is packed with people, celebrating the second consecutive week of nice weather
by standing in line and rotting their teeth with candy floss. Louis shares that
sentiment thoroughly.
Harry stays close on his coat tails, and Louis imagines if the sun were up high
in the sky he would see their shadows linked together like one human being with
four legs and two heads and one soul.
They wade through crowds, smelling thick surges of sugar and bratwurst, Harry’s
sweating hand clenched in his. They pass under a ride that spins, a swirl of
blue and magenta lights assailing their vision. Louis looks over at Harry, his
skin painted green and dark plum. “Is it too much?”
“No,” Harry smiles, shaking his head, “I like it.”
Louis’ favorite ride is an American inspired Tilt-a-Whirl, which spins them
around in little pods. “C’mon,” he says, grabbing at Harry’s elbow from where
he was watching at a pond of floating plastic ducks with befuddled amusement.
“Let’s go on this one.”
“Okay,” Harry eyes it warily, “But just this one.”
“This is the only one that’s worth it, anyway.”
Their turn finally comes in line and they sit, Harry’s long legs bending up in
the small space as someone buckles them. He flinches from the man’s touch so
Louis ends up taking the belt and doing it himself, patting Harry on the cheek
and sticking his tongue out in giddy excitement.
“Ready?” Louis teases, looking down around him at the carnival, the flashes of
hot pink and white yellow, against the dark London skyline. It smells like the
beginnings of summer each time he inhales.
Harry nods, eyes wide in nervous anticipation. The ride starts, lifting them
high into the sky and starting to spin, Louis’ heart ramming into his chest,
his thighs tightening when they start to twist faster and faster until his
whole head is tingling. He closes his eyes, until all he can feel is the
whirring of the air whipping through his hair, teeth rattling against each
other. Everything falls into place; the sounds of the city alive and flush
below him, beating like it has a pulse of its own.
Louis opens his eyes and Harry is staring at him, a small ghost of a smile on
his face, knees bumping up against Louis’.  They’re whipped around unexpectedly
and they both burst out in surprise laughter, Harry nearly doubling over like
he’s being tickled with it. Louis understands that feeling.
“I love you,” Louis shouts, but it’s swallowed whole by the ride, spinning them
until everything is a sea of bright colour. Harry smiles, but is unable to hear
him, so Louis unclenches his hand from the seat and reaches over to grab
Harry's hand, squeezing his message.
Harry is a clarity that Louis can find nowhere else, slipping his own life into
perspective. Before, he was twenty two, lost in a sea of graduate programs and
internships, working to pass time and pay bills. He wasn’t unhappy, but he
wasn’t fulfilled, either.
Now he has a feeling in his heart that he could place no words on if he tried -
hot and burning and tender, a fire light from inside. He wishes he could hold
it in his hands, and on cold nights when the winter graces them and there’s
another draft at his flat, he would use it to keep Harry warm as he fell
asleep. He wishes he could articulate the way it feels to see something
beautiful, and his first reaction is to turn to Harry and point it out.
Louis’ soul is illuminated, a bright fearsome sight to behold, moving at the
speed of light. Harry is his lighthouse, guiding their way home.
 
-
 
End Notes
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