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Tchikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 23 Harry clutched the program too tightly between his fingers, wrinkling the paper. As always, he wanted to run away, to rip the neatly ironed suit from his body and dash out the nearest exit, but something kept him anchored to the ground. Through the slats of the stage doors he could see the concertmaster rise and strike an A on the grand piano. Any moment now he’d be told to take the stage, and there would be no going back, and part of him would be relieved to know he had no other choice. Part of him would thrill in excitement, in wonder and anticipation, and usually this part drowned out his sour stomach of nerves.
“You’re on, Harry,” he heard, and with a simple nod in response his body moved forward on autopilot, the program slipping from his hands and fluttering to the blackened wood floor.
People clapped as he walked through the orchestra towards his destination; out of habit, he pasted on a grin. When he reached the piano bench he bowed slightly before taking a seat and resting both hands on his thighs. He could feel the warmth from his legs seeping up into his fingers and he wished he could leave them there to charge, to fill up with heat and dislodge the cold emptiness currently in his arms. But when the conductor raised his baton, Harry’s swirling thoughts and what-if’s faded into the background.
As the opening chord vibrated through him, echoing out into the hall and bouncing off the high ceiling, Harry readied himself for what was to come. Throughout the years he had constructed a system—like a ritual rite, a carefully ordered series of locks—through which to channel that thing his teachers called musicality. Harry had dubbed it simply the phenomenon, because to him it wasn’t just a look of passion or an artistic flailing of the arms, like it seemed to be for many of his peers. Harry could feel this thing, tangibly; it would well up inside him during a climactic swell and push on his chest, sometimes painfully, and Harry would have to lance the tension, let the thing out, relinquish control of his conscious self and allow the phenomenon to possess him.
It seemed dangerous, though, this thing, and so Harry made sure to tame it. With a lifetime of practice and perfectionism (perhaps rivaled only by the gods), Harry learned to stamp conditions onto the phenomenon. Only in conjunction with the highest standards of musical excellence could it be released. Only when Harry had earned the right, through hours of preparation and minute attention to detail, could this horribly powerful thing be loosed inside of him. Only with a performance of near perfection.
Thus Harry became addicted to performance. He began to need the release it afforded him because he had no other drain for his bloated sponge of a heart. The adrenaline rush, mingled with such wrung-out relief, defied Harry’s attempts at explanation; he only knew that the phenomenon felt better than orgasms—better than sleep. He couldn’t call it chills, really, yet it tingled and blossomed inside him like honey bubbles in his chest, like liquid fireworks, a vibration without noise, a growing, real thing, a thing so beautiful it made every other sensation blur into irrelevancy.
Two movements of the piano concerto passed, the fabric of time suspended throughout them. The third and final movement dawned with all the looming buildup of a spring rain, its melodic climax delayed methodically as the harmony crawled out of its world-building to ascend the scale in uneven intervals. Soon the orchestra joined Harry in the crowning moment, the top of the arc, the crest of the roller coaster…
As the music crashed into resolution the phenomenon surged through Harry’s veins, awakening him, freeing him. He lived for it.
The piece ended and he stood, flushed with warmth and alight with the aftershocks of completion. He shook the conductor’s hand and bowed as the audience rose to their feet. The stage lights shone down on him, blinding his view.
As Harry lay on the operating table, he could cling only to that moment, to those stage lights, for they were the same as the fluorescent illumination above him. He barely had the strength to wonder if he’d wake up afterwards; he knew they’d made him sign a paper before wheeling him through the blue swinging doors of the OR. Did it say he wouldn’t sue them if he ended up paralyzed? They’d already started an IV in his arm. The comforting lights dimmed above him, and he thought, will this be my last bow? Before he slipped away he considered the life he’d lived and the things he’d accomplished. He almost felt a sense of peace: he’d graduated from the top music school in the country, he’d performed as an acclaimed soloist, he’d won competitions, he’d just gotten into ARD. If he died, he’d go out on top, at the pinnacle of his career, having done justice to his music, performing it at the highest standards and giving his craft everything he had. That knowledge made him proud. As everything faded to black, he knew he could face death with no regrets. Save, perhaps, one.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s been nearly a year. Harry watched two squirrels chase each other up an oak tree. The park lay empty, the early spring damp too caustic for most people, but Harry liked how the sordid hunger of growth and slick-mud and yearning clung to his skin. I’ve done nothing for a year. After the surgery Harry had spent weeks simply learning to walk on his own again. He’d needed assistance just to shower, just to eat, and with no job and no income he’d been forced to move in with Gemma. His mum had come over for a bit, but Harry couldn’t ask her to cram into Gemma’s tiny studio apartment indefinitely. She’d left after a month, though Harry still hadn’t progressed enough to move from the couch for more than an hour a day. Throughout his recuperation Gemma and her boyfriend had remained more than kind about his presence, but still Harry had felt like a terrible burden. Three months later he’d found a sublet in a two-bedroom in Washington heights. His roommate, Zayn, seemed nice enough, and he could thankfully afford the rent, but it had been a struggle to get his baby grand up six flights of stairs and into his room. Gemma had suggested he just sell the piano and purchase a smaller upright, but he couldn’t bear the idea of losing one more thing that had defined his old life. That had defined the old him. A drop of rain hit Harry’s nose and he sneezed. He immediately stifled a moan and clutched at his abdomen, failing to remember a time when his diaphragm hadn’t hurt, hadn’t ached in tight, forceful tension or crumpled at the slightest cough. He tried to breathe deeply like the therapists had taught him, but his shoulders rose anyway. The stubborn scar slicing down his stomach refused to be expanded by an intake of breath, instead sticking through his torso to his backbone, filling his insides with scar tissue like tiny tree roots that took pleasure in knotting around his internal organs. The sky continued to disperse water. Pushing himself up by the arms of the bench, Harry stood and departed the park along an uneven cobblestone path. The damp and cold he could tolerate, but with actual rain he risked sickness and all the unhelpful respiratory upheaval that came with it. He headed for Liam’s coffee shop, The Corner, to drown his sorrows in caffeine. The door jangled when he pushed it open. He took his usual seat at table four, adjacent the window, and let the hum of café noise form a static backdrop for his thoughts. The outdoor sprinkles turned to steady rain and water flooded the gutters and streaked the glass beside him in rivulets that reminded Harry dramatically of his melting life. “Hey there Harry, gloom and doom today, is it?” Harry forced a smile. Liam meant well. “Does it show?” “Only like a neon sign.” Liam patted his shoulder lightly, remembering not to touch him too hard. “Just the usual for me, please,” Harry started, but Liam bit his lip and looked towards the back counter. “You don’t… um, mind giving our new hire your order, do you?” Harry tried to see around Liam but couldn’t. “Sure? As long as I get my coffee I don’t care, really.” “You’re a sport. Don’t say I told you to.” Liam hurried off, calling out as he passed the counter, “Louis, could you see to table four?” Harry unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his scarf, staring for probably the hundredth time at the artwork hung on the wall. When Liam had opened the shop three years ago he’d made it a priority to decorate with works by local artists, and one painting had always struck Harry as particularly beautiful. It depicted a gentle sunset and a field of bright red poppies in which two little girls sat weaving flower crowns. Many times Harry had dreamt of stepping inside the frame and living there, in that perfect world of striated paint strokes, perhaps because the whole thing just looked so incredibly real, like the flowers were growing towards you and the golden clouds could change hue at any moment. “Order?” The brisk voice that broke in on this thoughts came from the man now beside him, a small man with an oversized presence who held a pen and notepad awkwardly in his hands. Harry startled briefly before he could catch his bearings, barely registering that the man had a thick British accent. “Oh. Um. Large hazelnut latte, cinnamon and a little whip please.” “Cinnamon?” The man shook his head, his cheeks drawing in as he raised his eyebrows. “To each their own, I suppose.” Harry frowned. He didn’t fancy being mocked for his taste in coffee by the barista. “It’s not that unusual.” “I’m aware.” The man didn’t look at Harry as he scribbled down on the notepad. It took him far longer than Harry would have thought, and though he tried not to stare, Harry found himself glancing quizzically at the man’s odd, angled writing. His hands seemed un-used to holding a pen, and he gripped it like a toddler learning to draw, his whole fist wrapped around the stylus. “That’ll be right out. Anything else?” Harry wondered if he should mention to Liam that his new employee lacked any sort of customer-friendly tone. “Are there any fresh blueberry muffins today?” “Fook if I know,” the barista mumbled, arching just one eyebrow this time. “Oh.” Harry felt his cheeks go red. “Don’t have a spell, I’ll check.” Harry tried to breathe a sigh of relief as the barista—Louis, he supposed—walked away from him, but at this point he caught a glimpse of the man’s rear under the ties of his apron and all the breath in Harry’s body took a vacation. An insidious hollowness filled him, a sensation he’d come to identify as lust, though he remained unsure if that specific word accurately defined it. Maybe the feeling was more regret than lust, or perhaps just plain sorrow, sorrow that at one time he’d have not hesitated to daydream about such a stunning arse, or even ask its owner out. But now… now he felt quite guilty even daydreaming about subjecting such a lovely man to his crippled body. Swallowing down his embarrassment over the sudden attraction, Harry once again focused his attention on the rain. His coffee took far longer than usual, leaving him to enjoy a bouquet of choice curse words coming from behind the counter. Finally, Harry saw the barista begin to carry his coffee over with small, measured steps. Harry tried not to stare, but Louis kept up a snail’s pace, the mug and saucer held before him as if he balanced a crystal chalice. His eyes were fixed upon his charge and its contents, his brow furrowed with every ounce of his concentration. Eventually Louis reached table four. As he began to lower the mug, Harry saw that the barista’s efforts were in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking. Every tendon, blood-vessel, and muscle in Louis’ arms very obviously strained and pulsed with the task of remaining still. “Thank you,” Harry said softly, but immediately regretted opening his mouth, for his words broke the barista’s spell of calm and his hands wobbled violently, spilling the coffee half out of its cup, all over the table, and into Harry’s lap. “Shit!” Harry bolted upright, his back spasming as he escaped the hot liquid. “It’s okay, I’m fine, don’t worry—“ “Fook! Fook it.” Louis grabbed a napkin and held it to Harry’s doused sweater, but this only pressed the hot liquid into his scar and he jolted backwards again. “No it’s fine, please,” Harry pushed Louis’ hand away, holding the fabric out from his stomach. “Shit. I’ll bring you another, obviously. On the house. If you want.” Harry hadn’t really studied the barista’s face before, hadn’t noticed the piercing blue eyes that stared at him from under unusually long lashes. A bit of ginger scruff covered Louis’ cheeks and his strait hair hung in a swooping fringe past his eyebrows. “Um.” Harry wanted to say that he’d get it himself, that he didn’t cherish the idea of being spilled on again. But something about the barista felt familiar; Louis stood there unmoving, but frantic, his expression like a wild animal in a cage, and yet no bars restrained him, no ropes held him down. If he lived in a cage, it was an invisible one, and Harry knew exactly how that felt. “Yes, please.” He sat back down and sopped up the spilled drink with a handful of Liam’s fancy napkins. “And can you check on the muffins this time?” Louis gave a curt nod and stalked away. In vain Harry fanned at his sweater, thinking once more of sunsets and poppies. From poppies his brain tracked to opium, and he recalled the blissful, painless sleep the drug had afforded him on that hospital bed. He couldn’t remember a pain free night since they’d unhooked the epidural from his spine. “Here.” Harry looked up a few minutes later to see Louis once again straining under his burden of mug and saucer. This time Harry smiled gently but didn’t say a word. The man set his drink down, shaking, but not destructively so, sloshing only a smidge of coffee over the mug’s rim. “Thank you,” Harry said, meeting the other man’s eyes for the first time. “Don’t thank me.” Louis turned rather sharply and left Harry alone with his latte. It tasted the same, but the warmness of it slipped down his throat and chased away the rainy day’s chill a little better than usual. Harry drank it slowly, postponing the inevitable, hoping that Louis would make another appearance. When a half hour had passed and he did not, Harry paid and made to leave, sliding a five and two ones under his empty mug and saucer. It did seem irrational to leave Louis any tip at all, but Harry kept wondering how the barista’s face would look with a smile. He wanted Louis to be there the next time he came to the café, even if he had forgotten Harry’s blueberry muffin. The spring rains came nearly every day for the next week, providing Harry a perfect excuse to seek shelter at the The Corner. His private teaching didn’t really furnish him with the salary for a four-dollar latte and three-dollar muffin and seven-dollar tip, repeat seven, but he couldn’t stay away once he found out that his patronage alone stood between Louis-the-barista and joblessness. Niall, Liam’s co-owner, provided the business acumen to The Corner (in contrast to Liam’s human empathy) and had sussed out Louis’ incompatibility with coffee houses after his first three days on the job. To counter this, when Harry arrived at the little shop every afternoon between teaching, he always requested Louis as his server. The barista’s shaking never improved, and always Harry’s mug lost a half-inch of coffee by the time it landed atop table four, but Louis never spilled on him again. Harry couldn’t for the life of him understand why Louis had chosen barista, of all professions, but it became his secret mission of sorts to see that the blue-eyed man with the wonderful bum remained employed. Well. Harry liked to tell himself his motives were purely egalitarian, but truthfully he also had a more self-serving purpose. As Harry appeared at table four day after day, Louis’ gruff demeanor gradually softened. By the end of the first week he’d memorized Harry’s usual order and even learned his taste in pastries, and finally, after two weeks, on a Wednesday afternoon, he called Harry by name, his lips contorting into a slight curve that Harry imagined could sprout a smile. And Harry thrilled at this evolution, more than perhaps was healthy. In the world of Louis’ near-smiles he could pretend and forget and imagine, because Louis knew nothing of his surgery, or of the accident that had caused it, or of Harry’s previous life. To Louis he seemed a put-together East Side professional who left eighty percent tips. He could play a part without any fear of discovery; he could present himself as whole and healthy, and Louis need never know the truth. Harry coveted a gaze that saw him as normal, perhaps even granted him a dignity that his fall from prestige had dashed. The Corner only witnessed the best of Harry Styles, a magic trick of wishful showmanship done to the accompaniment and stimulation of caffeine. This being the case, Harry guarded his secret fantasy world fiercely. Gemma proved a worthy opponent to his posturing, however. She had known Liam and Niall longer than Harry, and absolutely insisted on visiting The Corner for their monthly sibling date when Harry accidentally let slip his frequent patronage. Gemma would not be outdone in her support of their friends. Liam greeted them at the café’s door. “Gemma! Good to see you! Harry, you want Louis again?” “Um…” Harry did, of course, but— “Let me get him, he’s in the back doing sandwiches.” Harry lead them towards table four, but before he could claim his usual seat on the booth side, Gemma beat him to it. “They’ve turned this into such a cute place, gosh. I quite like the art work.” “Me too.” Harry unzipped his sweatshirt as he settled against the metal back of the remaining chair; he chose the booth side every day on purpose. “Do you think Niall’s caved and gotten vegan pastries yet?” Gemma queried, checking both sides of the café’s menu. “Perhaps. I don’t really know.” Harry stifled a groan as the decorative bars of the chair hit his spine. “Oh Harry, shit, I forgot. Switch with me.” “It’s fine, Gems—“ “No, come on.” Gemma brokered no argument, pulling him up in a heartbeat and replacing him in the booth. Harry had intended to smile and thank her graciously but then he saw that Louis had appeared beside them, notepad and pen in hand. He stood watching closely, curiously, his half-parted lips obviously aching to ask for an explanation. Harry's cheeks budded with crimson shame at his foiled pretence of normalcy. “Oh! Perfect timing. Do you have vegan muffins or anything? Cookies?” Gemma smiled brightly at Louis, oblivious. “We might,” Louis said slowly. “Great, well if you do, I’ll have one. Surprise me. And…uh… let’s do a caramel macchiato. A medium.” Louis took his customary long time to scribble this down, earning a strange look from Gemma. “I’ll take the usual, please,” Harry asked, thankful that Louis had his order memorized and didn’t need to further display his hardships in front of Gemma. Louis had barely left them before Gemma tilted her head and whispered, “You ask for that barista specifically?” “Yes.” A horrible defensiveness mixed with Harry’s aforementioned shame. “He knows what I like.” “More he is what you like, maybe?” Harry blushed even deeper into the table. “Don’t, please.” “You’ve got to try again sometime, Harry. It’s been a year since the surgery and you haven’t even kissed anyone.” Harry glowered at her. These catch-up dates always turned into lectures. “How would you know that?” “Well have you?” Gemma challenged. Harry bit his lip in resignation. “You’ve got to snap out of it someday, you know that? You can’t go your whole life moping about the way things are.” Harry felt cool rage bubble up inside his belly. “That’s fucking easy for you to say.” “I’m aware. But someone needs to say it, and I’m willing to risk your ire to be that someone.” “How noble.” Harry stared past her, his back tightening despite the forgiving booth cushion. “You know mum thought that the surgery would actually thaw you out a bit, banish the ‘Ice King’ forever. I knew it would only make you worse.” With two fingers Harry tapped on the tabletop. “Must feel nice always being right. Want me to get you a badge for your birthday or summat?” “I’ve always maintained, and I told mum this too, that it’s your own fault people can’t get close to you. You put up walls, Harry. You’re like the fucking Dutch dikes.” “That’s so untrue, I have plenty of people I’m close too. You fucking know most of them.” “So,” Gemma twirled at her hair with the conviction of a raptor who had just pegged a kill, “Your deathbed confessional means nothing now? I’m just supposed to forget that whole ream of word vomit happened?” “I was post-op and drugged up with morphine, Gemma.” “Drugged-up-with-morphine-Harry started crying because he thought he might die without ever being in love.” For someone who usually moved with the collective speed of a tortoise herd, Louis chose this moment to quickly materialize beside them, balancing their orders on a tray. Harry took a deep breath and hoped to god Louis had been too focused on carrying their drinks to hear, but going by the wide stare of his blue eyes, Harry’s hopes were futile. Even with Louis’ straining efforts, a little of the drinks sloshed over to their saucers as he set them on the table. Gemma’s mouth parted slightly at this, and she glanced at Louis in startled disbelief before remembering her manners. Harry hurried to smile up at the barista, hoping to distract from his sister. “Thanks, Lou,” he mumbled out, offering a silent apology with his eyes. “Er, ya. Let me know if you need anything else.” Harry could feel Gemma’s gaze boring into him as Louis retreated back to the kitchen. “What?” He finally said. “He spilled half our drinks.” “Don’t exaggerate, it’s like a fourth.” Harry frowned at her. “Oh, my god. Do you hear yourself? Why is he waiting tables in that condition?” Harry took in a large breath. It hurt. “I don’t know.” Gemma shook her head but smiled. “He… he actually reminds me of myself, if you must know.” Gemma bit into the very vegan chocolate chip extravaganza Louis had brought her. “You’re not actually disabled, Harry.” Harry took a sip of his latte and let it sit on his tongue a moment too long before swallowing. It burned him. Gemma didn’t understand; she never would. “Right.” They finished their coffees discussing mercifully lighter topics: their jobs, their mum, their little nieces and nephews back home. Gemma departed first, insisting on paying for the both of them. She left Louis only the customary tip, though, and that’s why Harry stayed behind, making up an excuse about needing to talk to Liam. When Gemma had safely disappeared out of view Harry slipped ten dollars into the tab. * The early cold of spring soon turned to the sticky heat of tree blossom season, and Harry found petals littering the walkway of his daily route, reminding him of weddings and red carpets and Disney princesses. Spring fever had a way of flushing people out to the streets, and knowing this, Harry tried to avoid meeting any former acquaintances. His luck expired one day under an effusive magnolia. “Harry! I didn’t know you were still in the city!” Aiden Grimshaw. Organist. Exuberantly gay, but more importantly possibly the biggest gossip in New York City’s classical music world. Harry had purposely muted his Facebook posts even before they’d graduated. “Ya… still here it seems. You’re well, Aiden?” Harry tried his best at manners. “Oh fine, fine. Last I heard you were in some kind of accident, is that right? You’re okay now, though, aren’t you? You’ll have to tell me what you’re working on, I swear I can’t keep up with all these fucking pianists around here. Oh hey! Let’s grab a coffee, I refuse to stand here and be showered with these smelly petals!” Before Harry could protest Aiden had pulled him into the closest café, the café Harry had, of course, been en route to. Liam saw them enter, and like the conscientious and observant friend he was, called Louis from the kitchen immediately. Biting back bile, Harry made for table four. Aiden had an un-godly spring in his step, though, and beat Harry to the booth seat, leaving him in much the same situation as when he’d breakfasted with Gemma. Harry’s pride refused to let him simply ask Aiden to switch. He swallowed down the pain as he sat and instead concentrated on answering Aiden’s prying questions without entirely revealing the complete disgrace his life had become. “And then next month I’m recording at King’s College. I honestly thought that go-fund-me for the CD wouldn’t raise anything, but I’ve got several big donors who are very interested in the complete Bach, so, that’s a thing. But you haven’t told me about you!” Though he had the whole thing memorized, Harry faked looking over the menu. “I, um, haven’t been doing that much, honestly. Laying a bit low, you know.” Louis appeared beside them. Harry’s heart stuttered at how blatantly Louis’ gaze softened as soon as their eyes met. “What can I get you today, Harry?” He asked, sweet-toned, gentle. “The usual for me, Lou. Um, this is my friend, Aiden. Aiden,” Harry motioned to their server, “Louis.” Confused and looking rather bothered, Aiden gave a tight smile and proceeded to rattle off, “I’ll have a large coffee, completely black, but put cream in a little jug to the side, if you would. And I’ll take one of those poppy seed muffins too.” “Okay,” Louis scribbled down slowly, his hands shaking more than usual, “And what kind of cream would you like? Whole milk, half and half, soy, almond?” “Definitely whole.” Louis nodded and marked this as well. When he’d finished he turned once more to Harry, saying, “I’ll be back shortly,” and giving a small smile. Harry couldn’t help but let this gesture seep into his core. “He’s a snack, isn’t he?” Aiden bit his lip and clucked in the back of his throat as Louis walked away. “God.” Harry wanted to smack him. “Haven’t you already fucked every gay man in this city?” “Not quite. You, for example.” Harry snorted. “Let’s not go there again.” “Oh, lets, just for funsies. Honestly, Harry, I always wanted to shag a headliner at Carnegie and you were my best option. I wouldn’t have even needed to worry about you catching feelings! How perfect is that for me?” Aiden reached across the table and patted Harry’s hand sympathetically. “Except now, well, you know.” Harry bit the inside of his cheek. His back had started to ache. “Except what? I still gave that concert there.” “Yes, but…honey,” Aiden rolled his eyes, “Carnegie doesn’t count unless you’ve done it at least three times. And it looks like you’re out of the races for good, huh?” Harry stiffened. “Why ask how I am if you already know?” “I mean I don’t know know. I’ve just heard things. Of course I don’t know if they’re true! That’s why I’m asking, hon.” “And just what exactly have you heard?” Harry twisted in discomfort. “Just that you had started teaching privately and stopped coachings with Merio.” Harry closed his eyes on a blink and let the darkness linger before opening them again. “You heard right.” “Honey!” Aiden tisked, “Now that’s exactly how to get yourself forgotten in a city like this. Not even networking? Look, you just tell me if there’s anything I can do.” There was something he could do. He could fucking get out of Harry’s seat before his back cramped up beyond tolerance. But Aiden continued. “You really should do some performing, anything really. It’s a spiral once you start teaching those brats; living salary, cushy positions at schools, and then you’re gone from the game just like that. So common, so tragic.” Harry glared at the table, trying to focus on the spilled salt granules that sprinkled the wood. “Guess that’s me, common and tragic.” “Ehem.” Of course Louis had been standing there. “Oh finally!” Aiden unknowingly saved Louis from the difficulty of distributing both drinks by taking his coffee and creamer from the tray immediately. Harry waited patiently for his, purposely not watching as Louis’ shaking spilled the customary amount from the top of his mug. “You nervous, mate?” Aiden chuckled at Louis, somehow taking a sip of his boiling beverage. “Don’t need to be! Maybe before Harry was an important little shit, but…” Aiden dissolved into giggles and reached over to pinch Harry’s arm in what he thought passed for fondness. Harry forced a smile in response, but his stomach had started to quake from the strain on his lumbar and if he didn’t lie down soon, he’d be unable to walk home. “Excuse me a moment, Aiden,” he grinned at the other man, pushing up and heading, as steadily as he could, towards the restrooms. Once there he bee-lined to the handicapped stall and, disgusting as it was, lay down on the floor. The cool tile soothed his knotting muscles and in thirty seconds he could breathe again. As the air rushed into his lungs, tears rushed to his eyes, gravity doing its part in rolling them down his cheeks. “Harry? Harry are you okay?” Slowly Harry turned his head, and another tear trickled out. Beneath the stall divider he could see Louis kneeling on the tiles, his hands pressed to his thighs. “M’fine, ya.” “You’re on the floor.” “Said I’m fine, Lou. Thanks for checking but I’m fine. I’ve got it.” Knowing he’d get no more relief with Louis there, Harry pushed up and unlocked the stall. Louis stood as well and blocked his exit, staring into his eyes with earnest concern. “Your friend out there… he’s a bit of a dick.” “I consider him an entire dildo, honestly.” “Here, turn,” Louis instructed, taking Harry’s shoulders gently and rotating him in place. Steady hands smoothed along Harry’s back the next moment, brushing him down. With a shocking lack of shyness, Louis even dusted off Harry’s bottom and the backs of his thighs before futzing with his hair. When he finished, he turned Harry back around and presented him with several scraps of toilet paper, each bit looking like a fluttering white moth in his trembling fingers. “Quite unsanitary, that. Don’t go sitting on your bed in those,” Louis warned, his blue eyes reflecting the garish fluorescent lights of the bathroom with crystal clarity. “Thanks,” Harry muttered, utterly embarrassed. “Don’t mention it.” In farewell, Louis gripped his forearm and gave a soft squeeze, and Harry noticed for the second time that when they touched, Louis didn’t shake. He returned to Aiden more bewildered than annoyed, somehow managing to tolerate the organist until they parted ways a half hour later. Harry didn’t see Louis again that day, but the barista’s touch lingered on his skin like a burn, itching and branding him, reminding him that it had been so, so long since anyone had shown him physical affection. Later that night Harry decided to simply stand in the shower and let the hot water stream pound away the day’s annoyance from his shoulders. The heat soothed his taut muscles and relaxed his arms only a little, though. He closed his eyes and tried to channel serenity from the constant rhythm, but instead his brain drifted and he heard the rain from that day, pattering relentlessly against the New York sidewalks, lubricating everything, setting the stage for disaster. Two o’clock lesson with Merio, four-thirty call for rehearsal, six-fifteen— Harry had never finished his thoughts. Someone’s hasty exit from a grocer had pushed him from the curb into the street, his feet unable to find purchase on the slick concrete. The cab had been stopping anyway, so it hadn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. Sometimes Harry wished he could go back and change that. Gemma maintained he should be thankful for the accident, as they’d have not found the tumor otherwise. Harry had never noticed the extra ten pounds growing beneath his ribcage, though perhaps he should have; his breath control had gone from bad to worse in the span of five years. Even then, though, when he’d needed to loosen a belt buckle or wear a slightly larger waist size he’d never thought that anything could be wrong with him; his abs had always been softly toned. It wasn’t like he could be pregnant or anything. Harry remembered waiting six hours in the brightly lit ER of New York Presbyterian, Gemma at his side. To the EMT’s his injuries had looked minimal, but they were obliged to run a full ream of tests as he’d passed out on the street and subsequently come to in the worst pain of his life. A CT scan had revealed a lacerated tumor and, in fear of septic shock, they had rushed him back for emergency surgery. He’d not been given much time to say his goodbyes, only managing to instruct Gemma to tell their mum he loved her before the surgeons whisked him away. Harry remembered waking up in a recovery room hours later with an empty, suction-like feeling in his gut. He’d looked down to see his stomach concave, and had pulled back his gown with still groggy fingers to behold for the first time the nine-inch-long scar that vertically bisected his abdomen. It had glared up at him dark and red, its edges crusted with surgical glue, strips of white tape holding it together. Harry ran his fingers over the scar as the water beat down on him. It had lessened in redness over the year, but not in pain. It would become entangled in his other organs, causing indigestion and blockages, and would get ‘stuck,’ becoming immobile and hard, preventing him from wearing anything with a prominent waistband. But the scar’s pain remained minimal compared to his back. The surgeons had vacuumed out Harry’s entire abdominal cavity, moving and replacing all his organs; this, coupled with the absence of the tumor (that had been supporting his torso and gradually replacing the muscles of his abdominal wall), meant that sitting unsupported for five minutes led to blinding pain. Standing unsupported led to much the same. In the first few months after the operation Harry hadn’t known how to make his body work properly again, and had pushed too hard to gain back his piano skills, resulting in a strange overcompensation by his right shoulder. This had led to his present problems: a clenching right arm and often-immobile fingers. He turned the water off and stepped carefully from the shower, the mirror above Zayn’s sink assailing him before he managed to get a towel wrapped around his naked body. He looked so weak. His shoulders constantly wanted to round, to fold in and condense him into a cocoon. The scar shone brightly from the heat of the shower, like a crack in his body that bellied burning coals within. Only he himself had touched the scar since that fateful day. No lover’s hand had run over its raised edges or smoothed along the puckered skin. The mark revolted Harry, and he couldn’t imagine anyone ever finding it manageable, let alone tolerable. He could still fuck and be fucked from behind, he supposed, but despite his ice-man reputation, Harry quite liked to kiss his lovers and lie chest to chest and feel heartbeats and lick nipples and nip at jaw lines. He mourned never being able to experience those sensations again. At last he pulled a towel around his shoulders and padded to his room, thankful for the darkness outside, the dim lighting of Zayn’s apartment, and the promise of another lonely night. Harry told himself that eliminating the risk of rejection felt just as good as being loved.* Harry noticed the pillows immediately upon entering The Corner the next day. Crafted from brightly patterned fabric, they had been secured to the backs of every chair in the café. On the booth side of table four, an additional pillow lay, an anomaly against the red vinyl; its existence made Harry’s heart spike for a good three seconds. With happy anticipation he sat and positioned the pillow against his lumbar. Though the booth already trumped the chairs in comfort, this new luxury took sitting to the next level. A blissful sigh escaped his mouth and he closed his eyes for the briefest moment. “You approve, then?” Apparently he’d sighed a little too loudly. “Oh, uh, ya. I suppose.” “You suppose.” A twinkle shone in Louis’ eye, and Harry’s stomach flipped. He didn’t need to ask who’d furnished the café’s newest opulence, yet he couldn’t quite make himself thank Louis forthright. Instead he said, “Can I deviate from my usual today?” “I don’t know. Can you?” Harry rolled his eyes, feeling a delightful warmth tingle on his cheeks. “Alright, alright. Make it a frappuccino. Lots of chocolate.” Louis bit his lip in a poor attempt to disguise a smile. “I knew you’d break out of your shell one of these days.” Harry felt a stabbing sensation deep in his groin as he watched Louis painstakingly scribble down his order; his long lashes batted softly with every turn of the pen. “You weren’t making bets on my consistency with Liam, were you?” Harry teased, hoping his tone didn’t sound as tender as it felt. “I’m not a betting man, no. But it is nearly summer, and who would want hot coffee in this heat? I just made a deduction, honestly.” Harry tried to smile without dimpling. He failed. “You could go into detective work with a mind like that.” Louis cocked his head and licked out to whet his lips. “Not a bad idea. If I need a Dr. Watson I’ll be sure to let you know.” As Harry watched Louis’ splendid behind amble away he couldn’t help wondering if Louis meant his offer to be as gay as it had sounded. Surely Holmes and Watson were cannon by now? Harry had precious little time to enjoy whatever new ground had been broken in his relationship with Louis because tragedy struck a couple days later. The first summer-like Saturday in New York meant bustling business everywhere, and The Corner proved no exception. Unable to claim table four (two very adorable elderly women had snatched it) Harry chose a small, out of the way table nearer the back, thankful once again for the universally distributed chair cushions. He waited for Louis to appear a bit impatiently. When he finally materialized with a large tray of drinks held precariously in his shaking hands, Harry’s heart nearly jumped from his chest, and he looked frantically around for Liam, who he finally spotted mid-dash between the register and the back kitchen. He motioned to his friend and Liam obligingly hurried over, his mind clearly somewhere else. “Um, Louis is waiting other tables?” “Brittany called in sick, like, two hours ago, and I have no options. Look a this place! You just want a frapp again? Niall said he’s on his way, actually, he can get it for you. Might be a minute. Sorry,” Liam offered, wincing apologetically as he turned on his heel, half-slid on the tile floor, and resumed his dashing. Harry began to chew nervously at his fingernails, watching Louis’ every movement and saying silent Hail Mary’s whenever he transferred an order from tray to table. To Harry’s relief, Louis seemed to be doing quite well, apart from the disgruntled looks of several customers who had lost a third of their order to their saucers. A baby’s screech did it. Midway through Louis lowering a large mug of tea, the child screamed out suddenly. Harry watched in what felt like slow motion as Louis’ concentration faltered. He didn’t dump the entire drink on the woman, for he managed to land the cup upright on the table, but enough of the beverage sloshed out that the woman yelled, “You idiot! This is cashmere!” “I’m so sorry, ma’am, let me get you ano—“ “Don’t you touch a DAMN thing! What’s a clumsy kid like you doing waiting tables? Where’s your manager?” The woman made such a ruckus that the whole café fell into silence, apart from the still squealing child. Liam came bustling out of the kitchen moments later and visibly wiped his brow as he approached the furious customer with apologetic gestures and low tones, like a man trying his best not to spook a manic horse. His exact words were inaudible to Harry, but the woman’s reply rang loud and clear. “Is this quality service? You expect me to frequent your establishment when I get hot tea dumped on me unscrupulously?” “No, it’s okay, Liam,” Louis’ voice, though soft, cut across the café clearly. “I’ve more than worn out my welcome. Frequent this café all you want, ma’am, it’s a wonderful place, I assure you. I won’t be here.” Nearly upsetting his own drink, Harry stood as Louis pulled off his apron and marched quickly towards the kitchen, Liam following close behind him, trying to halt his departure. Not caring if the other customers thought it strange, Harry followed too. By the time he caught them up Louis and Liam had already slipped outside the back entrance and into the warm May afternoon. “It’s just one lady, Lou, fuck’s sake! No one’s firing you.” “Doesn’t matter, love, I’ve been deceiving myself for a while now. It’s time it all stopped. Niall knows it, you know it too. Pretending won’t make this any easier.” “At least stay until you find another job. God, Louis, you don’t even have—“ At this point Liam saw Harry standing there and quickly clamped his mouth shut, a look of concern on his face. He continued in a softer tone. “Lou, just let me know, okay? When you’ve worked things out.” With this he gave a small head-shake to Harry and went back inside, his demeanor like a sodden puppy. “Are you okay?” Harry asked, not knowing what on earth else to say. “’Course I am. It’s just time for me to move on is all.” Louis squinted up at the bright blue sky and planted both his shaking hands on his hips. “To another coffee shop?” “Now that doesn’t seem like the brightest career move, does it?” Louis teased, smiling at him sadly. Harry paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before launching an apropo question at Louis. “I’ve been wondered for a while, um, why you’re working here. You’ve not always been a barista, have you.” Louis’ eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean by that?” “People like you aren’t just baristas, that’s all. There has to be something more.”
Louis’ shaking fingers visibly dug deeper into his hips, pulling his shirt in creases that mirrored his still-descending eyebrows. “People like me?” Harry dimpled slightly. “You know what I mean, Louis, don’t play coy.” But instead of smiling back Louis’ nostrils flared. “You know I actually… wow,” Louis smirked up at the closest skyscraper, “I thought, I actually believed that someone had finally… that you were the first person after all this time…” His tone turned sharp. “This is who I am. I’m a jobless barista, and I’m worth just as much on your fooked up scale of capitalistic hierarchy as the next man.” Harry felt scorch marks where Louis’ words whipped his ego. “I didn’t mean—“ “Shut up, I’m not finished, Posh Spice,” Louis rounded on him. “I see how you look at me. I can’t believe I thought you actually cared, coming in every day, leaving your ridiculous tips… I have to be a mystery, don’t I? Because no one who’s ‘just a barista’ could ever be your equal, is that it? Could ever be interesting to you?” “I never said any of that, I never meant that—“ “I’m not some kind of project for your spare time, Harry. Despite how you rank me, I’m not ashamed of myself.” “God!” Harry pushed his hands up through his curls, his heart beating too fast, his world spinning out of control. “Fuck, I didn’t mean any of those things, Louis! I simply… I wondered about you because… because I thought we were friends!” “Friends?” Louis snorted. For a brief moment Harry thought he could see liquid shining in his eyes. “Clearly we’re both damaged goods, but that doesn’t make us friends. Friends are honest with each other, and I guess we’ve both been lying from the start, haven’t we?” Louis pulled out a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. “Go on with your life and forget about me, Harry. I’m sure as fook going to try and forget about you.” Stunned, smarting, flushed with embarrassment, Harry turned tail and walked away, a strange numbness easing the pain of his lower back. He didn’t glance back to see Louis light up, though he could hear the click of the roller. By the time he stopped walking he’d made it nearly home, bypassing the subway altogether. His back hurt again, terribly, but he embraced the pain, thankful for it, because something else hurt inside him wholly unrelated to his surgery. He had always assumed future rejections would stem from the scars on his body, and he’d steeled himself against those; he’d never considered being rejected for his perfectly normal heart.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Harry couldn’t bring himself to return to The Corner. A persistent headache plagued him, likely the result of his sudden abandonment of caffeine, but even so just the thought of coffee made his stomach turn. He did his best to stopper the burgeoning regret in his chest, telling himself that Louis had just been a silly crush, simply a symptom of spring fever. If Zayn saw through his slightly-more-foul-than-usual mood, he kindly didn’t say so. “Have a good day, Harreh?” He asked as Harry entered the kitchen with ‘intent to procure food’ stamped on his face. “S’alright, I guess.” He forced himself to be pleasant. “You?” “Can’t complain. Though the 1 did smell like piss tonight.” “Doesn’t it always?” Zayn smiled at him and finished wracking the dishes he’d been rinsing. “Only when the BO isn’t stronger.” Harry knew his roommate meant to cheer him up, but Harry couldn’t be cheered. That night marked the anniversary of ARD, the competition he’d been forced to give up due to the surgery, and coupled with the hollow pain of missing Louis, Harry’s spirit resembled a decaying leaf. “It’s a bit late to ask since I already said yes, but you wouldn’t mind some extra company for a few weeks, would you?” Zayn queried, his face very hopeful as he finished stacking a bowl precariously atop two tupperware. Harry withdrew a bag of salad mix and some tomatoes from the fridge, not really devoting many brain cells to the question of Zayn’s near-constant string of house guests. “Suppose that’s fine,” he mumbled. “He’ll just crash on the couch, won’t be in your hair at all, I’m sure. S’a friend of mine from the gallery. You’ll like him.” Harry shrugged. “Okay.” He couldn’t really be bothered to care. “He lost his job a few days ago and his landlord was already being a dick. So you’re fine with him taking the couch?” “Ya, Zayn, it’s whatever. That’s fine.” Harry set about finishing his salad, chopping up a few green onions and slicing half an avocado to go with an ample dose of chickpeas, almost forgetting about Zayn’s incoming house guest until their rickety doorbell rang a few minutes later. He plopped down on one of Zayn’s aesthetic but massively uncomfortable kitchen stools and started shoveling salad into his mouth as Zayn jogged down the hall, calling out, “Coming bebes!” Harry heard the lock click and the door open. “Welcome!” The sound of luggage being shuffled inside their tiny entranceway masked the houseguest’s voice until he and Zayn rounded the kitchen corner. “I feel bad crashing in on you like this, and I wouldn’t have asked, only—“ “Like you wouldn’t do the same and more for me, you idiot.” Harry ceased chewing, a piece of lettuce sticking artistically out of his mouth as he stared at Louis in shock. “Fooking hell,” Louis cursed, dropping his suitcase. Zayn looked blankly between them. “Do you know each other?” Harry nodded as Louis simultaneously shook his head and said, “Only marginally.” “Oh…” Zayn picked up on the tension and set about to resolve it. “Well, uh, this is my roommate Harry, he’s a pianist. Harry, this is my old friend Louis.” “And I honestly thought you were an East Side rich boy,” Louis mused, ignoring Zayn’s introduction, his lips tight. “Harry? He did have a Carnegie debut a little over a year back, isn’t that right bebes? But he’s for sure not rich. I’d be charging him much more rent if he were,” Zayn teased. Louis simply raised his eyebrows. “Huh. I always thought there was more to you than met the eye. You do have a sort of flare. Makes sense now.” Harry didn’t like hearing his own words thrown back at him. He snorted and picked up his salad bowl, hugging it against him like a breastplate, embarrassed, ashamed, angry. “Glad everything makes sense now.” He trudged down the hall and none-too-quietly closed his bedroom door. Zayn and Louis spoke just on the cusp of audibility, so Harry couldn’t really enjoy his salad, as he paused from chewing every few seconds to hear them around the crunch of his bites. At first they just exchanged pleasantries and talked about common acquaintances, but then their voices lowered and Harry instinctively pressed his ear to the door, desperate to make out their words. “Was it bad?” “Well I met him after, obviously. But I’d say so. I don’t think he’s been able to perform since.” “I really can be such a dick.” “He’s fine, don’t worry about it. Harry’s just an odd duck; he’s moody most days, honestly, hardly ever smiles.” “He always smiled at the café.” “Ya, well…” Zayn’s pause held more meaning than any words. “Maybe he has a thing for you. He did turn bright red and run off.” Louis didn’t answer for several seconds, causing Harry’s already mortified spirit to sink even lower. “I don’t think so, Zaynie. People don’t have things for me anymore.” Despite his best efforts that evening, Harry couldn’t shamefully avoid the kitchen forever. Eventually he got thirsty. When he emerged from his room he found Louis hunkered down on the couch, a tablet in his lap, the table lamp illuminating him. He glanced up at Harry from a cocoon of blankets, though it was the dead of summer. “You can’t be cold,” Harry muttered, refilling his cup, his breath nearly hitching from the shock of seeing Louis’ cheekbones dimly lit. “The air conditioning is a bit chilly. I’m not used to having me arse froze off.” “You can turn it up, you know.” Louis rumpled in his seat, rearranging his legs. “Zayn said it has to stay put for the piano.” Harry slammed the tap off with a snorting laugh. He hadn’t touched his baby grand for months. “That doesn’t matter. Just turn it up.” “I’m not ruining your piano, Harry. You’re a pianist, that would be like wrecking someone’s office.” “It’s just the tuning,” Harry ran a hand over his face, “And I’m not really a pianist anymore anyways. So.” Louis raised his eyebrows. “I heard you teach lessons, though?” “I do. That’s what people do when they’re shit performers, they teach. Look,” Harry took a deep breath, eager to rip his already crumbling illusion fully off, if only to get it over with. Louis already knew the worst. “I used to be a really fucking good pianist, and then I got hit by a cab and they found a stupid tumor and now I’m a shit pianist with a shit body and shit prospects. Alright? Now you know why I spend my days drinking coffee and looking pretentious.” Harry didn’t stick around to see Louis’ reaction to his self-pitying tirade. He slumped back to his bedroom and once against closed his door harshly, happy to put another wall between him and the rest of the world. * Over the next week, Harry began to dread waking up in the mornings and coming home at night. The whole fucking apartment had started to reek like Louis, the shower scented with his shampoo, the living room smelling of his sleep-breath and unwashed hair; even the entryway hung ripe with the aroma of his shoes (that he never bothered to wear with socks, even in the heat of a New York City summer). It was too much. That, and seeing him curled on the couch every morning, dancing around him in the kitchen as they made their breakfasts, hearing his happy morning chatter with Zayn, sharing a fucking bathroom with him—had all started to drive Harry towards insanity. He felt constantly on edge, constantly on, constantly performative even in the seclusion of his own house. And he could have just stopped, he could have gone about his day to day life without disruption, like Zayn, but his pride got the better of him. He would not let Louis see him wincing in pain when he bent to get a yogurt from the fridge shelf. He would not let Louis know he needed to use the bathroom more than a typical human male. He would not let Louis see him walking stilted and sore from a long day or wrapped up in his customary heating pads and ice packs. Harry couldn’t escape the fact that he minded Louis knowing, couldn’t give up his stupid fantasy that, perhaps, Louis could find him attractive and desirable. But as every day wore on, Harry’s resolve flagged. He was tired. Things hurt. He needed to let his guard down and recharge without putting on a Tony-worthy skit every time he needed a drink. When he arrived home the next Wednesday, the house seemed empty, so he thought it safe to drop his act. And a few groceries. He’d filled two large paper bags at the 72nd street Trader Joe’s before hopping the 1 home. The groceries were laborious to carry from the station to the apartment, but he refused to pull one of those carts behind him. He refused to look like carrying two heavy bags came to him with anything but ease. Of course, his pride had a cost, and when he finally made it through the door, his back gave out and he let the bags fall to the floor. Not even caring about the smell of Louis’ shoes in his nostrils, he lay down on the cool tile of the entranceway and closed his eyes. Sometimes the pain went away quicker on a hard surface than a soft one, like his bed. “Harry?” Fuck. Clenching his jaw hard to avoid letting out a moan, Harry pushed himself up, his eyes spotting at the sudden rush of blood. Dizzily he leaned against the closet door and tried very hard to meet Louis’ concerned gaze. “You okay?” “M’fine, yes—“ But as Harry said it another tremor took him and, unable to control it, he slid back down to the floor. Louis knelt at his side before Harry could stop him. “C’mon, lie flat, there we are,” Louis instructed, pulling Harry to his lap. He cradled Harry’s head on his thighs and smoothed the rest of his body out. “Did you carry those bags all the way from one-fifty-seven?” Eyes squeezed shut, lump in his throat, Harry whispered a soft, “Ya.” “You really are one stubborn twat.” Louis accentuated this descriptor by pulling on one of Harry’s curls. Harry breathed in, ready to let out a string of defensive whines, but Louis silenced his intended outburst by softly placing his hands over Harry’s ribcage. “W-what are you doing?” Harry asked after a moment, after he’d felt a soft tingling from Louis’ palms. “Shhh. I’m practicing on you.” “Prac—“ “Shh!” Harry lay in silence, confused but, oddly, in much less pain. He registered a sort of release in his chest as he gulped in a lungful of air, amazed at how it felt like breathing for the first time. Before he had a chance to ask for an explanation, Louis slid his hands over the area of Harry’s scar. The tingling sensation doubled, and Harry’s tummy let out several gargles. Embarrassed, he tried to squirm up. “S’okay, that’s how you know it’s working. Fook, what’d they do to you? It’s like all your organs are in the wrong place.” Something sticky near Harry’s spine let go, like a claw retracting. “They are? What?” “Shh.” “You asked me a question!” “It was a rhetorical one, I can tell they’ve been jostled around. The surgery really fooked you up, didn’t it? That’s rhetorical too.” After another minute of silence Louis moved his hands to grasp under Harry’s arms and propped him upright, then stood whilst pulling Harry up alongside him. “Feel a bit better?” And Harry did. “I know, it’s fooking weird. This therapist I’ve been seeing has been teaching me, doing it on me, you know. Energy healing. Visceral therapy, precisely. Sometimes she uses crystals too, and I thought it was all bogus at first, but I’ve made a little progress. I think you could use it more than me, honestly, it works better on the body than the mind.” Harry gaped at him, at this conundrum of a man, his bright blue eyes wide and blown and shining, his hands, so recently pressed against Harry’s body in utter stillness, now shaking slightly at his side. “Let me get these for you,” Louis continued, biting his lip and stooping to pick up Harry’s groceries. “No, really, I can—“ “For fook’s sake, you pretentious pigeon! Go lie down before I make you.” Louis gave him a glare before stalking away with Harry’s bags. Soundly reprimanded, Harry slinked into his room and crawled atop his bed, his pulse still pounding where Louis’ fingers had been moments before. He fell asleep, unexpectedly, and woke up on his back several hours later to find it completely dark outside. Oddly, his back didn’t ache much when he rolled over. Almost scared to test the relief, he stood and stretched. No mistaking it, the pain had lessened from earlier that day. Confused and bashful, Harry wandered into the kitchen where he found Louis sautéing a stir fry. “I fell asleep,” Harry confessed, yawning. “Figured. Are you still feeling better?” “Ya. Weirdly, I am. You’re not some kind of magician, are you?” Harry gave a small grin. “Nope. Get me two plates, please?” Harry complied. “Having company for dinner?” He asked, missing all the signs. “I made you dinner, Harry. Well. I made myself dinner and made extra for you and stole about half your bell peppers to do it. Hope you don’t mind.” Harry shrugged but his stomach rumbled at the delicious scent, giving him away. He made to sit at the kitchen table but Louis stopped him. “You usually eat in your room because Zayn’s stools are shit, don’t you?” Harry nodded, though he’d been reclusing himself for other reasons too, lately. “Let’s sit on the couch, ‘kay?” “No rules about eating in bed, then?” Harry teased, surprised at how the bit of banter just slipped from his lips. “I promise to be out of here so you can have your couch back before too long, don’t worry.” Harry took a seat. “I’m not worried.” They locked eyes for a moment before Louis handed him one of two forks he’d been holding. “Don’t ever tell Zayn how good it is, he can’t know I can cook. He thinks I’m helpless, but I just love his family recipes a little too much. He’ll stop making food for me if he finds out.” It did taste delicious. “Your secret’s safe with me,” Harry garbled out around a mouthful of braised vegetables. Louis paused chewing and swallowed, his demeanor changing slightly as he met Harry’s eyes once again. “So is yours.” Chills ran down Harry’s spine at his words, and though he knew perfectly well what Louis meant, he couldn’t help asking, “What do you mean?” Louis smiled sadly at him. “Just… you can stop, it’s quite frankly exhausting watching you every day.” Harry’s pride snapped his proverbial suspenders. “You don’t have to watch me, then.” “Harry.” The tenderness in Louis’ gaze won out over Harry’s injured ego, and he licked his lips and gave Louis a subtle nod. He couldn’t manage more, but Louis accepted his gesture all the same, and they ate the rest of their meal in silence before Harry headed off to bed. * The week ended badly for Harry. His six Friday students were woefully underprepared for their lessons and he ended up teaching them basic rhythms while clapping out beats on his lap. On the subway ride home he sulked about his fall from lofty performance to the mundane basics of music education. As he rode the elevator to Zayn’s sixth floor apartment, he felt a sweep of longing come over him; when he reached his room, he tugged off his piano’s dust cover and flipped open the lid. All too aware of his aching back, he nonetheless sat down on the adjustable bench. He missed it. God, he missed it so fucking much. He felt caged without it, stuck, a damn about to burst at any given moment. Gemma had called him dramatic the first time he’d cried over his music, when he’d sat down at his piano six weeks after the surgery and his muscles hadn’t known the pathways anymore and his scar hadn’t allowed him to sit up straight. His shoulders had crept up to his ears, tighter and tighter in their bid to hold his arms up off the keys. He had managed to make noise, yes, able to plunk out the pieces he’d committed to memory. But he hadn’t been able to play. To someone like Gemma the difference was negligible. But Harry could tell. The fine motor skills, the exacting control, the stamina, the coordination, all were gone, consumed into a brine of pain and cramps and despair, and at first Harry had tried his best to work through it, to find a physical therapist and re-train his broken body, but even after months of effort he’d failed to see substantive results. He couldn’t perform anymore; he couldn’t feel the beautiful phenomenon tingle through his spine. Fate had clipped his wings. As he sat staring at them, the piano keys seemed to call up to him, beckoning, cruel. He could almost taste the memory of floating over their smooth edges, of crafting rich sonorities and shoring up slender lines of melody with bass notes that reverberated into his very bones. So he reached out once more, tentatively, gingerly, and tried to imagine away the pain that held him back. A Bach prelude and fugue came to mind, number nine from the second suite, and slowly Harry began to work through it, measure by measure, his memory holding up better than he’d anticipated. Half way through his right hand seized up, though, his shoulder having locked, his back having stiffened. His brokenness remained so ridiculously connected; no one part of him could function while the rest remained un-healed. I will never be whole again, he thought, welcoming the relief of defeat as he let his chin drop to his chest and began to cry. “Harry?” A knock sounded. Hastily he wiped his eyes and stood to answer it. “Ya?” As he cracked open his door Louis’ large eyes met his, their beautiful blue framed by slightly pink cheeks. “I, er, wouldn’t bother you but, uh, Zayn is gone, and…” Louis took in a long breath and held out a blazer in one trembling hand, a button, needle, and thread in the other. “Could you sew this on for me? I can’t seem to manage it.” As Harry took the garment he noticed pricks of blood all along Louis’ fingers. Overcome with sympathy, Harry sniffed away his tears, opened his door wide, and made to sit on his bed, motioning Louis to follow. “Going somewhere fancy, then?” He asked as he threaded the needle and tied a knot. The blazer felt like good quality, high end even. “It’s for an interview.” Louis didn’t offer more. “Oh. Good luck. It’s… not another coffee shop, is it?” Harry wondered if he should have risked the tease as soon as it passed his lips. Thankfully Louis smiled at him. “No, I’ve given up on that lofty career dream, like I said.” Louis studied Harry’s hands as he sewed, his eyes focused on the in and out of the needle. “You were right, though. I used to do something else. But I’d rather you know me for who I am now. There’s no real use pretending to be someone I’m not, and it’s tiring lying to myself and others.” Harry finished stitching on the button and reached for the pair of scissors he kept in his desk drawer. “You really think it’s lying?” Louis tilted his head towards the ceiling. “Mmm, perhaps not. Willful denial is more like it. There’s nothing wrong with being a ‘nobody,’ Harry. Most people are, you know. I got carried away with myself, thinking my talents made me important... when no one’s really more or less important than anyone else.” Louis tested out the button by slipping the blazer on and doing it up. The garment fit him snugly, outlining his sharp angles yet still curving nicely at the dip of his lower back. “I’m learning to accept being no one important, having no social capital or societal worth. It’s really fascinating how depressing it is when you start, when you tell people you don’t do anything special or interesting, nor do you contribute uniquely to capitalist society. But, once you get used to it, start not basing your worth on that, you feel a little more free.” Harry’s eyebrows had long since become creased up in astonishment. “But don’t you miss it? I mean, whatever you used to do.” Louis didn’t answer, but his nose scrunched in a strange way. “Thanks, Harry, you’re a lifesaver. Wish me luck?” And Harry wouldn’t have crushed the hope he saw in Louis’ eyes for a billion dollars. “Good luck, Louis. I hope you get it.” Louis adjusted the jacket’s shoulders as he strode from Harry’s room. “Me too.” * Harry had planned on a quiet weekend. Zayn decided on the party that put an end to Harry’s plans less than five hours before it happened. Normally Harry wouldn’t have paid it any mind, but being that it was in celebration of Louis’ successful job interview, he felt obligated to attend. The tiny apartment got crowded quite quickly, and though nearly every guest brought wine, somehow they kept running low. Harry certainly contributed to this shortage, gulping down his fair share as he watched Louis flit from person to person, sipping alcohol from a straw in his half full glass. Even with his trembling hands, Louis had a grace to his movements, a fluidity and ease that drew Harry’s gaze. The more he watched Louis converse and burst out into loud, spontaneous laughter, the more Harry wanted to be next to him, basking in his radiance. For this exact reason, he stayed away. He couldn’t live through another one of Louis’ rejections. “Harry! Oh my golly-golly-gosh! What’re you doing here?” Liam interrupted his thoughts as Harry stood nursing his third glass, embracing him in a surprise bear hug. “I live here, actually. With Zayn.” “Seriously? That’s lovely. I haven’t met him yet, Lou has told me about him for ages though. Is it a good party so far? Everyone’s thrilled for Lou’s new job.” Liam took a deep drink of his freshly poured Chardonnay. “Do you, um, know what he’ll be doing at this new job, exactly?” “Niall told me that it’s similar to the gallery, you know, in that he’s appraising new works, handling shows a bit too I think, working with the curator as an assistant more or less.” Harry tilted his head. “Art shows?” Liam gave him a quizzical look. “Ya, Harry. How much have you had to drink?” Harry swallowed and adjusted his shirt. He’d been standing for a while now and his back had started to complain. “Not nearly enough. Never mind, forget it.” He angled away from Liam and slipped down the hallway to his room, quietly closing the door behind him and turning only his dim rock lamp on to avoid giving the space occupied illumination. He decided to try and put Louis far from his mind. He scrolled through his phone in the near-dark, intending to eventually watch a movie or read, but the party’s din lulled him into a dreamy relaxation and, spread out flat on his bed, he accidentally fell asleep. Hours later he awoke with a start. “Shit…” Harry heard the curse before he registered that something had touched his arm. He blinked, adjusting to wakefulness, and turned to the clock by his bed; it read 1:42. “Sorry, sorry. I thought you were gone.” It was Louis. “Gone? Why would I be…” Harry managed to sit up and found Louis perched on the edge of his bed. “Your light was off, had been for hours. I figured you’d hated all the noise and left for the night.” “So…” Harry rubbed at his eyes, still confused. “You were going to sleep in my bed? Because I wasn’t here?” Not that he minded. Inhaling Louis’ scent on his bed sheets ranked among his favorite fantasies, and his heart started pounding at just the thought of that reality. “Ya, that sounds creepy now I’m hearing it out loud. But look, I’m sorry, Zayn and Liam are fooking, and I could only take so much. The couch is directly against his bedroom and I figured you’d rather have me crash here than puke all over that fancy rug. But,” Louis pushed up, “You’re here, so. Do you have any earplugs I could borrow, maybe?” Harry felt a deep crimson stain his face, neck, and chest. “S-sure. Let me turn on the light and, um, dig them out.” He scooted off his bed and flipped on the overhead. Immediately the situation became about twenty million times worse, because in the illumination it became quite clear that Louis had been crying. Sobbing, more like, his entire face a mottled mess of red and white blotches, his eyes swollen and lashes stuck together with crusted salt. Even his lips looked raw where he’d worried them between his teeth. Harry didn’t know whether to ignore this obvious revelation or try and say something kind. He opted for the former. “Here, these are new, I promise. No residual ear wax.” “Thanks,” Louis said, forcing a smile, not looking up at Harry. He made for the door. “Lou?” Harry caught the other man’s arm and held him gently. “I don’t mind if you, um, stay.” Louis sniffed and wrinkled his nose up in an attempt to look nonplussed. “S’okay, Harry. It was presumptuous of me.” “Really, I’ve heard Zayn fucking before, and trust me, earplugs are pretty useless.” Louis hesitated a moment before acquiescing. Harry flipped the light back off and crawled to the far side of his bed. “Plenty of room, see?” “I’ll try not to move too much, wouldn’t want to jostle you.” “Nah, don’t worry. Not much hurts when I’m flat on my back.” Louis let out a wry laugh. “Wish I could say the same.” A thick silence settled over the room as soon as they’d both gotten comfortable on the mattress. After a good few minutes where their tandem breathing alone filled the air, Harry asked, “Wasn’t it a good party?” “No, no, it was nice. Lovely, really.” The darkness making him braver, Harry ventured, “You’re not upset about Liam, are you? Did you and Zayn…” “No, nothing like that. I mean, yes, Zayn and I fooked a long, long time ago, but only ‘cause we were the only two gays in our class and we were stoned off our heads.” Louis paused to let out a huff. “I’ve actually been plotting to set them up for ages. Just never thought it would work out that quickly.” Harry tried to swallow down the sudden bout of jealousy that nipped at him, recognizing it to be quite irrational. “I see.” Louis turned over to face him, his honeyed voice softer than it had been before. “I’m crying because of the job, Harry.” Harry squinted at him. “Because of it?” “Ya.” Louis licked his lips audibly. “I’ve finally given up. It was never final before; all the side jobs were an attempt to put off the inevitable, I guess. As long as I had a little money coming in I could tell myself it would improve, that the therapy would work, that I’d eventually get back to normal. Now there’s nothing left to pretend.” For a few seconds Harry imagined he could feel the other man’s pain inside himself, real and hot and choking. “I’m sorry, Lou,” Harry whispered, unsure how to proceed. “Don’t be. When something’s dead you have to grieve it, right? It’s the same with dreams.” Shivers traveled along Harry’s skin at that, and before he could contemplate the intimacy of his actions he instinctively reached out and pulled Louis against him. They’d never hugged before, but in the dark, with their souls out, it felt right. Louis softened into his embrace and wove his arms around Harry’s torso, pillowing his head just below Harry’s collarbone. They stayed silent for a long while, and several times Harry wondered if Louis had fallen asleep. “You ever been in love, Harry?” Taken aback, his heart pounding, Harry responded truthfully, remembering only too well the conversation Louis had likely overheard at The Corner. “No.”“I find that hard to believe.” Louis snuggled closer to him with those words, his chest rising into Harry’s ribcage.“Lou?” Harry trod lightly, not sure he should ask. “Have you been?”Silence. The smaller man’s breathing got more and more strangled and ragged as he fought off tears and tried to choke off dry sobs before they could burst into the universe. Harry tightened his grip as Louis finally answered, “Yes.” His raw honestly broke past several of Harry’s barriers. “What’s it like?” “What’s it like?” Louis repeated, his chest still hiccupping. “I’ve just always been curious.” Harry felt his own eyes start to water. Louis’ sobs turned to quiet laughter. “I’m not sure love is something you can describe like that, Harry. It kind of… possess you. My gran always said it was the cruelest type of tree, growing its limbs and roots all through your body, healthy and well as long as its source didn’t dry up. But when the thing you love is gone, the tree doesn’t just wither and die; instead it feeds off of you.” “That sounds like a lot of risk for a lot of mess,” Harry mused. “Of course it’s messy. But if you think I regret loving because it’s hurt me—fuck. What would I be without it? How can anyone go through life not letting themselves love? You can’t truly feel without being vulnerable, without risking. You can’t make art without sacrificing safety.” Harry tried on his words and didn’t like them. “I could. I used to.” “But you can’t, though.” Louis sounded incredulous, his teary voice getting impassioned, insistent. “If you never put your soul in it, if you never risk any pain, then you’re nothing more than a mechanic.” Harry tried to pull away, Louis’ words hitting all the tender parts of him. He felt indignant tears swarm his eyes. “You have no fucking idea what I put into my music, Louis!” His voice broke with passion, “You have no fucking idea what I’ve—“ Louis silenced him with a kiss, pressing his fervent, warm lips to Harry’s. Everything stilled, even the air around them, and as Louis tongued at the crease of his mouth Harry’s anger turned to longing, and he opened, needy and parched. Five breaths later he began to feel heat rise in the depths of his stomach; fingers were kneading into skin now, slipping up under t-shirts, anchoring themselves with handfuls of soft flesh. Harry moaned first, unable to keep in the pent up thrill of being consumed by another’s mouth. After a year of solitude, the simple touch of Louis’ lips made him flush and grow hard in his pants. They broke for air and Harry allowed his forehead to fall against Louis’ shoulder as he scooted his hips farther away from the other man in embarrassment. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” Louis breathed out in a rush, his warm arms preventing Harry’s further squirming. “N-no…” “Good. Let me kiss you, then?” “Louis, I—“ let me, as if it were a privilege, an excitement. As if Louis wanted to kiss him. “You what?” “You don’t have to… to do this.” Harry blinked back more tears. “I’m not a pet project either.” Louis clasped him harder, drew him in, his arms still, steady, hot. “You impossible boy, shut up, will you?” Harry had little choice, as Louis mouth found his again and put an end to words. They kissed until Harry lost track of where his lips started and Louis’ began. A warm bliss slipped over him as his starvation from human touch ended in the best, most beautiful way, with Louis licking into his mouth and holding his hips and nudging their feet together carefully. Hardly having room to dream with the sensory feast going on in his mind, he vaguely thought how he wanted to smell Louis’ rumpled hair, feel his skittered heartbeat, kiss him forever. As it was, they kissed until sunrise. * Harry woke late the next morning covered in a light blanket and alone. Groggily he sat up, a strange sort of longing tugging at his chest. He felt disappointed that Louis hadn’t stayed. Slowly he trudged out to the kitchen, hoping to find Louis there, if only to confirm that the previous night hadn’t been a dream. Instead he came upon Zayn and Liam, Zayn making pancakes while Liam perched awkwardly on a barstool. “Morning, Harry,” Zayn mumbled, not looking up from his task. “Liam stayed over.” “I know,” Harry gave a small grin to his coffee-shop friend. “How’d you know?” Liam asked innocently, a lovely blush creeping up his neck. “Louis crashed in my room because you two animals couldn’t keep it down.” Zayn dropped his spatula into the cooking batter. “Oh.” Liam left it at that and concentrated on staring into his lap. “You, um, haven’t seen Louis this morning, have you?” Harry queried, uneasy over the very neatly folded stack of blankets on the couch. “He got called to work. Guess they’re not gonna let him ease into it after all,” Zayn explained as he tried to salvage the disturbed pancake. “It’s just as well. Louis has been going crazy from boredom, I’m super surprised he lasted doing those odd jobs as long as he did,” Liam chimed in. Harry pointedly took his time selecting a banana. “Oh? Why’s that?” “’Cause that’s not like him at all,” Zayn supplied this time, “He hates the mundane. Even in school he blew off the schedule, the dates, everything. Anything that had the mark of structure to it he despised. But then, the little shit, he’d show up for studio with the most gorgeous fucking painting we’d all ever seen, and they’d give him full marks anyway. We fully hated him sometimes,” Zayn said with a smile as he poured more batter. “He was a painter?” Harry asked, his heart thrumming now, on the verge of understanding. “You serious, Harry?” Liam poked his shoulder, “You didn’t know? Half the art in my shop is Louis’. Mostly the ones he deemed not good enough to sell, ‘cause heck, I sure can’t afford a five-by-ten of his most popular stuff, it—“ “The girls in the poppy field?” Harry interrupted, his voice breaking. “Ya, that one’s his.” Harry blinked slowly and leaned against the fridge. God. Fuck. Zayn gave him a look. “What’s gotten into you, eh? If you were curious you could have asked Lou yourself, he’s not shy about it.” “Maybe I’m shy about it,” Harry retorted hotly, a surge of annoyance lapping at his usual regard for Zayn, perhaps due to Louis’ coital confession. “What happened to him?” Zayn turned off the burner. “Focal dystonia.” Harry gaped for a moment. He’d known a trombonist with the condition and could remember the man’s stories about suddenly not being able to make a sound against his mouthpiece. Repetitive use and misfiring nerves caused the illness, and no one understood how to remedy it’s life-changing, tragic symptoms. “How… how on earth…” “He did a lot of paintings, Harry. He’d work ten to twelve hours a day, those fucking brushes tight in his hands. The neurologists have all said he’s just massively unlucky.” The illness lay entirely in the brain and it had no cure, though Harry remembered reading somewhere that it sometimes would reverse itself for no apparent reason. “So Louis was working for you in the coffee shop waiting to see if… if he could go back to painting again.” “Yep.” Liam doused his pancake in syrup and winked a thank you at Zayn, who smiled prettily and started buttering his own. “Was he, um, really devastated when it happened?” “I don’t want to talk about this over a lovely breakfast, and besides, I can’t really answer for him. But yes, Louis was damn near broken. He was in love with painting, more than anyone I’ve ever seen.” Zayn put a kibosh on the discussion and Harry took the banana back to his room. He ate it in silence, letting the hush of late morning sunlight seep into his skin. He felt lucky, suddenly, incredibly lucky, that he could still even touch the keys of his piano. For an hour he sat, marinating in his thoughts, encased for the first time in gratitude that things hadn’t been a hell of a lot worse. With renewed reverence, he finally moved to sit at his piano for the second time that week, and flipped back its lid. His back spasmed, but he ignored it, instead picking out an old favorite—Glinka’s The Lark—note by note, his heart keeping up with the tempo as the fluid ladder of the song’s chord progressions tumbled from him. In that moment nothing, not even pain, could keep Harry from the draw of contrapuntal resolution; fuck he’d missed it so. His fingers stuttered several times as his shoulders stuck, their clenching muscles refusing to move, but he plowed ahead, breathing through the pain, trying his best to stretch his spine up to the ceiling and not feel weighed down like a bird in a net. He played the penultimate run of embellishments, closing his eyes and listening greedily as their harmonies hovered in the air, the pleasantness of their tones dependant on the still un-played final chord. He delayed his satisfaction for a hair’s breadth more than he should have because once he finished the piece, he’d have to remember. And for a moment, he remained transported to another world. For a moment he almost felt that magic phenomenon. “That was beautiful.” Harry startled and opened his eyes. Louis stood leaning against Harry’s door frame, his arms crossed, his face etched with something like sadness. “You’re a liar, Harry Styles.” Harry blinked at him, shocked. “I… what?” He could feel heat rising to his face. “You told me you’d never been in love.” Louis walked over to him and took his hand, not to caress or to hold, but to examine. He turned it over and ran his fingers atop Harry’s, brushing the delicate veins of his wrist and scooping along the meaty plush of his palm. “You play even though it hurts you. You can’t stay away, despite the pain. You were crying, you know.” Harry instinctively reached up his other hand to his face and found wetness. “You need to play, you have to. And that’s love. That’s what people do, they love even when it rips them apart, even when the pain is too much. So you do know what it’s like. It’s like this.” Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Only half of him understood. “You shouldn’t give up. There’s still hope for you. God, if I still had that... if there was even the tiniest chance I could get back what I’ve lost—“ Louis bent and kissed Harry’s knuckles. “Don’t let the discouragement win, Harry.” Harry couldn’t meet Louis’ eyes. Part of him did want to shrink back into his cocoon, into that safe place of pain and hurt where he could feel sorry for himself—where he didn’t have to try, where he didn’t have to risk watching his tries fail. Where Louis’ hand still held his the other man had once again stopped shaking, the meeting of their skin steady and still and wonderfully warm. Giving in to some strange hunger, Harry stood from the piano bench and hesitated only a moment before kissing Louis in the light of day. “Thought I might have dreamed it,” he mumbled as Louis’ hands found the painful soreness of his low back and pressed in comfortingly. “So did I.” Slowly Louis guided him backwards until they tipped once more onto Harry’s bed. Louis lay him flat on his back and crawled up to straddle his hips, their lips never breaking. As Louis’ body dropped ever lower, their kisses grew lazier. Finally their groins pressed flush, and Harry let out a desperate little whimper, the weight of Louis against him too mouthwatering, too tantalizing. Harry was prepared to lick into Louis’ mouth—to press their bodies close—for the rest of the day, but Zayn called out from the kitchen and broke their moment, asking loudly where Harry had stashed the oregano. “I stole it,” Louis confessed in a whisper to Harry’s ruined mouth, “Moved it from the cabinet to the windowsill yesterday. Zayn’s too particular about order.” “Oh…” “I should, er, go get it for him.” “Right.” Harry licked the spit from the corners of his lips and watched helplessly as Louis slid from the bed and slowly made his way to Harry’s door, fixing his rumbled fringe as he went. “Lou?” He called, desperate to make sure this wasn’t the last time he tasted Louis’ mouth, “You can always use my bed, you know.” With a nearly imperceptible gleam in his eyes Louis nodded, his hands shaking once more at his sides. “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Every time Liam stayed over, Louis found his way to Harry’s bed. They’d kiss and cuddle and tangle their bodies together, usually wordless, usually tired from their day and conserving any energy they’d retained to deal with their own pain. Harry found this ritual an immense comfort, and he looked forward to the nights that Louis fell asleep in his arms more than he had any right to. And in the dark of those nights he wanted more more than he had any right to. The mingled tonic of pride and fear and self-loathing within him, however, served better than a chastity belt. On a night when even the lights of New York City couldn’t keep the moon from shining brightly through Harry’s window, they lay curled around each other again, their kisses wet and noisy in the dark heat of mid-summer. Louis slipped his thigh between Harry’s knees, as he’d done many times before. A cool breeze from the Hudson blew in on them, carrying with it the sounds of the street below. “Harry?” Louis whispered, his fingers running along Harry’s sweat-tacky arm. “Mmm?” Louis lifted his hand from Harry’s skin and immediately Harry could see it begin to shake, silhouetted by the moonlight. “Do you like when I touch you?” Harry thought that an odd question, considering their current positions. He gave a gruff, “Ya, ‘course,” and cuddled deeper into the crook of Louis’ neck. “Was just wondering if you weren’t, er… into sex.” Harry blinked at him, his stomach clenching already. “I’m into sex.” “Are you,” Louis hitched his leg higher, eliciting a gasp as Harry felt the pressure, “Into sex with… me?” The obvious answer to that question beat thickly between Harry’s thighs. But Harry’s fear trumped his desire. In a bait and switch he hurriedly found Louis’ lips, but his eagerness read more like an affirmation than a change of subject, and in a perfectly normal progression, Louis responded in kind, moving his fingers gently under Harry’s shirt to grip his soft hips like he’d so often done; only this time, he laid his hand along the top of Harry’s pants. Immediately Harry flinched back as if he’d been stung, his abs tightening (as best they could) away from Louis’ fingertips. They both stopped breathing for a moment and Harry could feel his heart in his temples. With a prolonged exhale Louis propped himself up and stared at Harry in the milky darkness. “I know. I fucking know, Harry. Do you think I’m that shallow?” Louis’ words just made him curl in tighter. When he felt a soft kiss to his forehead, he actually whimpered, torn between safety and want. “Sweetheart, surely you’ve… since the surgery?” Harry shook his head, ashamed, flustered, too vulnerable. “It’s been over a year, hasn’t it? You’ve not let anyone be with you since then?” Louis reached over and turned on the rock lamp, looking like a Rembrandt angel in the orange light as he hovered above Harry on his elbows. “No,” Harry confessed, his own body trembling for once. “Why, darling?” Louis let one hand trail down Harry’s outer thigh. Harry shook his head. “You see what I’m like every day. I’m broken.” Louis’ mouth ate those words from him, cleansing them from his lips, wet and healing and gentle. “Nonsense. You good on your back, love?” He asked, close to breathless. “Ya… but…” “Harry Styles, you’re as hard as granite in your pants, please for fook’s sake can we get some relief?” “Fuck me, then,” Harry mumbled, rolling over to his stomach as he pulled his pants down over the swell of his bum and presented it to the open air. “You’re jumping from snogging to fooking? Harry,” Louis rolled him back over. Caught, defenseless, Harry covered his face with his hands. He could still feel Louis looking at him, though, even if he couldn’t see. He whined less in arousal than in fear, fear that this thing, this arrangement between them, would be sundered the moment Louis laid eyes on his imperfections. He would rather have incomplete satisfaction than become truly vulnerable to the point of irrepair. “Harry? Sweetheart, it’s fine, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to push,” Louis said, breaking into his thoughts. “I can kiss you and hold you, and you never have to show me. Ever. It’s not something I’d ever demand of you, Harry.” In little increments Harry let his fingers slide down his cheeks. “Someone once asked me to tell them something I’d never told anyone else. They said I had to open up to them, to share my deepest secrets because they needed me to be truthful; they said I was holding back, off in another world.” Louis paused and Harry lowered his hands a bit farther, enough that he could look the other man in the eye. “It was just to have power over me, in the end,” Louis sniffed, blinking his eyes a few times until the moisture in them dissipated. “And I don’t want that, Harry. I never have, I never will. However much you let me in is okay. But I need you to know that I would worship your scar. I would think it’s lovely, because I think you are lovely.” With a ruffle of sheets Louis lowered himself back down to his stomach, draping an arm over Harry and nuzzling into his shoulder. Though Louis had just lain half across him, Harry felt an incredible weight lift from his chest. With slow, numb-feeling hands Harry slid up his shirt, revealing the curving cut on his skin. It looked even darker in the rock lamp’s glow. “Lou?” Harry took the other man’s hand in his and shakily guided his palm down til it rested just below Harry’s ribcage. Gingerly he laid Louis’ fingers along the puckered flesh of his scar, across the raised, red tissue, the taught, white fibers that clenched his once-split body closed, the saggy softness of his stretched out, pinched-back-together skin. He waited and breathed, swallowing down the consuming fear of exposure. Louis didn’t speak for a long time; instead he traced down the length of it, exploring the mark like a sentence of braille, his breath hot and steady against Harry’s neck. “Does it hurt?” “Only sometimes. Not now.” “It’s fascinating, honestly. Can I—may I—“ Harry nodded and closed his eyes, still bracing for the imagined sounds of disgust he’d conditioned himself to hear. But they never came. Instead he felt the gentle press of lips to his navel. “It’s beautiful,” Louis whispered, mouthing over his puckered belly, kissing along the scar’s length tenderly, like the wound deserved affection, his lips trailing down the striated mark and leaving it wet and hot and soothed. Harry began to cry. “Oh sweetheart,” Louis hurried out, “Did I hurt you?” “N-no,” Harry choked, his throat closing with tears that had deep roots, roots that Louis had only just begun to weed from him in small, strong tugs, like how one would nudge a dandelion tuber from the earth. “But it’s not,” Harry protested, “Beautiful. I know it’s not. You don’t have to say that.” Louis stilled for a moment. “Let me adore it, would you? Don’t tell me what is beautiful.” Tenderly, Louis peppering his scar once more with careful kisses and clever little licks. Some of these tickled Harry, and he found his tears turning to laughter as Louis nosed against his belly. After a time his mouth migrated to Harry’s left love handle and he gave a quick bite, to which Harry let out a yelp of surprise. “You’re scrumptious, love,” Louis tittered, kissing away the slight sting of his teeth. Once more Louis slid his thigh between Harry’s knees and pressed up, a question, a suggestion. “Fuck,” Harry panted, spit thickening beneath his lower lip. He fumbled for a few seconds with his pants until he finally succeeded in peeling them all the way down his legs. He could hear Louis doing the same. Louis kissed his navel again and suckled in a downwards trajectory, this time pulling away where the end of Harry’s scar reached his pubic hair. “You’re already dripping, love,” Louis observed, his voice incredibly thin and soft. Harry tensed, a failed attempt to keep himself from blurting out more. “You close?” Hiding an embarrassed moan, Harry mumbled, “Sorry. It’s just, it’s been a while…” Louis chuckled and transitioned his lips to Harry’ cock. “You taste as angsty as you sound,” Louis declared reverently after one life-ending stroke of his tongue. “Fuck…” With every ounce of willpower he had, Harry tried to stave off his climax. He began to shake with the effort of it, his thighs clenching and his stomach becoming sore. Louis pulled off just when Harry thought he could no longer hold himself together. “Just come, sweetheart, just come.” Harry started spilling before Louis could finish giving this reassurance. Getting his mouth quickly back around Harry’s slit, Louis swallowed the remainder down, sucking until he’d drawn out every last drop and Harry lay boneless and utterly spent. “Do you always come that much, darling?” Louis asked as he kissed along Harry’s softening shaft. Harry could only manage to shake his head. Soon a bit of the haze cleared from his mind and he could hear Louis’ breath picking up above him. He’d started to work himself over. “I can do that, let me?” Harry offered, still half gone. “S’alright, sweetheart, you just rest, I wanna—“ Louis shivered and grunted twice, “Wanna come on your scar, wanna polish it, clean it, show it off…” Louis’ whole body, not just his hands, began to tremble against the moonlit window as he neared completion. As if he’d been newly awakened from death, Harry’s senses engorged suddenly, picking up the slightest things—every ragged breath from Louis’ lips, every shift of shadow—so Harry heard the spurt when Louis came, heard the cum burst from his body like a seal being broken, and then he felt the hot, hot warmth of Louis’ ribbons spattering against his scar. The wet, thermal energy seeped into him and healed something that had been dying before, watering him like a starved sapling, and he wanted Louis to come on him forever, to not only coat him, but immerse him, bathe him. “Painted you, Harry, fuck,” Louis breathed, lowering to kiss him hard as the last pulses issued from his body. After, he slid down once more to Harry’s stomach and lowered his face into the mess, beginning to lick, lazily pushing his release around until it swirled across the scar in intricate patterns. “What colors, Lou?” Harry asked, blissed out, floating, no longer corporeal. “Soft blue, love, soft blue and pearl, and a little warm yellow. Made a glaze, and swirls—“ Louis’ tongue traced a figure eight—“and blended it all into a sunrise.” Harry drowned in a sob, fresh tears slipping down his temples. “Oh darling,” Louis cooed, “It’s alright.” Finally Louis lapped it all up, licked him clean, and the action felt monumental to Harry, like he’d been baptized, like Louis had washed his christened body and sealed his wounds with a righteous, holy tongue. As Louis kissed him again, Harry got his first taste of his partner’s tangy cum. Marveling at such a delicacy, Harry groped him closer, smooshing their nakedness together until their heartbeats lined up. “You okay?” Louis checked after a while, pulling away enough that Harry shivered as cool air touched his still damp tummy. “I am, ya. C’mere,” Harry begged, tugging Louis back, desperate to keep holding the other man in his arms. Louis tucked against his neck, his chin sticky. The glory of another body pressed to Harry’s felt almost as good as the orgasm. “You’re the most perfect canvas, darling,” Louis murmured into his skin, the last bit of tension leaving his muscles as sleep claimed him. Louis’ hands, pressed against Harry’s chest and controlled entirely by his subconscious, lay perfectly still. Harry wondered at this, but he wondered at everything in that moment, because for a span of five seconds the phenomenon crept into his chest; it didn’t explode with tingles or run up and down his spine, it simply perched there, delicate and so real that he thought perhaps he’d crossed into a dream, because it had never come to him like this, without music, without performance, in the dead of night with only the sounds of the city coloring the silence. * The move happened gradually. First a jumper took up residence on Harry’s piano bench, then a pair of sunglasses came to live on his dresser. One blanket, then two, wandered from the couch to his bed, no longer rumpled in a Louis-shaped pile every morning. Zayn managed to notice this, though he had missed the other clues, probably due to Liam providing him with ample distractions. “Ehm, Harreh?” Zayn queried one afternoon as he made a late-day coffee, “Is Lou sleeping with you every night now?” Harry’s stupid nose scrunched unhelpfully as he fought to keep his expression blank. “Ya, it’s just more convenient, you know.” “Oh?” “You know, with how, um, thin the walls are.” “Ah.” Zayn poured his coffee and Harry thought perhaps he’d gotten away with it until Zayn continued, “I know you’re fucking, Harry. That wasn’t why I asked.” A bright blush traveled from Harry’s nose to his sternum. “I asked,” Zayn explained, “Because I’d love our couch back, and if he’s in your room every night anyway, there’s no reason to keep up appearances.” Zayn stirred in a heap of sugar. “And I’ll add,” here Zayn practically glowered at him, “That if he thinks Liam and I are loud, I’ve got news for the two of you.” He walked off leaving Harry more than a little self-conscious. After wallowing for a moment, Harry pulled out his phone. Z knows, btw. Oops.
Hi babe ;) that so ? bet he’s heard you hollering
That is NOT fair, you’re not allowed to do that again, I had no control. We’ve probs scarred him for life
Pshh !! just watch me. see you soon ;) Harry probably should have cared a bit more about his through-the-walls reputation, but he didn’t. After so long without sex, without touch, he now couldn’t get his fill. He took unholy pleasure in not only his own orgasms, but also in turning Louis Tomlinson into a sweaty, desperate, eager, panting mess. The many joys of intimacy, however, ultimately served to make Harry more worried about returning to a sex-less existance. This worry lived in a nest right behind his closed eyelids, and would make itself known in the early hours of the morning when Harry could least defend against it. Louis came home that night declaring it the hottest evening of the summer. To prove this, after dinner he suggested Harry join him for a walk. “I’ve been walking all day, Lou,” Harry protested, already aware he would give in to the sparkle of Louis’ eyes.“I’ll carry you then, sling you over my shoulder, how’s that?”“I’d like to see you try,” Harry smirked as he enjoyed Louis’ predictably offended expression. They left the apartment about a half hour before sunset. Louis knew exactly where he wanted to go and lead them on a well-plotted course through the cemetery next door and under the overpass. After descending fifty or so wooden stairs to Riverside Park, Louis stopped to check on Harry’s condition. “You good, sweetheart?” He asked, earnest yet obviously so terribly excited about their adventure. Harry didn’t have the heart to say that his back had started aching on stair fifteen. “Great. Lead on, Lou.” They walked north along the Hudson, passing tennis courts and shaggy lawns. The sun had dipped low enough to cease being so scorching, and the cool breeze from the water made the hot night air tolerable. When they reached the George Washington Bridge, Harry stumbled, the pain too much. Instantly Louis caught him, worry washing across his face. “Harry?” “Tripped over that stupid rock, sorry,” he mumbled, taking the opportunity to bend over and brace his hands against his thighs. Thankfully a small rock did indeed lay on the path slightly behind them, providing Harry an alibi. They continued under the bridge and up a climbing path that led into a woodland. The steepness of it almost conquered Harry, but, determined, he managed to keep up an acceptable pace. When Louis stopped at the top of the hill, he nearly screamed in relief. With a smile, Louis led him off the path to a large outcrop of boulders overlooking the river and the rock cliffs of the Jersey side. “This,” Louis proclaimed, “Is the perfect place to watch a summer sunset.” He pulled Harry down to sit between his legs as they settled atop the largest boulder. Harry leaned back to his chest with a grateful sigh. “You still okay, sweetheart?” “Perfect, Lou.” Once again, as Louis’ hands wrapped around his torso and came to rest on his stomach, they ceased shaking, remaining entirely still as the bottom edge of the sun kissed the horizon. “I loved painting clouds,” Louis said after they’d been watching the sky in silence for several minutes. “They could take on any color at all, any shape...truly fluid beings. Imagine letting yourself be dragged across the sky like that by the wind, even when you’re weighed down by rain. And then becoming a mirror to the sun, bouncing back its light as pure gold or blood pink or violet. Imagine growing round and soft or whispy or being quilted across the sky in little swells. Such detail in clouds. I loved them.”Tears stung Harry’s eyes, but he blinked them back. “You never talk about painting, Lou.” “I know. It’s getting easier to do now, for some reason. Maybe because everything’s final.”“Sometimes I wish that cab had made things final for me.”Louis squeezed him tightly. “Please don’t say that.”“I hate this limbo. What if I should just move on, like you… sell the fucking piano and start something else. An office job, maybe. Just sitting around all day.” The sun had half disappeared behind the cliffs. “Harry, sweetheart, why would you give up? If you hate the limbo, do something about it. You’re worlds better than you were right after the surgery, ya? Perhaps you just need a little more time, more therapy. Your potential is such a gift.”Louis left unsaid that he would give anything to have that gift, but Harry already knew. “Even tonight,” Louis continued, “You were able to walk all this way. That’s progress, darling! Several weeks ago you’d have been in pain the whole time. Your body is healing, Harry, it’s just very slow.” Harry didn’t confess his deception. Instead he agreed. “I suppose.” “You’re so strong, Harry. I know you can do this. I believe in you.”Guilt caused Harry’s next round of tears, but Louis thought them due to overwhelming hope. He kissed Harry sweetly as the sun finally sank below view and the air turned to a dusky pink around them. Before darkness set in entirely, they headed back. Harry didn’t know what reserves of strength he dipped into on the walk home, but they granted him survival until he could collapse onto the soft sheets of his bed. Oblivious to Harry’s throbbing pain, Louis cuddled him happily as he drifted to sleep. In the pit of his stomach, Harry knew he should have been truthful, but that nest of fear haunted him, whispering that Louis deserved a partner who could go on long walks in the sunset. A partner who could stay strong, who could fight for his dreams where Louis could not. Sometimes Harry wondered when he’d gotten so good at pretending. * All Louis’ things now officially sat in piles throughout Harry’s room. That meant something, thought Harry couldn’t say what, exactly. It did have the effect of making their arrangement seem permanent, though Harry still took steps to secure Louis as a fixture in his life. He began to practice for a half hour every night, pushing through his pain and discomfort with grim resolve, trying to convince himself, and more especially Louis, that things were progressing. Louis’ cheerfulness seemed almost tied to Harry’s progress, so progress he did. Harry still wondered, though, if the hope of his recovery would be enough to keep Louis around. He knew Louis didn’t think their sex lives deficient in any way, but Louis, the man who loved painting fluid clouds that morphed with the wind, would no doubt eventually grow board of Harry’s immobility in the bedroom. Anything involving hands or mouths didn’t present much of a problem, but Harry didn’t have the core-strength to fuck Louis, to pummel him into a mattress or hold him against a wall or thrust up inside him, and Louis wasn’t a vanilla sex type of person, from all indications, and Harry so desperately wanted to meet his needs. If Harry weren’t such a broken shell of a human, he’d have already offered to Louis the thing every previous partner had raved about, perhaps slept with him for, but since the surgery Harry hadn’t tested out his scarred body’s compatibility with intercourse. Dildos were only so useful in that exploration. Still… maybe he could sacrifice his willing arse for Louis’ consumption. He’d simply have to lie there, perhaps in a little pain, but that seemed doable, that seemed a workable solution. Three nights after their sunset adventure they lay in Harry’s bed, sheets in lumpy swirls all around them where some passion or other had crushed them down. “Sweetheart…” Louis murmured between droughts of Harry’s lips, “You seem eager tonight.” “Mmm.” Harry had been planning for this, planning and dreaming. “Can you reach something? In the top drawer of my nightstand, Lou,” Harry wobbled out, giddy, nervous, a bit scared. Louis dutifully plunked his hand into the drawer and found the container of lube Harry had placed there. He blue eyes darkened in the lamplight as he stared at Harry and held the bottle aloft, his shaking making it refract bits of light against the wall. With a little confusion in his voice Louis asked, “You want me to ride you, sweetheart?” “No.” Harry’s cock twitched in anticipation. “I want you to fuck me.” Louis’ eyebrows shot up and he bit his lip to hide a grin. “I’m not the kind of lad to go around fooking just anyone, Harry Styles. You’ve got me pegged wrong.” “But I know you’ll peg me right.” Louis’ let his head tilt back as he laughed loudly, his beautiful neck arched and exposed. “What am I going to do with you, Harry? But darling, are you sure you can?” “Yes.” Harry pushed his pants down, a feat, as his cock had already managed to hook them in the opposite direction. Louis fell to kiss him, hard, using more jaw than usual, more teeth. “You clean, baby? I have a condom somewhere.” “I’m clean. Haven’t exactly been sleeping around.” “Me either. Last time I tried to roll on a rubber my hands were shaking so bad it looked like a ruined bit of cling wrap. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even stay to give the guy a wank.” This anecdote ended in a smile as Louis clicked open the lube cap. Soon Harry felt warm fingers and a chilly wetness sliding down below his balls. “Sorry it’s a bit cold, love,” Louis hummed, kissing Harry’s bare chest as he felt him out. “S’alright.” Harry moaned as Louis’ first finger breached him. “Okay, sweetheart? Tell me if it hurts, ya?” “Ya,” Harry replied, absolutely planning on lying. “You take me so easy, love, fook,” Louis praised, slipping in a second finger, then a third as he tried to drip more lube into the fray. It took him several goes as the hand not inside Harry’s arse still shook aggressively. “I prepped a little,” Harry confessed sheepishly, blushing at how he’d spent his afternoon coffee break. “Sweetheart you’re… fuck you’re so hot.” “I’m hotter inside,” Harry whispered, trying for seduction but only causing Louis to burst out in laughter once more. “I know, precious, hint taken, hint taken,” Louis chuckled, withdrawing his fingers and leaning up to plant a soft kiss on the tip of Harry’s nose. “Ready, baby?” “So ready.” Louis didn’t pull back to look. With steady hands pushing on Harry’s thighs, he began to nudge his cock against its destination. He rubbed it there tantalizingly until Harry groaned and bucked, too eager, too desperate. Starting to lick at Harry’s top left breast, Louis used one hand to guide himself in; when his soft cock-head finally parted the tight ring of muscles, he gulped against Harry’s skin and shivered. A smidge at a time he pushed in, until with one last shove he bottomed out and paused, his thickness throbbing inside Harry with his every heartbeat. Harry froze on a ragged breath. It hurt, more than he’d anticipated. “Harry?” Louis whispered, gone completely still. “Darling, talk to me. You’re not breathing.” “Just feels so good, you feel so good in me. Fuck me, Lou?” The snarl of scar tissue that laced through Harry’s organs begged to differ. He could feel a horrid pulling in the area an inch or so below his belly button, and with every pulse of Louis’ blood a little shot of pain skipped up his spine. He tried to ignore it. “Babe?” Harry wanted it so much. His dick strained into the air and his body sucked Louis in greedily. But it hurt so badly. The nest of worry reminded him, though: no one could want a broken man. No one could want a scarred man. No one could want a man whose body ached and fluctuated daily, who couldn’t perform intercourse even when he desperately wanted to. So Harry braced himself and lied, again. “Please, Lou, I want it, want it so much…” Louis began to work his hips, and in an instant Harry knew he couldn’t ignore the pain. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out as Louis rocked into him, rubbing his spot so perfectly, hurting him so unwittingly. “Oh baby, sweetheart, you’re amazing, shit,” Louis cooed, still thrusting slowly, deliberately, his own arousal building behind his breath. “S’it good, baby? Have I got it? Shit…” Harry’s chest seized up first, but he held on. So what if his scar tissue got more tangled around? Nothing in him could break, nothing more could be damaged, his only consequence would be pain, and he could deal with pain, he could get through it, he would get through it… “Harry? Baby?” Louis’ hips had started snapping now, and Harry couldn’t register much beyond the searing burn in his back, but clearly his cock could because it began to leak and twitch. As any attentive lover would, Louis took it in hand and began to help Harry along. “M’close, darling, you close? Harry?” Harry couldn’t open his lips, he’d sealed the agony there and if he dared let it go, Louis would know. But absent that escape, the pain leaked from him in the form of tears. “H-Harry?” Louis paused on a deep thrust and blinked down at him. Harry tried to smile, but instead his face contorted into a terrible, gargoylic mask. “Fook…” Louis drew out immediately and straddled him, cupping his face too tightly as he peered down with worry. “Are you hurting? Does it hurt? Oh god, Harry talk to me, I’m so sorry baby, oh god—“ “No, no,” Harry protested, because he didn’t want it to end like this, Louis still flushed and hard, never having reached his climax. “Keep going, please? We’re so close.” “Are you fooking—Harry you’re crying! I’ve hurt you haven’t I? Oh baby why didn’t you say? Harry I’m so sorry—“ “I want you to keep fucking me, Louis,” Harry growled out, his timbre surprising even him. Louis’ face twisted up in utter confusion. “No?” Louis said, half a statement, half a wonderance. “Why would you want that?” He looked imploringly at Harry, his thumbs drawing along Harry’s cheekbones like one would soothe a frantic mare. “Because—“ More tears broke from of his eyes and wet Louis’ hands on their rush across his cheeks, “I wanna be enough!” The broken confession dangled between them as Louis’ face churned through a hundred expressions, finally morphing into something between anguish and anger. “Never lie to me about this. Never do that again. I’d rather die than hurt you. Don’t fooking make me do that, Harry, don’t you ever.” Still more tears tumbled afresh down Harry’s face. “Don’t scold me, Lou!” He forced his aching body to roll over and buried his face in a pillow, sobbing into it until the pain of intercourse paled in comparison to the heaving contractions of his diaphragm. He felt Louis leave the bed, felt the mattress press up firmer towards him without his partner’s added weight. Horribly shaken, he peeked out from the linen and saw Louis by the window where he stood lighting a cigarette, the flame of his lighter bobbing like a firefly in his shaking hands. He hadn’t gone. Louis took several drags before turning towards Harry. In the glow of the rock lamp and the sizzling end of his smoke, Harry saw his mouth set in a new line, one that he’d never seen before and hoped desperately he would never see again. “Will you tell me where I hurt you?” Louis asked at last. “That doesn’t matter, s’not like you hurt me, Lou, it’s just me, I’m—“ Louis smashed his cigarette out against the windowsill and crumpled to the wall. “Shut the fook up, Harry.” Louis’ words lashed his breast. Trying to keep from sobbing again, Harry heaved up and scooted to the edge of the bed, clutching the sheets protectively around him, hiding his scar, hiding his soul, if he had one. In the dim light Louis’ naked form seemed more beautiful than ever before, from his trembling hands to his glorious thighs to the spiky outline of his messy hair. Harry fixated on his soft cock, though. “You didn’t come,” he stated, not sure he could prompt out the rest of the words he meant to say. “Of course I didn’t bloody come, Harry.” Harry continued. “But you didn’t because I’m deficient. No one would want a partner like me. It’s true, and if you deny it, then it’s just worse, it’s worse thinking of you on some saintly mission tending my broken body like a fucking nurse…” With a tortured sigh Harry collapsed to the mattress once more and buried his face in a swell of blankets. He hadn’t cried there long before warm arms collected him. “Oh sweetheart.” Louis clutched him close, holding Harry firm and still until the worst of his sobs had abated. When only the sounds of street traffic filtered through the air, Louis turned Harry to face him. “You really don’t understand, do you? You’re perfect to me.” Louis carded a hand through Harry’s curls and smoothed them back from his tear-wrecked face. “I’m in love with you, Harry Styles.” Mountains could have crumbled at his feet and Harry wouldn’t have noticed. The air seemed to light up with invisible fire and instantly, like an explosion, the phenomenon burst through his veins. It lasted only a few seconds, but in that short time Harry felt the truth of Louis’ words as if they were corporeal entities. Louis loved him? Louis had only ever referenced love in regard to his art. He’d never framed his passions as burning for anything other than inanimate ideals or acts of creation… Harry could say nothing in return. Two responses mingled inside him, one wondrous, one frantic. Louis’ declaration, far from acting as a freeing reassurance, just made Harry feel trapped. Louis loved him? All the more pressure, now, to be worthy of his affections. Harry fell short of even meriting Louis’ casual care, his base physical attentions, and now Louis loved him? The weight of that nearly suffocated Harry. He could never measure up to something so monumental, could never repay, reciprocate such a gift, not only because of his broken body, but because he couldn’t love Louis in return. He’d never been able to love at all. Panic rose inside him as he lay placidly in Louis’ arms, his breath deceptively calm. Louis stroked through his hair for a time before eventually falling asleep, his hands warm and unmoving against Harry’s body. Everything compressed around Harry, squeezing him like water would a diver in the depths of the ocean. Harry couldn't practice how to love, couldn’t figure out all the notes ahead of time and pound the correct dynamics and phrasing into his memory. He couldn’t prepare, he couldn’t control anything, he couldn’t dictate precision or perfection because love involved the agency of another human, a fractious factor thrown into Harry’s stable equation. Always Harry’s stress dreams began the same way, with him walking onto an unfamiliar stage to play a piece he didn’t know with music he’d never seen before; he could only escape the nightmares by waking himself up. He wished he could wake up now, for he felt the same panic, and this time he couldn’t take comfort in the idea that those dreams would never become reality. Harry lay awake, these thoughts swarming in his head, until sunrise, until sparced morning light fell across their faces where they lay with their heads and feet at the wrong ends of the bed. Harry welcomed the morning, hoping that the waning darkness would wake Louis, for in his sleep the other man’s arms still clutched him close, and Harry wanted, desperately, to squirm away.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
With every passing evening Harry noted his enclosure taking form: a rock wall there, a moat below, several trees and an itching post too. He couldn’t help but feel like an observed zoo animal; Louis meant well, he knew, but he seemed to expect something from Harry’s practice sessions, as if one night Harry’s back would magically heal, he would shout ‘praise Jesus’ from his piano bench, and then begin playing the Rachmaninoff perfectly as doves filled the room and a rainbow formed over the Hudson. Louis provided a platoon of encouragement, and Harry found himself greatly resenting this invading force. It sounds so good, baby. Don’t give up, sweetheart, you’ll get it back, I promise. How was PT today? Make any progress? I know you’ll beat this, I believe in you. To make matters worse, Louis’ happiness still seemed correlated to Harry’s improvement, and as the days passed he smiled more and more and began to take actual joy in his new job. He began embracing the new direction of his life, even scouting around for an apartment. But perhaps what got under Harry’s skin the most were the three words Louis would whisper when he thought Harry asleep, when their naked bodies lay slotted together under the heat-sticky sheets of August: I love you. As Louis repeated these words night after night, Harry began to doubt they contained any truth at all. He would anticipate Louis’ confession, a slugger waiting for a pitch, bracing himself to evaluate if Louis’ sentiments were indeed hollow. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy, for each night the words began to feel less real, and soon no swell or feeling touched Harry’s chest. He thought he knew why. He’d been on the rim of guessing it for ages, that Louis couldn’t love him any more than he could love Louis. Louis loved his art, and absent it, had latched on to something else he could perfect: Harry himself. Perhaps not bodily, but artistically Harry still carried that potential. That’s why Louis would sit curled on the bed as he practiced, offering smiles and kind words, because he needed Harry’s hope of recovery. He needed it because he had none for himself. If Louis loved the hope of Harry, then he didn’t really love Harry. And that made sense. How could anyone find him worthy of love? The more Harry practiced, the more he became frustrated with the dichotomy of Louis’ reassurances and the reality of his situation. How could Louis claim that Harry’s broken body was perfect to him, yet at the same time feed off of Harry’s possibility for artistic perfection? Despite continuing with physical therapy, his body felt much the same. He could practice for no longer than half an hour before the ache of his low back became unbearable and he had to either swallow a handful of pills or lie flat. Yet, the more he practiced, the more he wanted to play, and the more the pressure of musical release built inside of him, like a balloon pressed against a dull needle. He ached for the phenomenon to find him, to release the pent up, brimming box in his heart, but it just became more elusive. On the night everything came crashing down, Louis lay sprawled on the bed as Harry labored over a Chopin prelude. A twinge in his side kept interrupting him; if the pain didn’t come from his shoulder, it made more than sure to come from somewhere else. Harry kept restarting the piece, progressing only a few measures further each time before something physically derailed him. At last his fingers responded well, moving over the keys gracefully with the appropriate pressure and release, pushing into lighter notes and burrowing into heavy ones, crafting nearly-visible dimensions out of sound. As he neared the prelude’s middle, he consciously sought for the feeling, waiting for it to appear, for he’d made it that far in near-perfection. He willed the phenomenon to claim its customary power over him and grant him relief. But in doing so, he forgot to keep track of his tensing shoulder; it spurned him, locking and rendering the climax’s penultimate chord a garbled mess. The miniscule, budding feeling inside him vanished instantly into vapor and the weight of Harry’s emotional baggage landed squarely atop his heart once again. In frustration and despair, he banged his elbows into the piano keys and screamed. “Sweetheart?” Harry had forgotten about his witness. His frustration mingled with hot embarrassment and he refused to turn his head. “Don’t give up, darling. You’re getting better. It’s just very slow.” Harry tensed as Louis came to stand beside him and clasped his shoulders. “Trees grow faster.” “Baby,” Louis kissed his neck, his lips only slightly hotter than the air. Harry stood, breaking away. “Don’t comfort me, Lou. Just—let me be.” “Oh.” Louis’ shoulders sagged a little and his eyes drifted down. “And,” Harry should have stopped himself, “Don’t fucking say I’m perfect to you. Don’t say that anymore, alright?” Louis’ mouth made the dreaded hard line. “I don’t understand what you mean.” “I mean,” the overstuffed container in his chest began to ooze from its confines, not through artistic release, but anger; this fury slunk into his veins like crude oil, heavy and passive and bitter, “That you can’t fucking have it both ways, Louis. You tell me I can get better, I can be the pianist I once was, but also say I’m perfect to you now, with this fucking ruined body! You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?” Louis starred opened mouthed, his hands shaking at his sides, questions racing through his unblinking eyes. But Harry continued. “You don’t love me, Lou. And you’re wrong. I’ll never be the same as before. I’ll never be fully healed, I’ll never be able to play perfectly again. And that’s all you’re here for, isn’t it? To live the recovery you couldn’t have through me. You spout this nonsense about my scars not mattering, but if you were capable of loving something with imperfections you’d have never given up on your art.” A car horn honked outside and Louis blinked at the sudden noise, banishing two tears from his welling eyes. “You tossed everything away because you can’t use a fucking paintbrush the way you used to. So fucking what, Louis? You’re an artist! Just throw a can of paint on a canvas and call it genius! Do a fucking splatter painting, hang a fucking bicycle from the ceiling, you could do ANYTHING IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD!” Harry felt water dripping down his chin and paused to wipe it away. “It’s me who has no other options. I can’t just hit the stupid piano with my feet and expect people to listen, can I? I’ll never be the same again, Louis, never. Do you fucking understand? ‘Oh, keep going, Harry, you’re getting better, Harry, if you just pushed a little harder you could get everything back,’ well I CAN’T!” Stunned at his own words, Harry bit his lip hard, witnessing the echoes of his screams as if he hadn’t just birthed them himself. As the haze of passion faded, he became aware of Louis’ stance before him. The smaller man hadn’t moved, not even to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. “You finished?” He asked, voice so soft compared to Harry’s yelling. Harry simply nodded. “Good.” Louis fixed his fringe with trembling fingers. “Do let me know if you have more to say, will you? I wouldn’t want to miss the great Harry Styles’ masterpiece performance. Such passion, such musicality, Harry, it’s no wonder you were one of the best.” The way Louis’ lips twisted on best sliced Harry somewhere near his spine and he nearly collapsed to the floor. The needle finally grew sharp enough, and it ruptured him. As Louis gathered his things from the bed, Harry wanted to puddle around his feet, to cram his plethora of exploded toxins back inside… “Lou?“ Like a spiked magnet Louis smacked into his lips. The kiss felt more like a punch to the gut, lacking in any gentleness or sweetness; still, he wanted it to last forever. When Louis pulled away Harry knew they were over. “You’re right, Harry. Everything you said.” Louis closed the door behind him. Harry thought he’d feel relief; his suspicions had been warranted, Louis didn’t really love him, and by calling Louis out, he had saved himself from rejection. But instead, in the the stillness of his lonely room, the phenomenon assailed him. It came without music, without practice, as a wraith of itself, horrible and dark and all-consuming, filling his body with tingles of absolute agony that reverberated throughout him like a stuck pipe organ. He couldn’t breathe. With great effort he managed to make it to his bed and fall into the mattress. Before the sobbing claimed him he wished the bed would swallow him whole, absorb him into its inanimate materials so he’d be incapable of feeling anything at all. * Harry awoke to a bird cooing. Through swollen eyes he saw a pigeon perched on his windowsill, preening itself. The bright blue of its metallic-glinting wings renewed the horrid, throbbing rawness in his chest, for he usually awoke to blue eyes. Time passed, but Harry remained unmoving. A soft knock at his door interrupted the quiet he’d been clinging to. “Harreh? You in there, bebes?” The door opened as Zayn let himself in. Harry still didn’t move. “What’ve you gone and done, hey?” Zayn soothed, petting at Harry’s curls where they lay sweat-soaked against his neck. “What did you say to him? Here I’ve tried for months, and in one night…” Harry turned his head. “What?”Zayn gently tugged him upright. “Come see.” Taking his hand, Zayn led him down the hallway to his own room. The door swung slightly in the window breeze, cracked open enough for Harry to see that Louis stood inside with his back to them, an easel and canvas before him. “I’m stepping out for a bit,” Zayn whispered, nudging Harry forwards. “Go in.” Zayn slipped away as Harry peered into the sunny space. He pushed the door a little more open and stepped inside. Onto the blank canvas Louis had begun to squeeze tubes of paint, leaving gummy worms of color across the surgically white surface. He dropped each tube to the floor as he finished with it, adding to the clutter of brushes and rags and pallets and empty mason jars that lay around his bare feet. When he’d loaded the canvas with every color of the rainbow, he planted his shaking hands, palms down, to its surface, and a small sound began to leak from him, almost like a bellows closing, growing in volume until it became a cry. Without warning his hands lifted and he beat them downwards, then did so again, smearing the paint in violent strokes of vibrant color. He did this until the canvas lost its white. Then, with one final siren of despair, Louis slapped his rainbow hands against his face, rubbed them into his hair, and drew them down his neck. “Lou?” Louis turned and pulled his stained fingers away from his cheekbones. Harry could never recover from the sight that greeted him. Muddy yellow coated the side of Louis’ nose, while brilliant green streaked along his forehead. Blues and reds blended on his cheeks and a dob of purple had stuck to his left eyebrow. His hair hung spiky and paint-wet against his skin and a streak of hot pink traveled from his lower lip to his chin, his tears mingling with the oils like vinegar in milk. It dawned on Harry then, so obvious a solution, as he stood there looking at Louis’ beautiful, paint-smeared face. Moving with urgent purpose, he collected a pallet from the floor and began squeezing paint onto it from the strewn tubes around them. When he’d assembled more or less every color, he picked up a brush too and positioned it as well as he knew in his own hand. “Use my hands, Lou. Haven’t you ever noticed? When you touch me, you’re still.” He held his arms out to Louis, an olive branch, an apology. Louis hesitated, his wet eyes searching Harry’s as if looking for a trap. After a moment he closed his paint-slick palm around Harry’s fingers, his grip tentative at first, but eventually growing firm. And it remained steady; through the mediator of Harry’s skin he didn’t tremble. Louis sniffed, breaking the silence between them. “Only if you close your eyes.” Harry did. Louis guided him through large, broad strokes at first, learning the angles of him, the way his arm bent and turned and extended. Soon Louis began placing different brushes between his fingers, thick to thin, thin to fragile. Time and again they dipped in tandem from easel to canvas to rag and back, repeating ad nauseam until the black of Harry’s eyelids had begun to dance in spots of purple and green and his back to cramp from standing. Yet he felt a pang of disappointment when Louis removed the latest brush from his grasp and gently lowered his arm. “You can open now,” he said, so Harry did. The canvas now displayed a sunrise, a sunrise that shone out from behind the sheer luminance of delicate clouds to light a cluster of wildflowers, their petals cut in microscopic detail, breathtaking and more splendid than any photograph Harry had ever seen. “It’s magnificent,” Harry mouthed, hardly giving any breath to his words. “It’s yours.” “Lou I could never—“ “You were right, last night. I only love my artistry when I can do this,” he motioned to the painting, “And that’s all my ego, isn’t it? I’ve given up because I’m humiliated and proud. Not anymore. This,” Louis held out his trembling hands, “This is who I am now, and you’re right, I can still make art. I can still create, I still have a voice.” The sunlight from Zayn’s window felt heavy on Harry’s skin, as if the brightness would soon crush him. He wanted to say so much, and yet he could only manage to croak Louis’ name. “Lou…” “Don’t, please.” Louis brought his tinted hands to knot in Harry’s curls, to smear a mess of hues across his cheeks. He pulled Harry gently down to meet his lips and kissed him, softly, tenderly. He broke away first, his cheekbones once more flesh colored where his tears had cleansed them. “That should have been our last kiss.” Harry nearly fell to his knees. “God… no, don’t say you’re leaving me.” “I am. I have to, Harry, before something breaks in me that only you can fix.” Harry reached out desperately, clutching Louis’ shoulders, holding to them too tightly, finding any excuse he could to extend their goodbye. “But… let me wash this away? First? You can’t leave like this. You can’t.” Louis didn’t protest when Harry drew him close, picked him up, carried him towards the bathroom. Louis’ legs linked around his hips, his face pressing to Harry’s neck. Harry managed to turn on the shower with Louis still cradled against him, managed to step inside with their bodies still meshed together. As the hot water beat down on their paint-smeared clothes, Louis slipped from his arms. Without a word Harry squeezed a pump of soap into his palm and set about carefully dislodging the colors from Louis’ face and hair. Louis closed his eyes and let him work, his jaw set rigidly, a gatekeeper of his gulping throat. “Now your hands, Lou,” Harry said as he finished scooping up water to rinse the suds from his lover’s face. Louis complied. Harry washed his fingers one at a time, knowing that every splash of pigment curling down the drain hurried Louis’ departure. He finished solemnly, taking the liberty of kissing Louis’ knuckles before releasing him. “I guess I needed to learn this, Harry. Though I wish now it would have happened any other way. This is goodbye, then.” Louis shut the water off and ran his hands down himself, sluicing away as much wetness as he could. “I could have been your music, Harry. But I hope you learn how to do it someday.” Louis stepped from the tub and grabbed a towel. “Learn how to do what?” Harry knew, though. “How to love.”* Harry went through the motions of functioning, but life just spun around him in a flurry, a merry-go-round he couldn’t climb off. He came home one day after teaching to find Gemma waiting in the kitchen with Zayn, his roommate having called her in a last ditch attempt to pull him out of his despair. “Come on, little brother,” Gemma took his arm and gave Zayn a smile, “We’re going for a walk.” Riverside Park brought back too many memories. They stopped by a bench facing the Hudson and sat down. “So,” Gemma started, her lecture tone already strong. “I don’t want to hear any of it, I’m serious. Not one word.” Gemma snorted. “I was going ask if you’re okay. Not preach at you.” “Same difference.” Gemma glared at him from beneath her sunnies. “You’re such a pill, Harry. I’m worried about you, we all are. Your first broken heart isn’t easy, I know.” Harry gave her an incredulous glance. “No one’s heart is broken.” “Oh? That so? How’s denial working out for you, Harry?” “I’d have to be in love to have a broken heart, and I’m not. Apparently I can’t even figure out how to love, so. Don’t worry. The Ice King survives.” Gemma took his hand and held it, her thumb soothing along Harry’s knuckles. “You’re an idiot, Harry, and I mean that in the kindest way. You’ve tricked something out of that mind of yours that you think is love, and you’re wrong. Maybe you expect love will be this powerful force that breaks through all your walls and overwhelms you, maybe you’ve been daring it to force itself on you for years. But love doesn’t work like that. It only has the power you give it, and you insist on keeping it choked up inside of you. Maybe you’re scared, I don’t know. Maybe you inherently know how powerful it could be, and you don’t want to risk loving because you’re afraid of loss.” Gemma squeezed his hand. “But this? Is a broken heart, Harry.” Two gulls landed in front of them and started to peck at the ground, searching for sustenance. The little waves of the Hudson swelled to small breakers as a tugboat passed. Harry didn’t wrench his hand away. Could it be? The phenomenon, the feeling—perhaps it didn’t just happen magically during a perfect performance, maybe its existence didn’t depend on moments of musical ecstasy, maybe Harry had made a maze in his heart with one exit and one exit only and music had been it and all this time, all this time the thing he’d been feeling was love. Maybe all his life he’d been too scared to let it run around in him unshackled because if he could love his art, his music that much, how much more could he love a person? And how much more would losing a person he loved shatter him? The answer scared him shitless. He battled to keep everything shut away, but the locks were weakening, and he felt like a damn about to burst. He could barely deal with a broken body; no physical therapy existed for a broken spirit. “Harry, you’re shaking,” Gemma informed him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. “Just breathe, Harry, just breathe. It gets better, I promise. Welcome to the club, little brother.” * On his way home from teaching Thursday evening Harry detoured through Central Park, hoping nature could give him a little peace. Birdsong filled the trees and the paths lay strewn with the shed petals of late summer flowers. As he rounded a bed of purple sage he saw it, occupying a little alcove where two park benches normally sat. Its wooden sides were painted garishly in cartoonish patterns, and a plaque sat beside it urging any willing passerby to stop and create music. Harry hadn’t touched his piano since Louis left, but no one seemed to be around to witness his actions, so he sat. He laid his hands atop the keys and stroked away bits of fallen tree junk before pressing down. As a simple C chord sounded he realized he didn’t know what to play, so he just ran his fingers up and down the scale, noticing the ache in his back, the tension in his shoulder, how his right hand seized up and he missed three notes; but still he kept on, like a murmuring brook, until an old favorite came to mind: Un Sospiro.He played, losing himself to the music and forgetting to keep his shoulder in check. He missed notes, but the tingles started anyway, the phenomenon came to him despite the mistakes tripping from his fingers, despite his brain forgetting the middle section of the piece; despite it all, the phenomenon filled him, because he let it.
It grew so strong and warm within him that soon Harry had begun to weep; his tears only increased as he played the final chord. He buckled in on himself and held his ribcage.Art never needed to be flawless—people didn’t need to be flawless—to merit love. He had imposed these restrictions on love out of fear. Perfection had never been the defining criteria of art: feeling was, love was. Of course Louis had truly loved him. Harry knew what he had to do. He knew it would mean crushing pain, but now he understood that such a price couldn’t outweigh the beauty. Harry stumbled through three flower beds before finding a main walkway. With clumsy fingers he texted Zayn. What’s his new address, I have to tell him 87th and Columbus, 128a. Good luck, Harry. As he ran through the park he snatched up any blooming plant he saw, his shoes soon becoming caked in dirt as his hands filled with leafy stems, some with roots dangling at their bottoms. He didn’t care. His back protested at running but he ignored it, continuing past the perimeter of the park on 87th, weaving along the crowded sidewalks, sweaty and single-minded, looking like a crazed man. He arrived at Louis’ stoop out of breath, the motley flowers already wilting from the heat, his wet curls clinging to his face. Without any decorum at all he banged on the door repeatedly, unable, unwilling to find the bell. “Harry?” Louis answered, his face flickering from confusion to worry. Harry grinned stupidly at him, tears still coursing down his face. “Lou?” He began, his voice cracking, “I love you.” Louis didn’t respond, his face blank. “I know it’s too late, but I don’t care. You deserve to know.” Louis blinked at him a moment, then pulled him from the stoop inside the door, shutting New York City out behind them. His blue eyes searched Harry’s, looking for something, and presumably finding it. “It’s not too late.” The cool air of the apartment made Harry’s skin goosepimple, and he shivered a moment before remembering the flowers and thrusting his bouquet to Louis’ chest. Louis’ eyebrows rose and he backed a step away, inspecting the flowers before committing to them. “Did you pull these up from the ground, Harry?” “I suppose.” “Because you love me.” Harry fell to his knees, dropping the unfortunate flowers at Louis’ feet and clasping both arms around his thighs. “Nothing is worth loving. Everything is worth loving. I’m not scared anymore. I would let my heart break a million times for you, Lou, and then a million and one.” Louis gently pried his arms free and stooped to kneel with him. “So would I, sweetheart. A million and one.” Despite Harry’s teary face and beading sweat, Louis drew him close and kissed him. “I’m sorry, Lou, I’m so sorry…” “Shhh, sweetheart, I know. I love you a terrifying amount, Harry.” Love crashed through Harry’s viens, bubbling like honey, better than sleep, better than orgasms, better than anything Harry had ever felt before. And he kept feeling it, over and over, like a wave that never receded, a sun that never set. He found Louis’ lips again and and soon they had both sunk to the floor, crushing the tattered flowers into a heady perfume. Harry settled in on his back, the cool of the wood soothing his lumbar and spine as Louis hovered above him, his thin lips parted slightly, perfect conduits for the warm breath that tickled Harry’s nose. “Paint me, Lou, like the flowers, like the sunrise, make me your canvas again,” Harry begged, arousal already thick between them. With a blushing smile Louis brought his shaking hands to the hem of Harry’s shirt and lifted, peeling back the sweat-heavy fabric inch by inch, revealing Harry’s soft belly and the snaking scar that wove along it in red, sharp glory. Louis undid both his own and Harry’s trousers next, then their pants, and Harry nearly cried out when he saw the glory of Louis’ nakedness. Taking Louis’ hips in hand, Harry drew the other man closer, scooting him up until Louis’ knees met his armpits and Louis’ beautiful, flushed cock perched mere inches from his lips. Harry opened, his tongue reaching out desperately to close the distance. “Sweetheart…” Louis gave him what he wanted. Never had Harry felt so nourished as when Louis first leaked against his tongue, his tang nearly sweet in the far back of Harry’s mouth. Sucking Louis with his cheeks, kneading him with the clutch of his throat, Harry nearly forgot that he possessed hands. He remembered in time to scoop his palms around Louis’ bum and slide his fingers into the well-padded crack of his body. Louis hefted a little higher on his knees. “Gonna open me, love?” He whispered, voice edged like onyx. Harry gave a slight shake of his head and Louis pulled out, chest heaving. “Sweetheart?” “There’s no lube on the floor, Lou.” With a massive roll of his eyes but a huge smile, Louis hauled himself up and hurried down a little hallway, returning moments later with lube in one hand, a pillow in the other. “Since we’re having floor sex, apparently,” Louis teased, rolling Harry on his side and placing the pillow beneath him before rolling him back. Harry loved him, so incredibly much. He took an ample glob of lube on his fingers as Louis straddled his mouth once more and fed him. It didn’t take long for Harry to slip three fingers inside his lover; Louis gave deliciously, easily, moaning and hitting the back of his throat as Harry rubbed against his walls. Before Harry could fully fall into a trance, Louis reached around and gently tugged his fingers out, withdrawing from his mouth also, ribbons of Harry’s spit clinging to him like spider webs. “Gotta paint you, baby,” Louis offered in explanation, sliding back down to Harry’s hips. He poured a dollop of lube into his palm and smeared it on Harry’s un-tended hardness. “Oh Lou,” Harry whimpered as Louis lined himself up and began to lower down. For a moment Harry mourned the loss of his old body and what it could do, but then Louis bottomed out and leaned down and kissed him all at once, and nothing mattered save that they were making love. Nothing mattered save that they were in love. And I’m worthy of it Harry remembered, just as I am. Louis rode him gently, grunting sometimes in pleasure, nibbling his lips and licking deep into his mouth. Like a budding crescendo Louis’ hips began to push in deeper, land harder, plunge quicker, and in anticipation Harry wrapped his hands around Louis’ cock. “I’ll paint you, sweetheart, if you fill me, ya?” Louis panted. He didn’t need more prompting. He emptied the dregs of himself into his lover’s body, coming until he couldn’t tell his own slick dripping back down on him from Louis’ milky offering. Louis clenched around him tightly as his bursts coated Harry’s belly, helping himself along when he slowed, coaxing out two final dribbles of pearly wet. Finally spent, Louis smiled down at Harry and dipped his fingers into his mess. His hands stilled.Louis swallowed and tears came to his eyes. “Fate was kind to leave me this gift,” Louis murmured, half to himself. “I will always be able to paint you with steady hands, Harry.” He swirled his cum across Harry’s scar, plotting out some intricate picture with invisible ink, crafting beauty only he could see. Louis drew across his plush skin for an eternity as Harry watched the blue of his eyes; in them he could almost see the reflection of brush strokes. Harry grew soft inside his lover, and Louis grew soft against Harry’s hip. With one last press of his palm to the nearly dry work of art on Harry’s skin, Louis shifted, and Harry slipped from him, and a pool of cum trilled down Louis’ thighs like icing made too thin for cupcakes. The sudden cool air on his cock made Harry shiver, jogged him out of his contented stupor. With unchecked wonder he realized that the phenomenon hadn’t departed after a moment of bliss, but had woven itself into him now, an essential thread. He drew Louis close, a shield from the cool air, a lover to his body, a soul that had the power to utterly and completely destroy him. “I won’t ever regret knowing,” Harry declared between their lips. “You won’t?” Louis hesitated, searching Harry’s eyes. “No,” Harry promised, feeling the most beautiful urge dawn inside of him. “Lou?” He asked, “Marry me?” Louis’ eyebrows shot up and he started to laugh, his breath quaking as he shook his head in wonder. “You’ve only just figured out you love me.” But he bit his lip to hide the massive grin threatening to overwhelm his face“I know. And I don’t even have a ring,” Harry confessed, happy tears filling his eyes. “This is infinitely more precious than a circle of gold, sweetheart,” Louis said, placing a hand over Harry’s heart, and though his pulse thundered in vibration, Louis’ hand remained perfectly still. THE END