Archive of Our Own ^beta

The phone rings and Louis shoots upright in bed, Zayn stirring softly next to him. Louis knows this ringtone; it's only assigned to one person.

“Harry?” There's just sniffling on the other side of the line. Zayn turns his bedside lamp on, frowning up at Louis with pillow lines in his cheek. “Hey, H, talk to me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

He okay? Zayn mouths. Louis just nods. He squeezes Zayn’s hand and climbs out of bed, heading toward their bathroom and locking himself in. 

This is the third call this month.

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, trying to keep his voice gentle. “You have to talk to me.”

“I just— fuck, sorry, I don’t know why I keep calling,” Harry finally says, voice thick, like it barely fits in his throat. “Fuck, we’re almost fucking thirty years old, I can’t keep—”

“You're okay, sweetheart, you know I don’t mind.” Louis closes his eyes, sitting on the toilet lid and leaning his head back against the shelving. “I never mind.”

Harry hiccups and it stings somewhere in Louis’s chest. “M’sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologize, Harry. Let's talk about it.”

“I just feel bad.” His voice is still heavy, slightly slurred with tears. “For everything.”

“Okay, can you take a deep breath for me?” Louis prods, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “Breathe in through your nose for me, sweetheart.”

“Can’t, I—”

“Yes, you can,” Louis interrupts. “In through your nose, there we go. Hold it, hold it, okay. Again, sweetheart, do it with me. Breathe in…”

Just like every other call, Louis works Harry through his panic with slow breathing exercises until the hiccuping cries settle into softer, shuddering breaths. Half an hour goes by like this, Harry’s breathing picking back up no less than three times. By the time he finally calms entirely, Louis knows he must be exhausted. 

When they hang up, Louis’s head is pounding and his stomach aches and he stares down at the black screen of his phone for a long time. It’s been months of these calls and though Louis doesn’t know what triggered them, he’s just grateful to be someone Harry trusts enough to call. He’s just happy Harry still calls him, even after all this time. It's just gone twenty-six years of knowing Harry — of loving Harry in any way he’s been allowed to — and still, Louis oftentimes thinks he’s failed him.

“Lou,” Zayn rasps from the doorway. “Come back to bed, babe.”

Louis accepts the hand held out to him, standing up from his seat on the toilet lid on shaky legs. He doesn't meet Zayn’s gaze. He can’t, usually, after these calls, too caught up in his own mind. He gets lost in the past sometimes. 

Crawling back into their bed, he lets Zayn pull him in. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in the scent of Zayn’s shampoo and the lingering smell of stale weed from the joint they’d shared before bed. He presses his mouth to Zayn’s bare collarbone and shudders as he turns off the lamp, shrouding them both in the darkness of their bedroom. There's an ache low in his bones, seeping into his bloodstream and poisoning his lungs.

He never meant for them to get here, lost in an ocean of everything they’ve gotten wrong with wave after wave crashing over their heads. The water has gotten too deep around them. He doesn’t know how to pull them back out.

₊˚⊹⋆

Falling in love with Zayn was never something Louis even considered could happen. 

When they were kids, the three of them had been inseparable. So close in age, they had grown up in each other's pockets under the careful vigilance of all three of their mums, often spending evenings and weekends at one another's houses to balance the workload between all the families. Even being in different years in school couldn't deter their friendship.

As kids, everything had been LouisZaynHarry. As teenagers and in uni, things had shifted; everything became a bit more LouisandHarry plus Zayn. At sixteen, Louis had been laying on Harry’s bed with the fourteen-year-old asleep on his chest, and had said it out loud for the first time.

“Z,” Louis had whispered. “I think I’m in love with Harry.”

Zayn hadn’t even been surprised. He’d laughed from the other side of Harry’s body, squashed against the wall, and told Louis that nobody in the world would be surprised by that information. A week later, he’d sat Louis and Harry down in his room and told them to talk or he’d get his mum involved.

Louis and Harry had started dating two days after that.

Harry was eighteen when he told Louis it just wasn’t working — and Louis had known it was coming. He knew Harry had told Zayn first, and he avoided them both for a week before they showed up at his flat. Zayn, once again, told them to work it out before he got their mums involved — this time threatening to pull in all three. 

The truth had always been that Louis loved Harry far too much and spent far too many years loving him to not have him around at all. He knew Harry felt the same, and neither of them argued with Zayn. It took a few weeks, but things smoothed over and went back to normal.

And then Harry had moved away. 

Though the three of them had kept up, there was nothing Louis or Zayn could do to prevent everything that followed. Harry left for uni and met Kloe. By the time Harry turned twenty-two, Louis could barely recognize the green eyes looking back at him. At almost twenty-five, two years ago now, Harry had finally come home — too-thin, too-tired, and too-vacant — and the phone calls had started.

“Louis.” Zayn’s voice breaks him from his trip down memory lane. “Angel, you have to be freezing.”

“M’okay,” Louis says, staring at the falling snow. 

Falling in love with Zayn was never something Louis considered, but over the time Harry had been gone and their mutual concern for their best friend, it had happened. He had woken up one day and realized somewhere along the line, things had changed. He’d called his mum in a panic, who’d laughed in the gentle way only mums can do, then said oh, darling, I was wondering when you’d catch on. 

And it had been good.

A blanket settles over Louis’ shoulders, and Zayn sits at his side. He has a leather coat on, and he takes Louis’ bare hands in his own, tucking them safely into the fur-lined interior. He doesn’t say anything else, for which Louis is grateful.

He wonders, sometimes, if it's hard for Zayn to know about the calls. If it bothers him that Louis never stays in the room, never lets him overhear them. If it upsets him to be constantly collecting Louis from the bathroom floor or the stairwell or the back porch at odd hours of the morning to guide him back to their bed. He won’t ask. It won’t change anything. There is no universe where Louis can let a call from Harry go unanswered.

Almost four full years into this relationship, Louis trusts Zayn to tell him if it bothers him. Mostly.

He leans against Zayn, closing his eyes, letting Zayn scratch tattooed fingers through his hair. He never sits alone for long, not since they moved in together. Zayn starts humming softly, some lullaby his mum used to sing to the babies when they were kids, and Louis smiles a little to himself. His nose and cheeks are damn near frozen, but sharing space and air like this with his partner warms him softly from the inside. 

“He okay?” Zayn finally asks after a while, voice soft. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Same shit,” Louis murmurs. He pulls the blanket tighter around his torso, the icy chill finally seeping into his skin. “He's so — it's like we’re kids again, Z. I just — I don’t know what the fuck to do. I can’t fix it, I can’t make it go away, I just —”

“Hey, you're okay,” Zayn replies, tugging the hair at the nape of Louis’s neck. “You're helping him probably more than you know.”

Louis stays quiet for a long moment. “Have you talked to him?”

“Kinda,” Zayn says, shrugging. “We got lunch a few days ago.”

“What? When?”

“You had that meeting with the studio.” Zayn squeezes the back of his neck. “I think he just knew I’d be around while you were busy.”

Working from home on his own self-employed schedule was maybe the thing about Zayn Louis was most jealous of. Looks aside.

“Oh.” Louis chews on his bottom lip. The snow falls harder.

“He’s still all alone in that flat, you know. I think it's getting to him,” Zayn says quietly.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I know.”

A moment passes.

“We have the extra bedroom—”

“Is that fair to him?” Louis interrupts, turning to face Zayn. “To have him move in with us, when we’re…” He glances pointedly at their position. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

He and Harry have worked through the differences that led to their breakup. It's been eight years; they got their shit together. That's the whole point of preserving the friendship. In the wake of Harry’s relationship, with everything he's carrying in the aftermath, Louis just doesn’t know if he would survive living with the two of them — faced constantly by his two best friends shacked up together, living in their flat they picked out together. Surrounded at all times by the reminder of what he doesn’t have.

“Because of us, or because of the trauma?” Zayn asks, tone carefully blank. Louis’s skin crawls. 

“Both,” he whispers. 

“I think it's worth letting him make his own choice.” Zayn strokes the backs of his knuckles down the back of Louis’s neck before he pulls away. “He’s an adult, Lou. I’m worried about what being alone is doing to him. I’m worried about—” He cuts himself off, but Louis knows how that sentence could end.

I’m worried about him going back to her. I’m worried about him running off and finding someone new, someone worse. I’m worried about waking up one morning and him not answering the phone. 

“We could talk to him,” Louis says. “We could see.”

“That’s all I ask, babe.” Standing, Zayn holds out his hands. “C’mon, let's go inside. I’ll make tea, we can have a joint. We’ll figure it out.”

Louis lets him pull him to his feet and follows him into the flat, settling at the kitchen table to roll a joint while Zayn makes tea. It’s a role reversal of their normal routine, with Louis being picky about his tea and Zayn being far better at rolling, but Louis knows that Zayn knows he needs something to do with his hands. He’s meticulous with the rolling, careful not to drop anything on the table and sealing it as tightly as he can. It’s slightly wonky, but it’ll do the job. 

He watches Zayn make their tea and is entirely helpless to the little smile threatening to steal over his face. Zayn turns, two mugs in hand, and jerks his head toward their living room. It’s practically second-nature to follow him and sink into the couch next to him, tugging his legs up beneath him.

Zayn lights up for them, inhaling slowly. Louis’ eyes trace every centimeter of his face — the cut of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth purses around the filter. The smoke he breathes out, escaping in a streamlined cloud through his nostrils. He passes the joint to Louis after he exhales fully, pushing himself from the couch.

“Lemme open a window.”

Watching him, Louis takes his own hit. It hits the back of his throat, sweet and acrid and just-this-side of too hot, and he forces himself to hold it in his lungs. Zayn opens the double window facing the street and the late-winter breeze stings Louis’ cheeks even from across the room. Zayn seems to soak it in for a moment before he returns to the couch and holds out an arm, gesturing Louis in. 

They smoke like that, in relative silence, for the next half hour. At some point, Louis lets his head drift onto Zayn’s chest, his mind going fuzzy and foggy. The soft touch of Zayn’s jumper against his cheek makes him smile, nuzzling into the sensation and relishing in the way it feels on his skin. Every so often, Zayn holds the joint to Louis’s mouth and lets him take a drag without really opening his eyes or needing to sit up, and it’s maybe a piece of heaven in their little flat. He trails his fingertips over Zayn’s thighs, the fabric soft beneath his touch.

Louis floats in the weed-haze in his mind for what could be hours, hyperaware of the warmth of Zayn’s body against his own and their shared breath. He thinks about Harry — about frantic, whispered calls from a barely-twenty years old Harry, confused and hurting and lonely even while sharing a bed with someone; he thinks of silent, sobbing calls at two in the morning from a twenty-six year old Harry full of nothing but gasping breaths and apologies.

“I miss him,” Louis says aloud, breaking through the silence of their living room. 

“Mm,” Zayn hums. “I know.”

“No, like…” Louis pauses, chewing on his lower lip. Zayn shifts beneath him, wrapping solid arms around his torso. “I miss him.”

“I know,” Zayn says again. “I see how you interact with him, sweets.”

Louis rolls, craning his head to look at Zayn more clearly, frowning up at him. “What?”

Sighing softly, Zayn rolls his eyes. “You talk to him like he’s yours, that’s all.”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“You talk to him the same way you talk to me.” Zayn shrugs. “Like we’re yours.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It doesn’t bother me, Lou.” He shrugs again. “We are yours.”

“In different ways.” Louis settles his head against Zayn’s chest again, finding a loose thread on the hem of his jumper and tugging at it. “Like I’m yours, in different ways.”

“Maybe that’s something else to talk to him about.”

It takes a few moments for the words to permeate the fog in Louis’s brain and he furrows his brow, frowning at the open window. “What?”

“You could talk to him about the nature of your relationship.” Zayn strokes a gentle hand up and down Louis’s spine as he speaks, voice low and raspy. His heartbeat is loud against Louis’s ear. “You could be each other’s.”

Louis squints at the window before jolting, panic lancing through his chest. He lifts himself up and catches Zayn’s gaze. “I wasn’t saying— I don’t want us to— Zayn.”

Zayn blinks at him, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “I didn’t mean for our relationship to change,” he says slowly. “More like…grow.”

“Grow,” Louis repeats. 

“Sure. Grow, evolve. Adapt.” His eyes sparkle, crinkling at the corners. “Y’know.”

“You want to date Harry,” Louis says, tone flat. Even his hazy thoughts can parse that much out, fixating thoroughly on the implications. 

“Technically, I want to date Harry with you,” Zayn states firmly, nodding once. “Your presence is kinda crucial, babe.”

“With me.”

“You sound a bit like a broken record, Lou,” Zayn teases gently, brushing the tip of his nose over Louis’s. “Didn’t mean to break your brain, just thought you’d want to know it’s an option.”

“Is it?” Louis asks, voice soft. “An option, I mean.”

“It is from my end.” Zayn shrugs again, cupping Louis’s cheek and tugging him down into a soft kiss. The next time he speaks, he speaks against Louis’s mouth. “If we’re talking to him about moving in anyway, might as well present all the options. All cards on the table or whatever.”

Louis scoffs. “You think he’d be up for that?”

“I think you two have the history you have, and I think I was his first kiss when I was thirteen,” Zayn admits, tilting his head. “So at the very least, he doesn’t find me revolting.”

“Nobody ever finds you revolting,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes. He wiggles himself into the minute space between Zayn and the back of their couch, Zayn’s arm automatically curling around his waist and pulling him closer. “S’really annoying.”

“Mm, sorry about that,” Zayn replies, kissing Louis’s cheekbone. 

“You really think he’d go for it?” Louis gives in to the heaviness of his eyelids. “Dating us?”

“I think even knowing him for twenty-six years doesn’t make me qualified to speak for him, and I think we’re all adults, babe,” Zayn says slowly, lips moving against Louis’s cheekbone where they’re still pressed to his skin, tracing a path toward his hairline. “And we should talk to him instead of hypothesizing, hm?”

“Hypothesizing,” Louis scoffs, wording melding into a moan as Zayn nips the skin under his ear. “Fucking stupid word to use right now.”

Zayn just hums an acknowledgment, latching his teeth to the fragile skin of Louis’s throat and sucking sharply. All thoughts of the previous conversation disappear from Louis’s mind, lost to the feeling of Zayn’s mouth and the way his hand wanders up under Louis’s jumper, skating over his ribs and sending a shiver down his spine.

He rolls further into Zayn, tilting his face to catch Zayn’s lips with his own, sighing immediately into the kiss as Zayn presses his mouth open with slick lips and sharp teeth. Zayn presses him more firmly into the back of the couch, digging his nails into the skin of Louis’s torso. Twenty-seven year old Zayn is a wet dream on a sober night, let alone with half a joint in his system, and Louis goes practically pliant under him. Broad and thick in ways Louis never could have dreamt up as a teenager, Zayn’s weight over him is intoxicating. 

The real benefit of a long term relationship with your best friend is there’s very little frills required when it comes to any aspect of romance; as much as Louis loves to be wined and dined good and proper, he does relish in the moments where he and Zayn so easily fall together. Zayn drops his weight fully into their embrace, pressing himself firmly against Louis, capturing Louis’s mouth again.

Nights like this feel like they’re making up for spending their teenage years not touching one another, grinding together still fully clothed and gasping lightly into each other’s mouth like they’re suffocating while apart. Louis opens for Zayn without a second thought, welcoming the sharp bite of teeth in his lower lip and how the muscles of his back flex under his hands. He trails his touch down to splay his palms flat over Zayn’s arse, digging his fingertips into the muscle there, gripping the curve where arse becomes thigh and sighing a soft moan into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn cants his hips forward with more force, Louis’ legs falling open, one leg falling from the front of the couch. 

Nights like this are easy, breathing in the shared space between them and soaking up quiet noises escaping into the hazy air of the room, and nights like these are some of Louis’ favorites. They fall apart pressed together, panting into the crook of each other’s shoulder, open-mouthed kisses brushed over sweaty skin in the aftermath. Louis finds his way back to Zayn’s mouth, nipping gently at his lower lip before pecking him twice more in quick succession.

Zayn goes limp, tucking his face into Louis’s shoulder and sighing contentedly. “You smell good.”

Louis scoffs. “I smell like I always do.”

“Mm, and it’s delicious.” He turns his face, nose brushing Louis’s throat. “Smells like home.”

Snorting, Louis buries a smile in Zayn’s hair. “Sap.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Zayn nips sharply at the skin within his reach. “Might ruin my reputation."

“What reputation?” Louis knocks his forehead against the top of Zayn’s head, the short hair as scratchy as it is soft. “Nobody thinks you’re big and scary.”

“Yes they do,” Zayn protests, affronted. “M’very tough.”

“Oh, alright. Whatever you say, mate.” Louis presses a kiss to his hair. He smooths a hand down Zayn’s spine again before letting it settle on the curve of his arse. Zayn just makes another soft sound of protest, but doesn’t seem to be bothered to move. 

Louis shifts slightly at the feeling of come cooling against his skin, almost certainly glueing his pubic hair to his skin, but he can’t quite convince himself to encourage either of them to start cleaning up. Zayn is so warm and solid against him, the same familiar presence he always is — home, in the best of ways. Their breathing evens out, chests still pressed together, and Zayn finally lifts himself up, looking down at Louis with something unreadable in his gaze. His eyes flick over Louis’s face from his eyes to his lips before finding his eyes again.

Softly, slowly, Zayn drops his head to kiss him, firm and soft and intentional. His tongue brushes Louis’s lower lip the barest bit and he lifts his head again, dropping a kiss to the bow of Louis’ lips then the tip of his nose.

“I love you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I love you,” Louis echoes, craning his head up to kiss Zayn again. Cleaning up can wait. These moments are worth the discomfort.

₊˚⊹⋆

Nothing is quite like having a charming partner who can cook, and Louis has won the lottery in that aspect. Perched on the kitchen counter, he watches as Zayn chops veggies and scrapes them expertly into the pan before he turns to the chicken he’s been marinating. As a self-proclaimed picky eater, Louis counts himself lucky to have a chef-worthy partner who's somehow managed to broaden his horizons the way he sees fit.

And Zayn should count himself lucky Louis loves him enough to have his horizons broadened.

Taking a sip of his beer, Louis slides off the counter to pour two glasses of wine. He sets Zayn’s within reach, and sets the other to the side to hand to Harry when he arrives. Coming up behind Zayn, he hooks his chin over his shoulder to watch whatever he’s doing with the curry.

“And this is..?”

“Thai green curry,” Zayn says for the umpteenth time. “H says it's like a hug on rice, or some shit. He mentioned the other day he hasn’t had it in a while.”

“Right.” Louis makes a face into Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn sighs.

“Wipe that look off your face; you're like a toddler.”

“You can’t even see my face,” Louis counters with a sniff, stepping back.

Turning slightly, Zayn throws him a dirty look. “I’ve known you for twenty-seven years. We’ve shared a bed for the better part of four of those. You think I don’t know when you're making a face at food?”

“Fuck you,” Louis tells him instead of offering any sort of valid argument. Zayn just smirks, turning back to the stove.

It's moments like this that Louis knows exactly how he ended up here.

The doorbell rings, and he sighs. He kisses Zayn’s shoulder before heading to answer it — something he once wouldn't have had to do. There had been a time Harry would’ve walked into the apartment like he belonged there — because he would’ve. And he does. Louis can’t quite figure out how to drive that home.

He opens the door to a snow-dusted Harry, curls jutting out from beneath a beanie with a scarf wrapped tightly around his throat, arms wrapped around himself. Louis grins, reaching for him to pull him in, chest tightening when Harry flinches. Almost two years since he’s been home, and Harry flinches.

“Alright, love?” He asks softly, and Harry seems to shake himself out of it.

“Sorry, just — I wasn’t paying attention.” Harry smiles, eyes tight at the corners, and wraps his arms around Louis’s waist.

Louis holds him there, pressed against him, like if he holds him tight enough he can squeeze the years he was gone right out of him. Like he can squeeze Kloe right out of him. Harry relaxes after only a few moments, exhaling long and sharp into Louis’s shoulder where he buries his face, going almost entirely pliant in Louis’ arms. Louis just holds him, cheek damp from the snow on his hat. 

When Harry finally pulls away, the smile he offers Louis is more real and tangible than when he first arrived, and Louis counts it as a win. He unwinds Harry’s scarf.

“Zee’s making Thai green curry; said you like it?” Louis informs him, rather than address his still-shaky stance or the way his eyes are slightly glassy. “Something about comfort food?”

“Oh!” Harry perks up, ghosts of dimples appearing in his cheeks. “I love green curry! Haven't had it in ages.”

“Well, he’s been slaving away in there, so.”

“C’mere, Hazza!” Zayn calls from the kitchen. “Need a taste tester!”

“God, I love coming over here,” Harry groans happily, shedding his coat.

“Here, H, let me. Go on.”

Louis takes his coat and hat, shooing him toward the kitchen as he turns to hang them. Harry leaves his shoes by the door before disappearing, right in line with Louis’ and Zayn’s, and it gives Louis pause. Spending your whole lives together lends itself to automatically leaving room for one another, but it's still a surprise to see Harry’s shoes fit so perfectly between the other two pairs by the door. It looks intentional. It makes something twist in Louis’s chest.

When he steps into the kitchen, that thing only twists tighter at the sight awaiting him. Harry’s sat himself on the counter next to the stove, nodding along to Zayn’s explanation of the cooking process, blowing lightly on the wooden spoon in his hand. His designated glass of wine sits next to his hip, the kitchen light catching on the print of Harry’s chapstick around the rim of it.

“Fuck, Z, this is divine,” Harry moans around the spoon. “You're fucking unbelievable.”

“S’just curry,” Zayn snorts, finally catching sight of Louis in the doorway. “Told you,” he directs his way. Louis just rolls his eyes.

“You could have a restaurant,” Harry continues. “Or, like, a cookbook.”

“Thanks, babe,” Zayn says, smiling softly as he lowers the heat. “I’ll make one just for you.”

Harry flushes, grinning and turning to look at Louis. Louis smiles back at him. Sometimes it feels surreal to see Harry in their kitchen like he wasn’t absent from their lives for so long. It’s as if he’s been around the whole time, just as he was always supposed to be — beautiful and sparkly-eyed and smiling. Harry Styles has always been so easy to love.

“I um, got a job,” Harry says suddenly, eyes fixed on his wine. Zayn shoots Louis a look, raising his eyebrows. 

“Oh?” Louis asks, leaning against the countertop across from Harry. “Where at?”

“The uh, the bakery on the corner.”

Louis blinks. “The corner of Manchester? Like, by our flat?”

Clearing his throat, Harry looks up at him. “Yeah.”

“That’s great, babes,” Zayn says, squeezing Harry’s knee and glancing at Louis again. “Our friend Niall works there on the weekends.”

Louis swallows. It’s easy to get lost in the moments where the years missing with Harry aren’t so prominent, but it only makes the fall back reality so much harder when it happens. The sheer fact that Harry doesn’t know Niall — that they have friends who aren’t Harry’s friends — is so out of place that Louis still can’t quite wrap his head around it. It still doesn’t seem to make sense. Any version of Louis prior to twenty-four years old could never have even begun to picture a life where Harry isn’t an inherent fixture in every aspect of Louis’s life.

Harry makes more small talk about the job as Louis pulls plates from the cabinet, setting three places at the table. He doesn’t pay attention to what’s being said, only lets himself bask in the gentle sound of Harry’s voice mixing with Zayn’s and floating through the air of their flat. It’s easy and familiar and settles something in Louis’s soul. Both his boys, back where they should be.

He brings the bottle of wine to the table, placing it carefully between Zayn’s and Harry’s seats, before grabbing himself a new beer to place by his own. When he returns to the kitchen, Harry immediately hands him a bowl of rice before he turns to collect a separate dish of vegetables. Zayn carries the pot of curry, setting it on the trivot in the center of their little table. 

“When do you start at the bakery?” Louis asks Harry, handing him a serving spoon. 

“Thursday.”

“S’a bit of a hike, innit?” Zayn asks, raising his eyebrows. “From your place, I mean.”

“Yeah, it’s not great,” Harry admits, putting curry over top of his rice. “But I really think I’ll like it, so it’ll be worth it.”

Louis glances at Zayn. “That’s almost a forty-minute commute, H.”

Harry shrugs, keeping his eyes on the table. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well—”

Zayn clears his throat, cutting Louis off. “When’s your lease up, H? Didn’t you say it was short-term?”

Harry scoffs quietly. “It’s month-by-month. I wasn’t— I didn’t know how long I’d be here, I guess.” I didn’t know if I’d go back to her.

“Hazza,” Louis murmurs, catching Harry’s eye. “Have you signed for next month?”

“Not yet, I have to let Trina know by Saturday.”

“You could stay here.” Zayn says it plainly, obvious as anything. Louis snaps his gaze to his boyfriend, widening his eyes, and sees Harry mirroring the expression out of the corner of his eye. “Instead of renewing, I mean. Our flat is closer, obviously, and we have the room.”

“Oh,” Harry says, fish-mouthing. “Uh—”

“It’d be nice to have you around more,” Zayn continues. “If nothing else.”

Harry looks between the two of them, from Zayn to Louis, lips still slightly parted. “That’s not — I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Louis says, voice soft. “Never intruding, H, never that.”

“You could never intrude with us,” Zayn agrees, leaning forward slightly to catch Harry’s eye. “We live in a four-bedroom flat and we missed getting to live with you during the crazy wild uni years, so.”

“Oh, please.” Harry’s nose scrunches, a quiet giggle in his tone. “I wasn’t wild or crazy in my uni years.” There’s a tinge of sadness to the words. 

“Just think about it,” Zayn offers, reaching forward and squeezing Harry’s wrist. “We’d be happy to have you.”

“And you wouldn’t have to catch the tube at fucking half three in the morning,” Louis adds, shrugging a shoulder. Harry raises his eyebrows at him, mouth twisting in a smirk. “Just saying.”

“Sounds like you’ve both thought long and hard about this,” Harry says, leaning back in his seat. 

“We have,” Louis says, glancing at Zayn, who nods. 

Harry looks between them again for a long moment, chewing on his lower lip, brow furrowed. “You really want me to move in?”

Zayn, hand still on Harry’s wrist, shakes his arm slightly. “Yeah, that’s what we’re trying to say — not sure it’s coming through.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “We want you here, H, or we wouldn’t offer. Promise.”

“Hm.” Harry looks back down at his plate, food rapidly growing cold. “Can I think about it?”

“Yeah, babe, ‘course,” Zayn assures him, squeezing his wrist once more before letting go. “You let us know Saturday, yeah? Just tell us before you tell Trina, otherwise my feelings will never recover.”

“Saturday,” Harry agrees with a quiet laugh. “Yeah, okay, sure. I’ll let you know by then.”

₊˚⊹⋆

Harry shows up at the flat Friday, mid-afternoon, with flour dusted across his cheeks and in his curls. Louis pulls the door open after three echoes of the doorbell, blinking at the sight of Harry, slightly out of breath.

“Hey sweetheart, you okay?” He leans out the door, glancing up and down the hall. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Late lunch,” Harry says. “Z home?”

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon in.” Louis steps back, letting Harry pass him. “Zayn, living room!”

Making their way to the living room, Zayn comes down the steps and rounds the corner, blinking when he sees Harry. “Hey, H, you okay?”

“M’fine,” Harry says. He stays standing while Louis and Zayn drop onto the couch. He fidgets with his fingers, throat bouncing as he swallows. “You were serious, the other night? When you asked me to move in?”

“Yeah, babe, we were,” Zayn says softly. “Of course we were.”

“And it won’t be weird?” He looks to Louis, green eyes sharp and determined. “Right?”

“Never, sweetheart. Never weird.” 

“Okay,” Harry breathes. “I want to do it.”

Zayn blinks, leaning forward. “Yeah? You do?”

“Yeah. It'd be nice to be closer to the bakery and I miss spending time with you, so.” Harry shrugs a shoulder, cheeks blushing pink beneath the light coating of flour. “So, if you’ll have me. Yes.”

“Of course we’ll have you,” Louis scoffs, leaning his forearms on his thighs and catching Harry’s gaze. “We love you, sweetheart; we want you here.”

“When do you wanna start moving your stuff in, babe?” Zayn asks, standing. Louis blinks, then stands with him. “When do you have to be out of your place?”

“I don’t have to be out until the end of the month, but it’d be nice to get settled sooner, I guess.” Harry plays with his lower lip, gaze going unfocused. “Whenever you have room for me.”

“We have room for you now, H,” Louis says, reaching out and pinching Harry’s hip, warm and solid beneath his touch. “We can start this afternoon, if you want.”

Harry’s gaze snaps back up to Louis, flickering between him and Zayn. “Really?”

“Yeah, love, ‘course,” Zayn laughs. “You want us to help you pack?”

Harry swallows hard, rubbing his hand up and down his opposite forearm. “Um, I’ve already done a lot of that. Packing, I mean.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “You want to bring some stuff by today?”

Nodding, Zayn squeezes his bicep. “Could be nice; start getting you settled in good and proper.”

Gnawing on his lower lip, Harry finally nods. “Yeah, that’d be nice, actually. If it's okay.”

“‘Course it's okay, sweets,” Louis says, voice gentle. “Want to come here after work and then we can head to yours, start bringing stuff over?”

“And we can rent a truck over the weekend,” Zayn adds. “Or hire movers, whatever.”

“That’d be nice,” Harry says again, corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re sure?” He checks again.

“‘Course.”

“Okay then. Yeah, I’d like that. Please,” Harry says, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll come by after work.”

“See you in a few hours, babes.” Zayn kisses his cheekbone, disappearing into the kitchen. 

Louis tugs Harry toward the door, squeezing his hand. “Come on in when you’re off, no need to knock if it’s about to be your home too.”

Harry smiles, small and gorgeous. “Thanks, Lou. I really appreciate this.”

“Anything for you, H, you know that.”

Harry just rolls his eyes, waving over his shoulder as he heads back down the stairs. Louis lingers in the doorway for another few moments, just watching him go. He’s excited, mostly, for Harry to move in — though he still worries Harry may be less than thrilled when it comes to actually sharing a flat with his ex-boyfriend and his current partner. It’s better to have Harry within arm’s reach than off somewhere without hearing from him for a year at a time, however, so Louis has to believe they’ll get through it.

It’s been their whole lives. He knows they’ll get through.

₊˚⊹⋆

“What if we got a cat?” Harry asks through a mouthful of omelette. “Like, all of us.”

“A cat,” Louis repeats, tone flat. “No.”

“What? Why?”

“Where the fuck would we put a cat, H?” Louis tops off Harry’s mimosa, adding enough champagne to make it almost clear. “Who’s gonna take care of it?”

“I will!” Harry insists. “It can be my cat!”

Zayn snorts. “You won’t convince him, H, best to just let him be a grinch about it.”

“Okay, I am not being a grinch,” Louis protests. “I’m being a realist.”

“You’re being a grinch,” Harry says, pouting. 

Louis frowns at them both, setting the champagne bottle back on the table with an echoing noise. “I don’t appreciate this whole ganging-up-to-give-me-shit thing.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, dropping into the seat next to Harry. “Grinch.”

“It's not even fucking Christmas — actually, you can’t call me a grinch, I was born on Christmas Eve, I’m a goddamn Christmas miracle.” Louis crosses his arms. “And, you're both stupid.”

Harry blinks at him, fork halfway to his mouth again. “This feels a bit more emotional than I was expecting. I just think a cat would be a nice addition to the flat.”

“Now look what you’ve done, Lou, you’ve made the poor thing uncomfortable.” Zayn leans over, kissing Harry gently on the cheek, and Louis doesn't miss the way Harry’s cheeks go pink. “I’m with you, H, I think a cat’d be lovely.”

“Fuck you, both of you,” Louis snaps. “This is stupid.”

“Aw, Lou,” Zayn chastises, grinning at him. “Talk dirty to me.”

Dissolving into giggles again, Harry covers his face with both hands and Louis flips Zayn off across the table. He receives a wink and a kiss blown his way for his efforts. He sighs. This isn’t an argument he’ll win — though he’s 80% certain Harry’s mostly just babbling. He hopes. Harry’s been settled into the flat barely two weeks; settling a cat in alongside him feels damn near insurmountable.

Harry glares at Louis with a mouthful of omelette, detracting from the impact of his angry face. Louis just raises his eyebrows in return. He’s not giving in to adopting a cat.

“Why do you want a cat, H?”

“I dunno, I like cats,” he says, shrugging. “I think it’d be nice to have a furry little creature around.”

“We already have Zayn,” Louis replies, and ends up with a cup of lukewarm tea dumped in his lap. “Alright, testy today. Jesus.”

“Oops,” Zayn says, voice saccharine. “My hand slipped.”

They finish their breakfast with no more tea mishaps and no more conversation surrounding four-legged roommates, for which Louis is increasingly grateful. Having Harry in the flat makes things go smoother — on all fronts. Louis washes breakfast dishes, then hands them to Harry to dry, who in turn hands them to Zayn to put away. It feels like each meal is cleaned up in record time every time, a welcome departure from Zayn and Louis’s tradition of forgetting there are dishes to be done for days on end until one of them needs one of the still-dirty dishes.

Lazy breakfasts on Sunday mornings with the three of them fill the flat with laughter and soft music playing from the bluetooth speaker, and Louis adores every moment of them. Occasionally, Harry puts his baking skills to good use while Zayn works on the actual substantial food, and they end up with a restaurant quality spread Louis would be jealous of if he weren’t already partaking.

Even afterwards, as they settle into their own individual routines, there’s the air of calm ease in the flat. Even the atmosphere itself has shaped into something familiar; Harry’s candles burn on the windowsills and the sound of Zayn’s pencils scratching over thick paper turns the flat into the perfect semblance of home. Harry’s already placed blankets in the living room, collected over time or knit on his own time, slightly wonky around the edges. They add to the environment as a whole; they solidify Harry’s place in the flat. Like he’s crafting a mark. Carving himself a space. It’s nice.

Louis spends the rest of his Sunday answering emails and making mug after mug of tea, curled on the couch until the sun sets, shrouding the entire flat in darkness. Eventually, Zayn finds him and lays out on the couch, pillowing his head in Louis’s lap as Louis finishes his last email. Just as Louis hits send, Harry wanders in, wrapped in yet another blanket and settles himself on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against it, right between Zayn and Louis. 

It’s the perfect picture of domesticity. It’s the kind of meaningless day that means everything, somehow. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Coming home from the studio to find his mattress on the floor in front of the television is not entirely how Louis expected a Wednesday in January to go, and he stops in his tracks, still in his work suit. A second mattress sits next to it — Louis can only assume it’s Harry’s. 

“Er, lads? You home?” Louis calls in the direction of the stairs. “Why’s our mattress on the floor?”

“Movie night!” Harry’s voice floats down, and Louis raises his eyebrows. 

“Right, sure,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. Turning back to leave the living room and head upstairs to change, he runs into Zayn coming out of the kitchen. “I assume you had something to do with this.”

“He wanted to, and I quote, build a nest in front of the telly and order disgusting amounts of Thai food and get absolutely obliterated,” Zayn says, shrugging. “You thought I was gonna tell him no?”

“You’ve never told him no in your life,” Louis mutters. “But why’s our mattress on the floor?”

“For the foundation of the nest,” Zayn says, very seriously. “Harry’s collecting blankets and shit as we speak.”

Louis blinks. “We have blankets down here.”

Shaking his head, Zayn just shrugs again. “Look, babe, I stopped asking questions after I got roped into carrying our mattress down the stairs.”

Frowning, Louis gives in with a sigh. “Fine, whatever. How the fuck do you build a nest?”

“No idea.” Zayn settles his hands on Louis’ hips and drags him close, brushing a kiss over his cheek and then his lips, smirking as he pulls back. “How was work?”

“Fine, long.” Louis runs his hands up Zayn’s biceps to his shoulders, squeezing gently. “Glad to be home.”

“Miss me when you’re gone, don’t you?” Zayn squeezes his hips. “Sap.”

“Fuck off,” Louis groans. “Let me go change.”

“Mm, let me come watch?”

“Y’know, I would, but you gave our mattress up to be the foundation for a nest of all things, so. Don’t want to tempt you when there’s nowhere to follow through.” Louis leans forward and nips at Zayn’s bottom lip before pulling away. “Be right back.”

“Don’t act like we haven’t fucked outside of a bed!” Zayn calls after him, and Louis scoffs to himself, shaking his head. He flips Zayn off over his shoulder.

He runs into Harry on the stairs, arms laden down with pillows and blankets. “Ah, nest materials?”

Harry grins. “It’s gonna be so much fun.”

“I believe you, love. I just need to go change.” He bumps Harry’s hip with his own as he passes him.

“Um, did I hear something about fuc—”

“Harold!” Louis reprimands. “We don’t kiss and tell.”

Harry groans dramatically, but his groans break into giggles the moment he’s out of Louis’s sight, and Louis shakes his head to himself. Turning into his and Zayn’s room, he drops his suit into a pile in the middle of the floor, eyeing their bare bedframe and scoffing. The things he’s apparently willing to do for his partner and his best mate can always get weirder. 

He changes into sweats, stealing a ragged pair from Zayn’s drawer and digging out a worn t-shirt from uni. He pauses in their bathroom to reapply deodorant and run a rag over his face before he returns back to the living room, finding Zayn and Harry arranging the assorted stolen blankets and pillows into something resembling a nest of sorts. He leans against the doorframe to watch, laughing silently at the serious expressions twisting both of their features. 

They both carefully spread blankets over both mattresses to adequately cover the seam between them, effectively creating one giant mattress for the base of Harry’s nest, stuffing pillows inside sheets and building up the edges. Harry had collected apparently every stuffed creature in the house as well, adding to the massive pile.

“You know, I would assume there needs to also be room in that mess for three full-grown men, no?” He finally says, raising his eyebrows at them. “Seems like that’s not possible with what you have going on right now.”

“We’ll fit, Lou,” Harry says, not looking up from where he’s fluffing a blanket. Zayn catches Louis’s eye with a smirk. “Just can’t be afraid to cuddle.”

“Oh, he’s never afraid to cuddle,” Zayn says, laughing. “You should know that, Haz.”

“Mm, good point,” Harry agrees. “Physical touch is his love language.” He sits back, surveying the mass of blankets and pillows with a satisfied nod.

“Fuck’s a love language?” Louis asks, and Harry finally looks up at him with a grin. 

“Don’t worry about it. So, Thai?”

Louis rolls his eyes, pulling his phone from his sweats pocket. “Everyone want their usual?”

Zayn nods. “Please.”

Turning his face, Harry squints up at him. “You don’t know my usual.”

“Cashew chicken, medium spice, spring rolls.” Louis crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows at him. “Am I wrong?”

Harry grins, eyes sparkling and entire face lighting up. “Nope. Spot on.”

Shaking his head, Louis steps back out of the living room to place the order for delivery. As he waits on hold, he catalogues what alcohol they have in the house for the final part of Harry’s wishes for the evening. He lines the bottles up on the counter: a bottle and a half of vodka, four bottles of various fancy liqueurs Harry brought when he moved in, two bottles of red and three of white, and five bottles of other assorted hard liquor in various states of emptiness. He shakes his head. Quite the variety they keep in their home.

He places the order for food and settles on vodka Redbulls for them all to start. Neither of the other two have appeared from the living room, so they don’t get a say.

“Food’ll be here in thirty,” Louis announces, carrying the drinks into the living room. 

Zayn squints at him. “Is that fucking vodka Redbull?”

“We’re starting with vodka?” Harry blinks up at him from where he’s nestling himself into blankets. “Long night ahead.”

“I need to be a little drunk to switch to wine,” Louis says. He delicately settles himself at the head of the mattresses, leaning back onto his elbows. “So where did the idea for this whole thing come from?”

“Saw a video online,” Harry says, shrugging, sniffing his drink. “This is mostly vodka.”

“I believe your words included the phrase get absolutely obliterated, Harold, so yes. Mostly vodka.” Louis leans to the slide and bumps his shoulder with his own. “Drink up.”

Zayn snorts from where he’s sprawled across the other mattress, leaning against the front of the couch. He takes a sip of his own drink, making a quiet gagging noise in the back of his throat as he turns the television on. 

“Fuck, Lou, this is rank.”

“Make your own, then,” Louis says, laughing. He receives a sharp pinch to his nipple for the trouble and swats at Zayn’s hand.

Zayn goes back to flipping through streaming services, letting trailer after trailer of various movies play. Harry readjusts a few times, moving slightly closer to Louis with each movement. Eventually, Louis lifts an arm, allowing Harry to snuggle against him. He catches Zayn’s eye, smirking at him, finding Zayn already smiling softly at them. 

Zayn shakes his head. Look at that, he mouths. Louis just lifts his other arm, tugging Zayn in on the opposite side of Harry and smiling to himself. Some little part of him thinks this is how it’s always been meant to be: the three of them, quiet and content and together.

Childhood Louis certainly pictured the future this way, the whole world centered around the three of them. It was the only thing that made sense to a ten-to-twelve year old Louis Tomlinson. Somehow, it’s still the only thing that makes sense to a twenty-eight year old Louis Tomlinson. The world makes sense when it revolves around the three of them together. It’s as if it’s back on its axis for the first time in years.

₊˚⊹⋆

Mid-April is characterized by nothing but rainstorms. London is rainy at the best of times, and the chill from winter lingers into the spring. Louis watches the rain hit the window from his position sprawled on the couch, one of Harry’s candles burning on the windowsill. The whole room smells strongly like lavender — a scent Harry insisted to be the best spring scent.

With the day off, Louis had spent the entire day doing nothing but smoking and rolling joints for the three of them to split that evening. Harry had gone straight to his room to nap after coming home from the bakery smelling like vanilla and cinnamon, delivering a box of baked goods to Louis on his way up the stairs. Living with a baker has its perks.

The key in the door startles Louis from staring somewhat blankly off into space and he jumps, leaning his head backwards off the arm of the couch. Zayn rounds the corner, bending down to kiss him gently as he walks toward the window, leaning against the wall.

“Trying to work with some people is like smashing my fucking head against a wall, Lou, I swear to god,” he sighs. 

“Oh?” Louis raises his eyebrows, tracing Zayn’s torso with his eyes. Apparently having chosen to leave the house in nothing but a thin white henley this morning, Zayn is entirely soaked through. Almost-invisible fabric clings obscenely to every curve of his chest and stomach, his tattoos almost entirely visible.

Louis blinks, glancing up to find Zayn staring at him, amusement in his gaze. “Sorry, I’m high. What?”

“Well, I was telling you about my day, but— hey, H,” Zayn cuts himself off, gaze shifting from Louis to the doorway. “How was work?”

“Huh?” Louis tilts his head again, looking up at Harry, standing slack-jawed in the doorway. His eyes are fixed decidedly below Zayn’s face, cheeks flushing pink. He swallows. “Uh, work was fine. Good! I made stuff. Pastries.”

“Right,” Zayn replies, smirking slightly. He glances at Louis. “Okay. What kind?”

“Uh, the scones. On the counter. Uh, chocolate chip and apple cinnamon.” Harry blinks, voice coming out raspy. 

“Mm. M’gonna…change,” Zayn says, amusement still coloring his tone. “Be right back.”

As he brushes past Harry, the younger lad shivers, and Louis clocks it immediately. “Y’alright, Hazza?”

Harry blinks. “Fine!”

“Your voice went all squeaky just now,” Louis teases. “You sure you’re fine?”

“Yes,” Harry snaps. “Fuck off, I just woke up.”

“Right,” Louis replies, laughing. “Whatever you say, babe.”

Harry frowns at him. “You’re high.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Louis holds the joint in his hand out in offering. “Rolled one for you, princess.”

Harry’s cheeks flush, but he crosses the room and accepts the joint. “Don’t call me that,” he mutters. “Don’t like when you tease.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Louis says softly. He holds up a lighter. “You love when I tease.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says again, snatching the lighter from Louis’s hand and stepping toward the window. He pushes it open slightly, learning toward the opening to light up. 

Sinking back into the couch, Louis watches him. Harry’s cheeks are still pink as he inhales, the flame catching the end of the joint and lighting his face up in a golden glow. He turns once the flame has caught, leaning his back against the wall next to the window and holding the joint just outside the window, keeping the smoke from floating into the air of the living room. Louis had had the sneaking suspicion that Harry had a tiny little crush on Zayn, and he feels vindicated in knowing he’s correct. 

Zayn’s going to be absolutely insufferable.

Footsteps on the stairs warn of Zayn’s return moments before he rounds the corner, dropping himself heavily atop Louis’s body on the couch. Louis lets out a soft oof, curling one arm around Zayn’s lower back. Zayn lifts his head, kissing Louis softly before he turns his face back to Harry, dropping his head onto Louis’s chest again. Louis looks back at Harry, who’s sucked his lower lip in between his teeth, eyes half-lidded as he watches Zayn and Louis.

“What, no sharing?” Zayn asks, voice low. “Rude, H.”

“You have your own,” Harry grumbles, lifting the joint again. “Louis’s been busy.”

“Is that so?” Zayn turns his face again, resting his chin on Louis’s chest and looking up at him. “Where’s mine, then?”

“Gave it away,” Louis deadpans. “Decided Harry needed it more.”

“That’s cruel. You’re a shit boyfriend.”

“I’m a great boyfriend, fuck you,” Louis protests. “Hazza, aren’t I a fucking fantastic boyfriend?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Been awhile since I had any insight into that, mate, I dunno that I can really weigh in on that.”

“What the fuck,” Louis groans. “I’m moving out.”

“Oh, damn,” Zayn sighs. “Who ever will give my weed away then?”

Louis rolls, knocking Zayn clean onto the floor. He dissolves into laughter, sprawling out flat on his back and flipping Louis off. Louis drops another joint on his chest, pointedly ignoring being flipped off like the martyr he is, sighing.

“S’not even your weed,” he grumbles. “We split that round.”

“So, partially my weed. Same shit.” Zayn holds out his hand toward Harry, gesturing for the lighter. “Either way I deserved my own joint.”

“I can help pay for weed,” Harry pipes up.

“Shut up, Harry,” Zayn says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “We’re not worried about the weed.”

Harry pouts. “Still, I ca—”

“We’re not gonna let you pay us for the weed, babe,” Louis says. “You smoke significantly less than us. We all know you’re not even gonna finish that joint — we’re not gonna make you pay for it.”

“I can finish the—”

“Babes.” Zayn sits up as he interrupts Harry. “C’mere. Shut up.”

Frowning, Harry crosses the room.. He drops onto the floor next to Zayn, who wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulder and tucks him firmly into his side. Louis props his head up on his hand, looking down at the two of them. 

“Let’s watch something, hm? Lou, put on that show. The cartoon,” Zayn directs, running his fingertips along Harry’s collarbones. “I’ll make dinner in a bit.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Louis sighs, turning the television on. He splits his attention between watching the show and watching Harry interact with Zayn. He sways into him, giggling as they share quiet commentary about the happenings onscreen. 

Louis smirks to himself as they interact — not that the familiarity between the two of them is anything new, but it warms his heart as if it were the first time. Something feels like it’s falling into place. There’s nothing quite like having both of his boys in one room together again. 

After a couple episodes, Zayn stretches, pushing to his feet. “Alright, I’m gonna do dinner. Can’t be arsed to do anything complex so we’re having curry chicken toasties.”

Harry snorts. “Sounds fancy to me.”

“Whatever you say, baker boy,” Zayn says, laughing. He ruffles Harry’s curls on his way out.

“Come up here, love,” Louis says to Harry. “Don’t stay on the floor.”

“M’okay,” Harry giggles. “My head kinda hurts anyway.”

“C’mere, I’ll give you a head massage.”

“Fine, alright,” Harry acquiesces. He climbs carefully over Louis’ legs, resting his head on his chest. “But be gentle.”

“‘Course, babe.” Louis presses his fingers into Harry’s curls, scratching gently over his scalp. Harry sighs softly, going immediately pliant in Louis’ arms. It’s hardly a few minutes before Harry is snoring quietly into his chest.

Louis continues gingerly massaging Harry’s head, carefully raking his fingers through his curls and detangling them slowly as he moves his hands. When Zayn reappears with a plate piled with toasties, he shakes his head at the sight, a small smile twisting his mouth. He sets the plate on Harry’s back before carefully lifting two sets of legs and sliding himself under them, resting them atop his lap. Freeing his fingers from Harry’s hair, he picks up a sandwich and starts eating.

The show keeps playing, Zayn taking his own toastie and eating with one hand, rubbing little circles in the side of Harry’s ankle with the other. Louis watches him for a moment.

“So, the attraction’s there,” he says quietly. “Like you thought, I mean.”

“I wondered if you caught that,” Zayn murmurs, eyes still on the television. 

“A blind man would’ve caught that,” Louis scoffs. “I’ve never seen anything more obvious than that.”

“Mm. I should walk around in slutty little outfits more often; it does wonders for my ego,” Zayn says, voice flat. “Basically got to watch both my flatmates drool over my chest.”

Louis frowns. “First of all, I’m allowed to drool over your chest. Second of all, you knew what you were doing to him.”

Cutting a sideway glance at him, Zayn raises an eyebrow. ‘Technically, I didn’t know; I have a hunch.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Right. You hypothesized.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, now that your hypothesis has been proven correct,” Louis says. “What do we do about it?”

“What do you mean?” Zayn turns his face fully toward Louis, leaning his head against the back of the couch. 

“What do we do about it? We know he’s attracted to you, so—”

“But we don’t know if he’s attracted to you.” Zayn interrupts, cutting Louis off. “Seems like a bold assumption, love.”

Offended, Louis frowns at him. “I’m not assuming.”

“Right.” Zayn raises his eyebrows again. “Sure, okay.”

“We could ask him,” Louis offers. Zayn shakes his head.

“You want to scare him off for good? He only basically just moved in.”

“I don’t think it would sc—”

“Louis.”

“Okay, fuck, whatever!” Louis exclaims, throwing a hand up and nearly dislodging the plate still balanced on Harry’s back. Harry startles awake in his lap. “Oh, shit, sorry love.”

Harry shifts, causing Zayn to lunge for the plate to prevent it from tumbling to the floor. “Didn’t mean t’fall asleep, sorry.”

Louis scratches fingers through his hair again. “S’no problem, we don’t mind.”

“Still sorry,” he slurs. “Did I miss dinner?”

“Curry chicken toastie right here, babes,” Zayn tells him, tapping him on the hip. “Sit up though; I’ll never hear the end of it if you choke on my toastie.”

“You make me sound like such a bitch,” Louis mutters, shifting to better help Harry sit up. “M’not that bad.”

“Well—” Harry and Zayn says simultaneously. Louis rolls his eyes. Unbelievable.

“Eat your fucking toastie,” he grumbles, turning back to the show still playing on the television. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Zayn has an evening meeting in person somewhere out in Kensington the first week of June, leaving Louis and Harry to fend for themselves in the flat. With every window in the flat opened and light rain misting outside, Louis stretches out on the couch, watching Harry sitting in the windowsill, writing in his journal. 

“You're pretty,” Louis says, then pauses, frowning at himself. “Sorry.”

“What?” Harry looks up. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Nothing, love. Just thinking about dinner.” He turns onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. “What if we made pizza?”

“Mm, with homemade dough?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Louis stares at the ceiling for a minute longer. “You can make dough from scratch, right? That's a thing bakers can do?”

“Yes, Lewis, that's a thing bakers can do,” Harry singsongs. “Are you already hungry?”

“Mm, could eat, but not terribly,” Louis replies, contemplating. “But soon, maybe?”

Harry closes his journal, the sound of paper on paper whispering through the room, intertwining with the sound of rain. “I’ll go do the dough now, so at least that part’s done.”

Louis grins at the ceiling. “You’re the best, H.”

He lets his eyes slip closed as he listens to Harry in the kitchen and the sound of cabinets opening and closing and mixing bowls hitting the countertops. It’s a bit domestic and a bit familiar, the way Harry moves around the kitchen like he knows he belongs there. Louis remains more grateful than anything that Harry had taken them up on the offer to move in. He cherishes every day with him. He loves how Harry so seamlessly fills the empty spaces in their life and the empty air in their flat, playing music and burning candles and cooking whenever he feels like it. It feels like he makes it a home.

On days like this, with the rain outside and the slight chill soaking into the air of the flat, Louis feels more settled than he has in years. Harry not only being back, but also being present — it’s nothing but sheer, unadulterated joy. It’s as if the years apart are further away than they are; it’s as if Louis has everything together again. 

After a while, Harry comes back in the room and settles back on the windowsill. He sings softly under his breath, his pen scratching over the pages of his journal once more, and Louis lets the quiet sounds wash over him, settling somewhere in his chest around where his heart must sit. It’s everything, really, to be lucky enough to have this after so many years of thinking he never would. To have Harry back so poignantly in his life that they can sit in relative silence, making dinner plans and doing nothing more than existing in one another’s vicinity. After so many years apart, there’s nothing else Louis could ask for. There’s nothing else he could even want.

With the one exception of a chance at having Harry romantically once again. He doesn’t let himself dwell on that idea for too long.

Lost in his thoughts, Louis drifts somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, lulled by Harry’s barely-audible singing. He isn’t entirely sure how much time passes by the time his stomach growls, loud enough in the room that Harry giggles, interrupting the singing. Louis groans quietly.

“Don’t stop singing, I was enjoying it,” he whines.

“Sounds like you might enjoy finally getting some pizza thrown together a bit more, hm?” Louis hears the journal close again, and then footsteps, and he opens his eyes to find Harry grinning down at him. “C’mon, dough’s ready to go and everything.”

“Fine,” Louis grumbles, taking the hand Harry holds out and letting the younger man pull him to his feet. He sways briefly into Harry’s space, smirking a bit when Harry inhales sharply. “Thought we were going to make pizzas.”

Harry clears his throat, stepping back. “We are, yeah. C’mon.”

Louis follows him into the kitchen, locating marinara sauce in the cabinet as Harry secures the dough and ingredients from the fridge. They move around one another with ease, Harry rolling out the dough into circles resembling pizza crusts over a liberally floured counter as Louis organizes ingredients into bowls for easier access. 

“Here, I’ll make a garlic butter to put over the crusts after they’ve baked,” Harry offers, reaching for a bowl. As Louis hands it to him, Harry’s hand seems to spasm, knocking the bowl clear onto the floor, where it shatters. “Oh, fuck, Lou — I’m so sorry!”

“S’okay, H, it’s a bowl from fucking Primark or summat; not a big deal,” Louis says. “Just stay still, yeah? Don’t want any glass shards stuck in your slippers.” He fetches the broom and quickly sweeps up the mess. “Just grab one of the little measuring cups from the cabinet and do it in one of those, I think those are all available.”

“Okay,” Harry says softly. “M’still sorry about your bowl.”

“Our bowl, Hazza,” Louis says, winking at him. “Mi casa es su casa or whatever; you do live here.”

“Still,” Harry grumbles petulantly. He does as told, proceeding to whip up a garlic butter creation to finish off the pizzas as Louis crafts his masterpiece.

Louis takes over the responsibility of sliding their food into the oven, seeing as Harry had done essentially everything else, and then he turns to start the dishes. Harry protests and Louis waves him off, reminding him that he had done the brunt of the work. The flat fills with the mouthwatering scent of their pizza quickly, with Harry announcing them to be ready to come out of the oven just as Louis is finishing up the cleaning.

Harry proceeds to paint the crusts with his garlic butter mixture then slices each pizza, arranging the slices onto plates and handing Louis his. They retire back to the couch, Harry immediately throwing his legs over Louis’s lap and sprawling backwards, flipping through streaming services. Louis pays hardly any attention to which one he chooses, negotiating extra space for his legs and ending up fully tangled with Harry. He balances his plate on his thighs, squinting at the television.

“Mean Girls? Didn’t you just watch this like a week ago?”

“That was the new one,” Harry says, rolling his eyes as he drops the remote on the coffee table. “This is the original.”

“It’s the same storyline,” Louis says, tone flat. 

“Different viewing experience, though,” Harry defends, pinching Louis’s calf. “Watch the movie and shut up.”

Louis rolls his eyes and gives in to Harry’s wishes, busying himself with eating his pizza. He half-pays attention to the movie and half-pays attention to how Harry shifts closer to him every few moments, body heat slowly absorbing into Louis’s own body. They’ve never been shy when it comes to physical touch; they’ve never once needed to, even before and after their romantic relationship. Somehow, it’s never been quite as electrifying as this.

After he finishes eating, Harry sets his plate on the coffee table and shifts, resting his head in Louis’s lap. Louis plays with his hair, tugging gently at the strands and wrapping the curls around his fingers, gaze flicking between Harry and the screen every few moments. It’s always been easy like this, to spend time with Harry. Louis has missed it more than he can say — especially in the years Harry was gone. The years he spent with her.

“Hey, H?” Louis murmurs quietly. Harry hums in reply, still watching the screen. “You know you can talk to me about what happened, if you ever want to, right?”

“What happened with what?” Harry asks, clearly only half-paying attention. 

“With Kloe,” Louis says, clearing his throat. Harry tenses in his lap, freezing. “I’m not asking! I just want you to know that whatever it was, whatever went down — I’m here for you. And Zayn’s here for you. We love you and we want you to feel safe enough to talk to us about anything, you know? I dunno if you’ve talked to anyone about it or anything, and now that you’re living here obviously m’not getting 2am phone calls anymore, and —”

“I don’t wake up anymore,” Harry says, voice soft. He rolls over slightly so he can look up at Louis, holding his gaze. “Since I moved in, I mean. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night having panic attacks now that I live here, so that’s why you aren’t hearing about them. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Louis says, dumbly. “That’s good, then.”

Harry smirks. “It is. And as far as talking about…there’s really nothing to say. It’s over, it happened, I’m — dealing with it. But I know that I could talk to you — either of you — about it if I needed to, okay? But it’s been a while. I feel — I feel like a person again. I’m okay. I’m good. And I’m happy here.”

“Yeah, okay.” Louis nods. “Yeah, that’s — that’s good, then.”

“Trust me, Lou, I’m better than I’ve been in as long as I can remember.” He rolls back toward the screen, fitting a hand under Louis’s thigh and sighing softly. “I feel like I’m home.”

Louis doesn’t respond this time, just bites down on his own grin, still looking down at Harry. Really, that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear from him. He just wants him healthy and happy and here.

By the time Zayn comes in, Harry’s snoring quietly on Louis’s lap. Zayn leans against the doorway, raising his eyebrows and grinning at the two of them sprawled out on the couch. 

“Long night, eh?”

“In his defense, he’s been up since 3am,” Louis says, voice barely above a whisper. He scratches over Harry’s scalp. “How was your thing?”

“It was fine; the presentation went well and then we got drinks to celebrate after,” Zayn says, voice equally quiet.

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah, had some chips and shit at the pub.” Zayn crosses his arms, smirking. “You sleeping down here?”

“You’re annoying,” Louis shakes Harry softly, the younger lad stirring on his lap, frowning. “C’mon, H, let’s go to bed.”

“Mm? Fuck, sorry.” Harry pushes himself up, blinking blearily at the room. “Didn’t meant to fall asleep.”

“No worries, sweetheart. C’mon, bedtime.” Louis pats his thigh and stands up, finally greeting Zayn properly with a soft kiss. “You smell like beer.”

Zayn waggles his eyebrows. “Your favorite thing.”

Sticking his tongue out, Louis squeezes his waist and tugs him out of the living room. “Night, H!”

“He’s gonna feel abandoned,” Zayn teases. “Left all alone down here.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Louis groans, dragging Zayn up the stairs. “I’ve been ready to sleep for hours, all while you were out gallivanting around with your stupid presentation and your stupid sexy, edgy coworkers.”

Zayn follows Louis into the bathroom, closing the door and turning to cage Louis against it, his hands pressed to the wood on either side of Louis’ hips. “Playing the neglected wife is new for you,” he says, voice low. “My poor, poor boyfriend.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Louis sighs, cupping Zayn’s jaw and dragging him into a kiss. He licks into his mouth, nipping at Zayn’s bottom lip and dragging his thumb through Zayn’s beard.

Keeping him pressed against the door, Zayn pins his hips with his own, using his full bodyweight to keep Louis trapped exactly where he wants him, sliding his hands up Louis’s torso under his shirt. Louis shudders as rough thumbs pass over his nipples, the nail catching just this side of too sharp. Zayn explores his body like he isn’t intimately familiar with it, though Louis knows damn well he could trace every line, every tattoo with his tongue in a pitch black room.

He’s hard in his joggers, Zayn grinding up against him, and there are footsteps on the stairs. Louis breaks the kiss and sinks his teeth into Zayn’s shoulder, muffling the soft sounds Zayn drags out of him with his hips. Zayn laughs quietly.

“What, you don’t want him to hear?” He murmurs into Louis’s ear. “He already knows what you sound like, like this.”

“Shut up,” Louis grits out, and Zayn presses his hips in harder.

“I think you do want him to hear,” Zayn continues, punctuating each word with another filthy grind. “I think you’d take the opportunity for all its worth, really invite him in — ask him to stay awhile.”

Louis chokes back an embarrassing noise, dropping his head back against the door with a thud. He prays Harry’s already in his room. Zayn grins at him, kissing him again, nipping sharply at Louis’s lip and tugging the skin as he draws back. 

“I think you’d ask to him join,” Zayn breathes, and with that, Louis comes. His hips jerk against Zayn’s and he keeps grinding against him, working him through his orgasm until he stills, hips jolting, heat spreading and adding to the already-cooling mess of Louis’ joggers. “Should’ve known that’d get you.”

“God, fuck off,” Louis rasps. Zayn laughs, stepping back and shoving his trousers down. He turns on the shower, working the buttons of his shirt with his free hand.

Louis strips, dropping his soiled joggers and t-shirt atop Zayn’s clothes before following him under the spray. He lets Zayn wash his hair with his fancy shampoo, then steps out of the way so he can do his own. If he steals the fancy bodywash Harry had gifted Zayn a while ago, nobody needs to know.

They peek out into the hall after drying off to ensure Harry’s door is closed before darting naked into their bedroom. Louis digs out a pair of boxers, handing Zayn a pair of briefs before they both climb into the bed. Zayn tucks himself into Louis’ arms, tugging him to press against him, Louis’s chest to Zayn’s back. He presses a kiss to Zayn’s shoulder. 

“We should talk to him,” Louis murmurs into the bare skin of Zayn’s back. “Soon, I think.”

“Sure, love.” Zayn pulls Louis’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the backs of his knuckles before he guides it to rest against his chest. “Soon as we can.”

₊˚⊹⋆

It’s two days later that Zayn finally corners Louis just before Harry gets home. 

“We need to talk to him. Today.”

“Uh. Why today?” Louis blinks up at his partner, setting his tea back on the table. “You have a deadline for whatever reason?”

“Yeah, Louis, I want him in our bed,” Zayn says, tone flat. “I want to stop saying goodnight and going our separate ways because it’s fucking stupid when we both know that we could have more.”

Louis stares at him for a moment. “I really didn’t know you felt so strongly about this, if I’m honest. I didn’t think you wanted to move it any faster.”

Dropping into the seat next to Louis’s, Zayn sighs. “I just want everything with him, babes. And I know we can have it. It feels like we’re denying ourselves some level of happiness we don’t need to be.”

Louis slips his fingers into Zayn’s, squeezing his hand gently. “Alright, love. We’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Fuck, finally. S’been months.”

“Alright, drama queen, don’t start.” Louis stands, squeezing the back of Zayn’s neck and turning the kettle back on. “He should be here any minute, actually. We could just get it out of the way immediately.”

“What if he wants to move out?” Zayn replies, and Louis turns to frown at him. “What? It could happen.”

“You literally just whined about how it’s such a sure thing you don’t know why we’re waiting to talk to him.”

“I take it back,” Zayn says, shrugging. “What if he tells us he hates us and doesn’t want to live with us anymore instead?”

“I just really don’t think that’ll happen, if nothing else,” Louis sighs. Zayn remains one of the most dramatic people he knows on the best of days. “Worst case scenario he just tells us we misread the situation, Z. He’s not gonna hate us. Or try to move out.”

“It could happen.”

“But it won’t,” Louis insists. “Seriously. You know him. He doesn’t pull that kind of shit.”

“But—”

“Zayn. Seriously. Shut up,” Louis says. Zayn pouts comedically at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Do you want tea or not?”

“Yes, please.” He continues pouting.

Louis is saved from scolding him by the sound of Harry at the door to the flat. 

“Lads? You home?”

“Kitchen, H,” Louis calls. He looks at Zayn again and mouths behave. “How was work, love?”

“It was alright. I brought home scones.” He drops a paper bag on the table. “You making tea?”

“Yep! Why don’t you go get changed and get comfy and join us in the living room, hm?” Louis suggests, already filling mugs. “Tea needs a mo’ to cool off anyway.”

“Sounds good, yeah.” Harry smiles at Zayn and Louis before disappearing upstairs, and Louis stares after him.

While he had known that they had been planning to initiate this particular conversation for a while, he had not made any sort of progress on sorting out what exactly to say to Harry — or more specifically, how to broach the topic. He hands Zayn’s mug off to him, then picks up his own and Harry’s and heads to the couch. Zayn settles at his side, tattooed fingers wrapped around his mug, and they let the silence linger.

As Harry’s footsteps begin descending the stairs, Louis takes a deep breath. Now or never, he supposes. Might as well just rip the band-aid off.

“Thanks for making tea, Lou,” Harry says, sighing contentedly as he settles next to Louis on the couch. “My whole body fucking kills right now; I hardly got a moment to myself to even sit down all day today. I thought Niall was going to walk out and never come back.”

“Fuck, babes, that sounds awful,” Zayn says, wincing.

“I’m sorry your day was so long, sweetheart,” Louis adds. “At least you’re home now?”

“Thank god,” Harry groans. “Home and comfortable and now I can turn off my brain and my body for the rest of the night.”

Zayn coughs. “About that, actually—”

Lifting his head, Harry frowns at them both. “Uh oh.”

“It’s nothing bad,” Louis rushes to assure him, reaching out and squeezing his thigh. “We just wanted to…pitch an idea to you.”

“Pitch an idea?” Harry repeats slowly, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“About us.”

“Us,” Harry repeats again.

“The three of us, specifically,” Zayn clarifies, and Harry’s brow furrows further. “Um, romantically.”

“Romantically?” Harry says, eyes go wide as saucers. Louis winces internally. “I haven’t been — I didn’t mean to —”

Louis cuts him off. “You haven’t done a thing wrong, H, stop panicking. We were just wondering if you wanted to be in a relationship with us. Romantically.”

Zayn nods out of the corner of Louis’s eye. “Together.”

“The three of us,” Harry says, tone blank. “Together romantically.”

“I need you to stop repeating everything we say and give us some of your own thoughts, love,” Zayn says, tone gentle but words sharp.

“Right. Uh. How exactly would that…work?” Harry asks, looking between them again.

Louis clears his throat. “I dunno, I mean — in my mind, everything’s always been the three of us, y’know? Only thing that makes sense. Guess it makes sense it would be like that romantically too. I mean I don’t think much would change? Other than sleeping arrangements? And like, intimacy.”

Harry stares blankly at him, gaze flicking briefly to Zayn before landing back on Louis. “I don’t — I don’t understand.”

“You’ve always been part of our lives, H,” Zayn says softly. “We want you to be part of this part, too.”

“But—”

“You don’t have to answer us right now,” he says, interrupting Harry. Louis gets abrupt deja vu, remembering the conversation asking Harry to move in. “Take your time; I know th—”

“No, I want it,” Harry says, cutting Zayn off suddenly, glancing between the two of them. His jaw works under the skin. “I want — I want you, both of you.”

Louis stares at him, slightly aghast. “You— that was fast.”

Shrugging a shoulder, Harry has the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “Well, yeah.”

He squints at him. “You took longer to think about whether or not you wanted to live with us.”

“Yeah, well, I already made that leap, didn’t I? Feels like that was the bigger step, upending my life and everything.” He shrugs again. 

“I can’t say I was expecting an immediate answer,” Zayn says slowly, glancing between Louis and Harry. “So that’s… a nice surprise.”

For a moment, the three of them just look between one another. Louis isn’t entirely sure what he feels. He’s overjoyed, mostly, but slightly wary of the quick answer, scared to potentially scare Harry off. He doesn’t really know what comes next, though he knows they’ll have to talk more — discuss boundaries and what polyamory means for the three of them and how to navigate things like jealousy — but for now, he really only wants to do one thing.

“Harry,” Louis says, pulling the attention to himself again. “Can I kiss you?”

Harry scoffs, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve kissed me probably thousands of times, Lou. Seems silly to ask.”

“Yeah, but it’s been years since then. I want — please, can I?” Louis stands up and crouches in front of him, ghosting his hands over the outsides of Harry’s legs. “Please?”

“I—” Harry’s gaze darts between Louis and Zayn. “Yeah, okay, please.”

Bracing himself on Harry’s knees, Louis leans forward and ghosts his lips over Harry’s. He kisses him softly, quickly, just the once to get a taste of it. It’s as if he’s reminding himself what it’s like to be so close to Harry like this. After the first brief brush of lips, Louis lets himself fall forward to beg for more, pressing his mouth to Harry’s and moving his lips with firm purposes, pressing Harry’s mouth open and nipping at his lower lip. 

Harry tastes like home. He’s the same as he was years ago, only better. He’s familiar in the way he always has been, only with the hint of unfamiliarity. His mouth is soft against Louis’s, his hands coming up to cradle Louis’s jaw, firm and warm and solid. He kisses Louis back and it’s lovely — brand new and familiar and wonderful. Breaking away from the kiss, Louis takes a moment to soak in Harry’s features, his eyes sparkling and heavy-lidded as he looks back at Louis before he glances toward Zayn, still sitting next to him on the couch. 

Leaning forward, Zayn puts a tattooed hand on the side of Harry’s jaw and guides him carefully in, kissing him gently. They make a beautiful pair. Louis’ knees ache but he doesn’t want to stand — he likes being so close to them, like he’s being included even as he isn’t. The soft sound of their lips parting and meeting and parting again lights sparks under his skin, his veins practically electric. He’s had Harry in almost all ways, but never like this. He’s never been able to watch the way Harry’s lashes flutter as he’s kissed, or the way his nostrils flare each time he pulls back only to dive back in.

When the kiss finally breaks, Harry’s cheeks are flushed and his lips are slightly swollen. He looks at Zayn and Louis like he has stars in his eyes. Louis can’t help but lean forward to kiss him again, short and sweet. Like he’s allowed to, for the first time in years.

“This is nice,” Harry says quietly as Louis pulls away. 

“Mm, innit?” Louis finally pushes to his feet, knees cracking as he goes. Harry stares up at him, eyes sparkling. 

“Could w— nevermind,” Harry cuts himself off, shaking his head at himself. He clears his throat. “Uh, dinner?”

“What’s up, H?” Zayn asks, trailing his fingertips over Harry’s jaw. “You can tell us anything, y’know.”

Harry flushes, cheeks going dark. “Nothing, I just —”

“Harry,” Zayn says, voice low. “C’mon.” Louis loves when Zayn gets serious like this, all commanding and broody. He bites his lower lip.

“Was just gonna ask if you’d — if you’d wanna — I dunno, if you’d want to sleep with me?” Harry’s cheeks grow even darker and he shifts, pressing his thighs together. 

Louis raises his eyebrows, eyes dropping to Harry’s crotch. He’s hard in his sweats, and Louis smirks at him. “Why would we ever tell you no?”

“It could be too much too soon, or maybe you don’t want that with me, or — it’s just that I really want it, and —”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, cutting him off. “Love, c’mere.” He holds out both hands, tugging Harry to his feet and drawing him in to kiss him softly again. “You’re sure?”

“Please,” Harry breathes.

Wrapping one hand around one of Harry’s wrists, Zayn draws him away from Louis and kisses him firmly, just once, before he sets off for the stairs, Harry in tow. Louis just follows, unable to stop grinning. All at once, it feels like everything he’s ever asked for is within his grasp. He slips his fingers beneath Harry’s waistband as they navigate the stairs, and pulls Harry’s shirt over his head the moment they cross the threshold into their bedroom. Zayn busies himself shoving Harry’s sweatpants down and off his endless legs before pushing him lightly to sprawl out on the bed.

For a moment, Louis drinks him in, all long limbs splayed out for them. His thighs fall open, putting himself on full display, still flushed all the way down to his sternum. Tearing his own shirt off and kicking his joggers off, Louis knees his way between Harry’s legs and leans down to kiss him again. Zayn mirrors him so they’re essentially surrounding Harry as best they can, and like this, they take him apart.

Harry is as lovely as Louis had always dreamed that he’d be. He opens for Zayn and Louis like a flower, body drawing them in with ease. Not a moment passes where he isn’t being kissed or pet or pressed open, the sweetest sounds falling from his lips as he begs and pleads for more. He’s greedy in the best of ways, giving in easily to the push and pull between Zayn and Louis, falling to pieces between them and coming clear up to his collarbones once they finally push him over the edge — and then, even afterwards, still doing his best to please. He begs Zayn to fuck his face until he spills down his throat, then asks Louis to paint his face white with his own release.

It’s more than Louis could have imagined. It’s everything and then some.

Afterwards, Louis digs towels out from beneath their sink and wets them, carefully wiping down Harry’s face. He clears the come from his lashes and eyebrows, then carefully also from his cheeks where he couldn’t reach with his tongue. Then, he kisses him again. He slides his tongue along Harry’s, the lingering traces of Zayn’s release still present, and he turns to press his lips to Zayn’s immediately after. He tosses the towels somewhere in the vague direction of the hamper, already aware he’ll be hearing about it from Zayn in the morning, and tucks himself right smack in the middle of Zayn and Harry.

Zayn plasters himself to Louis’s back and Louis tugs Harry flush against his front, sandwiching himself safely between them. Zayn turns off the lamp, letting silence and darkness curl around the three of them, safe and warm. Everything inside of Louis feels as if it’s in the right place. 

Eventually, Harry breaks the silence.

“I never thought this was something I could have,” Harry whispers, just barely audible in the dark of their bedroom. Louis rubs a gentle hand over his sternum, but stays quiet. “I didn’t think — thank you.”

“Always, H,” Louis murmurs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “You’re the sunshine to us, you know. We’ll take you any way you’ll let us have you.”

Without saying a word, Zayn shifts his arm to wrap around both Louis and Harry, linking his fingers through Louis’ and pressing their joined hands to Harry’s chest. His heartbeat is fierce against Louis’s palm, beating steadily. He inhales slowly. He wonders if it might be possible to stay like this forever..

₊˚⊹⋆

Louis corners Zayn first thing in the morning after Harry had left for work. “Candlelight dinner.”

Zayn blinks, tea halfway to his mouth. “Uh, sounds lovely, Lou.”

Smacking his shoulder, Louis passes him to turn the kettle back on.  “Tonight, for Harry.”

“Oh. Do you want me to make reservations somewhere?”

“I was actually thinking we could do it here,” Louis hedges as the kettle clicks off. “Oh, still hot?”

“Literally just made mine, Lou, s’how it works,” Zayn says flatly. “You want to do a special candlelight dinner in our own flat?”

“Yes,” Louis hisses. “I have to go in for a meeting that gets out a little before his shift ends so I’ll divert him, I just need you to cook. I can set up before I leave.”

“He’s gonna want to change,” Zayn says, raising his eyebrows. “Unless you think he’s going to want to be romanced while covered in flour.”

Louis pauses, pursing his lips and settling across from Zayn at the table. “Okay, fine — we get everything set up here, but we don’t get the food completely done so he has time to shower and change after we get home.”

Zayn rests an elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his palm and rocking forward. “You’re a sap, you know.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis throws a fork from the tabletop at Zayn. “Yes, and?”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll cook. Should I be naked under an apron and everything?” Zayn quirks an eyebrow, fluttering his lashes. “Maybe get something lacy and silky?”

“You’re annoying,” Louis sighs. “And a bit of a cunt.”

“You love me,” Zayn replies, sticking his tongue out. “Anyway, I have to meet with the editors of some website this afternoon but should be home by half-three. I’ll get food started around then.”

“Perfect. What are you gonna make?”

“Mm, could do homemade pasta? I can pick up fresh parm and some wine on the way back from my meeting, maybe to a vodka sauce.” Louis hums in acknowledgment. “Oh, and a baguette, could do garlic bread too.”

“Ugh, that sounds banging, Z,” Louis moans, reaching across the table and catching Zayn’s wrist. “We’ll aim to be back around half-five or six?”

Zayn nods. “That works. Alright, I have to go prep for this meeting, so I’ll see you tonight.” He stands from the table, tea in hand, and bends down to press a kiss to the top of Louis’s head. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Louis replies. 

He spends the rest of the morning clearing off the table in the room adjacent to the living room, digging out the single tablecloth they own and smoothing it over the tabletop. He finds the china Zayn had been gifted by a client, setting three places. He digs out candles from Harry’s collection — a trio of three tall candles in varying shades of red, as well as an entire bag of tealights. He makes a note to ask Harry what the hell possessed him to purchase and keep this many tealights.

After arranging the candles where he thinks they look best, Louis steps back to look over the entire place with a satisfied nod. The entire setup feels done with the candles in their respective places and Louis snaps a photo to send to Zayn so he knows what to expect. Glancing at the clock, he heads to his room to change.

Louis, 10:47 — You still ok to meet up after work? 

H, 10:47 — Yeah :-) 

Louis, 10:48 — Sick, see you then xx

H, 10:48 — See you :-) xx

The day drags by until Louis finally makes his way to Harry, walking up right as Harry pushes the door to the bakery open. He grins, holding out a muffin.

“Cinnamon muffin?”

“Cinnamon?” Louis raises his eyebrows. 

“S’what we made today,” Harry says, shrugging. “Thought we could split it while we walk.”

“If you insist.” Louis holds out a hand, letting Harry place half the muffin in his palm. “So I thought we’d just walk for a bit and then pop by a Boots on the way back to the flat so I can grab toiletry shit — Zayn’s out of some fancy shit for his hair and with the three of us in the one shower we’re out of bodywash again.”

Harry snorts quietly, starting to speak through a mouthful of muffin. “Can we get that lavender one again?”

Louis levels him with a look. “Why d’you think I asked you to come?”

“Because you want to spend time with me,” Harry deadpans. “Obviously.”

“Mm, could do that at home, though,” Louis argues. “And without going somewhere to spend money.”

“Whatever,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. 

Giggling, Louis polishes off the rest of his muffin and links his fingers with Harry’s. Despite being the middle of July, it isn’t too hot out and their walk is mostly pleasant. They look at storefronts, commenting on the various choices for mid-summer window decorations and the odd fashion choices that appear to be in for the year, and Louis treasures every moment of it.

They pop into a boba shop and Louis buys Harry some strawberry matcha monstrosity that he refuses to taste, even when Harry begs him to do so, and thinks it worth giving into the green drink craze if it puts a smile like that one on Harry’s face. Harry certainly seems to love the drink, humming happily each time he sips it as they walk. It’s worth it.

After a while, Louis checks the time. “Alright, ready to pop into Boots and then head home?”

Harry hums. “Sounds good.” He pauses. “I love when you say that.”

“Say what?”

“Home. Feels like — feels right, I think,” Harry says, voice soft. “Just feels like it makes sense, I think. And it’s been a while since something felt like it made sense the way calling our flat home does.”

“I like being able to go home with you,” Louis admits. “I think Z and I both feel like it’s more of a home now that you’re in it too.”

“Sap,” Harry teases. Louis just laughs.

They finish their shopping relatively quickly, with Harry knowing exactly where to locate the toiletries they need. The closer they get to the flat, the more anxious Louis becomes. He thinks it’s silly to be anxious at all; this is Harry. There’s hardly anything to lose. All this is is a nice dinner to treat their boy the way he deserves. 

Climbing the stairs to their flat feels like the most mountainous climb of Louis’s life. He pauses outside the door, fumbling slightly with the key, praying Zayn is ready for them. He should’ve let him know when they were on the way. If he had been thinking at all, he certainly would have — he even does that when there isn’t a secret five-star dinner planned to surprise someone — and he regrets not doing so now, even as he pushes the door open.

He’s relieved immediately at the scents of garlic and spices carry out into the hall the moment the door swings open. He steps to the side to let Harry pass him, closing the door softly behind them.

“Oh,” Harry breathes, stopping in his tracks only six steps into their home. The entire flat is lit by candles; Zayn had clearly located and lit more than Louis could find that morning. “This is — this is beautiful. It smells so good in here.”

Zayn appears from the kitchen, wearing black slim-cut trousers and a black button down beneath an apron. “Homemade fettuchini, vodka sauce, and garlic-cheese bread. Wine?” He holds out a glass of red.

Harry blinks at him. “I — thank you. What’s all this for?”

“Deserve to be wined and dined good and proper, don’t you, love?” Zayn says, smiling at him. “Louis’s idea.”

“Lou,” Harry says in disbelief, turning to face him. “Really?”

“Thought it might be nice. And we haven’t really taken care of you the way we should’ve, what with the whole non-traditional start to this relationship,” Louis admits, slightly sheepish. 

“You deserve to be treated nice, H,” Zayn adds. “Let us.”

“Can I go change? M’all gross,” Harry says, mouth twisting. “I want to feel nice for this.”

Zayn grins at him, all soft at the corners of his eyes. “Of course, babes. Food’ll be ready in twenty or so, so you have time to freshen up. You too, Lou.”

“Oi, I’m fresh!” Louis protests. 

“Go,” Zayn says, jerking his head toward the stairs and taking Harry’s wine glass back. “I don’t want to see either of you down here again until you’re in something beautiful!”

“Everything I have is beautiful, Zaynie!” Louis calls over his shoulder, dutifully following Harry up the stairs.

They both change, and Harry appears to take the fastest shower Louis has ever known a human being to take. He meets Louis back in the hall wearing pearlescent silk trousers and a button down shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, damp curls shoved off his forehead. Louis frowns down at his own outfit, black trousers and a black turtleneck.

“You’ve outdone us both, H,” he scolds. “Now I have to change again.”

“You do not, you look beautiful,” Harry argues. “And dinner’s ready anyway, come on.”

Louis rolls his eyes but he links his fingers with Harry’s and follows him down the stairs. Zayn has everything plated, laying out the garlic bread as Harry and Louis round the corner into the dining room. 

“This looks so lovely, Z,” Harry breathes, stopping astride the table and staring at the spread with the corners of his lips curling into a smile. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“S’just pasta, love,” Zayn protests, but there’s a pleased undertone to his words. Louis shakes his head.

“Homemade, though!”

Louis pulls Harry’s chair out for him. “Here, sun, sit.”

Harry does, and Louis pushes his chair back into position. “This really is five-star service,” Harry says. “Am I being buttered up for something?”

“We just wanted to treat you, s’all.” Louis kisses the top of his head and takes his own seat, mirroring Zayn as he finally sits down with them. 

The first bite of pasta has Louis groaning aloud, sighing in pleasure. There’s hardly anything Zayn can’t cook, and this is divine. There’s no talking at all as they start eating, each man too focused on their food to even think about speaking. Even still, it's nice, and over far too quickly. They're each practically scraping their plates at the end, wiping up sauce with garlic bread and finishing their wine.

They clean up the table together, following their usual kitchen cleanup routine. It goes smoothly as always, with Zayn being the one to dry seeing as he’d done all the work cooking. With everything dried and put away, Louis refills all of their wine glasses, handing them to their respective owners and leading everyone to the living room.

Harry connects his phone to the speakers, playing some playlist of 80s music that Louis can only name every third song on, and he digs out a Scrabble board. They spend the next hour on a game, quickly getting drunker as they open a second then third bottle of wine, Harry’s playlist slowly getting louder. 

In the middle of laying tiles on the board, a new song comes on and Harry jumps, knocking his tiles asunder. “I love this song!”

Louis squints up at him from his position on the floor. “The fuck is this?”

“I’d Do Anything for Love,” Zayn says, smirking as he watches Harry begin belting out lyrics. “By Meat Loaf.”

“Meat Loaf?” Louis frowns at Zayn. “Fucking stupid name.”

Zayn just rolls his eyes. “He loved this song when we were kids — I think he said it was Anne’s favorite when he was growing up.”

“I think this is the perfect wedding afterparty song,” Harry says, a giant smile on his face. He wobbles a bit on his feet, likely from the wine, but catches himself on the windowsill. “Perfect dance song, perfect singalong song…”

“Dance for us, then, baby,” Zayn teases, sprawling out on the couch, clearly done with Scrabble. “Show us what you got.”

Harry pouts, holding his hands out. “Dance with me.”

Shaking his head, Zayn laughs. “Absolutely not, babe. No way in hell.”

Harry turns his gaze on Louis, pout deepening. “Lou?”

“Fine,” Louis says, heaving a sigh. “C’mon then.”

He lets himself be pulled to his feet, leaving one hand in Harry’s and placing one steadfastly at his waist to guide him in a waltz around the room. Harry continues belting out the words dramatically, swaying closer to Louis with every step. Zayn keeps laughing from the couch, clearly enjoying bearing witness to the chaos. On one pass by the couch, Louis lets go of Harry and yanks Zayn to his feet, forcing him into the worst rendition of poor ballroom dancing the world has ever seen.

By the time the song ends, Louis’s stomach hurts from laughing so hard, and Zayn and Harry are both red-faced from their own laughter. Louis collapses onto the couch, head spinning, pulling the other two down with him until they're all dog piled on the couch, only barely managing not to slide off onto the floor.

They’ll make their way to bed eventually, but they're in no rush. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Harry comes home from the bakery and falls asleep on the kitchen table, face cushioned on his arms. Louis finds him there over half an hour later, shaking his shoulder gently.

“Hey, sweetheart, this is gonna be murder on your back.”

“Hm?” Harry stirs, turning his face and squinting up at Louis. “Oh, fuck, m’sorry.”

“No worries, sun, I just don’t want your back to hurt later,” Louis says softly. “C’mon, let's move to the couch.”

“Mm, my body hurts,” he mumbles, turning his face back into the cushion of his arms. Louis frowns down at him, rubbing his hand gently back and forth over his shoulderblades.

“Alright, c’mon, I’ll run you a bath.”

Harry lifts his head, blinking up at Louis. “What?”

Louis grins, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “I’ll run you a bath, let's go.”

“You don’t have t—”

Shaking his head, Louis cuts him off. “I’m running you a bath, Harry. Come on.”

Begrudgingly, Harry accepts the hand being held out to him and gets to his feet. Exhaustion is clear in the lines of his faces, the corners of his eyes tight, and Louis’s chest twinges. It's possible Harry hasn’t been sleeping through the night, but Louis would have thought that he would notice, considering they share a bed most nights. He makes a mental note to talk to Zayn when he gets home to ask if he’s noticed Harry sleeping restlessly. Maybe they can work out a better sleeping arrangement.

Leaving Harry in the bedroom, Louis steps into the bathroom and turns the tub faucet on. As the water heats up, he digs under the sink for all the fancy shit he knows Harry stores in there. He pulls out lavender vanilla epsom salt, lavender eucalyptus bubble bath, and a small bottle of cupcake scented massage oil, which he raises his eyebrows at.

“You a big lavender guy, H?”

“What?” Harry calls from the bedroom, and Louis shakes his head.

“Nothing, sun.”

He plugs the drain, steaming curling up into the air as the tub fills with water. After it fills a quarter of the way, he sprinkles the salt over the full length of the tub before adding the bubble bath and watching it foam up.

Looking up as Harry comes in, draped in a robe, Louis’s mouth goes dry. Harry really is beautiful, all soft and sweet even when he’s tired. 

“Smells nice in here,” he says softly, and Louis smiles.

“Pulled all your lavender shit out from underneath the sink,” he explains. “Thought you might like that.”

“I would, yeah.” Harry slides the robe off his shoulders, hanging it on the hook on the bathroom door, and steps next to Louis. “Am I allowed to get in?”

“Yeah, baby, 'course. Go on.”

Louis holds his hand out for Harry to grasp as he steps into the tub, carefully submerging himself into the water and sighing softly. He looks content, features going soft as he settles, eyes slipping closed and head leaning back to rest against the back of the tub. Louis takes another few moments to soak him in, letting his eyes trace Harry collarbones and the swallows inked beneath them, and the gentle slope of his shoulders. He shakes his head at himself, stepping away from the tub.

Lashes fluttering, Harry blinks his eyes open and looks up at Louis, frowning slightly. “Where are you going?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Back downstairs?”

“Sit in here with me,” Harry urges, sitting up. “Don’t just abandon me. What if I fall asleep and drown?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Alright, drama queen.”

He strips, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door before he steps into the tub, sinking into the miniscule space between Harry’s body and the back wall of the tub. Harry leans back against him, back to Louis’s chest, and sighs contentedly. They sit there in silence, Louis’s chin hooked over Harry’s shoulder, surrounded by the scent of lavender.

Beneath the water, Louis strokes his fingertips up and down Harry’s thighs. He trails his hands over the curve of Harry’s stomach and the dip of his bellybutton, then over the slight swell of his hipbones and the softness at his hips. Harry sighs again, softly, melting back against Louis. The way he’s pressed against Louis’s chest allows Louis to feel every breath he takes, and he’s soundly aware of the moment those breaths even out, Harry snoring softly in the tub.

Louis continues to hold him, letting him sleep until the water cools. Just as he’s about to rouse him, Zayn knocks at the bathroom door, pushing it slightly open.

“I was wondering where you two got off to,” he murmurs. “Finished the mock-up I was working on.”

“No getting off involved, I’ll have you know,” Louis replies, narrowing his eyes. “Not everything’s about sex.”

“Ha, ha,” Zayn snipes back. “Whatever you say.”

Louis rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out of his head, pinching Harry gently to finally wake him. “Hey, baby, water’s getting cold.”

Harry stirs, making a soft noise of discontent, and Zayn steps out of the room to fetch towels. He returns with their softest set, opening one and holding his arms open for Harry like he’s a child. Harry stumbles into his embrace, letting Zayn wrap him in the giant towel and press a kiss to his shoulder. Louis climbs out himself, smacking Zayn’s hand away when he reaches out for him as well. 

They get dressed in the softest things they own — more joggers stolen from Zayn for Louis and a plush matching sleep set for Harry — joining Zayn on the couch, already wearing comfortable clothes of his own. Harry settles himself in Zayn’s lap for a moment, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him softly, letting out another contented sigh. Louis smiles to himself watching the two of them, biting down on his thumb. Zayn trails hands up Harry’s thighs to his hips, squeezing softly as Harry pulls away.

“What was that for?” He asks quietly, amber eyes aglow as he looks up at Harry.

“Just wanted it,” Harry says, shrugging. He shifts to settle himself between Zayn and Louis, leaving his legs thrown across Zayn’s lap and tucking his head into Louis’s shoulder. “Just wanna kiss you sometimes.”

Zayn glances at Louis, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit. “I think I can live with that.”

And oh, couldn’t anyone?

₊˚⊹⋆

Louis, 13:42 — Just stopped by the bakery, Ni said you went home? You ok?

H, 13:42 — Sliced my finger open :-( 

H, 13:42 — Don’t worry though, Z patched me up :-)

Louis, 13:43 — Clumsy boy xx

Louis, 13:43 — Let me know if you need anything xx

₊˚⊹⋆

Zayn’s hands are firm on Louis’ hips, tugging him into his body and guiding them in a lazy grind where they sit on the couch, some movie forgotten on the screen behind them. Louis licks into Zayn’s mouth, chasing the taste of tea on his tongue. 

“Where’s Harry?” Louis mutters into Zayn’s mouth, pressing himself more firmly against him.

“Mm, laying down, I think? Said he had a headache when he came in,” Zayn replies, rolling them sideways and trapping Louis between his body and the couch cushions. 

“Again?” Louis tosses his head back, Zayn latching onto the skin beneath his jaw. “We have got to make him drink more water, m’feeling like a neglected wife.”

“Think it’s usually the wife who fakes headaches to get out of sex, Lou,” Zayn says into his skin. “But I’m sure Harry will love to be accused of that. Make sure I’m not home when you ask him, yeah?”

“Oh fuck off,” Louis snaps, though it turns more into a moan as Zayn cants his hips down again. “Or don’t,” he gasps. “Just keep doing that.”

Zayn hums, continuing to work his hips against Louis’ until they're both shuddering through their releases, faces tucked in each other’s throats. They lay there for a bit as they come down, catching their breath. Louis pets down the back of Zayn’s neck, scratching his nails over the skin. His thoughts wander back to Harry and he presses a kiss to Zayn’s jaw.

“M’gonna go check on our boy,” he murmurs. Zayn hums in response.

“Think he’ll want a tea?”

“Would you get him a water too?”

Zayn hums. “Meet you up there.”

Louis kisses him quickly, then forces himself off the couch. He grimaces at the cooling come in his pants, holding the fabric away from his dick as he climbs the steps. He changes quickly into a pair of Zayn’s joggers before he knocks softly on Harry’s door, letting himself in before he answers.

Harry blinks, looking at him through the darkness of his bedroom. “Hey, Lou.”

“Hey, baby, y’alright?” Louis perches on the edge of the bed, brushing Harry’s curls off his forehead. “Z said you had a headache.”

“Mm, s’a bit better now,” Harry says. “I slept a bit.”

“Shit, I didn't wake you, did I?” 

“Nah, I was up.” Harry smiles softly up at him. “Just kept my eyes closed for a bit.”

“Did you take any paracetamol, baby? I can have Z bring some up when he comes,” Louis offers, pressing the back of his knuckles to Harry’s cheek. “Maybe some ice as well?”

“M’fine, darling, thank you though,” Harry says. “I really do feel a bit better, I was probably just tired.”

A light knock on the door signals Zayn’s arrival, the door creaking open quietly. “I come bearing tea and water and paracetamol.”

Louis smirks. “And I didn’t even tell him to bring the paracetamol.”

“Oh, whatever,” Harry sighs. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, accepting the pills and water first, taking two pills. Louis takes the water cup out of his hands and hands him his mug. “Perfect tea, Z, you're lovely.”

“Love you, babes.” Zayn sits on the end of the bed, rubbing his hand up and down Harry’s shin. “How you feeling?”

“I feel like having two boyfriends is like living with my mum again,” he replies. 

“You're annoying,” Zayn replies flatly. Harry just grins.

“What are we doing tonight?” He asks. “Now that I’m awake, I mean.”

“Mm, could go out somewhere?” Louis suggests, leaning back on his elbows. “Pub?”

Harry winces. “I don't think drinking would feel great, if I’m honest.”

Zayn squeezes his leg. “Fair play. We could order pizza and cuddle in our bed — since you decided to squirrel yourself away in here instead of the bed you sleep in every night — and watch whatever latest A24 film is on streaming.”

“That sounds lovely,” Harry says quietly. 

“Alright, c’mon then,” Louis says. “Up you go. Let's relocate.”

₊˚⊹⋆

“You’ve been having these headaches and such for a while, H, I really think you should go in and talk to a physician,” Louis says, frowning at his partner. Harry has a bag of frozen peas laid across his eyes, sprawled on the couch. “Really, this is the third this week.”

“And the second one that’s been bad enough to bring you home from work,” Zayn adds, passing Louis and perching on the edge of the sofa. He rests his hand on Harry’s sternum, smoothing his thumb back and forth over his sweater.

“Going to the doctor for a headache is so dramatic,” Harry complains. “They’re going to prescribe me some paracetamol and send me home.”

“Okay, but at least maybe they can prescribe you some stronger shit than you can get at Boots, love,” Louis scolds. “Please? I’ll feel better knowing you aren’t in pain.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll make the appointment when this subsides,” Harry mutters. 

While he really had wanted him to agree, something about Harry giving in with barely a fight worries Louis. He wonders if the headaches are worse than Harry has let on, and when he makes eye contact with Zayn, he knows he’s wondering the same. He drops a hand to the top of Harry’s head, scratching lightly over his scalp before he heads to the kitchen to make tea.

He pulls their respective mugs out of the cabinet and rests them on the countertop, filling the kettle and switching it on. While he waits for it to heat, he stares at the eclectic assortment of mugs. He has such a soft spot for the sentimentality that lives in their mugs — and in particular, their affinity for each of their own special mugs. It feels like the kind of thing you do when you’re in an established relationship and are living together; something Louis wasn’t entirely sure they were ever going to have.

Finishing the tea and making each to their respective tastes, Louis transports all three to the living room, where Zayn has queued up a film and is watching it at a barely-audible volume. Louis rests the teas on the coffee table before cautiously lifting Harry’s head and shoulders and sliding under them, cushioning his head in his lap and picking up his mug again.

“Tea for you on the table if you want it, sweetheart,” he murmurs. Harry hums in thanks but doesn’t speak, and Louis tunes in to the movie.

After a while and the majority of the movie is over, Harry finally stirs, lifting the peas from his face and blinking up at Louis. Louis looks down and raises his brows, and Harry gestures to his phone before standing and leaving the room. Louis follows him with his eyes, gaze lingering on the empty doorway for a while before returning his attention to the film.

“Calling the doctor?” Zayn asks quietly.

“I’d assume,” Louis replies, shrugging a shoulder. They both watch the rest of the movie and are discussing the ending when Harry returns. “You make an appointment?”

“Apparently they have an opening tomorrow,” Harry says, shrugging and dropping onto the couch between Zayn and Louis. “Said I should come in first thing in the morning — I guess they had just had someone cancel right before I called.”

“How lucky was that,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s thigh. “At least you’ll have a treatment plan sooner rather than later.”

Harry just scoffs quietly. They spend the rest of the evening lazing around, ordering McDonalds for dinner and retiring early to bed, all collecting in their carefully formatted arrangement in the king bed in the main bedroom. Harry’s head had begun hurting again just prior to retiring for the evening, and he had taken another round of paracetamol before heading to shower and put on his pajamas. He tucks himself carefully between Zayn and Louis, pressing his cheek to Louis’s chest, and Louis runs his fingers through damp curls. 

He mentally catalogues whether or not he’s seen Harry drinking enough water, and decides he hasn’t been drinking even half as much as he’s supposed to be drinking. He likely hasn’t been eating as much as he should be, either, with the early mornings at the bakery and the varying times they’ve been falling into bed at night. He hasn’t been sleeping enough either, often not going to sleep until Zayn and Louis have both returned from work and have finished individual projects they’ve been working on at home, and a slight pang of guilt stabs through his chest. He hasn’t been the attentive partner he should be. He needs to be better.

₊˚⊹⋆

“There was a mass,” Harry says, not looking up from the window. “On the MRI.”

“What — where?” Louis stays in the doorway. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s why I had to go in today. There was a mass in my brain.” Harry’s voice is emotionless. He still doesn’t look at Louis. “They needed to do a second MRI and a CT scan. There’s another appointment next week.”

“Okay, I still don’t —”

“They said I should bring someone with me. A partner or a parent, for support.” Harry finally turns around to face Louis, leaning back against the window. “Just in case.”

Louis blinks at him, unable to absorb the words. “Just in case what?”

Harry shrugs, looking almost disinterested with the conversation. “In case I freak out, I guess.”

“Okay, I think I can cance—”

“I want you both to come,” Harry says, firm and resolute. “The appointment’s on Tuesday. I want you both there.”

“Yeah, sun, of course,” Louis assures him. “But it’s going to be fine, you know? We’d know if something was really seriously wrong.”

“Could be nothing,” Harry says.

“Could be nothing,” Louis repeats. “Exactly.”

“I don’t want to have to tell him.” Harry keeps staring at Louis as he speaks. “I don’t want to scare him.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Louis breathes. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling him tightly against him and brushing a kiss over his jaw. “He’ll want to hear it from you. Like you said, could be nothing. Better to have all the tests run and see what all needs to happen as early as possible, you know? He’ll want to be part of that.”

Harry presses his face into Louis’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess.”

By the time Zayn gets home from his presentation, Harry and Louis are curled up on the couch with one quilt across their shoulders and another over their laps. Zayn raises his eyebrows, tugging his arms out of his jacket sleeves. 

“Cozy, aren’t we?”

“I need to talk to you,” Harry blurts out, and Zayn freezes. His eyes dart between Harry and Louis, panic at the corners of them.

“Come here,” Louis says softly. “We missed you.”

“What’s going on?” Zayn stays rooted to the spot by the table, jacket halfway to being tossed on a chair. “What’s happened?”

“Zayn,” Louis says, drawing his attention firmly onto himself. “Seriously, come here. Please.”

Zayn crosses the room and sinks onto the couch next to them, still frowning. “What’s up?”

Harry clears his throat. “I need you both to come to the hospital with me on Tuesday. The MRI they ran earlier this week showed a mass in my brain, and I had to go back today for a second MRI and a CT scan. They’ve asked me to come back in on Tuesday and to bring my support system.” He clears his throat. “You two are my support system.”

Swallowing, Zayn glances at Louis. “Of course, baby, whatever you need. I don’t think I have anything going on Tuesday anyway, so I don’t even have to reschedule anything.”

“I’ll let Liam know when I get in tomorrow,” Louis says, voice quiet. “It won’t be an issue.”

“Okay.”

They fall into silence again, Harry staring blankly ahead. Zayn catches Louis’s eye again. Louis doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to make this better, or how to pretend it’s all going to be okay. He doesn’t know where to go from here, except eventually to bed and to the hospital on Tuesday and to hope and pray to anyone who will listen that it really is nothing. It has to be nothing.

He’s only just gotten Harry back. He can’t lose him already. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Louis has never once liked hospitals, though he figures most people don't. He’s spent too much time in hospitals for someone not yet thirty; he’s spent too much time sitting next to people he loves in hospital beds that aren't quite large enough to fit two people. 

Somehow, this is worse.

Harry’s hand is clammy in his where their linked fingers rest in Harry’s lap, trembling slightly as he stares somewhat blankly forward, somewhere above the doctor’s head. On Harry’s other side, Zayn has his hand firmly affixed to his thigh. The air in the room is cold. Fitting, Louis would say, for the news that's just been dropped in their laps.

“What do you mean most brain tumors are benign?” Louis asks, voice flat. Zayn pinches his wrist in scolding. “Like. What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said, Mr. Tomlinson,” Dr. Beatty says. Her tone isn’t cold, necessarily, but it certainly isn’t welcoming. “Most brain tumors, particularly when caught early, pose little risk to patients — even less are ever cancerous.”

“But mine probably isn’t.” When Harry finally speaks, there's no emotion. He says it like it's an irrefutable fact, like he already knows the answer. Like he’s given up.

He continues staring blankly somewhere over her head.

Dr. Beatty appraises him, looking over Harry like he's an experiment. Something to be studied. “Your symptoms lead me to believe it's likely that your tumor is malignant, yes. That doesn’t mean terminal, Harry, it's important that you understand that.”

“Right.” Harry’s expression doesn’t change, entirely flat. Empty. “Sure, okay.”

“What are the next steps?” Louis asks; Harry clearly won’t.

“More tests,” Dr. Beatty says. “And then maybe some more, depending on the outcome of this round. There's nothing really we can do until we know more.”

“When can he have the tests done?”

“As soon as possible, ideally. We can get you in as early as two days from now.” She pauses, watching Harry for a long moment before she looks back to Louis. “I wouldn’t put them off for much longer than that.”

“We can do two days from now,” Louis says, nodding and mentally cataloguing everything he should reschedule. 

“You can’t,” Harry says, still staring. “You have a conference.”

“I can skip—”

“I’ll be here,” Zayn interrupts. “We can do two days from now.”

Harry sighs. “Don’t skip work.”

Not missing a beat, Zayn rolls his eyes. “I make my own schedule. I’m not skipping shit.”

Dr. Beatty looks between the three of them for a long moment. They're an unconventional trio — Louis has always loved that about them. He loved it when they were kids; he loves it more now. It makes sense for them, for the way they operate and for their relationship as a whole. For the first time, Louis wonders what they look like to the person in front of them. He wonders what she sees, appraising them all with her critical eye and her life skill of inspecting a person to suss out where they’ve begun rotting from.

Zayn and Harry keep up a quiet argument, but Louis continues watching Dr. Beatty. He wonders if she sees some part of them rotting. He wonders if she knows that though the brain tumor may be what kills them, she's the one who’s done the damage. He wonders how you live with yourself when you're the person who tells people their world is going to end. Capitalist grim reaper.

“So, Thursday,” Zayn finally says, loud enough that it's clear it isn’t the first time he’s said it. “What time?”

“Laboratory opens at 8,” she says, addressing Harry again. For the first time since she told them the news, Harry looks at her properly. “If you come right in then, we can process them the same day.”

“And then we’ll know?” Harry asks, his fingers clenching briefly in Louis’. “If I’m going to die?”

“Harry,” Zayn hisses. Louis keeps looking at Dr. Beatty.

“Not necessarily,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “But we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with and how to treat it.”

“Okay,” Harry says simply. “Is that everything?”

Louis finally looks away from the doctor and looks at Harry instead. There's a long pause.

“For today, yes,” Dr. Beatty says. “Unless you three have any other questions.”

“Doesn’t make sense to ask more questions before we do the labs, hm?” Harry asks, tone sickly sweet. “I’m sure we’ll come up with new ones on Thursday anyway.”

“Very well. Thank you three for coming in; I’m glad to see that Harry has such tangible support.” Dr. Beatty stands, holding a packet of papers out to Harry. Louis takes them instead. “I’ll plan to speak with you Thursday afternoon, Harry.”

“Sure.” 

The three of them move toward the door, and Louis feels drained. He looks forward to making it back to their flat and tumbling into bed and holding Harry as tightly as he possibly can for the remainder of the evening. Harry pauses just inside the door.

“Actually, I do have a question.” He glances between Louis and Zayn. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Oh.” Louis blinks, glancing at Zayn. “Right, sure. Er, yeah, okay. Thanks, Dr. Beatty.” Zayn just nods, following him into the hall.

They pause for a moment just outside the door before they move down the corridor toward the lobby. Zayn links his fingers with Louis’ as they walk, squeezing gently and saying nothing. In many ways, it feels as if there's nothing to say at all; what could you say to one another to accompany the looming threat to the person you love? What could you say to escape it?

In the lobby, Zayn sinks into a chair. He leaves his fingers linked with Louis’ and presses his forehead to Louis’s hipbone. Louis scratches his fingers through his hair. People pass around them, almost at hyper-speed, shoes squeaking on the linoleum from the rain outside. The world continues on around them. Louis keeps his gaze trained on the hall they exited from, his fingers still moving through Zayn’s hair. Waiting for Harry. So much of their lives has been spent waiting for Harry; always keeping one eye in his direction. Louis swallows. 

Whatever else he had expected when Harry had finally come back to them, spending time with him in hospital wasn’t even on the cards. They had been without him for years; they had earned years to go. There are so many years to make up for. So many years to spend together to balance out all those they’d spent apart. Harry wasn’t supposed to be sick for them. 

By the time Harry finally meets them, Louis feels wrung out. Harry looks wilted, almost, offering a small smile when he meets Louis’ eyes. He crosses the lobby, and it’s as if all the color in the world has drained from everything except for him. Louis holds out a hand, tugging him toward them, and Harry goes easily.

“All good?” Louis asks. Zayn looks up, sitting up.

“Yeah, s’fine. Just had a question for her before we left.” Harry reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Zayn’s cheekbone. “Can we go by a pub on the way home? Wouldn’t mind a pint and some chips.”

“Yeah, love, ‘course. Z?”

“Sure, sounds good. I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, so we can spend the whole evening there if we want,” Zayn offers, standing and leaning in to brush a soft kiss to Harry’s mouth. “Could stand to get hammered right about now.”

Harry snorts. “That goes without saying.”

Louis drives them back toward their flat, letting Harry play his music over the car bluetooth and listening to Zayn grumble over the song choices from the backseat. It’s almost normal, and Louis’s chest warms. It’s easy to exist like this. He glances in the rearview mirror each time Zayn complains, finding his expression soft even as he calls Harry’s music choices abominations the music industry and assaults on the eardrums of the public. Harry giggles, turning up the volume a notch for each complaint from the backseat. It’s lovely. Louis loves them.

He parks on the street near their favorite pub — the one just slightly too far to be a convenient distance from their flat —  and leads their little trio out of the downpouring and into the warmth. Zayn and Harry head to the bar and Louis finds them a little table near the back corner, hanging his jacket on one of the wall hooks. He settles himself directly in the corner, watching the other two chat with the bartender. Harry leans his elbows on the bar, rocking forward as he laughs at whatever the woman says, Zayn’s arm wrapped loosely around his lower back. His thumb strokes back and forth over Harry’s hip. 

Watching them like this settles an easy warmth somewhere low in his stomach. It’s easy to watch them together, knowing that no matter how close they are physically, there’s always room for Louis to fit himself right in. Knowing it’s always been that way. They turn back toward him after pints are handed to them, Zayn taking his and Louis’s and Harry carrying his own.

Halfway across the pub, Harry stumbles. He bumps into the corner of a table and nearly tips, Zayn unable to catch him, amber eyes going wide as he lurches forward. Louis jumps, halfway out of his seat before he really knows it, though he’s too far to offer any assistance. Harry catches himself on the table, thank god, but Louis’s pulse doesn’t settle. Harry’s cheeks flush, but he laughs it off. His gaze finds Louis’s across the room and he shakes his head minutely; don’t get up, I’m fine, calm down. Louis tries to believe him.

“You alright?” He asks quietly as Harry drops carefully into the seat next to him. “That hurt your hip?”

“Just my thigh, mostly. S’fine, Lou, I’m okay.” Harry squeezes his knee.

Louis catches Zayn’s eye as he hands him a pint, a frown twisting his beautiful features. He sinks slowly into the chair across the table, flicking his gaze to Harry and narrowing his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Louis nudges his glass against Zayn’s in a toast, then against Harry’s. He knows already that Harry will only get testier if they continue to treat him like he may shatter each time he bumps into anything; there’s nothing that implies he’s doing so because of the tumor. Harry’s always been clumsy at best. This isn’t anything new.

“What are you drinking, H?”

“Aspall’s,” Zayn sighs. “I ordered three Estrellas and got outvoted.”

“Intercepted, really,” Harry says with a put-upon sigh. “You got your Estrella, didn’t you?”

Louis frowns at his glass. “And mine..?”

“Estrella,” Zayn assures drily. “I don’t need two boyfriends whining about headaches later.”

“I think you’re imagining that,” Harry says. He takes a long sip of his cider. “I’ve never once blamed the sugar in cider for my headaches.”

“I have,” Louis admits.

Harry glances at them both sidelong, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Who knows how long this tumor’s been there anyway, maybe all my headaches have been a product of that rather than my drink choices you both so eloquently insult.”

Rolling his eyes, Zayn settles back in his seat. “Good point, H. Whatever you say.”

“I don’t have a brain tumor and I still get headaches from sugary drinks,” Louis mutters.

“As far as you know,” Harry replies.

“Alright, no manifesting any more fucking brain tumors,” Zayn snaps. “Either of you.”

“M’not gonna stop making jokes about it,” Harry mumbles, hiding a smirk into his glass. Zayn just rolls his eyes.

Harry leans into Louis’s side, giggling, and Louis lets his hand fall firmly onto Harry’s upper thigh. He’s warm and solid beneath his touch; warm and solid and alive. Louis has always thought Harry is the most alive person he’s ever met. Even now, with the weight of the unknown curving his spine and pressing on his shoulders, Harry’s eyes sparkle in the low light of the pub and his nose scrunches as he laughs at whatever bullshit Zayn is spewing. He’s always been so easy to love.

Some selfish part of Louis is grateful he won’t be present for the testing on Thursday. That selfish part of him just doesn’t want to be there. That selfish part of him doesn’t know if he’s a strong enough person to be at Harry’s side if it’s bad news — not because he doesn’t want to support him, but because he doesn’t know how to possibly support him if it’s bad news and Louis crumbles right there next to him. 

“You gonna cook tonight, H?” Zayn asks, leaning forward onto the table. “Or you want me to?”

“I can!” Harry straightens up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks. “Everyone okay with pasta? I thought I’d try my hand at homemade ravioli.”

“Of course you did,” Louis scoffs. “Ravioli sounds banging, sun.”

“Vodka sauce?”

Zayn and Louis both nod their assent, and Harry lights up. Under the table, Zayn hooks his feet around Louis’s ankle, and someone starts playing a guitar in the far corner of the pub. The atmosphere only grows cozier around them, even in the face of everything bearing down on them, and that settles something in Louis’s soul. Even despite everything, good things still exist. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Inoperable.

Louis stares down at the screen of his phone until it goes dark, his call log disappearing. The call from Zayn was less than two minutes long. Inoperable.

Standing in the hallway outside the studio door, Louis has never felt quite so empty in his place of work. He loves his job. He loves his work and what he does; it’s the sole reason he’s so good at what he does. For the first time in his life, he can’t be here.

Not bothering to let the clients know he’s leaving, trusting Liam to do his job, Louis sends him a quick note. He calls it a family emergency. He doesn’t know what other words to use.

The drive back to their flat feels like driving through soup. There’s nothing in his head but fog. All Louis can think about is Harry — and whether or not he’s still standing. Inoperable, Zayn had said. Already got a second opinion; nothing they can do. Chemo won’t do anything. How is it possible for medicine to be so fickle that the same hospitals who perform surgery in utero on unborn babies can’t save the love of his life? How is it just?

It takes three tries to unlock the door, his key refusing to do as told. It seems metaphorical. Louis beats Zayn and Harry home; there were treatment plans to discuss — or the lack thereof, he supposes. THe door closes too loudly behind him, echoing in the empty flat, and Louis stands in the hall. A soft glow emanates from the living room from the damn lamp Harry always forgets to turn off and a lump grows in Louis’s throat. Zayn’s slippers are almost fully atop Harry’s next to the door, cast off like they were running late when they left for the appointment. Two hooks on the wall sit empty where their coats usually hang.

These are all normal things. These are all parts of the relationship they’ve built together — of the home they’ve built together. The life they’ve built together.

Inoperable.

On autopilot, Louis beelines for the kitchen. He doesn’t even take his coat off, hardly even thinks about what he’s doing. He just moves. He goes through the motions. He fills the kettle and switches it on, pulling three mugs down for tea. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in Harry’s mug, one in Zayn’s. None in his own. He fetches the milk. When the kettle shuts off, he pours hot water over tea bags, then pours milk over top, then stands there. He stares down at the mugs. 

His own mug is cracked at the rim from one time after Harry had first come back and his hands shook sometimes when he felt overwhelmed and he accidentally dropped it into the sink while rinsing it. Zayn’s is a mug Harry had made for him in some pottery class he had taken. Harry’s mug is a cheap piece of shit Zayn and Louis had painted at one of those paint-your-own pottery places to give him to keep at their flat after he had first come back. It’s ugly as shit because Zayn had made the unfortunate mistake of allowing Louis to paint on it, and Harry had refused to ever give it up.

Harry is so embedded into their lives that their daily mugs all center around him. Their entire lives center around him. Harry is the sun.

The front door clicks open, still too loud in the otherwise silent flat. Zayn and Harry aren’t speaking. Louis listens to the sounds of shoes being kicked off and thudding to the floor, then the soft whisper of fabric against fabric as coats are hung on the wall. Still no voices. Swallowing hard around the lump lingering in his throat, Louis reminds himself this is about Harry. This isn’t about him. He has to think of Harry before he thinks of himself, or even of Zayn. No matter how Louis’s ribcage feels as though it’s about to cave in, Harry can only feel worse. 

Abandoning the tea, Louis crosses the kitchen to peer into the hall. Harry looks up, gaze meeting his, and for a moment everything is frozen. Over Harry’s shoulder, Zayn’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face pale in the barely-there light of the front hall. Harry’s own face is blank, hair slightly limp where it’s been shoved off his face. It’s only a moment, and then Harry’s shoulders slump and his lower lip trembles.

“Oh, baby,” Louis whispers — too fearful of his voice giving out to speak normally. 

There’s barely ten steps between himself and Harry, and then Louis is letting him collapse into him. Harry buries his face in Louis’s neck, smaller than Louis’s ever seen him, and Louis wraps his arms around him with such ferocity he thinks maybe he can keep the hurt away. Maybe if he holds him tightly enough, he can keep him safe. Maybe he can protect him.

“M’gonna go shower,” Harry mumbles, muffled into the skin of Louis’s throat. “And then — and then can we just watch a movie? Maybe order pizza? Please?”

“‘Course we can, sun,” Louis says into his hair. “Anything you want.”

“Thanks,” he whispers. He lingers for another moment before he pulls away, disappearing up the stairs. 

Louis turns to Zayn, who stares after Harry. “Z?”

Zayn looks back at him. “I—”

His voice cracks on the single syllable, and Louis reaches for him. He comes easily, falling into Louis’s embrace in a mirror image to how Harry had done, and he presses his face to Louis’s shoulder, shuddering. Louis shushes him, scratching through his hair and stroking down the back of his neck. The water kicks on from the shower upstairs and Zayn shudders again, his arms tightening around Louis’s waist.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do,” he mutters into Louis’s shoulder. “I had to just— sit there, while they handed him a fucking death sentence.”

“I know,” Louis breathes. His heart twists in his chest. “But that means he didn’t have to be alone.”

“S’not enough.” Zayn’s breath catches in his throat.

“S’all we can do, innit? Be there?” Louis squeezes the back of his throat. 

“S’not enough,” Zayn says again. Louis knows. He knows, he agrees, but what else is there possibly to say about it? What else is there for them to do?

He brings Zayn into the kitchen and hands him his tea, then follows him to the couch. Zayn curls into his side, letting Louis tuck a blanket around the both of them. Sipping their tea, they both stare somewhat blankly into space, seeking whatever comfort the presence of the other can provide. The sound of the shower turning off rouses both of them from their respective fugue states, startling them into the land of the living once more. Harry descends the stairs slowly, each one creaking with his movement. 

When he rounds the corner into the living room, Louis takes a moment to soak him in. He’s wrapped in an old uni jumper of Louis’s and the pair of sweats Zayn accidentally burnt a hole through the pocket of with his lighter. The bottoms are tucked into wool socks, his feet shoved into fuzzy slippers. He looks younger than he’s seemed to Louis in years with the way the clothes swallow him up, damp curls hanging in his eyes.

“C’mere, sun.”

He does, crossing the room and curling up right on top of Zayn and Louis, wiggling his way between them. Louis wraps an arm around his shoulders, Zayn wrapping one around his stomach, and Harry exhales a shuddering breath. He sinks into their embrace, going practically boneless. His tea sits on the coffee table, no longer steaming and likely cold, but none of them make any move to hand it to him or to replace it.

Harry drops his head to Louis’s shoulder. “I knew,” he says quietly, breaking the silence of the room. “That it was going to be inoperable, I mean.”

Louis blinks, forcing himself not to react. “What?”

“When I stayed back the other day to talk to Dr. Beatty—” He cuts himself off. Louis lifts his hand to trail his fingers through Harry’s curls, his chest tightening. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I’ve been having trouble seeing. And balancing. When I walked into the table the other day—” He cuts himself off again.

“You’re okay, H,” Zayn says softly. “Take your time.”

“When I told her about that, the way she looked at me changed. And I knew.” Harry fusses with the hole in his sweats. “I guess it’s different to hear her confirm it.”

“I can imagine,” Louis says. Nausea rises in his throat. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t—”

“You wouldn’t have known. I didn’t tell you anything.” He shrugs. “I didn’t tell anyone anything, and now I’m going to die.”

Louis freezes. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t say th—”

“Zayn didn’t tell you,” Harry says, interrupting him. “I wanted to do it.”

“Okay.” Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “H-how long?”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Looking at the side of his face, Louis frowns at the clench of his jaw and the tension at the corners of his eyes. His stomach sinks.

“Harry,” Louis says. “How long?”

Nothing. Harry stares straight ahead.

“Za—”

“Two months,” Zayn says, words sharp but tone flat. “Gonna get worse fast from here.”

“Gone by Christmas,” Harry adds, voice barely audible. “I won’t see you turn 29.”

Louis doesn’t respond. He can’t. His throat swells and his chest squeezes and there’s nothing to say. It would be a disservice to both of his partners for him to speak without having his thoughts in order, and he doesn’t want to make things worse. He doesn’t want to hurt them, not when there’s already so much pain spread between the three of them. 

He stares blankly across the room, chest empty. His heart stutters in his ribcage and his entire body aches, too cold despite the warmth of two bodies pressed against his own.

“Louis?” Harry whispers, sounding small. “I’m sorry.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut again, tugging Harry tighter against him. “Nothing to apologize for, sun. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should’ve—”

“No, sweetheart, you didn’t know,” Louis tells him firmly. “You didn’t— you didn’t know. You’re alright, love, it’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

“If I’d gone in sooner—”

“Stop, H,” Zayn says quietly. “You didn’t know, and you can’t change it now. No point in beating yourself up.”

Harry sighs. “What do we do now?”

Louis turns his head, pressing a kiss to the crown of Harry’s and meeting Zayn’s eye. “Nothing to do but keep living, sweetheart.” Harry snorts, shoulders shaking as he laughs. Louis blinks down at him. “What’s funny?”

“Telling a dying man there’s nothing to do but keep living,” Harry giggles. “Just— feels ironic, s’all.”

“Great,” Zayn says, tone flat. “Gets literally the worst news of his life and still subjects us to his awul fucking humor.”

Despite himself, Louis laughs. “You know what, can’t even be mad at it.”

Harry tilts his head up, grinning up at Louis. His heart twinges. Though everything in him is screaming in agony, Louis can only count himself lucky. He presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. It’s too much to process all at once, so he focuses on what he knows for sure: Harry is here, alive, in their arms for the time being. Maybe that’s all that matters.

So Louis orders pizza like he was asked to. He gets Harry’s favorite, plus garlic bread and breadsticks because Harry can never choose between the two. Zayn whips up mini chocolate lava cakes to have for dessert, and makes Harry a special chai latte martini to have alongside them. They stay up until they’re each nodding off on the couch, barely able to keep their heads upright. Going to bed means ending the night, and they only have so many left.

After finally making it up the stairs and into the bedroom, laying in bed with Harry’s head on his chest and Zayn wrapped protectively around Harry’s back, the tears finally come. Harry snores quietly, and Louis wills his sobs to stay silent. He wills his devastation to stay small and secret, lest Harry sense it and get some stupid idea of guilt in his head. Louis knows that no matter how secure Harry is in their arms, he can’t keep the pain away. No amount of love can protect someone from their body giving up on them. 

So Louis cries. He cries into the night-black of their room and into Harry’s curls and he doesn’t let himself feel guilty for mourning someone still alive. Not tonight.

₊˚⊹⋆

Two days into November, the first snow of the year falls and turns London white. The three of them wake up slowly before Harry lights up like Christmas morning, bouncing up from the bed to peel back the sheer curtains.

Louis blinks at him drowsily, Zayn grumbling quietly next to him about the assault of light. Harry is silhouetted by the window, the daylight catching in his frizzy bedhead curls, turning them into a soft halo around his head. He’s practically vibrating where he stands, rocking back and forth onto his tiptoes and then going flat-footed again. Louis’s chest swells with the sheer amount of emotion he carries for Harry; he could swear any moment he may implode.

“We have to go outside,” Harry announces, receiving matching groans from his partners. “Please,”  he whines, spinning to face them. “What if this is my last snow?”

“We cannot keep letting him get away with this excuse,” Zayn groans into Louis’s shoulder, where he had rolled to hide his face from the sudden brightness in the room. “He’s manifesting his own death.”

“I don’t need to manifest,” Harry responds coyly. “It’s coming all on its own.”

“Alright,” Louis interrupts before that course of conversation can go any further. “Breakfast first, H. I need to respond to some emails before I get involved in anything that’ll steal me attention for the day.”

Zayn hums in agreement. “Hazza, make pancakes.”

Harry gasps. “Why do I have to do it?”

Lifting his head, Zayn fixes him with a look. “You’re the only one of us unemployed."

“Not by choice,” Harry mutters. “Fine, pancakes. But I want to be out in the snow before half eleven.”

“That’s less than two hours,” Zayn protests. “That’s no time to relax.”

“No time to waste, Zaynie, I’m on a countdown!”

With that statement, Harry disappears from the bedroom, footsteps fading in the direction of the kitchen. Groaning, Zayn drops his head back into Louis’s shoulder. Louis shakes his head, carding his fingers through the back of Zayn’s hair and turning his face to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“You okay?” He asks, voice muffled against Zayn’s scalp. 

“Yeah,” he replies, voice soft. “Just — gonna miss him, y’know? Like, m’glad he keeps it lighthearted and shit, I know it’s good for him, but fuck. I miss him and he’s still here; what the fuck am I gonna do when he’s not?”

“I know the feeling,” Louis admits quietly. Drifting into their room from the kitchen, they can hear Harry singing along to some 80s song he’s put on bluetooth. His voice is weaker than it used to be, but only enough that the three of them would notice. “Sometimes it feels like we live with a really tangible ghost.”

Zayn snorts a laugh into Louis’s shoulder before finally lifting his head and pushing himself up into a seated position. “I don’t think it’ll really be real until it’s happening.”

“Probably not,” Louis agrees.

“Might as well bask in him while we have him.” Zayn presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing lightly before he blinks blearily at Louis. “Your work stuff gonna take a while?”

“Nah, I can probably knock it out in about half an hour. Just wrapping up some shit with that contract I was talking to you about a couple months ago, and then confirming my leave.” Louis drops his head back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. 

He’s grateful the label — and Liam in particular — has been entirely understanding of Louis’s situation and need to take a personal leave. Every tiny bit of support has made existing through this entire ordeal just that much smoother, and Louis needs as much of that smoothness as he can possibly get. Though he loves his work, he loves his family more — while the distraction could be nice, he feels guilty for even thinking about work. How could he possibly think about recording studios and artist contracts while Harry’s still alive, not knowing exactly how much time he has left before that changes? He wants to cling to every moment they have together before they run out. He needs to.

Zayn leaves the bed, tugging joggers on over his briefs and throwing one of Harry’s jumpers over his top half. He looks cozy and soft and Louis wants to drag him back into bed. He wants to rope Harry back in and force them both to stay under the covers with him, where nothing can touch them and time can’t pass. He aches to keep the three of them in a bubble. He wants to freeze the world at the exact moment they’re in now, while Harry still sings in the kitchen and Zayn still grumbles about being pulled from sleep, because he knows this moment is fleeting. He knows, to some extent, what awaits. He can’t stop it from coming.

He responds to his emails as efficiently as he can, Harry appearing at his side and depositing a steaming mug of tea just within reach. Louis drags him down into a kiss, taking a few extra moments to lick into Harry’s mouth and really relish in the slick warmth of his tongue against Louis’s own. He swallows every little sound that escapes Harry’s throat and tries to commit each one to memory before the day comes where he won’t be able to. He tries to memorize the way Harry’s hands feel cradling his jaw, and the way his voice sounds when he whispers hurry up, I miss you.

Every email gets sent off with shaky fingers and a lingering sense of impending dread and exhaustion, coupled with the relief of knowing he can finally focus on his partners without the looming distraction of work vying for his attention.

Louis finds both men in the kitchen, and he stops in the doorway. Zayn stands with his arms wrapped around Harry’s middle, his chin hooked over his shoulder as Harry flips pancakes on the stove. They sway the tiniest bit to the music still playing, Harry leaning back heavily into Zayn’s embrace every few moments. Louis leans against the doorframe to watch the scene, once again committing it all to memory. He’s watched this exact order of events countless times as they all cooked together — he’s played a role in this tableau time and time again. The domestic life has been good to him; the casual intimacy of inhabiting one another’s space has been easily life-changing.

“Pancakes are done,” Harry finally says, breaking Louis’s silent pondering. “You wanna stop being a creep and staring at us from the doorway?”

“I was not being a creep, thank you, Harold,” Louis retorts, getting a giggle back from Harry and a soft snort of disbelief from Zayn. “A man can’t watch the two most beautiful men in the world as they cook in his kitchen?”

“Not when he should have joined them,” Harry sing-songs. Zayn turns his face, resting his cheek on Harry’s shoulderblade, and raises his eyebrows at Louis. “Voyeur.”

“Don’t threaten him with a good time,” Zayn says drily. “You know it gets him off.”

“Harry’s the one into that shit,” Louis protests, finally fully entering the kitchen and collecting plates. “Cut me some fucking slack.”

“No,” Zayn says simply, tone saccharine sweet. “You indulge him.”

“You both indulge me,” Harry interrupts. “Pancakes, anyone? Or did I slave over these for nothing?”

“You made these purely for selfish purposes,” Louis reminds him. “Drama queen.”

Harry just grins, placing the piles of pancakes in the center of the kitchen table. Zayn collects maple syrup, butter, and orange juice, then drops into his chair with a sigh. They eat in relative silence — the comfortable kind that only comes with being around people you don’t have to have anything to say to. There are quiet moans of content over the pancakes, Harry flushing in response, pleased with himself, but no conversation. There’s nothing really to be said.

Louis and Zayn do the dishes, letting Harry put away the remainder of the food. It’s quiet and it’s easy and it’s everything to Louis. He catches himself thinking these types of mornings are the ones he’ll miss the most, afterwards. These are the mornings he’ll catch himself reminiscing on, yearning for the days prior to absence. He already catches himself dwelling on the days before the diagnosis, before they knew there was an expiration date on the life they’d taken for granted. He can’t remember the events of the morning before Harry collapsed; he can’t remember whether or not he’d even told him he loved him the morning they went to hospital. 

He doesn’t let more than a few hours pass without saying it now. Lest anyone forget. Louis Tomlinson loves Harry Styles. Present tense.

By the time Louis and Zayn finish with the washing up, Harry is fully dressed to brave the elements. He’s bundled in a massive fur coat he thrifted years prior in Rome, with a scarf tucked around his throat and a sage green beanie shoved on his head. He clutches a pair of red leather gloves in his hands.

“Deliberately delaying going out in the snow is not going to get you out of it,” he informs his partners from the doorway. “I’ve taken the initiative to pull out all the winter-wear for easier access.”

“You’re so good to us,” Zayn says flatly. “How thoughtful.”

“You love me,” Harry replies with a cheeky grin. Louis rolls his eyes, drying his hands on a slightly-damp dish towel.

“More than anything,” Zayn says, soft and sincere. 

Harry’s cheeks flush pleasantly and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth. “Come out with me, then,” he urges. “Please.”

Huffing a fond sigh, Louis wraps his fingers around Zayn’s wrist and tugs him toward the hall closet. “We’re coming, sun. You know Z just has to complain the whole way there or it doesn’t count.”

“Hey,” Zayn whines, dragging out the word. “That’s not true.”

Both Harry and Louis fix him with an unimpressed expression, and he scoffs, muttering to himself as he dons his winter coat. Louis digs them both out gloves, handing one pair to Zayn and shoving his own hands in the other before he places a slate-grey beanie on his head. Zayn finds a fur-lined hat with ear flaps and pulls it on. It makes him look young and soft, and Louis smiles at him despite himself. 

“Alright,” Zayn sighs, put-upon and drawn out. “Off we go.”

The snow catches in Harry’s eyelashes only two steps out of the building, his cheeks turning pink from the cold and the wind, but his eyes sparkle. Even the bags in the hollows beneath them can’t quite diminish it. They all stand there for a few long moments, just existing in the middle of the falling snow.

“Thank you for staying,” Harry says after a bit, face tilted toward the sky. “Through all this.”

“Where else would we be, babe?” Zayn asks, a laugh coloring his voice. “Always want to be next to you.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He hears what Harry won’t put into words. He knows what this is, and he won’t pretend otherwise. Not like his partners are willing to do. Harry’s gaze lands on Louis’s face, eyes flickering over his expression, some sort of question buried in the expression there. Louis just looks back at him.

Freshly fallen snow crunches beneath their feet, ruined within moments of reaching the earth by the simple joy of playing in the snow — Harry’s favorite thing to do. He’s begun losing weight, his cheekbones growing more defined with each passing day, and it makes Louis sick to his stomach. Harry’s never had the sharp-cut cheekbones Zayn and Louis have, and over the course of the past month it's as if someone’s been slowly chiseling away at his cheeks like he's a marble statue. He is, of course, as beautiful as he’s always been, though his dimples have faded with the loss of the roundness in his cheeks and his eyes have sunken slightly into his skull.

Harry reaches for him, holding his hands out. Louis rolls his eyes, taking them and allowing himself to be tugged in. Harry loops his arms around Louis’s neck, giggling.

“Dance with me?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Louis teases, arms falling naturally to Harry’s waist and holding him close. He can almost count the snowflakes caught in his lashes. “C'mon, Z, join in.”

“You look dumb enough without a third,” Zayn says drily, but takes his rightful place behind Harry’s back anyway, hands catching on Louis’ hips. 

Harry starts singing softly between them, some old country ballad Louis doesn’t know how he knows, and sways the three of them in wide circles around the sidewalk. Louis can only imagine how the three of them must look to their neighbors, dancing to no music in the first snow of the season. 

₊˚⊹⋆

Harry scratches behind the ears of the kitten on his lap, giggling as she purrs practically loud enough to echo. His movements are somewhat uncoordinated, even as miniscule as they are, and Louis’s chest aches.

“It's good to know I won’t be leaving you on your own,” Harry says, seemingly out of nowhere as the kitten rolls onto her back and lets Harry scratch her belly. “When I die, I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Louis says tonelessly, receiving an eye roll from Harry in reply. “But the cat is for you, not for us.”

“I don’t mean the cat,” Harry sighs, exasperation evident in his tone and the pointed look he shoots in Louis’s direction. “I meant Zayn.”

“Oh.” Louis blinks. “What?”

“Like, when I left for uni. You had him then, too, but it's not the same. This time I’m leaving and I know you're still going to be well-loved in all senses.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the tiny creature in his lap. “You won’t just be moping around all alone and depressed, grieving me or whatever.”

“Very cocky for a dying man,” Louis snarks.

Harry grins. “I’m right, though. You’ll have Zayn and Tipsy.”

Louis blinks again. “The fuck kinda name is Tipsy?”

“She can’t walk straight,” Harry says, shrugging. “Vis-à-vis, Tipsy.”

“Fantastic, a dead partner and a cat with the most asinine name I’ve ever heard. Zayn and I will be quite fulfilled.” Harry’s quiet for a moment, and Louis's heart twinges. “Har—”

“I like that you can joke like that,” Harry says quietly, finally looking back up and holding Louis’s gaze. “Some of the folks in group…” He pauses and shakes his head. “It's nice. It makes me feel normal.”

I don’t know how else to talk about it, Louis wants to say. I can’t tell you that my chest feels as if it's being crushed every time I think of afterwards; how I feel like I’m going to die when you do because it doesn’t make sense for there to be a world without you in it. I don’t know how to exist in a world without you in it; it's been twenty-six years since a world like that has even existed at all, and I can hardly remember it. I know what it’s like to live without you — I want no part of that. 

“You’ve never been normal,” Louis says, forcing his voice out around the lump in his throat that never seems to leave. 

“Well, of course not. Never would’ve caught your attention if I was.” Harry grins, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Louis’s chest go warm. “But really,” he says, voice softer. “Knowing you and Zayn have each other … it makes it easier. And being able to still talk to both of you like a normal person makes it all a little more bearable.”

“We just want you comfortable, sun,” Louis tells him softly. “In all aspects of the word.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tipsy stands up on wobbly legs, crawling her way down Harry’s thigh. “You know what the purpose of life is?”

Louis blinks blankly at him. “What?”

“The purpose of life,” he says, watching the cat. “Is to be loved and to be in love.”

Louis squints at him. “I don’t think that's true.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry flips Louis the bird before lifting Tipsy and cradling her to his chest. “You can’t argue with me, I’m dying.”

“I don’t think that makes you untouchable.”

“It absolutely does,” Harry argues, corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. “I’ve lived more life than you.”

“I’m older than you!” Louis protests, jaw dropping slightly. Harry grins up at him.

“As far as percentage of life lived, though,” he says with a sniff. “I’m at, like, 99%.”

“That’s gruesome, Harold,” Louis huffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Really fucked up, actually.”

Harry shrugs. “But correct.”

Sighing, Louis rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Harry plays with Tipsy a bit longer, scratching her head and poking her in the nose, letting her lunge at his fingers. Her energy is contagious, both of them laughing at her antics. After a while, she makes her way over to Louis and leaps onto his leg, clawing her way up his joggers. He rolls his eyes — more for show than any sort of actual annoyance — and lifts her the rest of the way to his lap. She’s so tiny he can cradle her in one hand and she hisses at him, making him giggle.

Cradling her to his chest and letting her bat at his fingertip, Louis looks up and finds Harry watching them with an unreadable expression painting his features. 

“What?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Just — no, nothing. It's not important.”

“All of your thoughts are important to me,” Louis refutes, frowning at him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m just — watching you, I always — it's just,” Harry sighs, pinching his lower lip and tugging on it. “I always thought we’d have kids one day. And watching you like this, with her, is like … it's like getting a glimpse at that, s’all.”

This confession pierces Louis’s heart more than anything has since the diagnosis, startling him with just how sharp the sting is. He looks back down at Tipsy, now gnawing on the ends of his hoodie strings, and fights against the lump in his throat.

“I thought so too,” he finally says, voice hardly above a whisper. “Used to plot out names and shit, y’know. Have a whole list somewhere.”

“Oh.” Harry goes quiet. “Did you have favorites?”

“Mm. Quite liked Rosie, if we had a girl. Short for something proper posh, like Rosalia or Rosemary or something like that,” Louis admits. “Maybe something classic if we had a boy. Charles or something.”

“Could go by Charlie,” Harry suggests. Louis glances up at him, finding his gaze fixed on Tipsy.

“Could, yeah,” Louis agrees softly. “Or Chuck, if we really felt cruel.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth ticks up and he flicks his gaze up to meet Louis’s. “We’d never be that cruel.”

“No,” Louis says. “We wouldn’t.”

When the shelter volunteers comes back in to check on them, Harry asks if it’d be possible to fill the adoption paperwork out on the same visit. An hour later, they’re leaving the shelter with a tiny bundle of black fur and one more set of green eyes than they entered with. Harry cradles her to his chest the entire way back to the flat, cooing softly down at her and stroking over her tiny ears. For what it's worth, Tipsy seems to love the attention; she never fights to escape, letting him do as he sees fit. 

They find Zayn in the living room, walking in just as he closes his laptop, shoving the offending device across the coffee table and standing to stretch with an obscene groan. He flops immediately back onto the couch, turning his face toward them, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Alright, let’s see her.”

“How do you know she’s a she?” Louis asks, frowning. “Maybe H wanted a boy cat.”

Zayn squints at him. “Sure, and the sky is green and the grass is blue. Let me see her.”

Harry giggles, crossing the room with the little bundle of fur still pressed firmly to his chest. Louis drops the assorted new cat accessories against the wall to be maneuvered later.

“Her name is Tipsy,” Harry informs Zayn. “She’s between six and eleven months, but not quite a year.”

“Spayed?”

“Yep.” Harry holds her out and Zayn accepts the tiny creature, cradling her in his hands. “She’s all perfect and lovely and up to date on her shots and everything.”

“She’s pretty,” Zayn murmurs, scratching his forehead. “Beautiful eyes.”

“Yeah. I thought it’d be good for you two to keep green eyes in your life somehow.” Harry says it like it isn’t the most devastating thing he’s said yet. He says it casually, without a second thought. 

“Harry,” Louis snaps, the same time Zayn goes oh, what the fuck.

“Well.” Harry shrugs, avoiding both their gazes. He reaches out and scratches a finger down Tipsy’s spine, mouth curling as she turns in Zayn’s grasp and rears back to swipe at Harry’s finger. He doesn’t say anything else. 

Zayn glances at Louis, still leaning against the door frame, and Louis just shakes his head. There’s no real way to reprimand someone for making light of their own situation — and still, Louis prefers a Harry who makes jokes at his own expense than a Harry who can’t pull himself out of bed from the weight of knowing what’s coming. He’d take any version of him, but he’d prefer to keep the one he has. 

He turns, heading toward the kitchen. They had cleared out a cabinet for the cat food and treats, and Louis goes ahead and organizes what they’d brought home. He places the tiny cat dishes along the wall, filling the water bowl. Harry had picked out tiny ceramic bowls earlier in the week and it’s nice to have a real purpose for them.

After he sets everything up and is satisfied with the outcome, Louis returns to the living room, finding the other two deep in conversation about finding something to watch and whether or not to order something for dinner. Harry eventually just says he has potato soup frozen from some time in the spring, and he kisses Louis on the cheek on the way into the kitchen. Louis drops onto the couch next to Zayn, leaning against him, watching Tipsy chase the little ball with a bell inside it that Zayn keeps kicking across the floor. 

“She’s a good cat,” Zayn says softly. “Very sweet.”

“She’s a little feisty, likes to go after fingers and hands and faces if you let her get too close to you,” Louis replies. “Her little claws are like fucking needles.”

“Well, don’t harass her, then,” Zayn says simply. Louis bites his shoulder in retaliation, sliding off the couch to play with Tipsy on the floor. Harry bangs out for a bit in the kitchen until he appears, balancing three bowls in his hands. 

Louis stays on the floor to eat, facing the other two on the couch and letting Tipsy wrestle with his foot. He makes a soft sound of appreciation around his first spoonful of soup, rich and creamy on his tongue. Harry had added little bacon bits and an inordinate amount of cheese, rounding out the flavor of the soup. Every bite settles in Louis’s stomach, hearty and warm. It’s the perfect meal for the evening. 

Once finished, he gets to his feet, leaving his bowl on the coffee table and maneuvering his way onto the couch with Harry and Zayn. Stretching out, Louis lays his head in Harry’s lap, turned toward the television. Zayn had been dying to see some animated film recently released and he and Harry talk quietly about it, making comments every few moments. Zayn traces absentminded circles in Louis’s ankle while Harry brushes fingers through Louis’s hair, and for a few moments, it’s as if everything is exactly as it’s supposed to be. It’s as if he can pretend it could be like this forever.

For a while, Louis drifts off, floating in and out of wakefulness as the film plays. The warmth of simply existing in the moment is enough to keep him wrapped up in the easy comfort of their home, surrounded by the men he loves, and Louis is content to stay that way. He’d be content to spend the rest of his life like this.

Eventually, he realizes the television has been shut off. Harry and Zayn continue speaking in hushed tones and he can’t be bothered to interrupt them, so he stays still.

“...whatever the future holds,” Zayn says. “We like our flat.”

“Sure,” Harry responds. “But you could go anywhere. Wouldn’t you want to? Branch out and see the world? Go to Edinburgh, or Prague? Rome?”

“Everything I have is here,” Zayn tells him, grip tightening slightly on Louis’s ankle. “Everything I want is here — I love London, this is our home.”

They both fall quiet for a long moment before Harry speaks again. “I would’ve moved to Rome, I think. If I had the choice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Would you have gone with me?”

“‘Course we would, H,” Zayn assures him. “We’d go anywhere you wanted us to.”

Louis swallows, eyes stinging behind his eyelids. It’s the truth — of course they would go anywhere Harry had wanted. He would go to Rome for him in a heartbeat. He would’ve loved to wander ancient sites and stop for gelato at inconspicuous little places; he would’ve loved to watch Harry speak bad Italian to little old men in antique shops. It would’ve been the highlight of his life to be dragged to visit a leather worker so Zayn could buy himself a handmade jacket and buy Harry a matching purse. It would’ve been everything. Louis wants it so bad his teeth ache.

Life isn’t fair. Never has been. It’s somehow worse to learn that death isn’t either.

“It feels a bit like I’m moving somewhere without anyone to go with me,” Harry murmurs. “I don’t have a future anymore — just the present and the end. I never really… expected to have to live life like this, you know? Knowing that life is just an oddly direct path to death.”

“I think you just have to make sure you don’t forget to live until then,” Zayn says. “Just because it’s a direct path doesn’t mean you have to go straight there; we still have time to have some fun along the way.”

“Maybe.” Harry tugs gently at Louis’s hair. “I know you’re awake, Lou.”

“M’not,” Louis mumbles, turning to press his face more fully into Harry’s thigh. “M’sleeping.”

“Well, let’s sleep in a bed, hm?” Zayn releases his ankle, patting him firmly on the arse. “No reason to all have fucked up spines in the morning.”

Louis groans. “Fine.”

Maneuvering themselves into being better suited to go to bed ends up with Louis on his arse on the floor, Zayn snickering as he looks down at him. Harry takes Zayn’s hand to be hauled to his feet, offering his own in turn to Louis to pull him up. Zayn disappears into the kitchen, and Louis watches Harry scoop Tipsy up into his arms once again. She crawls onto his shoulder, nipping at his ear, and Harry scoffs a quiet laugh into her fur.

Louis watches him for a long moment, just drinking him in. He finds himself doing that more often, just in case. In spite of everything, Harry is still the most beautiful thing.

“Do you regret it?” Harry suddenly asks, voice barely audible.

“What?” Louis recoils slightly, blinking. “Do I regret what?”

“Starting this relationship. Now that — now that there’s an expiration date.” Harry keeps his gaze on Tipsy, now cradled to his chest once more. “If you knew what you know now then, would you have made a different decision?”

Louis steps toward him, catching his chin in his hand and tilting his face, forcing him to meet Louis’s gaze. “Harry, I want you to listen to me very closely, do you hear me? I would do it again, in every lifetime, over and over and over again. I would spend every lifetime with you, no matter how short. Zayn feels the same way. We could never regret getting even a moment with you. Regret isn’t even something that crosses my mind.”

Harry twists his mouth, eyes shiny as he looks at Louis. “But —”

“No buts, Harry. I want every minute I can get with you. Even knowing what I know now — especially knowing what I know now — I would do it again. Every second of it. Any moment spent loving you is a moment worth having. The meaning of life, remember?” He squeezes Harry’s chin. “You’re the one who always says it.”

“To be loved and to be in love,” Harry says quietly, and Louis nods.

“And look at that. You got both things. How could you ever think I regret it?”

₊˚⊹⋆

Louis comes home from the studio to find Harry in the kitchen, bent in half and staring critically into the oven. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest, watching his boy for a long few moments. Harry doesn’t move. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the view, but I don’t think staring at the oven will make whatever’s in it cook any faster,” Louis finally says., making Harry jump. “Sorry, sun.”

“I didn’t know you were home,” Harry says, straightening up and facing Louis. Louis grins, crossing the kitchen and wrapping his hands around Harry’s waist, tugging him in. “How was work?”

“It was fine, can’t complain. You missing the bakery?”

Harry had finally quit a week and a half prior, after his vision and headaches had gotten so inconsistent he could no longer work around them. Zayn and Louis had immediately stocked the kitchen with all the ingredients they could come up with, just to give Harry something to do during the day when he felt up to it.

“A bit,” Harry admits, wrapping his arms around Louis’ shoulders. He ducks his head down slightly, pressing his lips to Louis’. Louis hums against his mouth. “Do you know when Z’ll be home?”

“Mm, I think he said he’d be in right around the same time I was due in, so any min—” Louis is cut off by the sound of Zayn’s key in the door to the flat, and he raises his eyebrows at Harry. “So right now, I guess.” 

“Hi boys,” Zayn greets, entering the kitchen. He kisses Harry over Louis’s shoulder, pressing himself to his back and locking his hands with Louis’ behind Harry’s back. “Should I be worried that we’re having a cuddle in the kitchen?”

“I just walked in the door, love,” Louis says, turning his head, though Zayn’s features are blurry so close up. 

“Ah. How you feeling, H?”

Harry shrugs slightly. “Today’s been fine. Just a bit tired, really.”

Louis pulls back, forcing Zayn back as well. “A concerning amount or..?”

Shaking his head, Harry throws him a small smile. “Nothing out of the ordinary for these days. There is, ah, something I wanted to talk to you both about, though.”

“What’s up, sweets?” Zayn’s brow furrows. “You okay?”

“M’fine. Uh, sit down, let me pull these out.”

Zayn and Louis share a look, concern etched in both their faces as they do, sinking into adjacent chairs and looking back to Harry. Harry pulls the tray from the oven, loaded down with what appears to be homemade sausage rolls, golden brown and steaming. He rests the tray atop the stove, tapping the crusts of a few of the pastries before he turns off the oven, seemingly satisfied. He drops into the seat across from Zayn and Louis, exhaling sharply, looking down.

Louis lets the silence linger for a moment longer, glancing sideways at Zayn before he sighs. “Alright, H, what’s up?”

Harry looks up from his hands where they’re resting on the table, and Louis pretends not to see the way they tremble. 

“Would you make love to me tonight?” Harry asks, voice soft and barely there. “I think — I feel like things are getting worse, and I want — I want to be able to enjoy it. Before everything hurts too much.”

“Of course — anything you want, H,” Zayn says quietly, squeezing his hand. “Absolutely anything.”

“I just want to be able to take our time,” Harry says, voice still ever so soft. “I want to feel you both — I want to remember it.”

Louis’s heart shatters to pieces in his chest, lodging in his ribs and nicking his lungs, and he sucks a ragged breath in. He hears what Harry isn’t saying; he hears the words he’s too scared to say out loud. “Anything you need, sun,” he says, echoing Zayn’s sentiments. “You know we’d do anything for you.”

Harry scoffs a bitter laugh, small and sharp. “I know it’s stupid —”

“Harry,” Zayn says firmly, cutting him off before he can continue. “It’s not stupid. You’re — you get to ask for whatever you need, no matter what it is. We have all the time in the world to take care of you. In whatever way you need.”

“Literally anything,” Louis agrees. “No matter what, no matter how much time or money or effort it takes.”

“Do you want to wait until after dinner?” Zayn asks. “Or would you rather go get ready now, take a bath and relax, and let us take care of you — and eat after?”

“We can order takeaway,” Louis suggests. “Eat in bed, watch a movie.”

Harry swallows, his throat working as his cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink. “That’d be nice, I think.”

“Go on up, take a bath, sweets. We’ll meet you up there in a bit, yeah?” Zayn says softly, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it gently. “Use all that fancy shit you’ve been stockpiling.”

Harry smiles, gentle and soft and lovely, then disappears up the stairs. Zayn and Louis linger at the table, staring absently at the spot Harry vacated. Louis has a thought — he stands up from the table and digs out the china they’d used when they’d had the candlelight dinner for Harry. Zayn raises his eyebrows.

“Have you ever heard the whole thing about not saving shit for special occasions because you wake up one day and you never used it, or whatever? It’s specifically about china — that’s why I thought of it — and the whole thing ends with the phrase use the good china, or some shit like that,” Louis says, feeling himself babble. “I want him to use to the good china. Even for takeout. I think — I want him to use it. Before.”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees, simple and stoic. “Whatever you want.”

“I want him to have everything he wants,” Louis says softly. “Whatever it is. And I want him to have the best version of it.”

 “Okay,” Zayn says again. “I agree.”

“Okay.” Louis stares down at the plates in his hands, and it’s only then he realizes he’s shaking. “Okay,” he says again. “Okay.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” Zayn suggests, and Louis nods. He sets the plates in the center of the kitchen table, looking at them for a while longer before turning to follow Zayn up the stairs.

The bathroom door is closed, and Zayn and Louis turn their attention to the bedroom. They strip the sheets, and Zayn pulls out their second-nicest sheets. After a moment, he pulls out their nicest set as well, to put on the bed afterwards. Louis helps switch the sheets, folding the duvet and setting it aside to keep it out of the way, and carefully arranging the pillows at the head of the bed. Zayn pulls out Harry’s favorite lube, setting it on the bedside table, and Louis takes a moment to queue up a playlist to play softly over their speakers. 

Room assembled the way they pictured, Zayn and Louis each go ahead and strip, putting their clothes away in the hamper. By the time Harry emerges from the bathroom, sweet-smelling and soft, they’re seated side by side at the head of the bed, thighs touching. 

Harry appears draped in a robe that cuts off mid-thigh, hanging open, keeping him on display as he enters the bedroom. He pauses just inside the threshold, green eyes heavy on Zayn and Louis, pink all over from the heat of his bath. He’s begun losing weight, but his body is still soft and curvy everywhere that matters, and Louis’s mouth waters.

“C’mere, love,” Louis murmurs, and Harry does as told. He drops his robe and climbs onto the bed, situating himself with a knee between both sets of his partners’ legs.

Taking Harry apart together is a luxury Zayn and Louis will never truly have the opportunity to relish in the way they should have. Louis focuses more than ever on the soft give of Harry’s body beneath his fingers, how he arches into every touch and pleads for more with every movement. He’s solid and warm beneath their ministrations, writhing under their hands and mouths like a man possessed. He catches each of them in a tight grip any time he can get his hands on them, and Louis revels in the bruises he knows will linger.

He would keep them forever if he were able.

They bring Harry off once, twice, then a third time between the two of them, taking turns rocking into his body and leaving bruises of their own scattered over his skin. They sink their teeth into his collarbones, matching bruises on either side, one from Louis’s mouth and one from Zayn’s. Louis muffles Harry’s cries with his own mouth as Zayn reduces him to tears with his fingers and tongue, and Zayn buries himself in Harry’s throat as Louis fucks him. Even after his third orgasm, coming nearly dry over his own stomach, Harry still begs for more — for whatever else they could possibly give him. He’s insatiable in his longing for intimacy, like he’s trying to fill gaps he doesn’t even know are there. Who are Zayn and Louis to tell him no?

By the time they bring Harry to his fourth orgasm, he goes limp between them, collapsing forward onto Zayn’s chest. Louis shifts to see his face, brushing away tears from glassy green eyes and pressing a gentle kiss to slick, swollen lips. He brushes Harry’s curls from his forehead before he climbs off the bed to retrieve towels and lotion, handing the fabric to Zayn while he slathers up his own hands. In sync, they clean Harry up and massage lavender vanilla into his skin, taking extra care with the places they’ve left their stinging marks, and Harry remains pliant beneath their touch. 

Zayn cradles Harry’s long limbs and hoists him off the bed so Louis can strip the soiled sheets, pressing absent-minded kisses into the skin of his shoulder until the bed is mostly made back up. He sets Harry in the center of the mattress and helps Louis fix the rest of it, returning the duvet to the bed and propping Harry up with pillows.

“M’gonna go order food,” Zayn murmurs, kissing Harry soundly on the lips. “What would you like?”

“Thai,” Harry rasps, throat ruined. “Please. Chicken pad thai. Medium spice.”

“Whatever you want, darling.” He kisses him again, then turns and kisses Louis. “Your usual?”

“Mm, please. And get mango sticky rice for him.”

“Will do.”

Zayn disappears down the stairs and Louis climbs back into the bed with Harry, pulling him close. He presses soft kisses to his forehead and trails his fingers up and down his spine, slightly tacky with sweat. They lay like that for almost an hour, floating somewhere in their own respective thoughts. Louis tries to keep his in check, focusing on the weight of Harry in his arms and the feel of his heartbeat against his chest instead of letting his mind wander to the future.

The future feels like an inane concept. What future is there, if Harry won’t be in it alongside them? What future is there to look forward to, when there’s so much to be left behind in the past?

He’s brought out of his head by Zayn reappearing, a takeout bag and a bottle of wine in one hand and the china plates in the other. Harry giggles at the sight, pushing himself into a sitting position and reaching to take the plates from Zayn’s hand.

“Fancy china for Thai takeaway?"

“Use the good china,” Louis says, softly. Harry shoots him a vaguely confused glance, but doesn’t push. 

They dish out food onto their plates, sharing a bit from each order amongst one another. Louis begins flipping through the streaming services.

“Can we watch Rent?” Harry asks.

“Absolutely not,” Zayn and Louis reply simultaneously.

“Rude,” Harry mutters. “I love that movie.”

Louis frowns at him. “No tragedies for a while, hm? Not really in the place in my life where I want to watch sad movies and weep.”

With a dramatic sigh, Harry takes a bite of his noodles. “Well, maybe you should get in some practice,” he says through his mouthful.

“And he’s feeling better,” Zayn says, tone flat. “Right back at it.”

Harry just grins at him, coriander on his front tooth, and Louis shakes his head. Like he said, he’ll take a Harry who can still make jokes over anything else any day. He’ll take the joy as long as he has it.

₊˚⊹⋆

The morning of Harry’s last good day, there’s no one there to warn Louis that it’s the last good one.

“I just want to go out in the snow,” Harry snaps from his position on the couch, wrapped in his quilt. Once making it up the stairs had become too difficult, with Harry getting dizzy and nearly collapsing halfway up, they had relocated him almost permanently to the living room during the day.

“Yeah, well, that’s not a good idea,” Louis snarks back at him. “It’s mostly ice now anyway, and if you fall —”

Even the slightest of bumps have begun leaving dark bruises on Harry’s skin. Louis doesn’t want to picture what could happen if he were to slip on ice and hit the ground.

“You’ll literally be at my side,” Harry says sharply. “S’not like you let me out of your sight except to take a shit anyway. Haven’t even showered alone in a week and a half.”

“Oh, sorry, would you rather us let you slip and die in the shower? Not how I thought you were gonna go, but I guess you do love to be unique!” Louis replies, tone cutting and bitter. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Zayn says from where he’s sat at the dining table. “Stop.”

“What, he can be a cunt because he’s dying but I don’t get to respond?” Louis turns on Zayn. “That’s fucked up. At least he gets an out!”

Zayn looks at him for a long moment, expression carefully blank. When he finally speaks, his tone is quiet. Exhausted. “Really, Louis?”

Crossing his arms, Louis’s chest stings. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean it.”

Zayn just nods.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just do what I ask for once,” Harry cries, looking moments away from shoving to his feet and throwing a proper tantrum like a toddler. “I’m fucking dying, Louis, what are you not understanding? This is it, this is all I have; can’t you just do what I ask?”

Swallowing against the sudden unbearable lump in his throat, Louis stares at him for a long, lingering moment. Something in Harry’s expression cracks, and just like that, Louis can’t be in the room with him any longer. He shoves past where Zayn’s sitting and out the door, nearly tripping. Zayn calls his name behind him, and Louis pointedly ignores him, slamming the front door open and letting it bang shut behind him. He nearly trips down the stairs in his haste, but makes it all the way out of the building, standing in the yard in nothing but a thin henley top, joggers, and socks slowly soaking through with slush. 

All at once, he doubles over, unable to fight off the sobs as they come. They tear their way up his throat, clawing at the soft tissue and shredding his vocal chords. Wrapping his arms around himself, Louis sobs and sobs. The winter air threatens to freeze his tears to his cheeks, the icy wind practically burning the skin of his face, and still he cries. Sinking to his knees, Louis dry-heaves into the partially melted snow. 

He doesn’t know how to do this. How is it that death never gets easier? How is it you’re meant to love someone only to be forced to let them go?

Eventually, arms wrap around him. Zayn pulls him into his chest, cupping a hand around the back of his head protectively, tucking his face into the warm space between his shoulder and throat. He doesn’t say anything; he just holds Louis tightly until he stops shaking from grief and starts shaking from cold — though he’s no longer sure he  can tell the difference. Part of him is disgusted at his ability to lose his temper so easily with Harry, though he knows Harry gives as good as he gets. He’s supposed to be the bigger person. He’s supposed to be strong enough that Harry can break down and still have someone to fall back on.

Zayn rocks them back and forth, both of their knees freezing against the ice beneath them. He still doesn’t say anything, just continues holding Louis like he’s something allowed to break. He waits until Louis’s breath has evened out entirely before speaking.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s go have tea.”

“M’sorry,” Louis murmurs, grief and guilt warring in his chest. “I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Zayn says, pushing to his feet. He grasps Louis’ elbows, helping him stand as well. “You’re gonna have to apologize to him, so don’t waste all your energy on me.”

He turns to head back into the building, but Louis stops him. “Zayn, seriously. You’re dealing with this too, it’s not fair for me to—”

“You’re allowed to not have to carry everything perfectly with grace all the time, Louis,” Zayn says with a sigh. “I just wish you’d talk before you snap, you know? We aren’t punching bags. It’s not your grief alone. It’s all of ours.”

“I know,” Louis says, chastised and sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

Zayn just shrugs, but he reaches for Louis’s hand. They climb back up to their flat together, fingers interlocked and Louis’ socks squelching with every step. Zayn pushes open their door, letting Louis through, and he pauses in the doorway for a moment. Without taking his socks off and ignoring the way the knees of his joggers are wet, he heads straight into the living room. Harry looks up at him when he crosses the threshold, opening his mouth to speak —

And Louis kisses him. Harry’s hands come up to cradle his jaw, a squeak going muffled into Louis’s mouth, and Louis kisses him. 

He kisses him with all the anger and fear and grief coursing through his veins, building a home in his heart and poisoning his bloodstream. He kisses him with the knowledge that he’ll have to spend the rest of his life missing him. He kisses him with the desperate all-consuming need to prove to himself that right here, right now, Harry Styles is alive and breathing and tangible. He kisses him as an apology.

“I love you,” Louis says against his mouth. “I love you and I wish it was snowing because I’d carry you out there to stand in it, if it was — I hope you know that.”

“I do, I do, I love you too,” Harry whispers. “M’sorry m’being such a dick, m’sorry.”

“Two way street,” Louis assures him. “You’re fine, you’re lovely. I’m sorry.”

“I love you, I’m sorry,” Harry says again. Louis just shakes his head and kisses him again, solid and sound.

Zayn brings the tea in and shoves Louis down onto the couch, nestling Harry properly between the two of them so they’re as intertwined as possible. He queues up music over the speakers, letting it fill the air of the flat. 

“Is this fucking Meat Loaf?” Louis asks, shooting him an astonished look. “What the fuck?”

“This is my Harry playlist,” Zayn says, shrugging. 

“I love this song,” Harry says, smiling at his tea. “And I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that,” he sings softly. “No, I won’t do that.”

Louis shakes his head, leaning his head against Harry’s, letting his voice wash over him. The lyrics of I’d Do Anything for Love settle somewhere under his skin, and he lets his eyes slip closed. He remembers Harry calling it a proper classic to play at weddings, and lets himself mourn again the loss of a future with him. The tempo picks up and Louis lets himself sing along with Harry.

“— As long as the wheels are turning, as long as the fires are burning, as long as your prayers are coming true, you better believe it — that I would do anything for love!” 

Harry lets his voice fade out, but Louis keeps singing. “But I’ll never do it better than I do it with you,” he sings quietly into Harry’s hair. 

As the song keeps playing and transitions into the duet portion, Zayn picks up the woman’s part. He and Louis sing back and forth to each other, Harry humming softly along until they get to the very last few lines, where Harry joins back in again. The song fades out quietly, then shifts into some ABBA song Louis only half-knows, but Harry keeps humming along.

Outside the windows, the evening grows steadily darker. At some point Zayn or Louis will get up and figure out something for dinner, but for now, they’re both content to stay curled up with Harry. Louis wants to let the moment drag out. If there’s only so much time left, why rush any minute of it?

₊˚⊹⋆

He isn’t Harry anymore. He hasn’t been in weeks, though it's taken Louis this long to admit it. Zayn closes the door softly behind himself, joining Louis in the chairs by Harry’s bedside.

“How’d it go?”

Louis scoffs. “How’d you think? Just watched his mum say goodbye to him and couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.”

Smoothing a hand down Louis’s thigh, Zayn interlocks his fingers with Louis’ own and leans his head onto his shoulder. “M’sorry I wasn’t in here with you, I just—”

“I know,” Louis breathes. He stares down at Harry, at the definition in his face that shouldn’t be there, at the greying skin around his eyes. He’s hardly recognizable. “I couldn’t either, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I couldn’t—”

“She needed you here, I think,” Zayn says, voice gentle. He doesn’t say anything else.

It's been days since Harry’s managed to keep his eyes open longer than five, maybe seven minutes at a time. He sleeps most of the time, looking small and frail in the hospital bed the hospice people had provided them. It made their bedroom into something Louis would never be able to spend time in again. He and Zayn will have to look for places, for afterwards. He reaches out with his free hand and links his fingers with Harry’s, cold to the touch. Still alive — just barely. Just hanging on.

Even the air of the room is cold, despite the thermostat being set warmer than anyone healthy ever needs it to be. They had started setting it higher when Harry had started shivering all the time, never warm enough no matter how many blankets they wrapped him in. Louis strokes his thumb over the backs of his knuckles.

It won’t be long now. The knowing doesn't make it better, doesn’t make Louis feel more prepared for a world without Harry in it. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“We spent so long without him,” Louis says, breaking the quiet. “All those years when he was with her, already so absent. It's not fair.”

“I know,” Zayn murmurs, grip on Louis’s hand tightening.

“Why did she get all those years?” Rage bubbles up from somewhere Louis didn't even know he had in him. “She got to have him while he was healthy and happy and she fucking ruined him; she damn near fucking killed him and now what? Now we lose him again? All that time apart and he fucking dies anyway?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. Louis knows he feels it too. The rage at the unfairness of getting Harry back only to lose him again. The awful, yawning pain of knowing he’s slipping through their fingers. Losing him for a second time. Losing him in a permanent way.

What good is loving someone if you can’t ever make them stay?

Harry’s lashes flutter and he blinks slowly, staring up at the ceiling. Louis sits up straighter, leaning forward, his fingers slipping out of Zayn’s to cradle Harry’s hand in both of his own. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Louis murmurs, and Harry turns his head. Even that miniscule movement seems like too much. “You alright?”

Harry blinks at him blankly, before moving his gaze to Zayn. “Hi.” His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

Zayn leans forward. “Hey there, princess.”

The ghost of a smile crosses Harry’s mouth. “Thank you for coming.”

“Always, sun,” Louis murmurs, squeezing his hand ever so gently. Harry looks between the two of them, eyes still sparkling even sunken into his gaunt face.

“You get prettier every time I see you,” Harry rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. His eyelids flutter, sinking like they're too heavy to hold up. 

He’s back asleep moments later, and something ugly claws up Louis’s throat. He chokes on it, pulling one hand away from Harry’s to press the back of his wrist to his mouth like maybe that could stifle the sheer helpless devastation from escaping and poisoning the air around them. Zayn pulls him in and he goes reluctantly, pressing his face into the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck, and Zayn’s body is so warm, so alive, that Louis can’t hold the sobs in.

The entire past three months had been a battle nobody could win for losing, and all at once, Louis feels himself give up. 

Louis weeps into Zayn’s arms until there's nothing left in him, his throat raw and his heart even more so. Zayn’s arms stay around him, his face pressed to the top of Louis's head. He feels like home. It shouldn't be possible to be in the same room as the people you love and to still feel this utterly empty, and yet. Every day has been a new lesson in devastation. Every moment has been a new opportunity for grief to bloom.

Watching Harry wilt away is a kind of loss Louis could never have expected. It seems counterintuitive that though he's still here, he’s also already gone. There's a body where Harry Styles is supposed to be, but there's a chasm where his soul should be. How do you ever move on from that?

After what may have been hours or mere moments, Zayn pushes Louis back. He scours his face before he stands, pulling Louis to his feet. He guides Louis to climb onto the bed before he mirrors him on the other side of the man they love, settling a blanket over the three of them. Louis carefully rests his head on Harry’s pillow, tucking his nose into the thin curls behind Harry’s ear and breathing him in. It's a small comfort that he still smells like home, rather than some overly sterile hospital hospice wing. It's a small comfort that at least one part of him is still familiar.

Resting a hand on his sternum and splaying his fingers out, Harry’s chest rises and falls in an irregular rapid pattern. After a few moments, Zayn’s fingers intertwine with his, their joined hands spanning the width of Harry’s ribcage. Every divot between every rib is visceral beneath Louis’s palm; a stark reminder of how his body is eating itself alive. A reminder of how little of him remains.

“We got to love him for so much of our lives,” Zayn says, voice quiet. Louis squeezes his eyes closed. “I think we're lucky that we got to be loved by him in return.”

“We’ll have to miss him longer than we got to love him,” Louis bites out, bitter words ghosting over the thin skin of Harry’s throat. 

“No,” Zayn replies. “Those aren't mutually exclusive.”

Louis doesn’t have a response to that. There's a long silence, only the sounds of their breathing filling the room. Louis’s skin is tight where his tear tracks have dried, his throat sore from crying.

“Having loved someone enough to grieve them for the rest of our lives is a testament to our ability to be human.” Zayn’s voice is still quiet, though there's a hard edge to his tone. 

“If we never loved him, we wouldn’t hurt this much right now,” Louis says weakly.

“You don’t mean that.” The hard edge sharpens further. “I’d rather have loved him and known he felt that love than have never loved him at all — and I know you feel the same way. No loss is ever so great that it negates the love preempting it. For the rest of our lives, we get to have loved him and we get to know we were loved in return.”

“To be loved and to be in love,” Louis mutters Harry’s favorite phrase. His throat swells again, tight with grief and love and loss and other things he has no name for. 

“Exactly.” Zayn squeezes his fingers around Louis’. “No amount of grief can take that from us. He loved us, and we loved him back.”

₊˚⊹⋆

Harry Styles takes his last breath on a Wednesday morning in December. 

He does not die alone.

When Louis wakes up that morning just before sunrise, the chill from the outside air has seeped into the house. It's made its way beneath the duvet and into Louis’s skin, and somehow, he knows. He rouses Zayn, shaking him gently until he sucks in a sharp breath, shooting into a seated position and staring at Louis.

“Fuck, what’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“I think—” Louis doesn’t finish the sentence, but Zayn knows. He can see on his face that he knows.

They head down the stairs together, hand in hand. Zayn goes into their old bedroom while Louis stops in the kitchen to make tea, accidentally filling three mugs. He stares blankly at the third one for a long, lingering moment. He makes it the way Harry always drank it. Call it sentimentalism.

Bringing all three into the bedroom, Louis finds Zayn in the bed with Harry. He looks small, curled into Harry’s side. Tipsy is sound asleep on Harry’s lap when he first walks in, but she blinks her eyes open and looks up at Louis, then at Zayn. She stays curled in Harry’s lap. Louis hands Zayn his tea wordlessly, letting him place it on the bedside table as he deposits the other two mugs on the table nearest to himself. He climbs onto the bed. 

Harry’s breathing is shallow, even shallower than it’s been over the past week or so, and Louis knows. Zayn must have drawn the curtains when he came in, the sheer lace pinned to the side and the lightening pink sky visible through the glass. Fresh snow covers everything; a soft blanket of white over the world. Tiny flakes continue falling in sporadic flurries, floating toward earth, and it’s comforting in a sick way to know that Harry is going to die on a day as beautiful as this one.

“It's snowing, sun,” Louis says, voice soft. “The whole world is white and pink, and the sky is turning gold around where the sun’s about to rise.”

“You’d love it, angel,” Zayn murmurs. He shifts, pressing his cheek to Harry’s chest. “You’d be bouncing on your toes to get all bundled up and go outside.”

“We’d give in,” Louis tells him, a quiet laugh underlining his words. “We’d be happy to go out there with you.”

“It's a hot chocolate kind of day.” Zayn strokes his hand down Harry’s stomach. 

Louis swallows around the lump swelling in his throat. “That’s what knowing you’s been like, sun,” he murmurs. “Like drinking hot chocolate after playing in the snow.”

Zayn hums in agreement from his place on Harry’s chest but doesn’t say anything, and Louis presses his lips to Harry’s temple. It's fitting, he thinks, for it to end like this: warm and quiet and calm in the way snowy mornings usually are. 

After a while, Harry’s breathing stutters. Louis squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can. 

“Thank you for letting us love you, H,” Zayn whispers. “We’re so lucky to have been loved by you.”

“You can let go, sun. I know you're tired.” Louis presses another kiss to his temple, listening to the way his breathing is barely even there. “I love you.”

Harry takes his last breath in the arms of men who love him, and outside the window the snow falls, almost golden in the rising sun. The world is quiet when he goes, and only goes quieter once he’s gone. The snow continues to fall.

₊˚⊹⋆

Snow crunches under Louis’ boots, fresh and deep from falling overnight — the first snowfall of the year.

“Rosemary Zahira, if you fall in the snow, I will let you freeze!” Zayn calls from next to Louis, gloved hand carefully linked with Louis’s own. 

“I will not freeze, Baba,” Rosie grumbles, but slows down, turning to frown at Zayn and Louis. “Daddy picked my coat.”

“You refused to wear a scarf though, so snow could get down your back and then you’ll freeze,” Louis says drily. Zayn snorts next to him.

The sass they receive from their eight-year-old is nothing out of the ordinary and they’re both well accustomed to handling her. She’d somehow ended up with all of Louis’s attitude and none of Zayn’s grace for expressing her emotions, despite them both being hands-on parents at every turn. She looks a bit like a marshmallow in her bright pink puffer and the matching fuzzy hat, ruining her attempt at rage.

“Can you please walk faster?” She sighs, moments from stomping a booted foot in the snow. “I want to tell Hazzy about Tipsy’s tooth!”

“Yeah, baby, we’re coming,” Louis says. His heart still twists every time he hears Harry’s name come out of his daughter’s mouth, even ten years after he passed. “You have to make sure you tell him that she’s not hurt, though, because otherwise he’ll worry.”

Rosie sends him a pointed look. “Yeah, Daddy.” The duh goes unsaid, but Louis squints at her anyway.

“I think he’d like to hear about your scones, too, love,” Zayn reminds her. “Remember, he worked in a bakery?”

“Oh, yeah!” Rosie lights up, clapping her little gloved hands together in excitement. “Did Hazzy make scones?”

“All the time,” Zayn tells her. “The cinnamon ones I make for you are his recipe.”

They reach the row Harry’s stone is in, and Rosie breaks away again, darting around headstones and flowers. Some part of Louis knows it’s probably disrespectful to allow his daughter to go running around a cemetery like this, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when she knows Harry’s name and has things to tell him, despite having never met him. 

Rosie wasn’t entirely planned. Though Zayn and Louis had talked about becoming parents on and off their entire adult relationship, they had never done any sort of planning for it — and certainly not in the two years following Harry’s death. When a friend of Zayn’s had reached out, too far along by the time she found out to have any other viable options, it had almost been a no brainer. Zayn and Louis had fallen in love with her the moment they had her in their arms, staring up at them with giant green eyes.

She stops in front of Harry’s headstone, patting it firmly. “Hello, Hazzy, are you liking the snow? I know it’s your favorite because Baba told me. And Daddy said you used to make them go out in it and get all cold and wet — but I love the snow.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Don’t rat us out to him, please.”

Rosie keeps babbling, telling Harry about Tipsy accidentally knocking her fang out and finding it on the kitchen floor, then talking about the scones she and Zayn made last night in honor of the first snow fall. Louis glances past her, eyes trailing over Harry’s stone. He traces the words beneath his name as if reading them for the first time — as if the phrase Loved and In Love isn’t burned into the forefront of his memory. As if he and Zayn weren’t the ones who picked them out.

“Here, petal, want to give him his flowers?” Zayn asks, startling Louis out of his thoughts. 

“Oh, yes please!” Rosie whips around, taking the bouquet from Zayn’s hand and kneeling carefully in the snow, placing it just right in front of the stone. “Daddy says they aren’t your favorite but they have to do.”

“Right, well, he’s dead so he doesn’t really get a choice, does he?” Louis mutters to Zayn, who smacks him in the hip. “Ow!”

“Don’t make death jokes in front of our daughter,” Zayn hisses. “Do you want another lecture from our sisters? I don’t.”

Louis rolls his eyes, looking back at Rosie. “You almost ready, Rosie?”

She stands, looking down at the flowers. “Yeah, Daddy, I’m ready.” She reaches out, patting the stone again. “Happy first snow, Hazzy! I will make a snow angel for you!”

Zayn smiles at her, then glances past her to look at the stone. “Miss you, H. Love you.”

Taking Rosie’s hand, Zayn squeezes Louis’s and leaves him for a moment alone. Their voices fade as they leave the row of headstones, making their way slowly back towards the car. Zayn always grants Louis a few minutes to himself to talk to Harry; being at the grave is harder for Louis, whereas Zayn can’t step foot in the bakery without getting choked up. It’s a balance. 

Louis steps closer to the headstone, brushing the rest of the snow off the top of it, already disturbed from Rosie’s patting. Sometimes Louis has things he wants to say to Harry on these visits. Sometimes he talks about work or about Rosie, or tells him about whatever recent frustration he’s had with Zayn. Other times he just stands there for a while, reminiscing. Even ten years on, missing Harry is so ingrained in him that sometimes it’s suffocating. When they’d named Rosie, Louis had driven straight to the cemetery and cried so hard in front of Harry’s grave that he hadn’t been able to speak louder than a whisper when he made it home.

He never knows what kind of visit it’ll be until he gets there.

“Sometimes I think about that last winter,” he says quietly, hand still resting on top of the headstone. “And I think about dancing with you and Z out in the snow, and you making jokes about maybe it being the last snow you got to see. Rosie loves the snow almost as much as you did, you know. She loves the snow. Last night, she told Tipsy that she’d take her outside with her to play in it.”

He pauses. “We won’t let that happen, don’t worry. But it made me laugh.” He pauses again, his thumb stroking back and forth over the stone. “I miss you all the time, but somehow I miss you more when the snow falls, isn’t that fucking stupid? It feels like the universe knows how much you loved this shit and wants to remind me. I miss you, sweetheart. We miss you. Rosie misses you and she never even got to know you.”

“But I guess that’s what it is to be loved,” Louis says, laughing quietly. “To be missed even by people who never met you. I told you you’re the sun. I guess you’re also the snow.”

As he finishes talking, it starts to snow again. Louis looks up at the sky, still bright despite being covered with clouds. He laughs again, and pats the stone. He swears for a moment he can hear Harry’s laugh, though he knows it’s really the wind. He looks back down at the stone, snow already sticking to the top of it again. 

“Miss you, sun. Happy first snow. I hope you’re out in it, wherever you are.”