epilogue

they no longer live in the london condo; instead now residing in a large house they own all to themselves. harry insisted, when they were looking for a new flat, that they could still keep the condo for sentimental purposes, but louis only smiled lightly and said that it would be a waste, not only of their money, but to have such a beautiful place be uninhabited most days. better to allow it to continue along its own course of life, to allow someone newer, fresher, to break it in once more.

surely enough, just a week after they had vacated it, a single woman in her early twenties moved into the condo. years later, it is no longer just a single woman, but a her and her two children—identical little daughters with thin blonde hair pulled into two identical little pigtails on either sides of the heads. louis still walks there every once in a while, on tougher evenings and even tougher nights, and the place always seems so alive. he wonders, at times, how a single mother can manage to raise such energetic children all on her own, without killing a single spirit; one of her children's or of her own. but their spirits all seem very much intact, though he reckons he can't know for sure. after all, they've never talked to or visited the family; too busy or too shy or too nostalgic, they couldn't tell. perhaps it was a combination of all of them.

some nights, rare ones, when the mother cannot be found in what was once their study, and the entire area is pitch black, with no lights shining through the windows, louis can see shadows of their younger selves frolicking about in the kitchen, slow dancing and laughing and holding each other, repeating and hoping that this really would last forever.

and other nights, the more ruthless ones, he asks harry to come with him, to sit atop the hill together, watching the skyline against the moonshine. it calms him, reminds him of the times that he truly believed that things would never get better.

in a sense, he thought, maybe they haven't, because he still considers himself somewhat of the same person as before. because, sure, there are times that he considers himself happy, truly happy, but never recovered. he tells himself that he doesn't know exactly what recovery constitutes, and he would never give himself an adjective that he doesn't understand. recovered.

nightmares have, however, grown fewer and further between. they were of lesser intensity than before, too. on occasions, he still sees handshandshands, but when he wakes, it is harry that lies before him, and not the faceless men that he'd always been used to expecting. he's almost never in the squirmy state he found himself constantly in two decades before, recoiling at harry's touch. instead, he draws himself closer on these nights, letting arms slink around him and curling his head into the crook of harry's neck.

they are now fifty-three and fifty-one respectively. louis learned months after he turned fifty after sulking for hours a day about how he was now "old," that these years were not going to be slow at all; rather, they were going to be the final years he could call himself "young."

and, three years later, he is indeed embracing his youth, as he likes to see it. some might say he is desperately clinging onto it, but even just a decade down the road, he knows that he would regret not doing so now.

it astounds him, really, how far he's made it and how many years he's lived. every year past fifteen, he'd told himself that this would be his last year alive, but the seasons would change and he'd watch himself age yet he still remains on earth. harry tells him every year on his birthday that he is a gift given to the world for every second he lives, and to take such a thing away would be nothing short of a crime.

he has now published five books, sixth in the making. his first release was lackluster in audience reception, but it was his second one that topped the charts. approaching thirty years old, it was a difficult wall to climb, especially with harry's sudden global fame. he's always been told that fame doesn't happen overnight, but that's truly how it seemed with harry. he swears that one night, harry was known only by some, and come morning, by everyone.

this is success that he never even dared to dream about obtaining as a teen. he is content most days and happy with his now-husband. they are living comfortably in a large villa overlooking the cityscape, and even own a vacation homes in los angeles and in new york. they have a dog named lillian, a large, fluffy saint bernard whose drool always finds a way to nestle itself in louis' clothes and hands and food, but it's endearing and harry always laughs about how lillian gets overly excited by just the sound of louis' footsteps, smaller and lighter against marble, always wrapped in socks; contrary to harry's bare feet.

it's not all smooth, of course. like the cracked ceilings of their old condo, louis sometimes finds himself deep in the rut he digs himself in. these are nights when he can't bring himself to get up, much less walk up the hill behind their house to sit and breathe, in fear that maybe his feet will bring him to the bathroom out of sheer habit, and he would not be able to stop himself after the bright lights slap him across the face, white and unyielding and cold.

harry is not always there, either, with his career that has been taking ahold of the last two decades of their lives. louis comes on tours at times, but it is not always possible due to work conflicts or due to his dislike for travel. the first few times he spent weeks at once alone were hard, but as soon as harry found out of these troubles, he began calling every night after his shows, and insisting that they remain on the phone until louis drifts off to sleep. it is a tradition they still hold to this day; always saying goodnight to each other despite time zones or sleep schedule. to say the least, he finds it comforting.

he tells harry nearly everything, except for one specific thing he does to calm himself when things get hard and he is alone. the kitchen cupboards in their home are quite large, like most things they own (a result of having more money than they know how to deal with), so louis is able to fold into himself and fit in a cabinet like he is taking refuge from bombardment. he always surrounds himself with harry's clothes and his cologne, scattering seemingly random clothing items around him. it acts as closure to him when the world becomes too much and spins too fast; a world where only he exists, and harry is with him.

he sometimes has irrational fears that harry's planes will crash, that he will send him off too lightly, causing the powers to somehow misalign and him smacking harry on the back of the head, telling him to "get on with it," will be their last interaction. he wonders how he would function without harry. he wouldn't, he supposes. he'd exist, as that is all he's really learned how to do in the past three decades, but he wouldn't live-- not really. sometimes, he has nightmares of losing harry in lieu of the usual hands all over his body or insurmountably large number on the scale, and he swears that it is worse than anything else he's ever experienced. he figures, still, he would take all the pain in the world if it meant harry would never have to.

they still haven't had sex. for harry's sake, louis upholds the offer of such a possibility nearly every night they are together, even when he can feel the exhaustion inject itself into his bloodstream and weigh his veins down like they are filled with cold, hard lead. and harry always shakes his head and pulls him close, careful not to touch anywhere below the waistline, telling him how loved he is, despite the absence of sex.

there was one point when he could sense the scent of another man lingering in harry's clothes after a long night out, which louis found himself out cold before harry returned; and he can deduce now that harry did not return until after daybreak, because by the time he fell asleep he remembers he could hear the birds begin to sing outside.

harry somehow sensed that louis knew, too, but nothing really changed. he acted more tender around the ocean boy, movements almost apologetic, but louis couldn't blame him. he'd been withholding such an attractive person who could probably get any girl or guy from sex, after all. such an occurrence was only inevitable.

that is not to say that louis was not bothered by this at all, but he knew and he still knows that it is he himself that suggested harry do such a thing in the first place. they never addressed it; still haven't, and louis wonders now if there have been more instances that he has simply been unaware of, but he tries not to think about it. human libido is truly an odd thing; driven by the innate instinct to reproduce, but the whole "two keys and no lock" ordeal renders it all useless, he thinks bitterly.

and it is not that he is a bitter person; he holds nothing against harry, and would likely be unable to remain mad over anything. he is lucky that harry is such a gentle soul, because he knows that he is the type to allow himself to blindly follow someone without regard to his own wellbeing. past events have proved this.

it's times like these that convince him that maybe he has not truly changed in the past thirty years as much as he is told he has; tom (fat tom, therapist tom) is still seeing him once a week or once every two weeks, depending on his schedule, and their sessions always end up pointing toward how far he has come, especially in recent years. he believes it, for the most part, at least.

the wind is cold against his face as he allows his weight to rest against the iron wrought fences. he reckons that now would be a good time to head home, but at the same time, he knows that returning home would mean going back to an empty house, far too hollow for his liking. these days feel lonelier than most; he receives a brief goodnight from harry, who is currently on the other side if the world, but due to time constraints and busy schedules, it would be simply implausible and selfish for him to ask for more time and more comfort. he is usually still awake when harry's work is done, able to hear the birds chirp from outside and eyes heavy from the leftover tiredness accumulated from his years of missed sleep, but he never even considers it a possibility to call harry, or even make him aware of his consciousness.

tonight must be some special occasion, because the two girls and the mother are all gathered around each other, light flowing through the dark contrast of the sky. they were laughing about something, so heartily and so constantly that louis feels so close even as to be able to imagine himself with them as an older brother, like he always wished how he and lottie and fizzy were during their childhood.

his mother was too absent for such a thing, though, and his mind was too removed from the physical world that he could not truly pursue the communion he wanted. he knows that now, and he knows that he knew that before, but the idea remains overwhelmingly lonely.

he became motherless at the age of twenty-four, after her body succumbed to the illness. he hadn't expected to be as upset as he was; if anything, he expected to feel much more numb, with how his relationship had always been with his mother. calling himself a caretaker would be stretching it, even. it was and had always been closer to nonexistent.

he remembers the resounding heaviness that paved its way through his chest at the moment he received the call. it wasn't that it was particularly unexpected, but he hadn't thought that it would be so soon. there is still a heaviness that comes with thinking about his mother, and he understands sometimes that such sentiments are completely valid; and others, he is not so sure.

there is a shrike impaling a small rodent on the end of a branch; it holds it with one of its legs and steadies it with its beak. the sun is now slowly letting light pass from behind the hills, and the dark sky is gold around the edges. only then, does louis realize how late it is, or early, in some regards. he understands now why watercolor is used so often in art, like in many of the pieces he'd seen in moma when he first went with harry so many years earlier. he still fails for forget that trip, he knows, because it was so special, he considers it something of a turning point in his life. he still travels, especially with his work and with harry's work, but it's not felt the same since.

he wonders if jean has seen his name on bookshelves and remembers who he is—he did choose not to use an alias after all. he is and was and will always be louis tomlinson. it was harry that decided to change his last name, though his stage name remains harry styles, for both publicity and privacy purposes, whatever that is supposed to mean. they are a public in their relationship, but both harry and his management came to the conclusion that staying as "harry styles" would be the best bet. louis is not bothered by this, but sometimes his thoughts gnaw at his conscience, whispering that this is harry's desperate attempt to not get too close, in case they were to ever split.

by the time he returns home with his unsteady gait, the sun is fully visible in the sky and it is warm, at least, warmer than before. as warm as it can be in the final days of september. his steps echo against the walls. the slap-slapping of rubber soles against marble feels so much louder than it ever has. it is times like these he misses the old condo the most. he loves the villa, of course; it, too, has been the heart of many happy memories with harry. though, the condo was much smaller and more carpeted and less lonely.

he can hear nails against the marble too, so he braces himself for lillian to fling herself at him, the large dog she is. she tends not to realize her size and power, more often than not knocking louis over during his arrivals home. she is salivating out of excitement and her breath is warm-- louis can feel it against his face as she is propped up on his torso. the smell of peanut butter clouds his face and judgement and mind briefly until he gently backs away from her. her tail is still swinging from left to right to left again rapidly, almost too quick for his eyes to follow, and he finds a smile forming against his cheeks despite the overwhelming loneliness that took ahold of him just minutes earlier.

"why do you smell like peanut butter? did you get into our pantry?" he chuckles tiredly, running his fingers through the fur surrounding lillian's cheeks and ears. "you know not to do such a thing. what's gotten into you?"

and he knows, he always knows; he has developed a skill over the years of being able to sense harry's presence. so he is not surprised when before him is suddenly the same green eyes and curly hair he fell in love with so many years before. "welcome home," a voice says, and it is deeper and huskier than he remembers, like the past thirty years of his life had passed so quickly he hadn't the time to process it all.

"you're early. i thought you were coming home tomorrow. you said you were coming home tomorrow."

"i know," harry smiles, creating deep lines that are like grooves at the corners of his eyes and around his dimples. it's a reminder of their age, but harry's dimples are more prominent than they've ever been, so louis figures it is okay. they both worry about growing old and useless and immobile at times, but harry has been working to adopt louis' mindset of embracing youth, not forcing it. "i wanted to see you earlier. and i wanted to surprise you."

"well, you certainly got your goal," he says, pulling the boy close. he's not a boy anymore, neither of them are, he realizes. but it still seems so unfamiliar to think of themselves in such a way.

"you were out for a really long time. i actually got home at around two in the morning. i wanted to cuddle with you in bed," harry frowns. "it's cold out. fall is approaching. you'll catch a cold."

"i'm fine," louis says, backing away. ���just lost track of time. thinking, you know?"

"about?"

they remain silent; a habit of theirs that seems to have not left even after such passing of time. it is with soft, careful touches that they communicate, as soon as louis indicates that it is okay to do so, harry leans into him with his arms held open. "just didn't feel like coming home when you're not around."

"but i'm here. and lillian's here. aren't you, lili?" harry coos, in a way that he is unable to resist from smiling after.

"how would i know that you were coming home early?"

"i thought we shared a single brain cell."

the good thing about the marble floors and countertops, louis thinks, because it reflects nearly everything the sun pumps into it, which then shines onto harry's face, giving him this angelic glow. and god, it comes back to him all over again how he fell in love in the first place. "you're right. i'm a fake boyfriend for not being able to anticipate your arrival despite you having told me the exact date that you'd be back."

"i always try to be a bit early, though."

"i've learned not to get used to such a thing. or i'll start expecting it."

"isn't that the point?"

"no, because expectations take the pleasure out of surprises."

harry runs his fingers through louis' soft, still feathery hair despite the peppers of silver scattered about his scalp. "i'll always pull through, though. do you not trust me?"

"i do."

it felt good to say, really. of course, it is not the first time that he realizes this trust built between them, but he grows suddenly hyperaware of the security of their relationship. he has still not gotten used to such security; it feels foreign and wrong and uncomfortable, and he doesn't know if he will ever allow himself to become accustomed to such a warm, fleeting thing, but he tries—every day, he thinks, is more and more proof that the past thirty years of his life have not been a mistake, but his largest pride and joy.