do you think we could start making fanfiction based off fanfiction? cause it’s been months and I still haven’t gotten over These Inconvenient Fireworks…
No, no, absolutely not. Abort mission, release parachute, motherfucking eject.
Q:heyy have you read These Inconvenient Fireworks and if you did do you have a download link or do you by any chance know someone who has it? thanks xxxxxx
Q:What are some of your fav Larry fics?
Ok so to read TIF you have to join wontsitstill’s community, and you should be able to read it without any other complication. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT (you are going to cry, i warn you). Pull Me Under and Red Brick Heart are perfect. I’ve read all of them at least twice.
Oh, and I read Two Halves of a Blue Sky a few days ago and I liked it, so I thought, why not rec it? Hope you enjoy reading them! :)
- These Inconvenient Fireworks. Future AU in which nobody tries out for X Factor but the boys end up finding one other eventually anyway. Louis is a jaded bastard who owns a cat named Duchess and teaches drama to teenagers, Harry is an idealistic aspiring photographer/part-time footy coach, Zayn teaches English lit and wears leather jackets, Liam saves people from burning buildings, and Niall is Niall.
- Pull Me Under. AU. As the first British footballer to come out at the prime of his career, it helps that Louis Tomlinson is in a long-term, committed relationship. Even if that relationship is fake. (Featuring Niall as Louis’ favourite teammate, Liam as Louis’ agent, and Zayn as Liam’s boyfriend, who just happens to be good friends with one Harry Styles.)
- Red Brick Heart.Harry has only had his room for thirty-two minutes when it stops being his. Uni AU. Harry had turned up at the halls of residence expecting fun, new friends, and maybe a life experience or two. What he doesn’t expect is a surprise roommate who’s loud and dramatic and obsessed with tea and is maybe, actually, all he’s ever wanted.
Its epilogue is The Sex Game and it’s amazing
- Two Halves of a Blue Sky. Harry had tried to get used to the attention fame had brought him - had learned to at least pretend to deal with the rumours and speculation about every aspect of his life, had learned to pretend to be all right with the paparazzi shadowing his every move, had learned to pretend to cope with too-many-fans mobbing him whenever he went anywhere - but after being outed all too publicly, it all became too much. A break from it all on island in the middle of the Pacific, far away from everything and anything seemed to be just the sort of thing Harry needed. A distraction was even better, especially when it came in the form of a gorgeous surfing instructor with a smile that could outshine the sun - even if a summer romance hadn’t been on the original agenda. A heart-shaped island in the middle of the ocean was probably sort of place to fall in love. But Louis had his own reasons for being in Tavarua, and those might just mean that neither of them get the happy ending they’re looking for.
Notting Hill-esque AU set in Fiji.
ASK ME ANYTHING!
Just got around to following everyone back!
I’m so sorry I haven’t been on this blog in god knows how long. Since this is a side blog my main account will show up, which is staybrave-dontsurrender :)
" “Want to see something cool?” Harry says out of the blue, and Louis can just nod, because he’s in love with a toddler.
Harry doesn’t explain further, just nods happily and clears the table. They get dressed quickly, Louis putting on his own trousers but slipping into one of Harry’s shirts, a soft cotton long-sleeved number that’s loose around the collar and has Harry looking at him with promise in his eyes. He grabs his camera bag and an umbrella, and then they’re out the door.
Louis expects for them to head towards the tube again, but they walk in another direction, Harry’s arm tight around his waist to keep them both under the umbrella.They walk for less than ten minutes, winding around corners and crossing streets, until they reach a massive block of flats. It’s covered with graffiti and could only generously be described as upright, and Louis is beginning to question Harry’s common sense.
“As romantic as this is, love,” he says, shivering slightly in the rain. “I’m not sure we’re at the ‘drug deal’ point in our relationship. Don’t wanna rush that, that’s really a second anniversary sort of thing.”
“Piss off,” Harry says, nudging Louis with his shoulder, and steps up to the door, keying in the access code.
“Do you also live here?” Louis says, peering over Harry’s shoulder as they walk through the door. “Do you have secret identity? Are you a superhero with a shit real estate agent?”
Harry just laughs, slinging an arm around Louis’ neck and pulling him towards the elevator. “Got it in one, Tommo. We’re heading to my lair.” He presses floor number 14, and they’re headed up.
When Harry actually has a key to number 1426, Louis starts to actually get a little nervous. “If you have, like, a secret wife or something, this is really not the way to tell me,” he jokes, leaning against the doorframe and watching Harry struggle with the lock. The whole hallway looks like it’s falling apart, peeling paint and bare light bulbs like a horror movie set.
With a victorious laugh, Harry finally gets the lock to work, letting the door swing open. Before he walks in, though, he turns and pins Louis against the doorframe, kissing him with a thorough sweetness before dropping one last peck on his cheek. “I haven’t got a secret wife,” Harry says, and then grabs his hand and pulls him inside.
It’s just a normal flat, clearly lived-in, but Harry pulls him past the bed in the main room and towards what should be the bedroom. “This is my friend Benji’s flat,” he says. “He was in the photography department at Manchester and moved out here at around the same time.”
“Why do you have a key to Benji’s flat?” Louis asks, watching Harry pull out another key to open the door of the not-bedroom.
“This is why,” Harry says, and lets the door swing open. It’s dark, and Louis steps cautiously inside. When his eyes adjust, he realizes why Harry hasn’t turned the light on.
It’s a darkroom.
There aren’t any prints up now, which must be why Harry was able to open the door and let the light of the flat inside, but Louis can still recognize it for what it is. There are sinks and trays and stacks of photo paper and bottles of chemicals that Louis couldn’t identify with a gun to his head, all surrounded by criss-crosses of string and clothespins for prints to hang later.
Louis spins and looks at Harry accusingly. “You liar,” he says with a grin. “This is totally your wife.”
Harry laughs, stepping inside the room. It’s small, but there’s space for the two of them. “Ah, but you said secret wife. You can’t pretend to be surprised.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Louis says.
“Don’t worry,” Harry says, taking his camera out of the bag and setting it down on the bench. “She’s Benji’s, really. I just get to come by when he’s away.” He pulls the door closed, plunging them into darkness. “I was thinking I would develop some of the prints from yesterday in the park?” he says. In the pitch black his voice seems somehow louder. “The first bit has to be in the dark, sorry.”
“S’alright,” Louis says. “What shall I do in the meantime?” He feels a bit at sea. He knows the room is small, but standing alone, touching nothing in the darkness, he could be in outer space.
“There’s cushions in the corner if you’d like to sit,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the sounds of him fiddling with equipment. “Or if you want—I could sort of tell you about what I’m doing?”
“I’d like that,” Louis says, “Though I can’t really see anything.”
“C’mere,” Harry says, and Louis jumps at the sudden feeling of Harry’s hand finding him in the dark. His hand fumbles until it reaches Louis’ and he pulls him closer. Lacing their fingers, Harry reaches down until both their hands find the camera. “Ok, so this is where you start,” he says, opening the back and taking the negatives out clumsily with Louis’ fingers still tangled in his.
Louis presses up against Harry’s back and slides his other hand down Harry’s other arm until he finds his hand. He rests his head against Harry’s shoulder and feels him move, listening to the soft sound of his voice and feeling the vibrations of it through his ribs. He listens to what Harry says as he narrates what he’s doing, he really does, because he wants to understand, but he finds himself distracted by the way Harry floods his senses in the dark. The clean sweat boy smell of him, the living warmth coming through his t-shirt. Every hitch of his breath, every shift of his shoulderblades is telegraphed to Louis as he does this thing that he loves. It’s not sexual, but it feels a lot like sex. It’s intimate.
Harry clears his throat after some time, and Louis blinks back to alertness. “This next bit doesn’t have to be in the dark,” he says, shifting away from Louis and moving back toward the door. “Careful of your eyes.” He flips a switch.
The room comes alive with dark red light, Harry reappearing before Louis’ eyes picked out in crimson. Like magic.
“There’s still a decent bit left to do,” he says. “If you’re bored we can do something else?”
Louis thinks suddenly of the first time he set foot inside Harry’s flat in Manchester, the feeling he had that he was standing inside Harry’s brain. Here, bathed in dark red light, he thinks he might be inside Harry’s heart.
“I’m not bored,” he says, leaning in to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth as it curves into a smile.
He moves back and settles into the corner, curling up on the few cushions that have been piled there, and watches idly as Harry goes back to work. He can’t pretend that he follows what Harry is doing, what causes him to move pieces of film from one chemical to another or how the picture ends up on the photo paper, but it’s nice to just watch Harry be in his element, just like it was nice to feel him earlier. It’s remarkably similar to how Harry is in the kitchen, now that he thinks of it: puttering around, starting sentences he’ll never finish, singing snatches of songs that Louis half-remembers. Safe, Louis thinks, and opens his mouth.
“Can I tell you the stuff you wanted to know?” he asks, sitting up on the cushions. “The stuff I said I would tell you.”
Harry turns, putting down a set of tongs. “Yeah, of course,” he says, starting to peel off a pair of gloves. “As long as you—”
“I’m sure,” Louis says, biting down on his cheek to keep from smiling. “And you should keep working. I want you to, actually, it makes it easier for me. If you’re doing something else.”
“Okay,” Harry says, looking a little unsure, and rolls the gloves back down his hands before turning back to work.
Louis tries to collect his thoughts, to figure out what he wants to say, but can’t quite find the words. So he starts there, instead, starts from his own hesitancy. “Have you ever had things that you didn’t talk about,” he says, voice small but loud in the tiny room, “Because it felt like too much? Like, it felt like it was the stuff that defined you, defined your life, and so there was no point to talking about it because it was like—I don’t know, like it was more than could ever be explained to anybody else. Like a fish trying to explain what water is.”
Harry sort of nods, but doesn’t turn around, and Louis thanks him silently for giving him the space to do this his way.
“And then you try to talk about it,” he continues. “And it just—when you put it into words, or even write it down, it just feels so small. Like, it doesn’t matter that it felt like the world was ending. The second it comes out of your mouth it feels small, and stupid, and like you shouldn’t even be complaining at all. And like it shouldn’t have mattered, that if you were better it wouldn’t have mattered. So when you talk about it you’re just giving yourself away, you’re just showing people how weak you are.”
Harry is gripping the edge of the sink hard as he flips a print over, but still doesn’t turn. Louis loves him so much.
“There’s a lot of stuff like that for me, stuff that matters and hurts and is important, but I never really talk about it. Not just because it hurts or because I don’t trust people, but because—it doesn’t make me feel sad anymore, not like it used to. It makes me feel stupid. I feel stupid that it happened, and I feel stupid that I cared, and I feel stupid that I still care now. But I think that maybe you’ll be nicer to me than I am. You have a habit of doing that. And it still is important, to understand why I do some of the weird shit that I do, so I want you to know it. Even if it feels small.”
He takes a moment to catch his breath, watching Harry begin to pin prints to the line with barely-shaking hands, and then he begins.
He starts from the beginning, the story of little teenage Louis Tomlinson in his closet made of paper. Harry’s already heard most of this part, because it was always relevant to the whole Stuart conversation they sometimes used to have, and his high school years feel somehow detached from everything that came after, so talking about that time never seemed quite so dangerous. He talks about how he’d wanted to just be normal, to be liked, to make his parents proud of him, even though his dad had been out of the picture for years and Mark was about as close as he had to an actual father figure.
He came out to his mum when he was eighteen, and he’d hated himself for putting that on her when she was only beginning to process the divorce, but lying to her felt even worse. She’d been wonderful about it, told him she loved him always and that it never made a difference to her, made him promise to bring any suitable boys ‘round for her to meet them. That had been the one great mercy of that whole situation, how much closer he felt to his mother after telling her.
The end of sixth form was great, though, because it was finally finishing school and feeling like the whole world was spread out before him waiting for him to wreak havoc. He tells Harry about landing the starring role in Grease, which he’d loved since childhood (John Travolta in tight trousers had perhaps been a revelatory experience), and how much it had boosted his confidence. He remembers joy back then, despite everything else, because he was young and on top of the world and anything was possible. And he wanted to fall in love so, so badly.
After graduation it was off to university with Stan in tow, signed up on a three-year plan for an extended diploma in musical theatre. They decided against rooming together, but they did live on the same hall with randomly assigned flat mates. Louis’ first memories of uni are classes that made him excited to get up in the morning and nights of getting much too drunk much too quickly and Kale.
Kale was older and tall and gorgeous and wore shirts with the names of bands Louis had never heard of, and when Louis first laid eyes on him he was convinced that it was love at first sight. His first couple of months at uni were spent trying desperately to win Kale’s approval and swindling free drinks at bars near campus to afford the cost of going to every show Kale’s band ever played.
Louis had never done more than kissed a boy, and he wanted more than anything for Kale to be his first time. He knows now he must not have been subtle about things at all, because he seems to remember a lot of getting drunk at parties and winding up on Kale’s lap, but at eighteen he hadn’t really known how to go about things and he was starving for it. He didn’t care who knew.
Finally, one night after a party, he’d found his way into Kale’s bed. It hadn’t been gentle at all, not nearly enough for Louis’ first time, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was having sex with the boy he’d been obsessed with practically since he set foot on campus, and he was so cool, and fit, and he picked Louis out of all the other eligible people lining up to fuck him, and that meant Louis was special. He remembers when it was over, lying there next to Kale in bed and thinking he’d been right about everything, that the world was fucking his, and wasn’t everyone going to be so impressed with the new boyfriend he’d managed to bag.
Of course, Kale had never called him again, mostly because he never even asked for Louis’ number. After a month it became clear that there were no mixed signals, nothing complicated about it, as much as Louis had tried to build it up in his head. The simple truth was that he was a fuck, a single nameless, meaningless fuck in a long line of nameless, meaningless fucks. That had stung like only the first proper rejection could.
He’d spent a while after that feeling idiotic and childish, and looking back he almost feels endeared to his past self, like he wants to knit him a little onesie that says “Baby’s First Disillusionment With Love.” Maybe if he’d liked girls, or if there had been boys for him back in Doncaster, he would have gotten it over with early, leaving the teen angst in middle school where it belonged. He’d been running behind. He needed to catch up.
There were a lot of nights out with his and Stan’s new friends, making out with boys he didn’t know in the back of clubs he doesn’t remember the names of, trying to get the whole thing out of his system. Thankfully he was such a baby at the time that it didn’t take him very long to bounce back, or at least not to bounce onto the next boy he thought he was in love with.
The next boy was Tom, his flat mate, the engineering student with good study habits and nice hands. He had blonde hair and a cute smile and he laughed at all of Louis’ jokes, and by the end of first term they’d become fast friends over pizza and video games and bottles of alcohol passed between them.
Except one day Louis looked at Tom, and suddenly friends wasn’t enough anymore. He remembers sitting across their little living room every day and wanting so badly to close that distance between them, listening to the sounds of Tom going about the little tasks of his life and feeling like he was in love with them all. Back then his heart was spilling everywhere, and he’d wanted so badly to give it to somebody. He gave it to Tom, and he never knew if Tom really understood that.
He knew that Tom liked how much Louis liked him, that he loved it when Louis would be all over the place but then focus in on him like he was the only thing in the world worth his undivided attention. He knew that Tom didn’t mind when Louis jumped up in his bed and laid his head in his lap when they were up too late talking. One night in particular, when they were very drunk and very alone, he let Louis kiss him on the neck and then they never talked about it again. Louis was gone for him, so gone, and he kept biding his time, waiting for Tom to come around.
Then one day suddenly Tom had a girlfriend, some pretty brunette with a nice figure, and Louis thought he was going to throw up when he found out. The next thing he knew she was coming over all the time, sitting cross-legged on Tom’s bed and kissing him over textbooks, and all Louis could do was sit there and watch Tom be everything he wanted with somebody else every day.
That was too much for him to handle, even back then, and by third term he had started finding ways to stay out of his flat as much as possible. Thankfully his classes kept him busy, and even though he could never seem to land a decent part in any of the uni productions, what he did manage to scrape up was enough to keep him sane. He was in the back of a dressing room dreading the walk back to his residential hall one night when he spilled his makeup kit all over the floor and somebody bent down to help him pick everything up, and that was how he met Daniel.
Daniel was half Spanish and had lips like an angel, and he was Louis’ first boyfriend. They started dating near the end of Louis’ first year at uni, and it lasted for six months, and Louis thought he was really, properly in love this time. They did everything together, including a lot of very educational things in bed that Louis attached a lot of feelings to when they were happening, because when you’re learning those things with somebody you love, it feels important.
They dated over the summer and well into the first term of Louis’ second year in uni, and Louis was only nineteen but he was already imagining ten years down the road, both of them on stages in London and going home to the same tastefully furnished flat. He couldn’t imagine ever not wanting to be with him, and he was sure Daniel felt the same way, even if he was a bit cagey about it.
And then Louis told Daniel he loved him for the first time, and Daniel dumped him a week later. He told Louis that he was too clingy, that they were young and he just wanted to have fun and it wasn’t like that for him.
Louis explains to Harry that this was how he first started to learn. He learned from Daniel, and from Tom and from Kale, that he wasn’t a person that other people wanted to expend themselves on. That love, real love, probably didn’t exist at all, and certainly wasn’t going to happen for him. He wasn’t a person who people wanted to love, not really, and even if he could get them to want to be with him for a while, even if he managed to rope them in, eventually the shine would wear off and they’d get sick of him or find something better. He wasn’t anybody’s place to stay, just a stop along the way.
All of those things cut down whatever sense of reckless hope he’d gotten when he first came out. It didn’t help that he kept getting turned down for every role he tried out for, that every single train ride to London for a casting call went absolutely nowhere. He wasn’t good enough, and that was something he’d always privately felt anyway, but it was worse to have it proven to him as more than just an anxious voice in the back of his head. He wasn’t leading man material, not even in his own life.
By this point in the story, Harry has run out of prints and has no busywork left. Instead, he sits down on the bench and listens, though at least he doesn’t look at Louis, just stares down at his hands. Louis is glad he’s still playing along, because he’s never, ever told anybody this much before, and he’s not sure he could do it with Harry looking at him.
He needs Harry to know it, though. It’s not just that he feels like he owes it to him, it’s that now that they’re doing this for real, he needs Harry to know exactly where he’s coming from. He needs Harry to know all the reasons he acts the way he does, because he needs this to work. He needs this to work more than anything.
So he folds his arms on top of his knees and keeps going.
Christmas 2011, Louis was still reeling from Daniel. He was on a tailspin, and his friends were doing everything they knew how to do for him, but it wasn’t enough. He was going to do something he would regret, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop him. If he was going to be alone, he might as well make sure he deserved it.
It was around that time that his dad had the nerve send him an invitation to a Christmas party at his new house with his new family after months without so much as a text message to check up on him. Louis had known when he got the invitation in his email that it was just extended as a gesture, and that he didn’t actually expect or want Louis to go. They weren’t really close, never had been—no matter how much Louis tried—and at that moment in time Louis was just unstable enough, just close enough to the edge, that one stupid email triggered every single pent up feeling he’d ever had about how much his dad didn’t seem to give a shit about him.
He showed up at the party already tipsy, wearing his tightest, reddest trousers, and made a point to offend or scandalise as many of his dad’s friends and business associates as possible. He may as well have worn a sign around his neck: Go on, Dad, ignore me. I’d like to see you try. Every obvious Daddy issues cliche wrapped up in one human being, with all the subtlety of a double-decker bus. He’s as much ashamed of that as anything, that he lost control that much. That he let himself be that affected.
He was in the kitchen fixing himself a drink when a man sidled up next to him and asked if he was sure he needed another. Louis remembers looking up to tell the prick off and then stopping himself when he saw that it was a man his dad had been doing business with since Louis was a kid, some corporate lawyer with a black Porsche and a perfect jaw. He was in his early forties, going gray at the temples, and Louis remembered that his name was Nathan Grant and he played golf with Louis’ dad.
It’d be a lie to say it seemed like a good idea at the time, because it didn’t. What it did seem like was a way to feel like he was getting back at his dad and prove to himself that he was still desirable in some way all at once. He locked them in the guest bedroom and let Grant fuck him while his idiot dad and his idiot friends carried on outside, and at least he felt like he was in control of something for a few minutes.
Of course, his dad found out, and of course, his dad blew the whole thing way out of proportion. Came and got him from uni, dragged him home to his mum and yelled at both of them for an hour. It turned out that apparently Grant had an affinity for collecting much younger boys, and Louis’ dad couldn’t believe Louis would humiliate him by being “one of his slags” and blamed his mum for raising him to be this way. It was a huge mess and Louis’ mum cried all night and Louis had never felt so completely worthless before in his entire life. It took months to get over that night, to stop believing that the things his father had said were true. They still come back to him sometimes, on bad days, and it’s always a conscious effort to push them back down.
He was hanging by a thread by the time he met Patrick, a dark-haired boy who was studying history and seemed to be Louis’ last hope. They dated for eight months, through graduation and the summer after, and it was good. It was really, really good, enough for Louis to start believing again that maybe all the other times had just been bad luck. He was fairly certain he was really in love this time, and for once Patrick felt the same way too.
Except Patrick’s parents would have disowned him if they had ever found out he was gay, and Patrick seemed to think he deserved it. Louis tried coming up with compromises, tried finding ways to reconcile how much Patrick said he loved him and how ashamed he seemed to be of it, but all he ever ended up doing was feeling worse about himself. It all blew up when he pushed a little too hard one day about cutting off his parents and Patrick told him that he might love him, but he was never going to love him that much. That was the worst thing Louis had ever heard, honestly. Worse than anything his dad could come up with on his worst day. It was one thing for somebody to tell him they didn’t love him. It was another for them to tell him that loving him wasn’t enough.
In the end Patrick left, moved across the country and never spoke to Louis again except for a few drunken late night phone calls. Last Louis heard, Patrick was married to a nice girl with one on the way.
That was the one that finally broke him. Even when everything was perfect, it still hadn’t mattered. He couldn’t make him stay. He couldn’t be enough. What was the fucking point?
He gave up on just about everything after that. It wasn’t like he could afford to keep making the trip to London for auditions anyway, so giving up on that particular dream made sense. It was how his life was supposed to go, just another thing he wanted and wasn’t good enough to have. He’d always known it was a longshot, and he had probably always been better suited for teaching anyway. That was all he had wanted before he got carried away in delusions of being a star, and it was time to get realistic. He shut himself away from practically everyone in his life at that point, focused on going back to school for a bit and sorting out his certifications and saving up as much money as he could.
He packed up and ran from Doncaster as soon as he could afford it. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t keep living in his mother’s house when she barely had the money to support the girls, couldn’t handle the sympathetic way she looked at him and the constant reminder of everything he’d ever done to make things harder for her. He couldn’t pass all the places that reminded him of the people who’d broken his heart and all the things he used to care about before he figured out that he wasn’t ever going to get to be happy. He had to get out.
He ended up in Manchester because he didn’t think his piece of shit car could make it much farther, and also he had some old friends from uni out there who didn’t look at him like he was a cautionary tale. He managed to find a decent flat and a job a few months later, which was considerably better than the position he’d been in since he graduated uni, and he adopted a cat, and he met Zayn, and then Niall.
The next few years were nothing special. After Patrick he’d sworn off relationships, so he just kept to the habit he’d developed in Doncaster of having meaningless sex with strangers with names he only bothered to learn if they bought him a drink first. If any of them ever showed an interest in anything more than sex, he’d give the poor sod a fake number and send him on his merry way, never to be seen again. For years, he didn’t let his guard down for anyone. That was how he operated, and maybe it didn’t make him happy, but at least it worked. Nobody hurt him because nobody could. At the time, it had seemed like all he deserved.
Louis has reached the end of the story now, or at least the last part up to what Harry already knows. He feels winded like he’s just run a marathon, and emptied out, but he also feels a strange sense of relief. He hasn’t talked about any of these things in so long, and he never really realized how much it kept weighing on him. It’s all out there now, all the ugliest, darkest parts of his past, and there’s nowhere farther down to go.
He looks up from the floor and Harry is silent and completely still in the red light save for a muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw. He waits, but Harry doesn’t move or say anything.
“So, that’s everything,” Louis says, still watching Harry anxiously. “That’s who I was. I had sworn that I wouldn’t ever let anybody get close enough to hurt me again, until I met you.”
“And then I fucking left you too,” Harry spits out, coming back to life suddenly. He surges to his feet and crosses the room to grip the worktop, swearing under his breath.
“No, Haz, I’m trying to explain to you why it’s not all your fault,” Louis attempts.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to murder every arsehole who ever hurt you right now?” Harry says, spinning around, and Louis is reminded quite vividly of the day Harry came storming into his classroom and told him about Mike Kendall. “I swear to God, if I ever met any of them—but no, I haven’t even got the fucking right, because I was just as bad as any of them, I was—”
“You weren’t,” Louis says, “I told you, it was just as much my fault as it was yours.”
“I don’t care whose fucking fault it was!” Harry snaps, his voice breaking. “I was fucking oblivious, and I let you think I didn’t love you, and—”
“Harry!” Louis half-shouts, cutting Harry off. Harry freezes, eyes wide and mouth halfway open, and Louis tries not to find the shocked halibut expression on his face as comical as he does. He steps up to Harry, taking one of his hands and smiling softly at him. “I don’t blame you for anything, okay? I told you all that because I wanted you to know where I’m coming from, but you didn’t know anything back then. It wasn’t fair to you either.”
“Doesn’t undo what I did,” Harry mumbles after a moment. “The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you.”
“I know,” Louis says, touching the side of his face. “Hey, I was an arsehole too, remember?”
Harry laughs a little, and Louis can tell he’s starting to come back down. “Yeah, you were.”
“See?” Louis says. “We’re both arseholes. That’s why we’re meant for each other.”
Harry full-on grins at that, looking up into Louis’ eyes. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” Louis says, leaning up to kiss the top of Harry’s cheek.
Harry pulls Louis in by the small of his back, wrapping both arms around him. “Sorry. You’re trying to be open with me and I throw a fit.”
“It’s okay,” Louis says simply. “You love me.”
“I do,” Harry confirms. “And I love you for telling me everything you just told me. And I love you for loving me in spite of all that other shit, even after I was a complete twat.”
“That’s the spirit,” Louis says, and he reaches down and catches Harry totally off-guard with a surprise nipple twist. Harry yelps in pain and alarm and slaps Louis’ hand away, and then they’re laughing, and then they’re kissing, and Louis hopes this Benji bloke doesn’t mind if they get a bit fresh in his darkroom.
Before this, Louis kept thinking it would feel like things had changed when he finally spilled his life story to Harry, but it doesn’t really. There are still the same hands, the same kisses, the same laugh when Louis pins Harry’s hands to his chest and licks the end of his nose. There’s no nuclear fallout. For about the millionth time this weekend, he’s done something that used to scare the shit out of him, and the world still hasn’t ended.
Once the prints have dried, Harry cleans up after himself and takes them down gently one by one. He gets down a large folder from one of the top shelves and slides them inside carefully, and Louis watches. It’s hot, getting to see Harry do something he loves and is good at. Louis is into it. He could get into photography if it means just watching Harry do this all the time.
Harry packs up his things and they head out together, locking up behind them. The rain has stopped when they get outside, and their linked hands swing between them as the walk back.”
suddenly TIF feels