Chapter Text
Tears are tickling his temples, running down to his hair, his ears. His nose scrunches as he sniffs, blinking his eyes at the ugly hotel ceiling. His lips are trembling and he juts the bottom one out, fighting between holding his breath to stay quiet and gasping for air.
The bed covers feel weird and scratchy under his fingertips, and there is a rip in them that someone messily stitched back together. He’s playing with the thread absentmindedly. Breathe in. Breathe out.
He grabs his phone, maybe he should call somebody. It’s a thing you’re supposed to do when you’re lonely and struggling, and when you feel like everything is crumbling down and when you feel like you’re suffocating to death and when you feel like you’re unlovable and when everything sucks. He should call somebody.
He opens his gallery. Pictures of the dinner he had last night, out with friends, and pictures of him with said friends and the friends by themselves, smiling at the camera and each other and the glare of the restaurant lights. The dog he got to pet last week, good boy, tail all blurry from all the wagging, tongue out, his hand buried in his long fur, good good boy.
Outfit checks from his stay in Tokyo, one for each day, short videos, twirl for the camera, a TikTok star in another universe, almost sent to somebody but then not, mismatched patterns and metals and vibes, expensive women’s handbag to go with his running outfit (What else will fit his wallet and his journal and all the pens and his water bottle and keys and phone and sunglasses and a hairclip and all the snacks…)
Notes app screenshots, lyrics on lyrics on lyrics, and grocery list, or maybe more lyrics, because what do you do with all the inspiration, what can you do, but write it down, but sing it, but take a picture and then delete it, then hang it up, then keep it buried in the gallery or look at it every night and cry and jerk off and cry some more and then write more. Another shopping list.
He takes a shaky breath in, wipes his right eye with the back of his hand, then his palm, his fist, rubs it raw, breathes out. More pictures, his stupid finger in the frame, Louis’ blurry palm moving to cover the lens, fifteen times. Each one reveals a bit more of his ear, his fringe, wrinkles by his eyes. Harry knows the exact width of the grin that causes them to the millimeter. Knows how many bad puns it takes, how many kisses to his cheeks and how many to his neck, right by his ear, how many badly executed wannabe-seductive winks and the exact sting of the bite in his voice when he tells somebody off just the way Louis likes, atta boy, taught you well.
Louis is everywhere – the ghost of his teeth in Harry’s mirror selfies, foggy and zoomed in at the bruise on his shoulder, his tummy, his legs – shoes, no socks – mid motion walking next to Harry, his shoes scattered across the entryway of his house, his clothes long forgotten at the bottom of Harry’s hamper – the blue sweater, Harry’s favourite. Louis in the club, shirt riding up, tummy showing, Louis in the dance class Harry made them take in Italy, Louis high and drunk and sober but blurry around the edges because Harry’s hands are shaking holding the camera, from laughter or cold or giddiness. He’s in the pastries Harry baked just to wrap them up and leave them on Louis’ doorstep or on his kitchen counter, in the selfies and the sneaky candids and in the screenshots of twitter update accounts… He fills Harry’s secret wank folder and the even more secret I miss you folder, the I wanna cry looking at your face folder.
One month ago, Louis must’ve been playing on his phone while Harry was taking a shower, hair messy, eyes sleepy, squinting, smiling at the camera, the wide smile, then the small ‘v’ shaped smile, then the cool-boy-grumpy-face pose Louis usually posts on his socials. Harry’s finger traces a collarbone.
He sniffs, opens the Messages app. The contact is sometimes ‘L’, sometimes a single blue heart, sometimes ten blue hearts, sometimes ‘Sunflower’, ‘Lou’, ‘Louis’, ‘Louis Tomlinson’, ‘Tommo’. Sometimes it’s deleted, blocked, just the number, no name, don’t call me, don’t pick up, it’s no use. Harry knows the number by heart. Right now it’s only ‘Love’, shortened from ‘Love of my life’, which he got mocked for, the sunshine smile, a pinch to his side, a kiss.
He clicks on it and Louis is already typing. He blinks a couple of times, clearing the blur of the tears, sniffs again.
Relax
I love you
See you soon
He wants to scold him for not having his phone on airplane mode as he should, wants to say you should be here always and we belong together and i wrote a song about you and i wanna kiss you everywhere forever. The phone dies, it’s okay, see you soon.