until the sun explodes

before the two even had time to think about the therapy session that would include both of them, they first had harry's gig lying in wait, inching closer as minutes passed.

harry grew more tense in every passing moment—it was going to be a small, unremarkable reception, with just regulars at the bar which he was going to perform at, but he was nevertheless worried for his first show. louis rubbed harry's back until he saw green eyes flutter shut, praying that no frightening dreams were there to disturb the boy's much needed rest. if there were any way, for just one night, he were allowed to endure both harry's burden and his own, he would. where harry's uncertainty was coming from, he didn't know. there was no doubt in his mind that harry would really find himself onstage, singing his heart out to an audience that'd fall in love at first sight. that's what happened when harry first sung to him, anyway.

louis wondered if it was futile to hope that the boy in his arms would stay in his pressed against him forever, because there was no doubt that he would outgrow him, and eventually fail to fit. he would find some other person that he fits in and around better.

so when sleep refused to come over him, he rolled out of bed for a smoke; not before pressing the cigarette into his arm until he could feel the skin physically sizzle under the heat. it was his own form of liberty, of justice—one that simultaneously numbed his mind yet sharpened it. every exhale of smoke he also exhaled the worries that plagued his mind. he didn't care if it was going to kill him; hell, he'd rather it kill him, if anything.

it was a sick thought, but he would imagine himself slicing off layers of his own flesh, all the way to the bone, and grilling the slabs like meat. he didn't know what about this was all that appealing, but it was. he hoped that his body would be put to good use once his soul was finally set free.

not that he believed anything of the sort, anyway.

the idea of going to a nightclub nauseated him. he wasn't sure what'd possessed him when he dragged himself to a dirty pub on that first night he'd met harry, but the fear, since then, had amplified tenfold, at least, especially after the incident at the party. he couldn't not go, and he really, truly wanted to, to be as supportive a boyfriend as harry always was for him, to watch people cooing and awwing at the boy he knew was his, to be the first one to see that broad smile that would surely blossom into harry's cheeks as he gleamed with success.

but the feeling of another man crawling up and down his skin with a slimy tongue and cold, cold, cold hands always stuck in louis' mind like parasites, burrowing about and making homes in the fissures of his mind.

he lit another cigarette and pressed it even harder into his arm, closing his eyes and relishing the pain like it was something to be milked and enjoyed. this is better than cutting, it must be better than cutting. he remembered now, how at home his fingers felt, nestled deep in his throat.

louis closed his eyes and could see an imprint of harry's face and how deeply some of the lines were set in it, how tired he looked. he was tired because of him, he gave up everything for someone like him. it was sickening, really, how selfish he was, how audacious it was of him to take, take, take, and never give back. this was the least he could do, to at least be supportive of his boyfriend's success.

the word boyfriend still felt unnatural on his lips; every time he spoke with zayn about harry, or had to introduce himself as harry's boyfriend, or introduced harry as his boyfriend, a voice screamed at him. it would scream unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. he'd wonder if that was what everyone was thinking when they saw the two; a man whose soul was the coming of spring itself, the blooming of flowers, having to be put beside him, who he just knew that everyone knew that he was the very force that makes beautiful things rot, something not worth harry's presence.

"i know what you're thinking," a voice said behind him, making louis jump a bit out of his seat. normally, he was much more attentive to sounds approaching him, but his thoughts were so loud, crashing and receding in his mind that he hadn't noticed harry's footsteps. "i won't let anyone hurt you. i swear on my life."

"that's not—"

"you're worried about it. even if you say you aren't, i know you are. the place will be swimming with security, love. i told them to watch after you especially."

"you what?"

"i know. i knew you wouldn't like it, and i wasn't planning on telling you, but fuck, lou. i can't keep anything from you. you know that."

"i don't need that, haz. i know you care and i appreciate it. i just don't want to be babied. i'm an adult who can take care of myself. and whatever happens, happens. i'll take it." he felt heat rise to his cheeks, knowing what his words were implying and how harry would take them, but he didn't stop them from spilling out like they were made of feathers, falling through the air ever-so-slowly and painfully, filling harry's nose and mouth and throat.

"say that when you can actually take care of yourself." harry snapped, before his eyes widened at the sharpness of his own words and he retraced his steps quickly. "shit, i'm sorry, lou. that's not what i meant to say. i just, i just really want you to stay safe."

"i'm not going to combust from a night out."

"i know. i just thought it might make you calmer to know that i have people watching."

"i don't want anyone watching me, harry. what if i need something to drink?"

the younger boy was taken aback, and his eyes had paled a bit as the clouds allowed more moonlight through. "then get something to drink? it's not that serious."

"i don't like it when people watch me eat or drink. it's embarrassing," he whispered. "and just in general, they're probably all thinking that i'm pathetic or something, needing to be watched over. or that i think i'm hot shit or something, to think that as soon as i step out in public, people want their dicks up my ass."

"no one's thinking that."

"just go back to bed, love. you have a big day tomorrow. today, i guess," louis glanced at the grandfather clock that the last owner had left with the house, which they decided to keep. "it's half past three. are you crazy?"

"the gig is in the evening. i have all the time in the world. besides, you've been awake all this time, haven't you?"

"yeah. what about it?"

"you need sleep, too. you think too much about me, and not enough about yourself."

"it's quite the opposite," he laughed dryly under his breath, not intending for harry to hear, but the taller boy caught his words midair, anyway.

"it's true. you keep saying that i take care of you too much, but that's just want a relationship is. hell, friendship, even. i just want to support you through everything."

"that's not your responsibility. you're tiring yourself out."

"i'm fucking not, louis. it's more tiring that you keep pushing me away."

he pursed his lips, looking down again. he couldn't meet those eyes, he knew, or he would cry. and he couldn't cry. not here, not now. "sorry. i'm working on it. i promise. just, it gets old, and i know it does. so i'm wanting to make things easier on you."

"please do so by being transparent, and actually moving forward instead of just hiding it. i know it's hard, baby. but i know you can do this."

louis pressed his lips together and smiled in the best, most assuring way he could. "i will. let's go back to bed now."

and the gig did go smoothly; more than smoothly, if anything. it was a big success, and widely received by the audience. so much so, in fact, that the nightclub harry performed at had asked him to come again in a couple of weeks due to his popularity with the women.

upon entering the place, louis felt his blood run cold at the liveliness of it all. everything was dimly lit with purple strobe lights, which, alone, was enough to make him nauseous. it was flowing with people of that seemed high on the social ladder; women in sequined dresses, speaking elegantly with champagne flutes full of the sparkling substance, men with ties and gel in their hair and bright white teeth.

all the nausea dissipated it after harry showed up on stage, though, with his striking black suit and red bowtie. he had his guitar strapped to him, and fuck, since when did he look so charming?

of course, louis knew that harry was attractive, he'd known all this time, but under these lights, he looked like an entity dropped off right from the gates of heaven. so when the nervous set of green eyes laid onto him, he felt himself goosebumps erupt on the back of his neck, like he'd fallen in love all over again.

and the music made things so, so much worse. the first song that came was look after you by the fray, then stevie wonder's isn't she lovely, heart of gold by neil young, i will wait by mumford & sons. at the end of each song, louis would find himself beaming at the boy, forgetting about everything but the scene in front of him, hoping to capture it and hold it close to his heart forever. he prayed that no matter what happened, this night wouldn't escape him. even if he and harry ended up getting nowhere, even if harry ended up rightfully leaving him for something better.

the night came to an end with harry performing his own single and announcing the release date of his album, which even louis hadn't known until then: exactly two weeks from then. the vast majority of the audience didn't know who harry was before this night but had given him a standing ovation while murmuring about how good he was, as he quickly stepped offstage. it wasn't quite a stage at all, rather, a corner of the room portioned out, provided with a drum set and mic stand. louis didn't allow even two seconds to pass before he rushed over to the boy, and enveloped him in his arms. they struggled to fit completely around harry's shoulders considering the height difference, but he truly felt like their bodies fit together. this is where they belonged; against each other.

"you sounded amazing out there," louis breathed, face still tucked into harry's chest. it didn't matter who saw, or what people thought. at that moment, all that mattered to him was that they were together, and he felt it in his bones and in his flesh and in his soul. "you look amazing, too. i wish i were there to help you get ready and stuff."

"they had some people do my makeup. it felt kind of embarrassing."

"well, you look stunning, and i think whatever makes you feel moat confident suits you the best. like that one time you painted your nails? you should do it again."

harry ran his fingers through the ocean boy's hair, tracing his fingers along the curves of his back; careful to stop before reaching anywhere beneath the waist. louis always had this effect on him, ebbing away at his uncertainty and anxiety, like he had power over the seemingly all-powerful waves. "people made fun of me for that."

"the people that matter are the ones who'll support you."

"like you?"

"like me."

"i hope you know that everything i sing, i sing thinking of you." harry said gently.

"i love when you sing. i love when you sing to make me feel better when i feel shit." he thought of the days he'd spend wondering what it was that he must have done in his past life that was so filthy, that soap couldn't wash off, to harbor these feelings in his chest. harry would always hold him tightly and sing to him until things became lighter, until there was nothing inside of him except for harryharryharry. he thought about how he'd imagine the lyrics to be dragged across his chest and how maybe then, he'd believe them. but they couldn't be, so he would just hold harry closer and remind himself that it was the boy by his side who had went to the trouble to craft him the shovel to dig himself out of his own demise.

harry had to speak a bit with his manager before leaving, who had been more than pleased with his performance. he was a refined-looking man with dark hair and dark eyes, by the name of jeff azoff. louis couldn't help but notice judgmental glances being thrown at him after him and harry's embrace, as well as a protective arm around the curly-haired boy. he sincerely hoped that he was simply imagining things—just because he often told himself that he wasn't good enough for harry hadn't meant that having the fact confirmed by someone else wouldn't hurt.

the manager didn't need him for anything else, so the two boys were free to go home together. harry, during the entire drive, was chattering about nervous he was, how good he felt, how at home he was, despite not being in louis' arms. it was a lonely thing, the ocean boy thought, but regardless, he was happy. this really was where harry belonged; on the stage and out for the world to see. he needed to catch up. he needed to get past the wall he'd hit writing his novel; he had to finish, soon enough, at least, for harry to not grow impatient and leave. his own success was right around the corner, if he'd just try.

his novel wasn't getting anywhere; it'd stopped after he stopped going to therapy, he realized. it'd been five weeks since it's made any real progression. it was historical fiction, set in new york during the roaring twenties, leading up to the great depression. he wasn't particularly fond of history, but when it came to that time period, he was enamored; he'd always been enamored, in a sense. it wasn't a coincidence that he studied in new york after living in doncaster all his life; he read about it as a child and saw it as the place where freedom was born. fresh out of mother england's womb and all that.

it hadn't been, of course. when he started living there, he realized that it was just as corrupted as the next place. lady liberty kept everyone at arm's length, it seemed.

the memories of new york hadn't been as bitter as they were before. his memories at moma, at the library, at times square, were now all full of lively green eyes and toothy smiles. his days with jean suddenly felt so far away. and they were, in a sense. he didn't even know whether jean vautour was still of this world, alive, breathing. he didn't know who he was or what he looked or smelled like anymore, despite having spent nearly every waking second with him for two straight years.

but it was painful, it its own way. he missed what they had before everything got bad, and it'd been so long that the good had bled into the ugly, and he hardly even remembered what was so bad about that relationship in the first place. had he been making things up all along? had he been using jean and matthew as a scapegoat for his shitty, selfish emotions? because if none of it had been real, then what validity did his feelings have? why did he feel what he did, when his life was so perfect, with the perfect man and perfect parents and enough money to go by?

he felt harry squeeze his hand, which held a death grip on the steering wheel.

"babe," the younger boy said softly, "we'll get through this, yeah? thanks for supporting me today. and all this time."

"yeah." he'd been grounded by harry yet again. there was just something about his presence, he realized, that could make clear the unclear. something that harry had, that no one else did. not zayn, not his mother, not tom.

"i'll be with you every step of the way."

he didn't know if harry meant this in regards to his career, to life, or to his recovery, but it made something rupture inside him, releasing this warmth he never thought he had inside of him. "yeah," he repeated, unable to sort through the plethora of words in his throat that failed to make it to his tongue. "thank you. so much."