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“show me a hero and i’ll write you a tragedy.” – f. scott fitzgerald
let us fathom the idea of eternal return.
that the universe has been recurring, and will continue to recur, an infinite number of times across infinite time or space. it is a purely physical concept, involving no supernatural reincarnation, simply the return of beings in the same bodies.
if every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as christ was nailed to the cross. it is a terrifying prospect. in the world of eternal return the weight of unbearable responsibility lies heavy on every move we make.
and so the world is divided into pairs of opposites: light/darkness, fineness/coarseness, warmth/cold, being/nonbeing. one half of the opposition positive (light, fineness, warmth, being), the other negative. lightness is positive, weight negative.
but many honorable things could be burdens: duty, sorrow, love for another person.
so is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid?
the heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. but in the love poetry of every age, one longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. the heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment.
the heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.
in contrast, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into the heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant.
what then shall we choose?
weight or lightness?
louis thinks to himself that he’ll stop being an asshole.
‘one day at a time’, he had assured niall horan, his best friend from a simpler time (back when he was straight and impressionable and nowhere as pretty). he begins with sunday mornings. naturally, sundays are a good day. he hardly ever talks to his agent, usually gets calls from his girls and his mum, and almost always spends time with harry styles.
harry takes sundays – the day of rest – very seriously because his older sister, gemma, doesn’t work and because sunday comes after saturdays and subsequently, saturday nights.
harry never goes out on sundays. so yeah, sundays are nice.
“hello, darling.” louis chirps without looking up from his moleskin when the front door to his london flat opens around 8 a.m. and harry strolls in, eyes and nose red. he’s carrying a small bakery bag of chocolate croissants.
louis has always been an early riser. he writes best when the world is a bright yellow and when his sunflower patch dances like a compass and when the boy in his bed has green-gold eyes that puts the yellow world and his sunflower patch to shame.
unlike most authors, louis has always been scared of writing in the dark. maybe that’s why his book tanked.
“hello. morning.” harry hangs up his beanie and his wooly pea coat, toes off his shoes, then enters the kitchenette, where louis is sitting by the breakfast bar next to an open window. he kisses louis’s brow and tries to slip his hand under louis’s thick cable-knit sweater, murmuring shyly, “you look very sweet in white, louis.”
louis laughs, “cheeky!” he’s very charmed but not while harry has vodka on his tongue, crack in his blood, and reeks of another lad’s gucci cologne. also because, “watch the spray tan, love.”
harry grumbles without any real irritation, moving towards the stove to take the kettle off. he pours himself a cuppa as louis lights a cigarette and starts skimming through the times – they’re doing a run of bizet’s carmen next month. he makes a note to get tickets; harry loves the opera house.
he flips the page and on the front cover of the athletics section is a blown-up picture of a handsome youth in uniform under a bold black headline that reads: britain’s new hope? he reads as much to harry, cigarette between his teeth, watching carefully for his reaction, “liam payne. didn’t you meet this fella last week? at that party?”
“were you spying?” harry’s red, red mouth (cherry red) furls obscenely into a smile.
“looking on lovingly.” answers louis in a voice like candy, “with a telescope.” he puts his elbows on the counter, pretending to study the grainy article with great depth, concluding, “he’s very pretty.”
harry’s gaze flashes over for just a minute before returning to his tea, “louis. you can barely make out his face.”
“yes, but he’s dating zayn malik and we know how that one likes his toys. he is quite lean and fit.” louis rests his chin in his hand, grinning sharply at harry’s white grip on his mug, “you shouldn’t tease him.”
“why?”
“if it came down to a fight, he could have you.” he flicks clever blue eyes down again, “says here he boxes.” it also says that liam payne’s swam across the channel and rowed with royalty and christ, louis half expects him to be carved by michelangelo.
“what’s your point?”
and louis doesn’t know liam payne but he’s willing to bet his trust fund that liam payne’d do just about anything for that pretty sweetheart of his (and vice versa). and louis knows romance when he sees it, the type that you would burn down a whole planet for (harry and him had that once, have it still, he likes to think at the best of times), and those aren’t to be trifled with.
he puts out his cigarette in a crafted ashtray, counting fifteen gold sobranie filters that don’t belong with his french gauloises and harry’s marlboro reds. he hops off the barstool and cups harry’s big pretty jawbone, purrs with a smile, “my point is: if anyone’s going to ruin you. darling, it’s going to be me.”
before we get into harryandlouis, here’s a little on how trust funds work:
a trust is a relationship whereby property (real or personal, tangible or intangible) is held by one party for the benefit of another. the concept was first developed by the romans, fideicommissum, which translates roughly into ‘testamentary trust’ meaning that they are created by wills.
there are over a dozen types of trusts. a very specific kind is called a ‘fixed trust’. in a fixed trust, the entitlement of the beneficiaries is fixed by the settlor. the trustee has no control over the actual funds. common example: (x amount is dispelled to y once they reach of age).
when louis’s nanna died, she left everything she had to louis because she adored him and this was a time before lottie and felicite and phoebe and daisy but it was never a thing to think about because louis was much too young to know anything about money besides the fact that his family probably had too much. his surname was attached to something significant and dreadfully dull, a long line of hereditary, nepotistic businessman.
then when louis turned 18, he came into the trust his nanna had left him when she died, which included a flat in london’s prestigious primrose hill, a vacation house in ibiza, and a good sized allowance dispersed to him monthly by a pleasant gentleman that works for the bank, stan.
this became quite handy once louis was cut off after meeting a certain harry styles, wide-eyed but not-so-innocent. it was fatal first attraction, or perhaps love at first touch, some would call it.
he had been barely legal and in a club, moving manically to the beat and commanding the attention of the entire room but sometime between the last four songs, he’s started to feel sticky and light-headed and went back to the booth to catch his breath. a low silky voice calls and the slender figure that stepped out the shadows had been awfully…young, eyes green like he could smell the money off louis’s styled hair and expensive rain slicker. he gives a dimpled grin, “you look like you need a booster.” he hoods his eyes, a bit shy, and louis’s ears rush (he’s very well practiced, louis thinks), “i’ll cut you a deal.”
“how much?” louis chimes and the boy rattles prices rapid-fire. louis takes this chance to take in his holey sneakers and floppy curls. and he’d looked a little too thin, bruised in some parts, but not too worse for wear. louis buys a gram from him, tells him to keep the change, then asks, “when are you done for the night?”
“when i finish unloading.” he smiles at louis in this curious, confused way, but still courteous. he sounds a bit nervous as well, like maybe he shouldn’t be talking to louis and maybe he’d be in trouble if he doesn’t get his work done come dawn.
“i suppose you’re done now then.”
louis took him to nanna’s flat that night and bought everything off harry styles. half a capsule of vicodin, an eight-ball of cocaine, and eventually, after a couple white lines and harry blinking owlish, pretty eyes, louis bought harry’s dignity too – or maybe he just took it, because he can’t recall to have paid for that…
following that, it was a whirlwind year of snorting white powder off harry’s lean, lithe body and trading an ecstasy pill between slick mouths and losing himself in dimples and curls and the space between harry’s laugh and greengreengreen, all this and more stretched towards infinity. he has this…this vision…of forever with harry. he thinks he can taste it and it’s as sweet as harry’s kisses on his shoulder.
but money was running out of louis’s savings account and harry was still on the streets so what was he supposed to do?
he wrote a book and he traded his soul for it and settled into a life of domesticity (where everything became so new, so solid, so…breakable) but traces of doubt from the old life (where nothing ever broke because everything was like air) remain; guilt and suspicion and fear. they had both sacrificed unspeakably precious things to trade for this freedom that suddenly feels more like a cage. they don’t know how to behave without the pretense that things might vanish in the next moment. so they play up emotions they’re supposed to feel; bliss and content and louis thinks they’re too good of actors, the both of them.
and the cold war rages on.
louis is going on 22 now. he most certainly feel older but not much wiser. and the only thing he can depend on is still his trust fund.
“how was ibiza?” harry asks quietly, tracing invisible patterns into louis’s caramel skin, his touch careful, unlike his teeth and arms and cock driving into louis’s small nymph figure just minutes earlier when he was a flexible length of molten heat, pinning his face into the mattress and fiercely taking.
on the dvd, casablanca is rolling but they’ve watched it enough to know the ending before it happens.
louis swings over to open the window and lights his cigarette; he thinks it’s what bogart would’ve done. blowing out smoke, he envisions milky blue waters, lapping waves on an ivory sand beach, a neat white cottage decorated with linen drapes, a whole collection of vintage typewriters, and bamboo mats. it’s paradise if such a place existed on earth.
he thinks he’ll take harry there. not now, but one day, when they learn to love each other properly.
he tilts his head, blinks invitingly, “come here and i’ll tell you all about it.”
“can’t you tell me from here?” harry rolls like an itching puppy around the bed, riding the sheets further down his hips.
“no.” he answers curtly then belatedly realizes he’s probably being an asshole (he told niall he’d stop doing that). feigning disinterest, he goes back to his cigarette. he’s been working on this new theory that if he maneuvers his tongue into the way he says certain things, he can spell out letters, the alphabet even, with the smoke. he’s quite fascinated with this idea: inhale oxygen; produce words. he’s in the middle of curling his lips around the letter ‘a’ when he feels slinky arms snake around his waist, it messes up his concentration so he stubs it out.
he turns so they’re face-to-chin, it seems like harry grows with the wind. and harry’s skin is sleep warm and his chest is orange from where louis’s tan rubbed off. he’s mildly annoyed but harry’s already got his giant hands on either side of louis’s face, demanding very patiently, “ibiza. tell me.”
“’s just another city, haz.”
“yeah. but it’s where you are.” and the implication is: it’s home. but the word has never had any meaning to them before so they don’t try to taint it now. they can’t label something they don’t have based on something they don’t know. harry presses his mouth to louis’s brow, voice soft and lush in his heavy plea, “describe it to me. i want to imagine you in ibiza.”
“it’s hot and sunny and clean. there are a lot of palm trees and there’s jellyfish watching…you would love it.” he sounds fond even to his own ears.
“that sounds nice, louis.” harry confesses – harry’s confessions always sound like honey, like warm silk – “i’m lonely, louis. i’m horribly lonely because of this love i feel for you.”
“i’m lonely too.” louis replies obligingly. he doesn’t say why. he clears his throat and says, “but i want to be alone when i’m there.”
“why? what do you do?”
he shrugs out of harry’s tight embrace, “to grieve. to repent. to write.”
“louis. please.” harry grabs his hand as he tries to slip around but harry’s looking at the ground, breathing hard and louis stops breathing completely. “you don’t have to do any of those things. not alone. i just mean…we did this together…to ourselves. we can undo it together, you know…”
he thinks he purposely forgets how strong harry is, how willing he is to always fight for them despite knowing exactly what kind of person louis is; flaky, quick-worded, spoiled. he forgets because it frightens him.
“but we didn’t do it together, did we? that’s the point. we both did it alone.”
“technicality.” presses harry.
louis winces but tries not to let it show. he tugs so harry’s hand will drop then goes to pull on his trousers and a loose shirt. he almost walks out of the room but he doesn’t want to leave the conversation unfinished, adding quietly, “darling. it’s only for the week. i’ll be back by friday.”
louis doesn’t invite harry to ibiza and harry doesn’t ask to go. they both know why.
“yeah. okay.” harry’s gaze is trained at the london structure and the evening glow. his face is sad and beautiful, stroked by sympathetic moonlight.
“i’ll take you to the opera when i get back, yeah?”
“yeah.” harry agrees as the air between them normalizes again, back to crackling banter thinly veiled with distrust. this is better, they know how to react around each other’s cruelty more than weaknesses. he finds louis’s crumpled pack on the windowsill and tucks one between his lips, questioning in a way that’s sharp yet flat at the same time, “lou? were you getting ready to go out this morning? you had your jumper on.”
louis tenses. his head replays last night, which is a rolling film of wanting to find harry and knowing where harry is but not wanting to see harry and a tall boy that’s good at running collapsing as the sun came up and he’s blonde and saving him had felt something akin to atonement.
he beams, and louis is all sparks, “cigarette run, darling.”
when louis was 14, his mother sends him to camp because the twins are at the age where they’re more monster than little girls and she really, really didn’t need louis standing around giving her teenage angst and sassy shade.
his mum decided that he needed to take up rowing (keep in mind this is around the time she saw one of the princes row for cambridge). so she enrolled him in the same summer academy sir steve redgrave went to. she buys him a whole kit of sleeveless, his own set of oars, specialized gloves. it all goes to waste because as predicted, louis is an atrocious rower – deliberately, of course, louis does everything with intent. mostly, he just refuses to play well with others and the only thing he expressed interest in were boat shoes.
“tomlinson, you twat!” his team leader is some bloke named nathan sykes and louis doesn’t like him because he seems to be prepossessed with the idea that he can tell louis how to row. so they’ve lost again to team b in their daily work out because louis’s strokes didn’t match up to the speed of the other lads. louis doesn’t give a flying fuck; the wind is dastardly to his hair and he needs a cigarette.
“goddamn it, some of us actually take this seriously. you think you can get special treatment just because your family’s got enough cash to fill this damn lake. but all our parents paid good money for us to train here. don’t ruin this for the rest of us.”
“please, sykes.” louis drawls flatly, rolling crystal blue eyes. “quit clucking at me like a mother hen. everyone knows you got sent here after you fell out of tryouts for the junior nationals.”
even at 14, he knew his words were his best weapon. and he had no qualms in using it to get whatever money doesn’t get him.
nathan sykes is obviously no different because he turns purple, fists shaking by his side (he expects nathan to hit him; he’s almost disappointed when he doesn’t). nathan just shakes his head, grits his teeth, “fuck you.”
“you would like that, wouldn’t you.” louis cracks back, sharp as a whip. and nathan glares at him fiercely, absolutely white with rage. he stalks off, but not before knocking louis onto the grass by ramming him with his shoulder. the rest of the team follows hesitantly like sheep, avoiding glances, and louis calls out cheerfully from the ground, “i hope you drown in my lake of money, you pompous fucker.”
at some point, louis knows he’s going to have to get up from the floor but for know, he just sits there because he fucking can.
“need a hand, mate?” he first hears the thick irish brogue then sees pale chicken legs sticking out of cargo shorts. he looks up, unimpressed, and it’s a lanky boy in a cap offering him a skinny arm. it’s not really the megawatt beam that throws louis off (although that plays a small part) but rather the temperate blue eyes wide with easy kindness. louis must’ve just been staring because the boy keeps his crooked smile, yanking him to his feet by his elbow – his palm is calloused, worn; it’s comforting like he’s used to taking care of things. once louis steadies himself, he remarks, “you really are a right twat, tommo.”
but it doesn’t sound reprimanding, just bemused, affectionate even. louis doesn’t really know how to respond to tones that aren’t exasperated or disappointed so he says, “thanks?” it’s for both the statement and the hand up.
“you’re welcome.” he readjusts his cap to reveal a shag of dark hair. he introduces by-the-way, “i’m niall horan. and the whole camp knows who you are.”
louis suddenly recognizes him as the leader of team b, a favorite among the trainers and well…everybody. he sees the appeal. he dust his hands off on his trousers, “well. sorry then. if the whole not-trying thing bothers you.”
“why would it? you’re the reason why my team’s been getting telly privileges all week.” niall laughs, effortless and loose. his eyes are very understanding, “it’ll go by a lot faster if you enjoy yourself. i don’t mean rowing. i mean we’re all here for the next month and people aren’t as bad once you get to know them.”
surprisingly wise because niall is, like, 11.
“how do you suggest i do that?”
niall shrugs, “you can probably start by stop being an asshole.”
louis doesn’t succeed, as it turns out ‘asshole’ is louis’s default setting; a factory defect most probably. but it’s a lot easier with niall around. everything is easier with niall around, even breathing is easier – it makes louis wonder how he ever breathed for 14 years without niall around to make the air go down his windpipe smoother.
niall doesn’t mind his complaining or his condescension or his hatred for ‘teamwork’ (louis doesn’t do ‘team’ or ‘work’). niall doesn’t mind all of louis’s sharp edges or lurking vulnerabilities (louis is secretly very sensitive). niall most certainly doesn’t care about louis’s money because the tomlinson’s lake is nothing but a puddle to the horan’s.
niall is also the first person he ever wrote for. louis wrote haikus, sonnets, prose, pertaining to niall’s cheeks and niall’s arms. he refuses to think he had a crush on niall, because once again, he reiterates, niall is, like, 11.
(now that he’s reminiscing, louis supposes he always did like them young.)
“never took you for a poet.” niall finds him one time under a tree after a rowing practice he skipped, huffing and throwing his oars down.
“never took you for a reader.” louis snaps, perhaps harsher than he intended. there’s heat crawling up his neck.
niall’s brow raise but then he puts louis in a headlock and tussles his hair furiously, fond, “asshole.”
“one day at a time.” louis promises, ducking out of niall’s much shorter grip. he puts his arm around niall instead as they walk up to the mess hall, thinking of rhyming lines of yellow bright incandescent sun illuminated and he asks smooth as caramel toffee, “nialler? have you ever thought of going blonde?”
deus ex machina (latin) is a plot device whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem is suddenly and abruptly solved with the contrived and unexpected intervention of some new event, character, ability, or object.
it is the worst nightmare of every writer but almost every writer falls victim to it at some point in their literature, first utilized by the great greek tragedian euripides. it is generally undesirable in writing because it does not pay due to the story’s internal logic and is often so unlikely that it challenges suspension of disbelief, which breaks a reader’s illusion of a novel reality.
but. it allows the author to conclude the story with a more palatable, amiable ending. it makes tragedies more optimistic with the promise of “cheerfulness” and “blissful delight in life”.
a deus ex machina, is what they summarized louis’s book in a nutshell and the scalding review is as follows:
tomlinson’s ‘universe’ is vivid and captivating, deeply rooted in stone and pain, through the first half, distinct in his clever use of prose and dialogue but the latter half crumbles like sand under the weight of expectations set early on by readers – tedious and time-consuming. while it has plenty of action, tomlinson spends too much time in distracting description for it to be truly enjoyable. the language becomes too grand for most audiences today and the disastrous ending tries to wrap a woeful telling into a distorted fairytale brings a bitter taste to the readers’ mouth.
final verdict: tomlinson’s attempt as the next shakespeare ends in defeat along with the dissolution of his ‘universe’.
--jay mcguiness, new york times
there’s a dozen more critics reiterating the same thing and a small handful that praised him, but those articles focused more on his family history and his personal life and well, louis guesses it’s alright if vogue likes it. fuck the new york times. fuck the telegraph. fuck the guardian.
because even if the media didn’t love louis’s book, they most certainly love louis. and why wouldn’t they when louis wears fame better than most people wear armani. so louis might not get a nobel prize for his novel but he gets notoriety, he gets a spotlight, and he gets a big fat check with his name on it.
but legend has it, whispered in dark ears into darker minds at writer’s gatherings and novelist conventions, that the universe was very nearly not published. they say head editor, caroline flack, predicted with titanic certainty, “the book will sink”, but she made louis an offer anyway. evidently, an offer he couldn’t refuse.
and they say this is what happened: louis tomlinson gave harry styles in exchange for the ‘universe’, he traded darling and green eyes for a book and green money; this-for-that, quid pro quo.
this is all just a legend, of course.
louis makes his regular trips to ibiza, but for the past month, first he makes a stop at bradford to see niall – and maybe also a certain olympics-bound sprinter because liam payne is untainted and genuine and well, he’s not harry.
“are you, like, following me?” liam payne asks one bright wednesday morning.
louis is sitting on a bench in the park he knows liam payne occupies every day. louis peers up at him, hand shielding his squinty eyes from the sunny glare that he’s not sure is coming from the sun or liam. he beams, tries for an affronted tone, “what makes you say that?”
“oh.” for a second, liam looks sheepish, stretching to rub the back of his neck. louis appreciatively drinks in the tall uninterrupted lines of liam’s body – louis wasn’t lying when he said he thought he was lean and fit. liam’s got long long legs that probably help him run, slim hips, and shoulders that look like they’re about to burst from his shirt. then he intones, “this is a jogging park. you don’t…jog.”
he’s probably taking in consideration louis’s swoopy fringe and louis’s sockless feet and louis’s pastel sailboat shorts.
louis’s watched his meets, he’s rather graceful in his movements, agile muscles coiling and releasing with bursts of energy. but liam in regular life is a different scene. he moves carefully like he doesn’t know what to do with all his strength, situating his lengthy limbs this way then that.
“i’m not denying it.” louis readjusts his beanie, playing with his hoodie strings up and down, “i’m just wondering. i could just be here to enjoy this…quaint, athletic…field.”
“oh.” liam repeats. his eyes are gold like he swallowed a whole flame. he drops his gym bag by the bench, continuing dubiously, “i was just asking because we’ve been running into each other around bradford the past three weeks. you were at my training that time. and you were at my last trial. and that time – at the club, you took me home. it just seems like you’re stalking me.”
louis laughs because liam looks confused and a little scared. he corrects good-naturedly, “please, darling. don’t make it sound so sinister. and it’s not stalking if you’ve been aware of me this entire time.”
liam payne flushes.
since louis’s father was hardly ever around, cary grant taught him how to stand and banter, humphrey bogart taught him how to smoke french cigarettes and drink iced bourbon, and marlon brando taught him how to smirk.
his father never did notice. and louis never did it for him. he just needed someone to emulate. louis was a great emulator.
“louis tomlinson.” 14 year-old harry appears, pretty and green, slinking against the doorframe. his silhouette is stunning. louis’s willing to bet he’s practiced that move. “officially broke. how does it feel?”
so maybe there’s no food in the flat and no hot water and louis’s left wrist is light of a rolex. despite the fact he’s never worried about money a day in his life, louis proves that he can still be tough. he conjures his flashiest beam, “i’m rich in soul, babe. and i’ve got you.”
“you’re very good at lying.” and so maybe harry can see through his façade, can see that in louis’s core, he’s a spoiled rich kid that hates to lose his toys. but louis could tell he was grateful for every bit of flattery and he wanted to linger in it’s warmth.
“is that what you think?”
“i think you’re very good at saying pretty words at the right time.” his full red mouth is coy, but his words are strong. louis could kiss him like this. he thinks if harry asked for a universe, he would give it to him.
“yes.” he lets serrated blue eyes rake over harry’s feline form, wanting to study him. “but so are you.”
harry slides next to him in three steps, slender hand picking up a cold, long-emptied paper cup. louis had to forgo coffee this morning in favor for cigarettes. louis doesn’t remember having ever needing to choose before – he wonders if he made the right choice. harry muses, “how did this happen?”
louis needs more parchment but he’ll be damned if he even reacts to harry’s comment. he’s been sweating up a storm beneath his nice shirt because the air conditionings been turned off as of last night and the cigarette tucked between his lips is damp and it’s horrendous.
still, he sits at the mahogany table in front of an open window (the breeze is sweltering and moist), punching his typewriter vigorously, trying to savor these last few moments of daylight. he thinks he could finish this chapter today.
“i gave it all up for you, h.” louis responds as coolly as he could in this heat; casual, like he’s rid of a bad habit.
“i would’ve used the word ‘taken’.” harry is smirking. louis taught him that smirk, the wily bastard.
“taken. yes, that is perfect and i’ll tell you why.” he begins sharply, tucking his cigarette behind his ear and standing up to harry. he places hands on either side of his face. harry’s half a head shorter during these times and he smells like glass and moon rocks
“because it’s a well-known fact about you. you’re like death: you take everything.” he pats harry’s pink cheek, leans in to purr in his ear, and louis’s silvery voice is electric, “but it does you good. keeps me in check. makes you shine.”
he hears harry swallow, his emerald eyes are impossibly wide – louis could write prose to this irises wet like paint, gives the artist a new meaning to green. harry argues, “you don’t know the first thing about me.”
and louis doesn’t, not really. all he knows is that he’s harry styles and louis loves him like a fire, endless while it lasts. he smirks, this is how you do it, steps back to his typewriter, “perhaps. but i certainty know the last.”
he’s harry styles and he loves louis deeper than the pacific.
“and what’s that?” he drawls, perfectly enticing.
louis goes back to smoking because it’s what brando would’ve done. he sits down, waving the collar of his shirt to disperse some heat, and flashes a crinkled smile, “i’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“tomorrow?” tomorrow is sunday. he won’t be an asshole. harry’s skeptical and louis likes it.
“we’re going out.” louis is demanding but harry likes it. reminds him of a movie, of a hero.
“there’s no money. we can’t go down the street corner without running into simon’s people.” simon is harry’s supplier and harry hasn’t been able to deliver the past month. probably because harry’s biggest buyer was louis and now louis can’t even keep up with the air.
louis pretends like this doesn’t bother him. he resumes typing. the sun’s setting now and he probably has a good 6 minutes before it’s dark. “good thing we’re not going there then. be ready at 7.”
louis digs his rumpled pack out of his pockets. he didn’t think liam payne would mind since zayn malik was a chimney himself. and louis wasn’t really asking for permission but liam stiffens in a way that suggests he thought louis was. trouble in paradise, then.
louis fires up a match anyway.
liam surprises louis by initiating a conversation, taking a seat on the bench, “i read your book.”
louis is trying the breathe out the alphabet again. he watches the tendrils of white smoke dissipate in the dew of the morning. he’ll admit he’s a little startled; liam didn’t look like he would read anything other than school texts – he seemed too…jocky…and…academic. still, he obliges dully, “and?” because at this point, louis is waterproof to criticism.
“is it based on someone you know?”
liam doesn’t look at him and a mischievous smirk finds itself tugging on louis’s lips because liam isn’t so good at playing games or being sly. he indulges smoothly, “yes. i believe you met harry the other night.”
“and is harry okay with you making his life story public?” liam’s eyes are nowhere as vivid or saturated as harry’s. they’re doe-like and quite heavy, droopy in the corners, and it grounds louis as does liam’s sun worn face and pragmatically cropped hair.
“harry is pleased. i dedicated the book to him.” louis can’t curb the thorned defense in his voice but he redeems himself by making his next question syrupy, “what did you think?”
liam gives him a measured look, then blinks blonde lashes, “of the book or of harry?”
“harry. well. it’s all the same thing, isn’t it?” louis’s grin is tricky and full of edges. he is genuinely curious though. he has never known a spectator’s view of harry. he’s always looked out his own eyes, seeing harry as magnetic and elusive and silken and dark.
“he’s too clever.” liam decides. he stretches his tanned legs out in front of him, all six feet of it, like a gazelle. louis is reminded of harry’s legs, which are infinitely long as well, but always moves slow like a leopard on prowl.
“so?”
“he lacks the charm of weakness.”
and it’s true. harry has no weaknesses, everything that had been broken or damaged about harry has long since cooled into titanium. titanium is in harry’s blood and harry’s knuckles and harry’s eyes – tough, lustrous, corrosion resistant (even against sea water and chlorine).
louis thinks he broke the last tender thought of harry years ago. it’s good for him, louis rationalize, makes him strong, makes him brave.
“what gave you the idea for the title?”
louis drills out his cigarette, explaining, a lot more patiently and truthfully than he’d been with any journalist, “because we each live in our own ‘universe’. we only ever witness things from one body, which we’re bound to by our mortality, our longings, our greed. the story is events from my universe, revolved around me, told in my words and with my ideas. in reality, we might all share one universe, but it never seems that way, does it? we’re all the star of our own worlds.”
“then where does harry fit in all this? what role does he play in your universe?” liam’s voice is firm, like a warm hand on his back. talking to liam wears louis out more than the whip-like banters he has with harry. liam is too sincere in the way louis has always wanted to be but nobody’s ever taught him how or offered to sell him some.
louis laughs, crisp and lovely, “i wish i could tell you. harry is like the moon. part of him is always hidden away.”
harry is lunar, his mood recedes with every pull of the tide. liam wouldn’t understand, he’s too steady, like a sunrise.
“if you don’t know him, how did you manage to write about him?”
“most of the time, i don’t. i just sit in front of the typewriter and bleed.” louis should be getting going soon. he doesn’t want to be late for his flight. he sweeps invisible dust off his shorts and fixes his fringe. he questions off-handedly, “what did you think of the ending?”
and louis might pull off indifference like a seasoned champ but there’s no way to hide that the veins on his palm are darkening because he’s holding his breath.
“i thought it was…bold.” liam’s eyes are suddenly very soft and molten, his gold brushed cheeks lifted, “it goes to show that…sometimes we have sad beginnings or sad interludes but we can still have happy endings. people don’t like happy endings because they’re all the same. people love tragedies because when we’re sad, we’re each haunted by different sorrows. so maybe happiness isn’t what is to be expected but maybe it’s what we deserve.” liam’s words have the strangest effect of triggering hope.
(the hope that’s blooming in louis is to leave everything behind and move to ibiza with harry and it won’t matter when his agent throws a fit or when his trust runs out. harry and him will watch every sunset together and have sex on the beach. and then maybe when they’ve settled into happiness, harry could help him repaint the cabinets and replant the garden and rebuild a home.)
that’s louis's hope and louis thinks that’s what harry deserves.
a field of sunflowers and a cherry tree and pastel colored décor and accepting despite deception that they’ve made so much out of so little.
“i wonder…what would you give…to have this book published?” at the banquet, caroline flack’s gaze flicker to a curly head standing by the beverages table. as it turns out, louis is not the only one that likes them young.
louis makes his tone airy even though his insides are turning, “harry?”
“yes. he’s all you have, isn’t he? your only bargaining chip.” caroline is dangerous. she likes to play and she plays to hurt.
louis balances his options even though the weight of it feel like it might push him through the floor. it’s as if there’s lead in his tendons, his veins. an unbearable heaviness. but his reply is sharp, “and if i get you harry?”
caroline sighs longingly, “oh lou. you can have anything you want; the universe, even. as long as you’re willing to give everything else you have for it.”
he sneers hard and caroline smiles back harder.
louis finds out too late that he’s actually incapable of sleeping alone. or rather, he can’t sleep without the weight of a 14 year-old boy plastered to his back, of curls tickling his neck, of light snores breaking the sticky silence in his flat.
it’s strange because louis used to have the opposite problem. just a year ago, even if it were lottie that crawled in because she had a nightmare, he’d hold her until she calmed down then sneak out to a guest room.
sleeping feels intimate. louis thinks it requires a certain amount of trust to be able to share the same surface with someone like that. the very idea of it, being trapped by another body, makes him feel cornered. it makes his skin crawl.
louis’s life growing up was dominated by noise and crowds. he had four younger hyperactive sisters, an easily excitable mother, and a gaggle of maids that fussed after his every move. with all the cacophony surrounding him, solitude – which only came with sleep – was a blessing.
and so louis didn’t mind solitude. he never had proper companionship to compare it to until niall.
niall taught him to enjoy companionship. but it was harry that ruined solitude for him.
“what did she want?” harry’s eyes are fiery like emeralds as he slithers next to louis, his mouth set red by raspberry champagne. he threads their fingers together.
louis considers his next words carefully. times like this, when he feels like the best option is to play hero, he asks himself: what would niall do? and he gleams a smile, “nothing i’d be willing to part with.”
it sounds good…righteous, even though louis is sure that’s not what niall would’ve said at all. and harry beams, naïve for once and flattered and ready to lay down everything for louis.
louis thinks niall would’ve took harry and left the banquet without an ounce of hesitation.
but louis isn’t niall.
and harry’s spot on the bed has been cold for hours, since early evening when he’d put on his coat, inside pockets lined with grams or something equally bulky, and kissed louis goodbye. harry’s kiss had tasted young and sweet. louis knows he won’t get another kiss like this again so he savors it, holding onto harry’s scent of boy, paper, louis’s tan.
it’s night now. louis hasn’t paid for cable this month or much of…everything, really. he just finished smoking his last cigarette so now there isn’t anything to do but try to sleep.
except he can’t sleep without harry. so he lies awake and counts the stars in harry’s eyes from memory – a million one, a million two. he thinks of the asteroid belt of freckles on the back of harry’s hand, as if the stardust harry’s composed of never quite took human form. he thinks of harry’s coquettish smile and the way he seems to orbit trustfully around louis.
trust. it’s never occurred to louis that harry might feel he is the one breaking the trust of harryandlouis. he also imagines caroline (he doesn’t trust that bitch), calculating and victorious; caroline would tell harry or harry will figure it out.
he imagines the look on harry’s face when he comes home tonight knowing everything; that louis had guilt him into sleeping with his publisher for a book; that he had used him more than simon ever had.
louis has never felt slimier (and that’s saying something).
harry’s cell is on the beside table. he’d left that behind but louis’s manuscript is gone. louis could chase, he could follow harry downtown, but even though there’s probably still time, it already feels too late.
louis tries to rationalize: he would’ve done this for harry. he would, and he clings to this as a last hope. and if that doesn’t make it okay then he doesn’t know what will.
“stan, love. how are you? it’s tommy.” louis twirls the cord of the payphone around his hand. harry and him are huddled deep in the engine red booth, checking over their shoulders for simon because they live that kind of life now.
“tommy, lad! you alright?” stan always sounds genuinely pleased to hear from him. louis thinks under different circumstances, far removed from money, stan and him could’ve been friends, instead of financial advisor to client.
“yes, quite alright. except. well. money’s been tight this month, yeah?” louis tried to call his mum this morning only to realize that his mobile service’s been cut. louis pulls his beanie down lower, swallows his pride, and puts on his sweetest chipper voice, “is there any way we can withdraw an advance on my nanna’s trust? i’m just hitting a bit of a rough patch on my own. help me out, stan, darling.”
but louis had known before he asked that as much as stan would, he really couldn’t. louis knows this, of course he does; he just needs harry to know too.
“i can’t, louis. i’m sorry. i heard about your family and it’s rotten, it really is. but there’s nothing i can do on my end.”
“no, yeah. i understand. it’s fine.” the phone beeps at him to input more money and they’re out of coins so he hangs up before the line could cut off for him.
“lou…” harry wraps his spidery fingers around louis’s frail wrist, his breath soft on the depression of louis’s neck. he tugs but louis can’t look at him right now, not into sea glass eyes and harry’s lovely mouth. “lou. hey. we’ll figure things out. we’ll lie low until next month when your trust deposits and we’ll pay the bills and – ”
“ – shut up, harry.” he interrupts warily. “the deposit’s going to simon. like it does every month. we already skimped on this month’s. we’ll have to give him the full this time.” because it works like this: harry deals for simon, louis buys from harry, harry delivers his share to simon instead of wandering clubs and alleyways for clients, and harry gets to be with louis (because simon doesn’t care what happens as long as he gets his money).
harry tenses, his voice sounds tight and desperate, “no. i’ll go out and i’ll sell my share and we’ll keep the deposit.”
and louis snaps like a taut string, he spats, “like fuck i’m going to let you go back out on the streets. it’s not like you’re a goddamn stray i just picked up. i fucking love you, god’s sake. who do you take me for, christ, harry. fuck.” finally, to drive it completely into the ground, he laughs hollowly, “i am a failure. just as my father predicted.”
harry actually physically moves back from him, green irises huge and watery, and that one step might as well have been a light-year. “maybe.” harry starts quietly and harry’s dimples dip like they’re sad too, “maybe the book deal will go through.” louis clenches his jaw, looks away. he had manipulated harry’s sympathy but now he can’t bear it. harry continues, tender but determined, “maybe you should just give caroline what she wants.”
louis sighs, puts his hands on harry’s soft baby face, and makes his exit line, “that’s not up to me to decide, darling.”
in the story of harry’s universe, louis plays the part of the good guy. he’s not the conventional good guy with his drug habits and silver tongue but after all, louis is handsome, rich, smart, and swept harry off into a kingdom where he won’t have to work. this is a story harry wants to believe in.
but in order to make this story work, louis fears that harry had subconsciously cut out whole surfaces of his character that don’t fit in. louis worries that harry is trying to carve him into the whole byronic hero mold, someone who only acts deceitful, selfish, and cunning (but princely and self-sacrificing on the inside).
louis isn’t acting though. louis is as egocentric as they come and he fears that harry’s omitted this fact because he doesn’t want to let go of the fairytale.
yes, harry’s brought this upon himself. harry had projected this grand delusion of louis and it’s not his fault that he can’t live up to it. or maybe harry is secretly attracted to caroline. maybe harry isn’t as tamed as he appears to be.
he paces the living room and holds onto sanity by a thread.
the vengeance all fades, though, the moment the door unlocks and harry slinks in, his head bowed, shoulders sloped, his limbs moving slow and sluggish. louis thinks, he knows. and his heart sinks through the floor because even if he can’t see well in the dark, he’s never felt harry (their souls have always been tangible) so utterly…destroyed.
harry is feline, louis tries to remind himself but doubt grips him with black fingers. he has nine lives and he always lands on his feet.
“back already, darling?” louis’s voice comes out astonishingly steady and pretty. he trains sharp blue eyes on harry, taking in his rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. harry doesn’t respond back immediately, banter with him, just continues dropping off his shoes and his keys, limbs shaky and young like a deer’s.
it makes louis anxious. he wishes he had a cigarette or a mirror to lick or someone to bite.
“haz, you know it really isn’t really polite to ignore someone especially when i’ve stayed up far past my bedtime – ”
“ – how, louis.” harry’s rasp is a flood; a dam breaking, bracing himself against the wall. he sounds devastated. “how do you do this to someone you love?”
“i was – harry.” when harry picks his head up, louis recoils in an elastic shockwave, flinching at the sight of harry’s green eyes bleeding salty crystalline tears and his trembling raspberry mouth tucked between his teeth. he rushes forward, cradles harry’s jutting jaw, he admits frantically (because he’s never seen harry cry and now he’s really scared that he’s broken something precious), “it was a mistake. i made a mistake, harry. i should’ve never…”
harry makes a pained noise, his lashes are dewy. he asks louis in a whisper, “did you ever love me?”
louis blanches. he digs his fingers into harry’s cheeks because he’s too pale, willing some color to come back. he protests fervently, “don’t be daft. of course i do. how could you think i didn’t?”
“you traded me for a fucking book deal, for christ’s sake! you…you…” harry chokes on his frustration and his confusion. more tears roll down, staining louis’s fingertips. “you made me feel like it was all my fault. like i had torn you away from your high-style life, your family, your money. like i was a burden you had to keep paying simon off each month so i won’t have to end back up selling on the streets.” he shakes his head, “i went to caroline because i knew how much the book meant to you; not just money and not just proving your father wrong, but a fresh start for us. i went to her willing to offer her everything…so imagine my surprise when she shows me the contract afterwards and i already see your signature.”
okay. so maybe harry with all his wily grins and wild curls has a certain weight in louis’s chest that keeps his heart from beating out of his body. harry’s heard drunken confessions and cocaine-pumped self doubt and harry’s stood by him. it’s harry that’s earned the right to listen to stories of lack of father-figure and secret what-if-i’m-not-good-enoughs. it’s harry that shares a bed and a dream space with him every night.
harry loves his vulnerability because it’s his and his alone. louis knows this and so he manipulated it.
so louis is an asshole. louis thinks niall would’ve been disappointed, and that makes louis taste bile.
“we needed the money.” louis reasons desperately. they did. louis needed the money to pay simon off because harry is still young right now (14 going on 15) but once harry’s near consent who knows what simon might have harry sell. louis needed the money for harry’s freedom and their bills. but okay maybe louis wants his rolex back, his armani, and his fucking monogrammed luggage pieces. “but we have our fresh start now, haz. we’ll forgive. we’ll forget.”
he will write harry love letters and buy harry a closet of knit and take harry to ibiza.
“this isn’t about me, louis. it never was.” harry reaches up to remove louis’s hand from his face, “it’s you. you won’t forgive yourself. you won’t let yourself forget what you did.”
“what we did.” and harry flinches but he presses on because when louis doesn’t know what to do, he resorts to cruelty and nobody does cruelty better than louis tomlinson. “this was a joint effort. i won’t deny my part in it and i won’t deny that it was despicable. but you were the one that went to caroline. you were the one that sealed the deal and now you’re trying to act self-sacrificing? as if you didn’t think about the money or simon or gemma or your-fucking-self – “
and harry punches him. right under the eye. reeled his arm back and smashed his knuckles up against louis’s edged cheekbone and yes it hurt like a bitch and it’ll bruise except the angle was awkward and louis can feel harry’s bones sliding out of place.
“fuck you.” harry snarls, cradling his limp wrist to his side. now harry’s face is flushed with a fluctuating high color, eyes ablaze, he repeats, “fuck you. simon might be the one that owns me and he might use me like a drug mule but at least he was honest about it.” he looks close to tears again. “but tonight…you…made me feel like a whore.”
louis curls his fingers around his cheek and swallows. okay, maybe he’s going about this the wrong way. he lowers his voice and pleads soft and desperate, “darling, i love you. i did this for us.” because aren’t those words invented for times like these? louis wills for them to work their magic.
“i love you too, lou. we can say it all we want but they’re just words. you’re too good with words. i don’t know what they mean when you say them.”
and the list of things louis can’t buy in this world goes like this: the ‘universe’ and harry styles.
but as it turns out, louis can sell both of them. sometimes one for the other.
now, here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:
“darling, you’re absolutely right. you’re absolutely right and i’m sorry.”
“what are you sorry for?”
“everything.” louis says and he’s shocked to realize that he means it. he means it with every lying, manipulating fiber of his being.
there’s the image, and here it is again:
“would you do it again?” harry asks and louis is silent. he thinks of notoriety, he thinks of the spotlight, he thinks of that big fat check with his name on it. and harry’s always known better than anyone what louis is thinking. harry smiles wryly, “then you’re not sorry.”
“i chose running over zayn.” liam payne says. this is another week now, and they’ve switched locations to in front of an ice cream shop. louis is having birthday cake with gummy bears and liam has milk because he’s not allowed to have anything else.
louis pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, tilts his head curiously, “you…broke up with him?”
louis must admit he’s surprised because, well, he can’t quite comprehend someone as dedicated as liam ever leaving anything or anyone behind, nonetheless, zayn malik. and also because louis likes to think that liamandzayn plays a parallel foil to harryandlouis; louis doesn’t think he could ever leave harry. or vice versa. being with harry despite all betrayals is better than not being with harry at all. the prospect is…unfathomable to say the least.
“no. it’s just…” liam stares at his folded hands. “zayn and i have never been strangers, not in the 10 years we’ve been together. when we met, it was like…we were always meant to know each other. like everything had been building up to this. like every pool i had ever swam in was waiting for zayn’s reflection; every track i ever ran, i was chasing for his footfall.”
now liam is explaining, his doe-eyes soft, “we’ve loved each other the same way for a decade – without a beginning or an end – but now we’re realizing that we’re different people now. we have different dreams, different doubts, different pains. he’s different but i don’t know how to love him differently.”
“have you tried?” louis leans back in his chair and cocks a brow. he gets his answer by the way liam stiffens, vertebras all locking vindictively. louis’s lips quirk impishly, “no. you haven’t. and i’ll tell you why. because you don’t want to love a different zayn. you want zayn, however different he may be, to love you the same way he did a decade ago. you want to cycle the country and swim across the channel and you want to run a gold medal at the olympics and you want darling zayn to kiss you good luck and look pretty when you win. you want this but you don’t want to admit it so you pretend like zayn and everyone else wants it too. and you don’t want to talk to zayn because you don’t want to have your illusion of him shattered. but if you don’t do anything about it, nothing will change.”
liam is very much like louis; only without the money and the savagery.
liam is very pale. he shakes his head, “i’m giving him space. and time. time changes everything.”
louis tries not to flinch at the familiarity that thought brings. louis tries not to think ibiza. ibiza happens because it hurts too much to be together but they can’t stand to be apart. ibiza is hoping that time and an ocean between them will heal all wounds. ibiza isn’t surrendering.
it’s self-imposed exile. it’s the solitude louis’s always craved only he’s forgotten how to be alone without harry.
“you’re wrong.” louis says quietly. he stares at his melting ice cream cup, pensive. “it’s what people say but it’s not true. time like this…in indefinite amounts…it stretches the space between you until you don’t know how you got to be so far. doing things change things. not doing things…leaves things exactly as they are.”
“how would you know?”
“i sold harry for my book.” the words come to him in a rush like opening pandora’s box and he can’t close down on it anymore. and when he says it aloud, finally, it sounds so…simple. in his head, there were countless reasons and emotions playing behind the fact. so many complexities and blurred lines. now, retelling it to liam, he can’t seem to find the complexities or the justifications anymore.
he sold harry for a book deal.
and liam is blinking at him slowly, his muscles completely still. louis’s voice wavers when he speaks, “my editor wanted harry for a night. it was her condition for publishing my book. i agreed then i manipulated harry into going. so yeah, i know about ambition and doubts. i know what it feels to want to prove yourself worthy.”
of harry or of zayn or of fathers.
and there’s a mary oliver poem, “you do not have to be good. you do not have to walk on your knees; for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine.
“why do you care so much? about me and zayn?”
louis says – which isn’t really a lie, because louis figures people don’t lie to liam payne, they just…don’t, the way you don’t defile a flag or keep your hat on during the anthem – “because i want your boyfriend away from mine as much as you do.”
it’s not a lie but it’s not the complete truth either.
it’s because in the ultimate battle of lightness vs. weight, louis is lightness and liam is weight. zayn is lightness and harry is weight. and louis feels responsible to look after his other half and tether him to the right gravity.
it’s compassion, louis concludes later.
because liam is part golden boy and part hungry track star and all olympian adonis. liam is young and his lithe muscles make him run fast and go far and if louis saves him, he figures that’ll make up for everyone he’s ever wronged.
liam is his redemption because liam has the strangest effect of triggering hope.
zayn malik’s 18th birthday party looks too much like louis’s. that had been a paradise time of hennessy and too much glassware. louis remembers it vaguely like in a half-forgotten dream. he thinks his life didn’t properly start until after he met harry.
harry and him make an appearance because louis’s agent sent him an invitation and louis had known that harry wanted to go. there’s an awful tenderness harry inhabits for zayn malik that louis refuses to understand.
the evening seemed like an endless parade of dread until a warm voice and a warm body presses to his side, and ribs him, repeating the familiar lines, “tommo. i don’t remember you being quite so tan.”
louis’s beam pulls so wide he thought his face might crack. he turns and meets eyes blue like wet paint and fond, so fond and quips, his voice is vibrating, “blondie. why, i don’t remember you as tall.”
niall throws his head back in laughter, lovely and genuine, wrapping around louis like an afghan.
he’s taller than louis now. he’s also got these sinewy, rope-like muscles that louis hasn’t seen before and a couple more scars and he’s…tougher than louis remembers. but louis still sees the old niall (or, young niall, really) in the ruddy red cheeks, the pale complexion, and the sheer earnestness – it seeps through your bones.
niall swipes his finger, wet from his drink, across louis’s jaw, grinning triumphantly when there’s orange on his fingers, “i thought so, you pasty bastard.”
“careful with my spray tan there. it was expensive, nialler.” louis sniffs primly but he’s secretly pleased because it’s niall. god, louis loves niall.
“still an asshole, i see.”
“yes, well. one day at a time.” louis begins and niall joins him. they finish in unison with matching smiles and louis feels 14 years-old, young, invincible, with a bad haircut writing even worse haikus.
everything’s changed except the writing (that’s still bad). louis feels ancient and tired.
niall fills him in on the past few years (rich kid stuff: a vacation house in thailand and donating a library to the college he plans to attend; regular stuff: his older brother and his a-levels; and niall stuff: rowing and also running the olympic trials) niall talks and louis smiles through it all (because it’s niall) until they’re brought back to reality by the birthday boy cutting the cake. niall breaks off from his tangent of having to shave his legs for track to cast an affection look at a dark quiff and louis’s not jealous (he’s not), “do you know zayn?”
“no.” louis answers sweetly, flirting with crinkly eyes. “but you should introduce us.”
niall does.
“louis, zayn. zayn, louis.”
and god forbid if zayn malik isn’t even prettier close up. zayn is all lashes and pout and heart wrenching angles. he’s slender and fine-boned with sad dark eyes and louis gets the appeal, he does, but he thinks if zayn broods any longer at his drink, it might grow legs and run away.
okay. maybe that was a bad choice of words.
“louis.” he gestures to himself, holds out his hand, smiles with a hundred million watts.
zayn draws his eyes up to peer at louis through a curtain of lashes and louis almost feels electricity in the base of his spine. he smolders (or maybe it’s just squinting?) then returns quietly, “zayn.” when he takes louis’s hand, it’s slow. it’s lofty fingers wrapping around one-by-one, the way one holds onto another’s heart.
how demure. louis is charmed.
niall leaves them to get a piece of cake (or five) and zayn shrugs preemptively, “i don’t know where harry went off to.”
louis doesn’t need help finding harry; his internal compass is hardwired to green eyes and lush curls. harry is upstairs talking to zayn’s boytoy, watching him talk to zayn. they’re one mind – h and i (like how the two alphabets sit next to each other); split into two physical beings.
“he’s talking to your boyfriend.” louis beams and their gazes both follow up. harry is smirking at a tall boy with strong, beautiful shoulders. louis whistles low, “what a catch.”
zayn makes a small, pained noise from next to him, quickly drawing his eyes away.
louis continues watching until he sees harry lean in, red mouth inviting, and the tall boy stops him. harry doesn’t wear rejection well (it happens once every eclipse) and louis has to laugh. he demands to zayn, “why are you wasting his time?”
if someone that turns harry styles down for a pretty cheater isn’t virtuous, louis doesn’t know what virtuous is.
“i’m…i’m not.” zayn protests weakly. louis almost feels bad when his eyes go velvety and uncertain. he shakes his head, “liam is completely lovable. and completely unleavable.”
“replaceable?”
zayn’s venomous in his reply, “never.”
louis chuckles, understanding, “so you don’t want someone else getting their dirty hands on him.” his smile gleams, louis hopes it looks threatening.
“men are shit.” zayn’s voice is dark and accented, like the rest of him.
“you’re the one fucking my boyfriend behind his back. i think you’ve lost your privilege to judge, darling.”
“i love liam. even if there isn’t any me or any him or any life.” zayn’s tone is liquid cyanide. his nebulous eyes can’t pin louis because there’s no tangible weight behind it (they’re both lightness). he examines louis for a long while then he says in a low, husky sigh, “harry told me. what you did to him.”
louis is shocked. the revelation hurts more than he expected it to. it’s an acute, well-placed sort of pain, like sticking needles up his fingertips.
it’s not like they’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement (it goes without saying that the terms were private) but it’s always been one of those things louis’s figured is too excruciating to retell. and if harry is sharing this (this being – blistering shame and biting betrayal) then what else could he be also sharing with zayn (serrated wit and unflappable cool and ferocious dedication and quiet fire)?
louis can’t even begin to describe the itch slithering between his ribs.
“did he now?” louis questions sharply. “why do you suppose he did that?”
“i listen. even to the things he doesn’t say. you would hear them too…if you were around enough.” zayn bats his lashes (or maybe it’s just blinking), they cast wispy flowery shadows on his diamond cheekbones, “you and liam are similar in that way: too good at running away.”
zayn moves and his cuff rides up and there’s a letter tattooed on his wrist. maybe it stands for ‘love’ or ‘life’ but the way zayn wears it, delicately on his sleeve, makes louis think somebody else. louis knows then that however liam loves zayn (the way a safe loves a secret or the way a hanger loves a coat; like something to keep) zayn will always love liam just a touch more.
all this talk makes him miss harry.
“you’ve got too many loose ends, louis.” zayn warns as they see niall returning. “you’ll hang yourself with them.”
niall joins them and they play nice strangers because niall is the eye of the storm – calm. nobody likes to upset niall because niall feels things. for, like, everybody.
later, niall asks about his book (tells him he’s read it and he worships it) and then very gently about harry and louis can tell, niall is thinking of how to fold harry under his wing. louis doesn’t know why because harry is plenty strong; harry has teeth and claws and titanium bones.
all this talk makes him miss harry.
harry must sense this (he has a louis radar) because he approaches, slides through the crowd, leisurely but purposeful, and niall excuses himself back to zayn.
“hello, darling.” louis beams and kisses him in front of everyone. harry taste like cherries and italian wine. “rejection doesn’t look good on you, h.”
harry’s back is rigid and louis knows from experience that it’s pure resilience beneath that posture. louis makes it known he saw what happened upstairs and that he’s been keeping tabs on him all night. he hopes that it infuriates him. maybe harry’ll slap him. he could use a good slap.
“it wouldn’t look good on your either. by the way, neither does smug.” harry retorts and louis laughs.
“don’t be absurd, harry. you love it when i’m smug.” it’s true so harry doesn’t bother objecting. he relaxes back into a lazy cat slouch and melds into a shadowy corner. but the dj is starting that colorful coldplay song about lovely skin and bones and louis muses, “i love this song.”
harry grins wryly, “everybody loves this song, lou.”
“want to dance?” louis looks around and liamandzayn are swaying very prettily to the music. it’s all very young and picturesque like a school dance and what the hell, louis wants it.
“no.” harry sounds bored, plucking a champagne flute off a waiter’s tray. “i didn’t come for a cheap dance.”
louis’s almost hurt but remembers his composure. mentally, he registers that he’s got fifteen minutes until sunday and therefore fifteen minutes until he turns off asshole. he chimes, “pity.”
“never took you for a sentimental dancer, lou.”
“never took you for cheap.”
with that, he walks away thinking he’s everything zayn malik says he is and that maybe he needs to find liam payne.
in the darkest of moments, there’s one memory louis likes to return to time and time again. he revisits it and tries to hold onto the feelings it evoke because that’s the harryandlouis he wants to remember.
it’s sunday morning, the sun is orange, and harry is ready by six fifty-five when louis had said seven. harry likes to be ready, likes to have his armor on. he has on a loose t-shirt, very baggy khakis, and sneakers; leather cords on his pale wrists. his hair is unbrushed.
he looks young.
harry’s mouth is pink and he smells fine and dark like the moon. louis would like to pluck him out of the sky. later.
for now, they slide into louis’s family towncar because he had managed to cajole his driver into doing him one last favor (and nobody’s used to saying no to louis tomlinson).
“where are you taking me?” harry sweeps his fringe from sleepy eyes. he’s bouncing his legs a little (maybe because harry’s not used to cars like this or maybe because simon has cars like this). louis steadies it with a hand on his knee.
“paradise, h.”
“yeah? and where’s that?” harry asks but louis doesn’t answer. it’s sunday and he doesn’t want to be an asshole. also, he thinks he’s close to finishing his book and he’s arranged a meeting with a publisher. it’s all coming together and louis is pleased.
the drive is nearly an hour long into a woodsy part of the country and everything is fresh, still clinging to morning dew. louis reads dickens and harry reads over louis’s shoulder, their breathing synchronized (you inhale, i’ll exhale, we’ll recycle). they go down an unpaved road with white fences and stop in front of an open field that serves as the entrance.
louis had been to this place when he was very young with his nanna. a place that when louis thinks back on it, he sees it as a kingdom, a place only touched by light. louis hasn’t been back since because he has always been afraid to taint it with his growing darkness, and he’s especially never even considered bringing somebody else. until harry.
he’s nervous all of a sudden, sliding out of the car after harry.
“blossoms,” harry breathes. his gemstone gaze is lively and huge in wonderment. he’s staring at the rows upon columns of faint pink petals on sturdy firm branches. and for a long moment, he just waits for harry’s diaphragm to regain a pattern, harry’s too-big bones rocking his svelte body. harry shakes his floppy head, “cherry blossoms. in england. how – where did…”
“my nanna took me.” it comes out softer than intended. sinatra would’ve been disappointed.
harry looks at him, his eyes are entirely green like an endless spring and a bit wet and very lovely. his voice is thick like there’s something sugary stuck in this throat, “louis.”
“don’t get sappy on me, haz. you’re ruining it.” louis pitches, trying his best to sound annoyed. he tugs on harry’s wrist, allowing his heart to flip-flop just once when harry threads their fingers together and squeezes like you secretly sensitive asshole, “c’mon now.”
“what’re we doing?”
he beams, “picking cherries, of course.”
louis’s head is filled with uselessly facts about cherry-picking from when he was 4 years-old (nanna always said louis retains like a sponge, she used to tell him he needs to learn to forget more).
sweet cherries normally ripen in the middle of june. the most common sweet cherries are bing and maraschino. check the cherry tree on a weekly basis to assess when cherries are ready to be picked.
harry and him are wearing wellies boots, holding plastic buckets. harry and him are admiring blossoms and holding the step-ladder still for each other to climb up. harry and him are kissing and louis doesn’t care if his tan melts.
cherries are ready to be picked when they are full in size, glossy, and have bright color. cherries are ready for picking when the stem separates easily from the pit. cherries are best picked when they are darker in color and totally red. cherries develop more sugar in the last days of harvesting so check the cherry tree daily!
harry is biding louis to be careful as louis climbs up but then he jostles the ladder once louis reaches the top. louis grabs a handful of cherry buds and throws them down vengefully. harry laughs and louis swears the sun shines brighter.
leave the stems on when picking cherries. use a gentle twisting motion to prevent damage to the cherry tree. choose cherries that are totally red and firm. remember the darker the cherry, the better the flavor.
louis makes countless vulgar jokes regarding harry’s ‘cherries’, watching gleefully for the telltale influx of color to bloom across harry’s face, prettier than the blossoms. louis doesn’t know if it’s the weather or the red on harry’s fingertips but he feels like there’s too much energy buzzing under his muscles, like he might burst out of his skin.
he pulls harry away from the growing crowd, pushes his lax lanky body into an underbrush, forcing him into a playful wrestle. harry obliges lazily; he understands that louis gets into these fits sometimes. harry’s limbs are willowy like tree roots, ensnaring louis’s nymph body. it’s all fun and games until louis promises sweetly into harry’s ear, “darling, i’m going to pluck you like a cherry.”
pick cherries early in the day before the heat sets in!
harry’s eyes are half-lidded in green, his mouth is wet and red and obscene, and all louis wants to do is ruin him and then put him back together because then only he will know where all the parts go together. he sucks a bruise into harry’s jutting bones (jaw, shoulder blade, hip).
his hands are sticky and slick with cherries when he slides under harry’s trousers. harry makes needy noises and whimpers, “lou.”
avoid picking cherries that brown, soft, or have holes from hungry birds.
“i want…” louis grunts, pushing into harry and watching the flush spread from his cheeks down to his ribcage. harry is babbling in slurs, scrambling for louis’s arms. he grits his teeth, mouthing at harry’s temple, “to do to you…what spring does to the cherry trees.”
“fuck.” harry arches in a way that might snap his spine, shudders once violently, and louis rolls his eyes until he sees stardust swirling in the back of his head.
cherries have a short storage time, so go ahead and eat them, freeze them or can them within three days of picking.
they’re laying on top of their own clothes surrounded by buckets of cherries and it starts raining.
louis opens his mouth – to complain, to speak, to confess – but harry, the wily little minx presses their lips together and steals the words right off of louis’s tongue. he pulls back just enough for louis to see his dimples and for their noses to touch. he’s smug because he’s tasted louis’s secret:
“you’ll always love me, won’t you?”
louis’s hair is plastered to his forehead and his palm keeps slipping when he tries to grab harry’s big proud jaw. he brushes his thumb across the mute skin under harry’s vivid eyes. he nods, smiles tender for once, “yes.”
“and the rain won’t make any difference?”
“no.”
picking cherries is an enjoyable way to get some sun, exercise, and delicious cherries.
louis watches the scenery on the car ride back to london until harry falls asleep (harry is in that pubescent age where he sleeps a lot and wakes up a little taller every time). harry’s legs are tangled with louis’s and once in a while he’d twitch like he were having one of those falling dreams.
he’s not a big believer in existential eternal return but if he could choose one moment in time to recur over across infinity, he thinks he would choose this moment.
when they get back in the city, harry bakes him a cherry pie and louis finishes his book in three days.
cherries bruise easily, which effects the taste and storage time, so handle with care.
approximately one minute and forty-four seconds ago, liam payne was just named the final representative of great britain in the upcoming summer olympics for track and field.
the stadium will be in an uproar for the next twenty-seven minutes while liam payne stands tall with exquisite shoulders and gets congratulated. he gets his pictures taken by the press. he is easily liked, poster-worthy, and screams wholesome. he looks every bit of ‘britain’s new hope’.
twenty-eight minutes and twelve seconds ago, there had been eight contestants on a nine-lane field, feet pressed to a starting block and fingers steeped behind a white chalk line. twenty-eight minutes and twenty seconds ago, the referee announced ‘set’ and eight sets of riveted backs coiled into perfect form.
including one bronze liam payne. and one blonde niall horan.
twenty-nine minutes and thirty-two seconds ago: off goes the races.
the entirety of the race will last for eleven seconds and fifty-one milliseconds, that’s how long it took for the last runner to cross the finish line. it took liam payne ten seconds and thirty-three milliseconds. it took niall horan ten seconds and thirty-nine milliseconds.
it was close, too close, and louis tomlinson is no fool.
thirty minutes after the race, he is standing outside the athlete’s tunnel, the one that leads out to the course. most of the audience is still celebrating with the chosen ones and he hears their cheering amplified until it’s static.
niall emerges first, looking tired, a towel draped around his neck, all his tendons still pronounced from exertion. still, he beams when he sees louis, his blue eyes in twinkling little crescents. he’s tussling his windswept hair – louis notes he needs a touch up – “never took you for a groupie.”
“never took you for a sore loser. leaving the field so soon?”
“needed water.” he dismisses easily, “we done playing banter? your head games are too much for me right now, tommo.”
louis sharpens his grin, “what would we do for fun then? play cards?”
“we can play whatever you want. we’re mates, lou.” niall walks up to him. niall smells woodsy and like the wind. louis recognizes this is niall but he can’t grasp him like he used to. it’s frustrating.
they’re announcing the runner’s names now and the noise heightens. niall is watching louis as carefully louis is watching him. niall smiles, “did you come to see liam win? i know you’ve been at his practices.”
niall’s words have a hidden bite to them. they’re a warning.
“yes.” louis answers crisply. then he points out, “and apparently so did you.”
now, louis doesn’t know a whole lot about sprinting, about forms or postures or all the rules but he does know that niall had started out of the block strong (that liam had been just a whisper late; distracted). and niall had ran fast, like a blur; they were all blurs, but a look over the shoulder had him seeing liam just two paces behind him and those two paces might as well have just put kilometers in liam’s olympic dream.
liam won’t qualify and louis saw just the most subtle lowering of niall’s knees as he ran, a slight lost of velocity, and liam shot past him into the final slot on the team.
sure, louis could just be conspiring but the way niall tightens like a bow string tells louis more than he needs to know.
“you let him win.” louis whispers and suddenly his voice is so loud. niall winces. louis shakes his head, “why would you do that? winning this race doesn’t mean winning zayn back. we both know this.”
niall’s eyes are defiant, “liam loves zayn more than any of us will ever know. but he feels like he’s not allowed to be selfish until he’s reached the goals set for him. liam’s so…bound…by his obligations and his commitments to his family, the school, his social class. and maybe on some level, liam wants it for himself too. so much is expected from him. how could he choose between zayn and everything that built him up to who he is?”
you want to run a gold medal at the olympics and you want darling zayn to kiss you good luck and look pretty when you win. you want this but you don’t want to admit it so you pretend like zayn and everyone else wants it too. louis’s words come back to him verbatim.
niall blinks sadly, “it’s hard for zayn too. zayn grew up under a lot of shadows. his mother, his sister, me even. but he’s always had liam as a cornerstone and now he’s losing liam too. to swim, to college, to the entire fucking country. and i don’t think zayn knows how to…share liam.”
“you can’t help one without damaging the other.” louis observes, “and you pick liam’s side.”
niall sighs, he sounds exhausted, “i can’t do anything to help zayn. only liam knows how to unlock that door. and if it doesn’t work out with zayn…liam will still have this. nothing comes out of anything without sacrifice.”
and louis might not understand self-sacrifice but he knows everything else. he touches niall gently by the shoulder, niall is warm but firm, “nialler. this isn’t like a chess match or rowing camp. if you regret this…or if liam ever finds out…the guilt and the remorse – it aches in your bones. you’ll both suffer.”
niall takes one long look at louis, at his darting blue eyes, his bitten lip, and his pointy villain chin to know, “christ. you’ve done something terrible, haven’t you?”
louis smiles, pretty as a picture, “we all have. we forge the chains we wear in life.”
yes, indeed. every burden or mistake they’ve ever carried, they’ve made it link-by-link, and yard-by-yard, the pattern on each chain is different. they’ve girded it on their free will and of their free will, would they wear it.
supposedly all chains are breakable with enough pressure or saltwater but not louis’s.
they’re made of titanium.
let’s reconsider weight and lightness.
when we want to give expression to a dramatic situation in our lives, we tend to use metaphors of heaviness. we say that: something has become a great burden to us.
now there are two choices. we can either bear the burden, by finding the right amount of lightness to ease the suffering. or fail and go down with it. either way, we will struggle with it, win or lose.
so is the way love goes.
and the rest is rust and stardust.