Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesdays.

Somehow, it’s always a Wednesday. The storm outside is hammering hard against the windows, rattling the frames, the rain pelting against the windows relentlessly. They haven’t had a storm this bad in years. It makes the world seems small, almost. Harry’s trying to breathe through it. Matilda is in her room, supposedly doing homework, and she’s listening to loud music—which is a contradiction in itself—but Harry doesn’t feel the need to call her out on it. Maybe the loud music makes her less afraid of the storm, so it’s okay.

He hadn’t planned for Louis to come over, but now Louis’ here, currently in the kitchen, making tea for the three of them. Harry knows it’s a roundabout way to spend time with him, just for a moment before he goes inside Matilda’s room and helps her with her homework, or they listen to music together, or something. 

Harry watches Louis from the couch. He moves soft and careful, feeling home and content in a flat he doesn’t live in, his sleeves pushed up. His hair is still damp from the shower he took earlier. Louis glances over, sending him a small, private smile.

Harry smiles back, knowing he shouldn’t. But he does. Louis comes to sit beside him on the couch, mugs on the table. He hands Harry his, their fingers brushing—a flicker of a contact, a barely concealed attempt at intimacy that makes Harry’s pulse jump high in his throat.

Louis spreads his legs, just barely and rests his knee against his. Harry knows he should move. He doesn’t. Louis leans in slightly, Harry’s heart hammering in his chest. Louis whispers, voice low, “You okay?”

Harry nods. “You?”

“Better now.”

Better now that I’m here. Better now that I touched you. Better now that I know you’re safe.

Harry’s breath stutters with the implications of it, a flush creeping up on his cheek. The room grows warmer, or maybe it’s just him. Louis’ hand shifts under the blanket, fingertips grazing Harry’s thigh, moving higher—

Matilda’s door opens.

Harry nearly knocks the mug of the table. Louis’ hand stills. Harry’s heart stumbles in his chest.

Matilda steps into the hallway holding her empty water glass.

But they were too late, springing apart, because she sees them. She sees the distance they failed to put between themselves, their faces—too red, too startled. She scrunches her nose, her expression turning into something confused. Then wary. Then… something worse.

“What,” she starts slowly, “what are you two doing?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again, like a fish on dry land. Nothing comes out. Louis goes very still beside him. “Tea,” Harry blurts. “We’re. Uh. Having tea.”

Louis nods. “Yep. Yeah. Team Tea. Was about to bring you your own mug.”

Matilda frowns, empty water bottle still clutched tightly in her hand, her knuckles whitening. “You look weird.”

Harry’s heart is pounding too loudly to think, his vision blurring around the edges. “We’re fine.”

“No you’re not,” she says, stepping closer. Harry wants to tell her to turn around, come back in five minutes. Or turn back time. Or just let the ground swallow him whole. Anything. “You’re being weird.”

Her eyes drop to the blanket on their laps. She sees the ripple of movement Louis didn’t hide fast enough. She looks up, her face changing slowly, horribly. It’s like watching a window crack like a spiderweb from a single hit.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, horrified. The glass drops to the floor and shatters into thousand pieces. “No. No. No.”

“Matilda—” Harry stands so fast he spills his tea, the hot liquid sloshing over his hand and splashing onto the Anatolian rug but nobody notices.

Matilda steps back from him like he’s contagious. “How long?”

Louis sucks in a breath. “Tilda—”

“Don’t call me that!” she snaps, voice exploding, echoing off the walls. “How long?”

Harry’s throat closes. “A while,” he says helplessly. “But we were going to tell you, we just—”

Her whole body trembles. Her voice turns thin and sharp with disbelief, “You’re old.”

Harry’s stomach drops.

“And Louis—he’s—he’s—” She throws her hands in the air, sputtering in disbelief. “He’s twenty-one!”

Louis winces. Harry’s heart squeezes tight, punching the air out of him in huffed, choked breaths. “Matilda—”

“You’re thirty-nine, Mum!” she cries, accusing, devastated. “You’re practically middle-aged!”

“Hey,” Harry mumbles weakly.

“And Louis is basically my age!” she continues, voice cracking. “He’s closer to me than to you!”

Louis grimaces. “Matilda—actually I—”

She whirls on him like a storm. “You’re twenty-one, Louis!”

“I know how old I am,” Louis says quietly.

“And you’re—” she gestures wildly between them, “—you’re with my fucking Mum?”

“We didn’t want to hurt you,” Louis says, voice steady but soft.

“Well, congratulations,” she spits out, disgusted. “You failed.”

Harry reaches out. “Bean—please—just listen—”

She backs away so sharply her shoulder hits the wall. Tears spill over her beautiful, freckled face, fast and hot. “I liked you,” she sobs at Louis, voice breaking. “I had a crush on you. I-I told you things. You knew that. You—both of you—were—”

She can’t even finish.

Harry steps forward, panicked. “It wasn’t like that, I swear—”

“But you lied, Mum!” she yells. “After everything with Dad, after the separation, after all of it—you promised you’d never lie again!”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Harry insists, voice cracking. “It was…” He shrugs helplessly, trailing off.

Louis buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with a few sobs, though he’s trying to conceal it all.

Matilda’s stare between them is pure betrayal. “You chose him over me.”

Harry’s chest caves. Desperate to reach out, he gets up and moves closer to Matilda, who backs away into the wall even more. “No. Never. You’re my daughter—”

“And he’s your boyfriend,” she spits. “Isn’t he?”

The silence that follows confirms everything, even if neither of them meant to.

Matilda crumbles. “I can’t— I can’t look at either of you right now.”

She grabs her backpack with shaking hands, shoves on mismatched shoes, and throws open the door.

“Matilda!” Harry cries. “It’s storming. Please… don’t go out in that—”

“I'd rather get struck by lightning,” she sobs, voice shaking, “than watch you make out with someone who's basically my age.”

Harry staggers back, collapsing onto the rug, heart hammering, hands shaking violently. The tears in his eyes blur his vision and all he can make out is Louis’ silhouette, now standing, soaked in heartbreaking guilt.

“Harry—”

Harry’s voice breaks. “She’s right. She’s absolutely right.”

Louis steps forward, a pained expression painted on his face. Harry thinks he shouldn’t look like this, but when Louis reaches out to touch, Harry backs away like a scared animal. He can’t—He can’t let Louis comfort him. “No.” Louis shakes his head, “No, she’s overwhelmed, H. She needs time—”

“She’s not wrong,” Harry whispers, burying his face in his hands, dropping onto the tea-wet rug. “I should’ve told her. We should’ve done everything differently. I promised her, after Matt. I promised not to lie to her anymore. God—I’ve lost her.”

Louis kneels on the rug in front of him, desperate to reach him. “You haven’t lost her. You haven’t. We’ll fix this.”

Harry flinches away when Louis touches his knee. Something ugly settles in his chest, like he doesn’t deserve the comfort of Louis’ loving touch, too guilty.

Louis’ hand drops, and Harry can feel the distance building between them like a canyon.

The resounding slam of the door still echoes in his mind. Harry stands frozen, staring at the empty space where she’d been a heartbeat ago. “I have to—” Harry chokes out, “the storm is too bad, I have to look after her, find her.”

“Baby,” Louis says softly, stepping forward, the hand that just graced his knee touching his forearm now. “Hey, look at me.”

Harry doesn’t, though, crawling away from his touch like Louis physically pushed him.

Louis’ face is unadulterated hurt. “Harry?”

Harry staggers to the couch and sinks down, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. “She’s out there in this storm,” he whispers. “Because of me.”

Louis swallows, nodding slowly. “She’s upset. Anyone would be. This is—she’s seventeen. It’s a lot. She’ll come back once she cools down.”

“You didn’t—didn’t see her eyes, you didn't watch her break,” Harry says through sobs, chest heaving quickly. “She wasn’t just angry, Lou. She was hurt.” The nickname slips past his lips like a drug he’s addicted to, and Louis probably is. It never would’ve happened if Louis weren’t so addictive.

Louis reaches out to him in a desperate attempt to comfort him, but Harry is beyond that. He only shakes his head. "Don’t," Harry says softly, brokenly.

Louis’ hand hangs in the air for a moment, then he lets it drop, followed by a heavy sigh that settles something in the room. “Baby… please. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not,” Harry spits, standing abruptly, pacing the room. The thoughts in his mind are relentless, ugly, and fearful. “She thinks I was laughing at her. Like we were—God. She thinks everything was some twisted joke or something.”

Louis rises slowly, watching him with worry and a dawning dread.

“We can fix this,” Louis says, voice shaky but earnest, breaking on the last syllable. “We’ll talk to her. Together.”

Harry looks at him, really looks—and something inside him hardens with terrible clarity. This needs to end. Whatever he thought this could be. Even when his heart stumbles in his chest at the thought, or the tears well up in his eyes and something inside his chest cracks. “No,” Harry says, with full intent. “We cannot.”

Louis freezes mid-step, face dropping. “What do you mean… no?”

Harry swallows. “She’s seventeen, Louis.”

Louis flinches, biting his lip. Harry keeps going, voice hollow. “She’s seventeen. She’s not a little kid. She understands things. She reads people too well. And she had… feelings for you.”

Louis closes his eyes, pained. “I know. I know she did. But I never—Harry, I never encouraged it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Harry says quickly. “But it doesn’t matter. She feels humiliated. Betrayed. By both of us.”

Louis’ voice softens to a whisper. “We didn’t betray her. We just… didn’t tell her yet.”

Harry looks at him, anguish sharp in his chest. “That was a mistake. A huge one. She deserves better than being kept in the dark while her mother—” He stops himself before he says falls in love.

Louis hears it anyway.

Harry drags a hand through his hair. “You’re closer to her age than mine.”

Louis swallows hard. “I know.”

“And she’s seventeen,” Harry says again. “Seventeen. And I’m thirty-nine. And she walked in and saw me with someone closer to her than to me.”

Louis whispers, “That doesn’t make us wrong.”

“It doesn’t. But it makes the consequences huge,” Harry fires back, impatiently. “And she’s the one paying for them.”

Louis’ voice breaks. “Harry… Baby, what are you saying?”

Harry looks at him, eyes full of tears. “I’m saying I have to choose Matilda.”

Louis stumbles back like he’s been struck by the thunder that just howled outside the flat. “Harry—”

Harry presses his hands to his face, shaking his head violently. “She’s my daughter. She’s seventeen and hurting and humiliated and she thinks I lied to her again. I can’t—I can’t be with you while she feels like this.”

Louis’ breath catches. “Harry, please. Don’t do this. Not because of tonight. Not like this.”

But Harry is falling down, swallowed whole by grief. “She needs me. She needs all of me. And right now, being with you—being happy—” He shakes his head, once and resolute. “I can’t be the reason she feels like that.”

Louis steps closer, desperate. “I never asked you to choose between us.” His voice cracks. “You’re choosing alone.”

Harry’s voice trembles, breaking somewhere in the middle, as he chokes out, “I don’t see another choice.”

Louis’ face twists—hurt, disbelief, heartbreak all tangled together. “Then that’s it?” Louis whispers, disbelieving. “We’re done?”

Harry closes his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks. “I don’t want this.”

“Then why?” Louis asks, voice breaking.

“Because she’s my daughter,” Harry says softly. “I can’t lose her.”

Louis presses a hand to his mouth, keeping the choked sob inside. He looks down, then back up with wet eyes. He still looks so beautiful, Harry’s heart squeezes in his chest. “And what about losing me?”

Harry looks at him, and he opens his mouth to say something—anything, but his voice betrays him, throat closing around a stuttered inhale. His breath catches in his throat. Finally, he whispers, “I’ll survive it.” A beat, a horrified gasp from Louis that will haunt him in his sleep for months to come. “But I might not survive losing her.”

Louis turns away sharply, breath shaking. His shoulders shake with sobs and Harry wants to reach out. He knows he can’t. Louis stands there, gripping the back of a chair to help keep him upright.

When he finally speaks, after several deep breaths and shakes, his voice is hoarse and small. “I get it,” he whispers. “I don’t like it. But I get it.”

He hesitates as he walks towards the door, stops mid-step to turn around. His eyes are shining, the lightning from outside showing in his glassy eyes. “I love you,” Louis says quietly. “Even if you don’t pick me.”

Harry’s heart breaks, a mountain of distance between them, shattering into a million little pieces, impossibly small ones that won’t be fixed with time. “I love you too.” It’s not even a question. “I just—I can’t—”

Louis shakes his head gently. “Don’t explain. Not right now. You need to go after her.”

He opens the door, rushes outside into the linoleum lit hallway of their tower block. “Goodbye,” Louis whispers, then he leaves, the door closing with a loud, resounding thud.

And Harry collapses onto the couch, alone, listening to the storm outside and the echo of two losses in one night. It’s only when he gets up to search for Matilda that he notices Louis didn’t take his jacket with him.

Wednesdays should be abolished.

He makes it five steps out of the house until he finds Matilda, huddled underneath a building entrance, hiding from the cold harsh weather. “Matilda, please,” he yells over at her, but she turns and ignores him. “Come on. Come back inside. When the storm lets up, you can go to your grandma’s. You don’t have to talk to me. Just come back inside.” 

“Is Louis gone?” She yells back, voice cold like ice.

He nods, screams “yeah, come on,” and then she runs the way back to their own building. She’s drenched, and Harry pulls her into a hug. She’s stiff at the touch, and Harry bites his lips.

“Is he really gone?” She asks again, crossing her arms in front of her. “Because I won’t step a foot inside our flat if he’s there.”

Harry shakes his head, biting back the tears threatening to spill. “No, I—” He drops his gaze, not meeting her eyes. “He’s not there.”

“Good,” she bites out and then stalks off. At least she’s home safe again. And Harry does have the decency to let Louis now.

Louis, who answers immediately, and it sends both bile up his throat and tears into his eyes. God, he misses him already.

He pockets his phone, ignoring the urge to reply. Nothing is more important than Matilda right now. He puts the kettle on, waiting for the water to start boiling. He looks around the flat, clothes scattered around the floor haphazardly. While the water heats in the kettle, he goes to pick the clothes up. He puts them on the chair, making a mental note to put them in the washing machine later.

“I want to stay at Nan’s.” Matilda is sitting on the couch with her knees tucked to her face, a blanket around her shivering frame. She’s cupping a steaming mug of tea with her hands.

Harry sighs, biting his lip, then pinching it in thought. “Bean…”

“No.” She shakes her head. Taking a sip from her tea, she lets her eyes fall shut after. “No, you don’t get it, Mum. I really—I can’t stand the thought of being here right now. Looking at you—” She lets out a little whimper. “I really hate looking at you right now.”

“But…” He doesn’t really have anything to say. He knows he’s hurt her. He knows that. He fell in love. That’s all he did. He knows it’s unconventional, and that Louis is young, but… it just happened. He fought so hard for it not to happen. “Bean, I didn’t mean to fall for him.”

“I know,” she whispers, but her voice is as cold as her eyes when she stares at him. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I only know that I finally understand why you didn’t want me to ask Louis out. It’s because you were already going out with him.”

“Bean,” he says again, sighing. “That’s not the whole truth.”

“Oh, so now you want to give me the whole truth? Now that I—what? Walked in on you? I hate you.” She stomps into her room and lets the door fall shut with a loud thud. Harry lets his head fall into his hands and takes a deep, steadying breath. Then, he starts thinking of a game plan. He doesn’t come up with much besides sending his mother a text that he’ll bring Matilda in the morning—indefinitely—and then sends off a distress text to Niall too.

He’s not so sure he will, but he doesn’t want to worry Niall too much. He toys with the idea of texting Louis, but ends up blocking his number instead. It doesn’t feel good, not at all. He sobs into his hands all evening until he passes out on the couch, exhausted.

He wakes to Matilda shaking his shoulders. He looks up at her through bleary eyes, blinking. “Morning,” he rasps, but she doesn’t reply. Only looks at him through red-rimmed eyes, her arms crossed in front of her body. She looks like she hasn’t slept a wink.

“Can you drive me to Nan’s now?” She asks, voice on edge. He sees her weekend bag placed on the edge of the couch and sighs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckle. His vision blurs once he’s finished, little stars dancing in front of his eyes. “Please.”

“Can’t we talk?” He asks, knowing it’s futile. Her mind is made up, and she’s got two very stubborn parents.

“No, Mum. I need space. Please.”

And with that, she grabs her bag and makes way to the door. Harry scrambles up to refresh in the bathroom quickly, splashing some cold water in his face to wake himself up some more. Brushing his teeth and taking a piss, he thinks about Louis next door. He has to stop doing that, though, and he hopes getting flat out drunk with Niall tonight will help. He quickly puts on some old jogging pants—they could even be Louis’, now that he looks at them a little more intensely—and an old sweater. He haphazardly throws on his shoes and then follows Matilda out into the hallway. He chances a glance towards Louis’ front door, sighing when it answers with silence. Matilda looks at him, face stoic.

She doesn’t say a word as she makes the way to the lift and presses the button. With a low ding the doors slide open and they step inside. Harry’s flooded with memories of them in the lift. The last time they were out, Louis snogged him against the reeling and almost made him come from just that. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and shoos the memory away.

The car ride to his mother’s place is silent and cruel. Matilda doesn’t glance his way once, face glued to her phone the entire time. When they arrive at his childhood home, Matilda springs out of the car and slams the door shut, telling him that he doesn’t need to bother coming in and can just go. Harry lets his head fall against the headrest of the seat, closing his eyes. He takes several deep breaths, trying hard to breathe away any hurt but it settles deep in his chest; makes a home on burnt bones and shattered dreams.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until his mother comes out of the house, wearing a grim expression. He’s not in the mood for a lecture, so he starts the car as soon as he spots her walking closer. “I was just leaving,” he mumbles as he presses the window lifter. “Thank you for taking her.”

“You won’t get out of talking about this, Harry.” His mother looks at him disapprovingly and Harry nods curtly. He knows that. He just doesn’t have the energy to talk about it right now. He’d much rather drown all his sorrows in alcohol.

“I know,” he says petulant, a pout on his face. He feels like a child when his mother looks at him and lifts a hand to his cheek to cup it. “I know, Mum.” He leans against her warm hand for just a moment before pulling away. “You should look after Matilda.”

She nods, once and then leaves him. As he pulls out onto the street, his thoughts drift to Louis. He wonders if he has someone looking after him right now. Did he call his sister? Zayn? Anyone? His vision blurs again, heavy with unshed tears and he pulls over on a deserted car park, shutting his car off and letting the tears roam freely. He’s frantically searching for a tissue in his middle compartment when his phone sounds with a message from Niall. Deciding to check later, he unlocks his phone and opens the photo app to look through his pictures. There’s dozens of him and Matilda, out and about, and at home, of her after her last exam. Then, because he’s a masochist, he navigates to his secret folder, the one he made for Louis and named moon 🌙. There’s so many of them together Harry feels a little dizzy scrolling through them. His fingers stop on one of them after sex, Louis’ sweaty hair all over his forehead, Harry looking up at him through hooded lashes, a small, private smile on his face. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked at a person like this before.

Dabbing his tears away, Harry locks his phone again stubbornly. He can’t keep thinking about Louis. Can’t remember the way his eyes would roam over his body, a smile breaking on his face when Harry would catch Louis looking. He’s so unashamed and unabashed in his adoration and admiration for Harry. He’s never been ashamed of loving Harry. That was all Harry.

And see, the reason he kept him at arm’s length for so long just ran to Harry's mother. So no, Harry needs to stop thinking about Louis. Because he can find another Louis, he thinks, hopes. He can’t find another Matilda.

The days blur a little after he got drunk with Niall and decided to call in sick at the bakery for the time being. Harry can’t get out of bed, or the sofa. Depends on where he spent the previous night. Today, it’s the sofa. It feels physically impossible, like gravity has doubled just for him. Like the mattress has turned into quicksand, clinging to his limbs, dragging him deeper every time he tries to move.

His phone keeps lighting up, buzzing against the duvet. Messages pile up, each notification a landmine he refuses to touch. Instead, he drags his thumb to the thread with Matilda. That hurts less. Or maybe it hurts more. He can’t really tell anymore. He misses her. He just wants her voice. One sentence. A syllable. Anything so he knows she’s still alive.

Harry stares at the screen until the words turn blurry. There’s no answer, but he didn’t expect one. He closes the chat, opens the one with his mum.

A single tears slides down Harry’s cheek. It gets stuck on his upper lip before he licks it away, wincing at the salt. It feels pathetic. He feels pathetic. But he can’t stop. And because he must be a masochist, because apparently it doesn’t hurt enough already, he finally forces himself to open Louis’ endless pile of messages. He unblocked him a while ago, because apparently he doesn’t have a spine.

At that, Harry breaks down. He cries—quietly, miserably—into his pillow, until he can’t breathe through his nose. He cries for Matilda, because he misses her and doesn’t know how to fix what’s fractured between them. He cries for Louis, because he likes him—loves him, more so. Likes him too much. Likes the way they are, likes what they are, what they could’ve been if the world were kinder, if timing were different, if Harry weren’t terrified of being selfish. If only he were twenty years younger. Or if only Louis were older. Or if only Matilda weren’t in love with Louis. If only—

It doesn’t matter, not really. Because he and Louis can’t happen.

So, he clings to memories instead. The way Louis looked at him like Harry was something soft and holy. The way those calloused fingertips skimmed along his skin, writing melodies, and symphonies, and sonnets into his skin. Like he was a song Louis knew by heart.

By the time the old, mahogany grandfather clock on the other side of the living room hits eight, Harry is starving and shaky. He as nothing in the fridge except mustard and a questionable yogurt. He doesn’t bother looking at the expiry date. He doesn’t even want to touch the yogurt at all.

He drags himself upright and pulls on the nearest jumper. Tired and sad, he opens the door and then instantly regrets everything. Because Louis’ door opens at the exact same time. They both freeze. And fuck it, Louis looks wrecked—eyes rimmed red, hair messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day. Harry sees Louis’ fingers twitch, sees the instinctive urge to reach for him, comfort him, hold him. Harry’s chest squeezes so sharply he thinks he might fold in half. Fuck. He slams his door shut, the sound echoing in the hallway like a cruel, harsh reminder of their fucked-up reality.

He rests his forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut. He takes a measured breath, then another, careful, like he might actually shatter if he breathes too hard.

It doesn’t help, because nothing helps.

Anne comes to visit him. It’s been seven days—one whole week—since he’s last seen Matilda and he misses her like a limb. He feels her absence in every corner of the flat. He turns in his flat more times than he doesn’t, expecting her to be right there but she never is.

So, on Day Seven Past Doom’s Day he finds himself reaching out to his mother. He needs his mother. And she does come, so at least there’s that.

She doesn’t even say anything at first, not when she takes in his appearance—the greasy hair, the sunken-in, pale skin, the stained clothes, or the bags under his eyes; she only hugs him. She hugs him tightly and for minutes. Harry feels like he can breathe again.

He doesn’t know how long they stand in the hallway like that but his heart feels lighter when she lets him go and presses a soft, grounding kiss onto his cheek. But then, because she’s his mother and lacks filter, she says, “You look miserable.”

At that, a high pitched, shrill, and hysterical laugh escapes Harry. He shakes his head with laughter, his whole body trembling with the force of it.“I miss my daughter, I miss her s-so much, Mum,” he stutters out, “a-and I know that I f-fucked up, okay? I k-know that, but I just—” He shrugs helplessly, rubbing his knuckle over his eye with too much force. “I fell in love,” he whimpers miserably. “I just fell in love.”

Anne’s eyes widen.

“That’s all I did. And I k-know he’s y-young, and I tried. I tried really, really hard not to like him. But he was everywhere, and—” He coughs, then squeezes his eyes shut as he remembers Louis’ blue, blue eyes staring at him intently. He made him feel seen, understood. He put back together pieces of a heart he didn’t break, carefully and with soft hands, stitch after stitch.

“How old is he?” Anne asks, voice soft and calm.

“Twenty-one,” Harry whispers, shoulders shaking softly. “I tried, Mum, I did. Please believe me. I knew Matilda liked him, and I knew that it would hurt her, so I just—” Another helpless shrug is all he manages. Then he collapses onto the couch and pulls the blanket over his whole body, hiding from the world. “I tried so hard, Mum. So so hard.” His voice is muffled by the pillow but he repeats it until his voice is hoarse.

Anne doesn’t say anything for a while, but he feels her inch closer, wrapping a steadying hand around his upper arm. Her thumb traces over his arm in a soothing pattern. “I’m here, baby,” she says.

With that, Harry drifts off into a fitful sleep.

When he wakes, his mother is still there, but it’s dark outside. She types away on her phone, and Harry blinks his tired eyes open rapidly. There’s still a few stars dancing in his vision when he rasps out, “Are you talking to Matilda?”

She nods, typing once more, then she locks her phone and puts it onto the coffee table. She inches closer, pointing towards the plate. “You should eat something.”

“Is Matilda okay?” He whispers, sniffling. “I miss her, Mum.”

Anne sighs. “She’s okay,” his mother says after a while, pondering her words. Harry slides down onto the floor and closer to the coffee table, carefully forking up some veggies. “She’s getting there.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “What do you mean?”

“That I’ve been talking to her,” Anne says, voice soft and calm, careful. A reminder that her softness is what raised him. “She knows you didn’t do this on purpose, but she feels betrayed.” Anne sinks down next to him, letting out a little groan, followed by “you make your poor mum do impossible things,” to which Harry only let out a weak laugh. “She feels betrayed because you didn’t trust her with this, most of all.”

Harry looks up at her through clumped lashes, tears still running over his cheeks relentlessly. At least, he thought as he blew his nose in a tissue, he could breathe again more easily. “I know, Mum. I just thought—I don’t know what I thought, actually. Maybe I wanted something just for myself.” He plays with his food, moves it from one side of the plate to the other, poking it and then taking a bite, not really savouring the taste. “I wanted something just for me. And Louis was that.”

“Was?” She asks, voice low. She eyes him curiously, a hand on his thigh soothingly running patterns close to his knee.

“Yeah, was. The night—That night, I broke it off. So Matilda doesn’t have to worry,” Harry shakes his head, his heart squeezing in his chest as he thinks of never feeling Louis’ lips on his body again. “It’s over,” he whispers as he closes his eyes, letting the hurt wash away with a tide.

Niall comes over two days later, courtesy of his mother. He holds two takeaway boxes in his left hand and two bottles of beer in the other. His first order of the day, though, is to open the windows and let some air in. “It stinks,” he says unceremoniously, and Harry only shrugs his shoulders. He didn’t really care much about appearances the past weeks.

“I think I ran into your Louis outside,” Niall says in lieu of anything else and Harry’s heart picks up quickly. He wants to ask what he looked like, wants to know if he looked as miserable as Harry feels. All he does is let out a monotone hum and a shrug that could mean both I don’t think you did or I think I shouldn’t care. Mostly, he just doesn’t know what to say. “Don’t want to know what he looked like?”

Harry shakes his head at first, but then, when Niall tilts his head to the left exasperated, he nods, murmuring quietly, “Please.”

“I think he wanted to murder me,” Niall says, placing the bottles and boxes on the coffee table—or wherever he finds some space on it, bottles and more takeaway boxes littering the rather small table. “He looked miserable. Kind of like you do.”

“Why thank you,” Harry grumbles, kicking away the blanket to sit up some more. He should shower, he thinks as he sniffs the air and smells himself.

“Mate, you look like someone died.”

And well, if that doesn’t hit the nail on the head. Harry sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to eat something and then let Niall do whatever he pleases and maybe let Niall make him a little drunk. “You’ve got to get it together, H.”

“I’m trying,” Harry whispers, although he knows that he really isn’t.

“Are you?” Niall scoffs, “or are you just acting like you do and telling yourself that it’s for the best like this?”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, sure. My daughter living with my mother truly is what’s best. You know, this is exactly what happened after Matt and I split. At least for a while. I don’t want this to turn into something permanent, Ni. I’m so fuckingscared of losing her.”

“Not what I meant, mate,” Niall says between two sips of his beer. He places the bottle on the floor and then opens his box, starting to eat. Niall eyes him critically, pushing the takeaway box towards him with a scrutinising gaze. “Come on, eat.”

“Just a little,” Harry huffs and squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he has to eat something. He turns the fork in the takeaway container like it hurt him. “Tell me more about Louis.”

“Not much to say,” Niall says, munching on his food. “I just ran into him in the lift. Looked miserable, like you do.”

“I don’t know how to move on,” Harry whispers miserably, letting his head fall back onto the couch. “I miss him. But I miss Matilda more. And I know I’ll—it’ll be fine, you know? I’ll move on eventually, I think. It’ll probably be easier if Matilda was back.” Something flashes through Harry’s mind, sudden and hurtful. “Oh my god, do we have to move? I can’t make her run into Louis all the time, can I?”

“Mate, you just moved.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like we laid roots here. Oh,” Harry says, sitting up again, “did I tell you Matthew and his missus broke up?”

“No,” Niall gasps out, shocked. “What the fuck? I just ran into them at the shops last week.” Niall claps his hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut like he told a secret he was meant to keep. Harry frowns.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall says. “I would’ve told you, you know? But I never know if I can tell you this stuff.” He shrugs. “It felt like you finally moved on from him, with Louis and all, but then, well… This happened.”

“No no,” Harry rushes out, ignoring the betrayal he feels in his stomach. “No, it’s fine. You live in the same neighbourhood, you’re bound to run into each other. I just wasn’t expecting it. Were they together?”

“Yeah. They looked well loved-up.”

“Hm,” Harry frowns again. “Weird. You think he might lie to me about it?”

“I don’t know.” Niall shrugs his shoulders, cocking his head to the left. He regards Harry for a moment. “I can tell you if I find out more?”

“No,” Harry replies, something in his chest loosening. Matthew doesn’t matter, there’s nothing that holds him to Matthew but his daughter who’s old enough to decide what she wants and a divorce settlement they still haven’t even started.

What matters is Louis. Louis who he has to move on from, because he needs Matilda in his life.

When Niall leaves that night, Harry is tipsy and he sends Louis a needy message that he’s going to regret in the morning, and before falling asleep, he remembers soft blue eyes that devour him, and he fists his cock needily and angrily, pissed at himself that he can’t find a way to move on and pissed at Louis for making him addicted to him.

There’s no winning in this.

There’s a soft knock on his door that pulls him from a fitful, restless nap. It’s been two weeks since he broke things off with Louis, since Matilda moved to Harry’s mother indefinitely. Shuffling to the door with a blanket thrown over his shoulder, his eyes still red-rimmed (he thinks it’s a permanent state by now) he opens it to reveal Louis standing there, lost and looking almost as bad as Harry. “Hi,” he whispers, both hands tucked behind his back as if he’s fighting not to reach out to hug Harry immediately, as if he’s deliberately fighting the urge to comfort Harry. “I just wanted to check on you.”

“Hey,” Harry murmurs back, not quite meeting Louis’ eyes. He’s scared that if he does, his resolve would crumble within seconds. “How have you been?” He asks just to be polite and he sees Louis cock his head exasperatedly, then his hands kind of point to his face.

“I miss you,” Louis says, flat-out. He shoves his hand into his pockets, regarding the floor with fake interest. His hair is disheveled, the bags under his eyes a permanent reminder that they’re nothing anymore, and his eyes are red-rimmed. His chest constricts with shallowed breaths. He’s biting his lip, and Harry wants to put a finger on his chin and make him look at Harry. “I miss you so much it hurts. And you live right across the floor, and I can’t see you. I can’t hold you.” He sniffles, face finally moving up to look at Harry, and Harry regrets ever wishing he’d look at him. It physically hurts to see Louis like this.

“I’m sorry,” Louis continues, “for falling in love with you. I’m sorry I made your life a mess. I didn’t mean to. I only ever wanted you to feel loved. And I—I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last part. “Anything, Harry. Just ask me to.”

Harry wants to say, stay with me and we’ll figure it out. He wants to say, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life, but he doesn’t say anything. His mouth drops open and he lets out a little, embarrassing whimper. Rocking on his heels, Harry tries to think of what to do but he can’t come up with a solution to their problem, so he stays quiet.

“You can’t even talk to me now?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. If he doesn’t see the disappointment in Louis’ eyes, then this isn’t happening.

“Nothing? Wow…” He shakes his head. “Wow, okay. I’m gonna—“ He points a thumb to the door over his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

With a jerk of his head and a shaky breath, he retreats back to his flat, leaving Harry to stare after him for what feels like hours.

Matilda sends him a text message the next day.

It doesn’t say much, only to meet her at his mother’s house. He does, getting ready in a little daze, his mind going to places ranging from she will forgive him to she won’t ever want to see him again. He spends ten minutes in the driveway to his mother’s house before he finds the courage to get out. He sees Matilda peeking out through a curtain for the whole ten minutes.

He feels weird to open the door to his childhood home with the keys, but he also feels weird ringing the bell, so he stands there awkwardly, debating how to go about it when Matilda flings the door open. There’s a hesitant, small smile playing on her lips. Her curly hair is held up by a clip, her fringe framing her face, a few unruly curls falling over her eyes.

“Hi Mum,” she says, more cheery than he expected, her hand coming out to grab his, like she’s trying to pull him in a hug. Something odd swirls around his belly. When she does pull him in a hug, something falls from his shoulders and he feels the weight drop.

“Hey, Bean.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper, croaky around the edges from misuse.

“You look horrible,” she says in lieu of anything else and Harry huffs, following her inside. His mother is in the kitchen, probably preparing lunch. He pokes his head in the kitchen to say hello quickly before venturing to the sitting room with Matilda. She sits down on the sofa and pats the space next to her. Harry’s heart stutters in his chest, the worry melting away second by agonising second. He loves her so, so much. “I wanted to talk to you,” she says after taking a sip from her tea. She places it back onto the coffee table carefully.

Harry nods, not saying anything in reply. He waits for her to continue, puts his hands in his lap, playing with a hangnail on his thumb.

She clears her throat. “I’m sorry,” she starts, which has Harry frowning because he doesn’t think she’s got anything to apologise for. “For running out that night the way I did. I was just—I was so overwhelmed, Mum. Looking back, it all kind of makes sense. Louis coming over so many times, lingering in the doorways a little too long before he joined me in the room.” She shakes her head, a little smile—almost fond—painting her features. “I guess love really does make blind. I mean, for me. The signs were all there. Louis really was just being nice to me. I just—I confused his attention with attraction, confused his nice words for flirting, and him helping me with my skateboarding as exactly the same. I don’t know. I’m only seventeen. I should’ve listened to you.”

Harry shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, Matilda still has a smile on her face and he thinks maybe they’ll be fine.

They talk a little more, Harry catching her up on what he’s done the past weeks (which isn’t much) and when he starts speaking of Louis from his point of view, tension shifts again. “We don’t have to talk about this,” he says. “I know you don’t want to listen to it. I haven’t—Well, he came by, but we haven’t—We’re broken up.” He fumbles with his words, stuttering like he’s a teenager.

Matilda’s nostrils flare. “He broke up with you?” She crosses her legs, tucking one foot under her upper leg. The blanket around her drops and she grips to put it back in place. She looks so much like Harry did at her age he feels like he’s looking in a mirror. The only difference are her beautiful freckles and blonder hair, that’s all Matthew at her age. “So he couldn’t even stay when it got a little hard?”

Harry shakes his head, quickly telling her that he was the one to break it off, not Louis. Her mouth drops open and she’s speechless for longer than he’s anticipated. He grows a little restless. “No!” He says, quick to defend him. “I did. I chose you, Bean.”

Matilda scoffs. “But Mum! I didn’t want you to—I wasn’t—oh, I was just so overwhelmed. I just didn’t want to see him that night, I didn’t want the images in my brain to—there were so many images, and I couldn’t get them out of my head and I knew it was only going to get worse. Mum, you love him, right?”

Harry sniffles, squeezing his eyes shut. He thinks about the first time he saw Louis all those months ago, making them sandwiches. His cheeky smile, the unadulterated desire he already displayed, even then. The way his heart stuttered in his chest when he laid eyes on him for the first time like Louis was the answer to all the questions he stopped asking while he was with Matthew. He thinks about the time Louis carved out for him, how many times he showered him in attention without getting anything from it, only just wanted to be close to him, hold him. Thinks of the kisses they shared and the times they fucked, though he steers clear of delving further into that, scared to spiral into something he shouldn’t in front of his daughter.

He can tell the way his cheeks blush and the smile on his face grows. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice so quiet he’s not sure Matilda hears. A little louder he adds, “I really do.”

Matilda smiles, a real one, one that lifts all the sorrow of Harry’s shoulder. “Then you should go and get him, Mum. Don’t let me stand in the way of your happiness. I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you,” Harry whispers.

They spend the rest of the day together, lazing about on the couch in his mother’s sitting room, a silly sitcom on in the background that both of them have watched too many times already, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Harry and Matilda were catching up.

And if Harry was teary-eyed when they parted ways in the evening, asking Matilda to consider moving back home, a sparkle in her eyes told him that they were on the right way.

When Harry rings the bell to Louis’ flat the next morning, he’s sweating bricks. He’s so nervous. He listens close, but there’s no noise coming from Louis’ flat. Just when he’s about to ring a second time, a dark-haired guy comes to a halt next to him and eyes him suspiciously. “Lou’s not here,” he says, voice cold and short.

“Oh.” Harry’s heart stutters in his chest, throat constricting. “Do you, uh…” Harry scratches his neck, dropping his eyes to the floor. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Nope,” black-haired guy says, still short with him. “And I don’t think I should tell you. Even if I knew.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, nodding along. “Yeah, that’s likely. Just. Please tell him I asked for him? He doesn’t have to get back to me, just. Let him know.”

“Uh-huh.” The guy doesn’t look at him when he unlocks Louis’ door and slips inside. Harry is left standing in the hallway, the scent of wet dogs and this distinctive hallway smell biting in his nose.

He stays rooted in the spot for another four minutes before he turns back and retreats into his flat.

Everything fucking hurts.

He wakes up to an onslaught of messages.

Harry sighs. Locking his phone, he stares out of the window opposite to his couch, the stars twinkling high in the sky. It’s a cloudless night, and Harry wants nothing more but to cuddle into his blanket and be held by Louis. He doesn’t get that, though, so he turns on the telly and gets lost in senseless, mind-numbing reality TV.

Matilda comes back home—albeit it’s just a short visit—the next day. Harry feels like he hasn’t moved since he turned on the telly last night but he recalls stumbling into bed drunk and talking to Louis’ voicemail until it beeped and told him the time was over. He doesn’t recall what he said, though. He hopes it isn’t too humiliating.

Matilda lets herself in with her own keys, toeing off her shoes. There’s a filled tote bag slung over her shoulder that she tosses into the bathroom, claiming that it’s laundry. Harry wonders why she doesn’t do her laundry at his mum’s place, but his head is pounding too hard to actually phrase the question in an intelligible, understandable way. Matilda drops next to him on the sofa and pushes his sweaty fringe out of his face. “Didn’t go well with Louis?” She asks, voice soft and soothing, and Harry wants to cuddle with her until his heart doesn’t hurt anymore and his body has forgotten the shape of Louis’ lips on his.

“He’s not home,” Harry mumbles before he sits up and stretches.

“Then make him come home,” Matilda insists.

“I don’t know how, Bean.” Harry sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He yawns before he continues, “I texted him. He said he isn’t ready to see me yet. And then I left a humiliating voicemail on his phone that I hope he will never listen to. I don’t know where exactly his family lives, and Doncaster’s not small.”

Matilda rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone. “I’ve got his address,” Matilda says unceremoniously, and his phone sounds with a message. “I sent it to you. Now go get your man!”

Harry gets up, but Matilda stops, “Wait, first take a shower, you stink.”

He laughs, ruffling her hair and pressing a kiss onto it. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too, Mum. But now come on, time is of the essence.”

And yes, it really is.

He spends an awful long time on the sidewalk, pacing up and down. Fuck, what the hell was he thinking? This is the stupidest idea he ever had. What the fuck is he doing here? Louis’ mum lives here. Louis’ siblings. He remembers that short meeting he had, getting to know Louis’ sister—or rather seeing them interact together—and wonders if she knew about this. He hoped she didn’t, because Lottie was still young, and Harry hoped Louis had confided in someone else. Zayn. His mum.

A little head peeks out through a curtain. Their wide blue eyes stare him down. It’s uncanny that this is another one of Louis’ siblings. Harry sighs. He should just leave.

But in a gust of courage, he walks up to Louis’ front door and knocks. Soft first, then a little more insistent. He holds his breath like he’s holding a highly inflammable candle. The door opens, and a brown haired woman, a little older than Harry, or maybe actually the same age (which has Harry’s heart doubling in speed, because what do you mean, Louis’ mum was Harry’s age?) regards him curiously. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Harry says, swallowing hard. “Uh. Is Louis here?”

Louis’ mother purses her lips, eyes raking over his body and settling somewhere on his face. “And you are?”

“I’m Harry, uh. His-his—” Harry fumbles, eyes cast down. Fuck. He can’t even tell her who he is. Does she know? What if she doesn’t know and he’ll make it awkward? “His—” And then Louis comes into view. His hair is dishevelled, skin pale and cheeks sunken in, bags under his eyes purple and deep. Harry’s chest hurts something awful. He wants to cross the distance, swoop Louis up. He doesn’t do that, though, only shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Louis. Really, just stares at him, past Louis’ mum, who steps to the side in confusion when Louis steps forward. Harry doesn’t hear anything but the thrumming of his blood in his ears, loud and overbearing, drowning the world out. He sees Louis take a step forward again, half-closing the door behind him, stepping out so they’re only a couple feet apart. He’s not wearing shoes or socks, and his toes curl in on themselves.

“What are you doing here?” Louis hisses, voice low and panicked. 

“I—” Harry darts his tongue out to lick over his lip, his eyes dropping from Louis’ eyes to his lips. “I miss you.”

Louis scoffs, not looking at him. Harry’s eyes prick with unshed tears and he thinks this is the end. He’s not ready for it to be the end, but he braces himself for it. He retreats, quietly. Takes a step back to give Louis space. Looks at him again. He wants to cup his cheek; wants to hold him and tell him it’ll be fine, that they’ll be fine. But he doesn’t feel like he has any right to that.

So, he just says, “I miss you. And I love you. So, so much.” And Louis gasps at that, a little sob, something heart-wrenching cutting through the air, coming out of his mouth. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I know it was wrong, and I know that you would’ve stayed with me.” Harry huffs, a little miserable sound. “And I think maybe that’s why I pushed you away even more. I felt like I didn’t deserve that. That I just hurt my daughter so, so much that I didn’t deserve a good thing.” Louis sniffles, squeezing his eyes shut as he’s listening to Harry. “And you’re a good thing, Louis. You’re the best thing—no, the best person. Anyone who gets to love you next—oh they’re so, so lucky. You deserve everything and more.

“I’m going to go now. I’m sorry I just came barging in here. I’ll leave you alone now.” Harry looks at Louis one more time, really looks at him. Memorises the little glint in his eyes he can’t help to have, even when he’s sad. Commits to memory the way he licks over his teeth when he’s thinking about something cheeky. And Harry is halfway to his car when Louis grabs his hand and pulls him back. He swirls in his arms and they stumble into each other, their chests pressing together. And then Louis’ nose brushes his, and their breath mingles, and Louis’ mouth hovers over his, so close to kissing him that Harry closes his eyes on instinct. He doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t dare breathe.

And then their lips brush. Just a faint, hesitant brush of two mouths. Once that happens, Harry feels the air shift and electricity crackle around them. He’s still got his eyes closed, the memorable scent of Louis—underlying vanilla of his perfume, the smell of cold smoke (that Harry learned to love), and something so distinctively Louis that it makes him curl into Louis without much more thought. Their lips finally fully touch, just a press of two mouths first, like they’re trying to reacquaint themselves with each other. Then, Louis pushes against him further, his tongue poking against his teeth and Harry opens his mouth. Their kiss turns frantic, heated, almost delirious. It feels so good to be back in Louis’ arm, to hear the little sounds he makes as he kisses him. They only break apart to catch their breath, and then when Harry opens his eyes, there’s stars in Louis’ eyes and Harry thinks this must be what heaven feels like.

“Ahem.” A voice from behind Louis startles them apart further and Louis gets that sheepish look he has when he’s being scolded.

“Sorry, Mum.” Louis’ face is blushed red up onto his ears, and Harry thinks he’s falling in love even more, right this second. Louis looks up at Harry through clumped lashes, and it’s only then that Harry realises he’s started crying.

“Hey, babe,” Harry whispers, wiping the tears away from under Louis’ eye. “You’re so beautiful.”

Louis smiles at him, unabashed and almost a little childish. “Do you want to meet my Mum?”

And well, let’s just jump right through it, when he’s already there.

There’s something charged in the air. Louis is back. Harry actually got him back. His heart still stumbles at the thought.

Meeting Louis’ mum had been terrifying. He hasn’t had to meet someone’s mother since he was sixteen years old. And Louis’ mum—Jay—was his age. They both thought that was a little weird. Louis didn’t say anything about it, only stood next to Harry like he belonged there, strong like a rock, a bastion of calm. Harry still doesn’t know how he did that, but he’s so, so lucky to have him.

Jay questioned Harry for hours. Or maybe it just felt like it because Harry was so nervous. She asked his intentions, their plans. Asked if they knew what they were doing, if they were being safe.

The longer they talked, the more the tension lessened. Jay grew less agitated, less worried. And Louis stood by Harry. Defended him when his mother asked if Harry was taking advantage of him, if he pursued him. Louis clarified that Harry was the one who tried to stay responsible.

Now though, they’re both back in Manchester. And Matilda is moving back in. And it’s out in the open, and they’re tucked together on the couch. They startle apart when they hear a door click shut.

“I’m not going to call you Dad,” Matilda says in lieu of a greeting as she comes into view. Harry bites his lips. “I’m still so fucking pissed, at both of you,” she goes on, arms crossed tight over her chest, “Louis, you told me I was too young but all this time you’ve been with my mother? I can’t just wrap my head around that. How can you—we’re only four years apart. My mother is eighteen years older than you. It’s just…” She shrugs, only a bit, “…weird. It’s weird. But I—I can see how much you love each other.” She shudders a little at the admission. Harry extends his hand towards her; she hesitates, then takes it, fingers cold and stiff in his. Like her dad’s whenever they’ve had a row.

“I’m not saying I’m okay with this.” She scrunches her nose. “Not yet,” she mutters, “but I guess as long as you’re happy, I can’t really be against this, can I? I guess both my parents are going through a fucking mid-life crisis. At least my Mum isn’t pregnant,” she tries to joke but it falls halfway through.

“You aren’t, right?” Her eyes widen. She nearly drops Harry’s hand.

“No, oh my God,” Harry blurts, shaking his head so hard it almost hurts. “No, I’m not pregnant. We’re careful.”

Louis chuckles next to him. “Though…”

“Shut it,” Harry grits out, cheeks blazing, a blush creeping crimson on the high of his cheek. Louis’ laughter only gets louder. “I’m not pregnant, Bean.”

Matilda sits down next to Harry, and Harry opens his arms without thinking. She curls into him; the motion so familiar Harry’s chest constricts painfully.

“I missed you, Mum,” she whispers.

“Missed you too, baby,” he breathes, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis shift, feels a warm squeeze to his thigh before Louis stands.

“I’m going to—” he thumbs over to the door, “Let you two catch up.”

“You don’t have to go,” Matilda says, quickly. “Just… maybe hold back on the PDA?”

“Of course,” Louis says immediately, nodding quickly. He sits back down back to Harry, hands folded neatly.

“And—” Matilda scrunches her nose up and rubs her pointer over it, “can we maybe go skating?”

Louis’ eyes widen, and Harry’s heart squeezes. “Are you sure?” Louis breathes out and Matilda nods quickly. “I’d love to,” he says then. “Just, text me a time and I’ll be there.”

“What about now?” Matilda asks.

“You sure?” Louis shoots back, and Matilda nods again. “Yeah. Mum, is it okay if we—”

“Yeah,” Harry rasps, “sure. Um. Just, be safe.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, easily, rolling her eyes, “we’re always safe.”

Harry nods. He wants to kiss Louis. He wants to hug Matilda until they both run out of air. But he stays quiet. Watches as Louis stands and gives his thigh another squeeze, that little encouraging smile blooming on his lips. “I’m getting my stuff,” Matilda calls as she disappears into her room. Louis swirls around to look at Harry and there’s want in there. And love, so much love that Harry feels like he could be choking on it.

“One quick kiss,” Louis whispers, “just kiss me real quick. Please.” And because Harry is weak for him—and because if Louis asks for something, Harry gives him it—he presses his lips onto Louis’. Louis sighs softly, deepening the kiss, and as always, they sink into each other too easily, too deeply, forgetting everything outside of themselves and the shape of their mouths.

Matilda’s soft hum at the doorway—“excuse me”—makes them jolt apart like teenagers caught red-handed.

“Sorry,” they both say in unison.

Matilda shrugs. “It’s okay. Just… have to get used to it, I guess.” She studies Harry, eyes softening. “You—You look happy.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a very long time.”

Harry’s heart stumbles, then stumbles again. “I am,” he admits, and Louis’ hand settles at the small of his flushed back—warm, grounding—pressing once before letting go.

Then Louis leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek quick and gentle; a barely there one, and then the pair of them are out of the door, leaving Harry blinking rapidly in the sudden quiet.

Harry inhales slowly through his nose, then lets the breath out again. He stands up and walks into the kitchen to start cleaning.

It’s good. It’s really, finally good.

When Matilda and Louis come back from their impromptu skateboard getaway, their cheeks are flushed rosy pink and noses red from exhaustion. Matilda greets Harry with a cheery one-handed hug, knowing that he doesn’t like it too much when she’s sweaty. Louis is obnoxious about it, because that’s who he is. He laughs when Harry squirms away but eventually does give him space. Matilda comes back from her shower quickly, and Louis goes next, almost like he belongs here. And somehow he does.

Harry won’t be too hasty in this. They have time. Matilda sits down next to him, a dopey happy little smile on her face. “We’re fine,” she whispers, as she leans her head against him. Her hair is up in a towel turban and she smells faintly of roses and cherry blossoms. Harry inhales softly, breathing in her familiar scent. She’s only been back for a couple of days, and Harry doesn’t want to lose her again. Louis comes back out fully dressed, his hair still a little damp, combed back and out of his face. His face still looks a little wet from the shower. Harry’s heart squeezes, he itches to reach out and pull him in. He doesn’t. Only smiles at Louis, who sits back down next to them.

They talk for a while. Louis tells them he’s starting his last semester in the fall and that he’s found a job in an architecture firm in the centre of Manchester. Matilda goes on about how she wishes she could take a gap year, maybe travel through Australia or Latin America. Her eyes grow a little misty when she says that she probably won’t be able to afford it. Harry squeezes her hand, a sad smile on his face. “I’ll ask your Dad, hm? And if he doesn’t want to pitch in too much, I have enough saved to at least give you a head start there. And you can work for a bit before you actually leave. Nothing’s set in stone.”

Matilda smiles so bright she rivals the sun that’s shining outside. It’s a good day, and when Louis tells them goodbye, Harry pulls him in to give him a quick goodbye kiss and Matilda doesn’t cringe.

It’s a win.

The first time they get intimate post-break up is… awkward. They still divide their time between Harry’s flat and Louis’ flat, and nothing ever happens inside the four walls Harry shares with his daughter, a boundary he established pretty quickly after they reconciled. But it also makes their intimacy stilted and planned. And Louis is growing frustrated, Harry can tell. It’s clearly been a while since they both got off together, and Louis has a healthy sex drive (not that Harry doesn’t but it’s just… he’s fucking terrified).

So when he comes over to Louis’ place, he’s freshly groomed everywhere and he’s wearing his best clothes. Louis licks his lips when he undresses him, his eyes raking over Harry’s body greedily.

There’s something in the way Louis touches him that makes Harry doubt. Because he isn’t as sure anymore; not as vigorous. He’s almost reverent in the way his fingers touch the butterfly inked on his stomach, or the way his fingers shake when he pinches Harry’s nipple. They harden instantly under the touch, but Louis moves on too quickly for Harry’s taste. He whines out pathetically. “Touch me,” Harry whispers, “touch me touch me touch me.”

Louis’ chest stutters. Harry’s eyes widen as Louis brings a distance between them that Harry isn’t happy with. He stays quiet and waits. He sits there, naked and exposed, while Louis tries to control his breathing. “Babe,” Harry whispers, “hey, babe. It’s fine. We don’t have to have sex.”

“I want to,” Louis grits out like it physically hurts him that he’s panicking. “I want to have sex with you, but—” He shakes his head, eyes cast down as he sinks back down onto the bed and presses a finger against his pulse point.

“There’s this voice in my head,” he mumbles, defeated. “That tells me that if we have sex, you’ll leave. Or-or that it was all just a stupid fucking dream.”

Harry kneels forward and arches his body toward him, grabbing for his wrist. He does the same, presses his thumb into Louis’ pulse point there. “I’m here. And I’m not going. I never want to leave you again. I love you, Louis Tomlinson.” He smiles as he presses the thumb of his other hand over the space under Louis’ eyes, wiping away a stray tear Louis probably didn’t even realise that he shed. He presses a soft kiss there as an afterthought. Louis’ pulse calms down, Harry in awe when he feels it happening under his own thumb.

When Louis looks up, it’s through clumped lashes and wet, glossy eyes. “You’re not leaving?”

Harry shakes his head fervently, pulling Louis in for a hug. “I’m never leaving, baby.” He presses a kiss underneath Louis’ ear. They rock back and forth for a bit, revelling in each other’s presence, only listening to their beating hearts and synchronised breathing. Harry feels closer to Louis than before.

“I really do want to have sex, though,” Louis says as he pushes him backwards. Harry giggles, letting himself be guided easily. They are greedy in their kisses again, and greedy in the way they touch each other, bruising the other with their fingertips pressing into skin that’s been untouched for too long. Louis pushes Harry’s legs apart like he’s learnt how to do that in his sleep and maybe he has. Harry goes easily, relaxing into Louis’ touch.

Louis opens him up carefully. They laugh when the lube drops from his quivering hands, breathing into each other’s mouth when Louis’ fingers hit his prostate just right. He presses kisses into the nick of Harry’s crotch, nibbling and biting until bruises form. His tongue licks a long stripe over his thigh, then blows over it, making Harry gasp and shiver and squirm, all while Louis fucks into him with two fingers. He kisses the inside of his knee and kisses down further, then back up again, stopping short of his most sensitive area. He noses along his hard-on and licks over the slit greedily. Harry gasps into every touch, every sound coming from Louis’ mouth a symphony. Harry’s too in love to care for anything, he lets himself be guided and turned and taken apart by the man above him, who’s looking at him like a starved man devouring his last meal on Earth.

When Louis presses in, stretching him in a way his fingers won’t ever do justice, Harry gasps on a choked, broken moan. “So tight,” Louis whispers, voice in awe. He bottoms out on a loud grunt, and Harry feels so full. He wants to stay like this. “Feel so good around me. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

Louis murmurs on, praises him for being good, tells him he feels Harry clench around him like a tight vice. It goes on, the praise and the awe and Louis relentlessly plowing into him. Harry wails, his body convulsing every time Louis hits Harry’s prostate. When he can’t hold back anymore, he babbles out, intelligible and hoarse that he’s going to come and Louis just tells him to let go. He comes long, hard, the crash following immediately as he falls onto the mattress, Louis steadying him by his hips while he thrusts into him two, three, four more times and then comes, hot squirts of come spurting into him for so long that Harry feels so full, he’d choke on it.

Louis collapses on top of him, spent and pliant and sweaty. Harry feels the same, the sweat on his body drying uncomfortably, the come dripping out of him once Louis pulls out an overpowering feeling.They fall asleep in a tight embrace, whispering I love yous to each other until it doesn’t feel like a real sentence anymore, and they kiss a little more until their lips are numb. 

Harry doesn’t have any dreams that night, and Louis is still holding him when they wake up the next morning.

Life settles in a way it always does after a long period of pain. Like the sun coming up after a long, harsh winter, peeking through clouds of white.

Harry and Matthew’s divorce gets settled easily, far quicker than Harry could have hoped for. Once he’s Harry Styles again, something lifts around him, like the chains of Matthew’s name had tied him down to someone he wasn’t. Soon after, Matilda too, asked if she could become a Styles. And while that came as a blow to Matthew, who felt like he had lost everything from “just a stupid mistake”, he did consent to it, so they were two very happy Styleses now. 

Life is everchanging; Louis is going to start his master come next semester (which is still a little while to go, but Harry is so proud of him) and Matilda will go off to Australia and New Zealand in a little over two weeks, and preparations for that leave Harry restless and nervous. Louis calms him down every time he’s breaking down over another thing or two. Overall it was Louis who became their rock somehow. He weathers every storm, stands tall and strong and doesn’t waver. When Harry thinks of who they were a little over eighteen months ago, he feels dizzy. They’ve both grown a lot, and Louis, above all, really just wants to be a part of their life in whatever way possible.

Like right now, when they’re cooking together. Louis stands—albeit helplessly—next to him as he watches Harry bustle around the kitchen like he belongs there. Somehow, Harry does. Harry enjoys cooking, and keeping the family together. It’s what he’s good at, at least after a lot of trial and error. He knows now that the complacency he had in his relationship with Matthew came down to them only marrying because Harry got pregnant. And while he does think that he loved Matthew (it’s not like you stay with someone for so long if you don’t love them, Harry still believes in that), he knows now that they didn’t really like each other. Louis holds him, twirls him around, and Harry smiles as he dips, then presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek when he’s standing again, and it is the simple things that make Harry the happiest now; silly dancing in the kitchen, Louis’ hand steady on his waist or the small of his back, unwavering.

With Louis, they can laugh about literally anything. They giggle about stupid videos, or watch silly television together. They enjoy each other’s company and protect each other’s solitude.

And that, after all, is what life is all about.