the coffee shop shop is always warm and humid with milk steam and brewing tea and shots of espresso.
harry loves to just sit at one of the little tables and observe, small and unassuming like a smell that you've gotten used to. there's always such interesting people: an old man who can't hear and the barista who has to shout "do you want a pastry?!" about three times before he finally understands; a toddler boy in a plaid beret and tiny knitted sweater who has to strain to look up at his dad when asked "what color straw do you want?" for his juice box; the uni students who sit outside in the frigid dusk, drinking a redbull and lighting cigarettes and exchanging cd's and music videos with a middle-aged man in a Ramones shirt. just little splotches of painted life that blur together into something like an impressionist monet painting.
today is december 3rd and harry's on christmas holiday from university. he knows he should be at his flat baking with louis and zayn and niall and liam.
he sighs into his tea, something called "solstice spice black tea" written on the chalkboard behind the counter: "assam and golden monkey tea blended with citrus peel and spices for a festive, spicy brew" it describes in swirly white handwriting. he didn't add any sugar; harry loves sugar in his tea. as a child he'd shovel whole spoonfuls in until his mum grabbed his hand and shrieked at him to stop or he'd "get fat and have cavities."
he really should go home. he peers out the slight frost on the window and hones in on the fairy lights nestled in bushes and pinned along the roofs of nearby shops. he thinks maybe he could put up some lights at his and louis' flat; multicolored ones though, not the dull old yellow ones that everyone else seems to love and that remind him of his ex-girlfriend who always wrapped them around her bed.
right now harry's shaken out of his nostalgia by a rather loud chair screeching across the slate floor tiles. he avoids looking up, not wanting to look as if he noticed and thereby embarrass the person, so instead he takes a long gulp of his tea and burrows a little into the book of poems (that louis teased him for stuffing in his satchel):
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail
…
"you're back!" niall cries as soon as harry's clicked the front door shut and is kicking off his boots.
"yes, and i'm freezing my nuts off," he huffs on a laugh, purposefully brushing some of the sleet off his black wool coat and onto niall's hair.
"hey, ya bloody wanker!" niall shrieks, scurrying out of reach and into the kitchen. "just 'cause you decided to go freeze your nuts off doesn't mean you have to get me all wet too!"
harry just chuckles and follows him into the kitchen where he assumes everyone else is. "all wet," he drawls, winking at niall mischievously. "i see what you did there."
liam and louis are standing by the stove and both look up when harry wanders in, tossing his bag on the table and nosing over to see what they're making.
"you're such a pervert," tosses niall from his perch on the counter, safely behind the other two boys as he licks what seems to be a cake-batter bowl.
harry just smiles, distracted by the sight of louis carefully shaking red and green sprinkles onto a pan of unbaked sugar cookies. his honey-brown hair pokes everywhere, fluffy and soft like a baby hamster and harry wants to pet it.
so he does.
"your hair is so cute, boobear," he only half-teases, coming up behind his best mate and wrapping his arms around his waist, nuzzling his nose into his hair and inhaling. he smells like cookie dough while it's still just in the "butter, sugar, and vanilla" stage and it makes warmth pool in harry's stomach.
"oh sod off, ya creep," louis frowns, attempting to shove harry's arms away.
"no," harry grins, gripping tighter until he's backing louis away from the stove and tossing him up over his shoulder. "say you like it when i call you 'boobear' and i won't throw you on the sofa."
"let me down, haz!" louis whines, kicking out and attempting to throw harry off balance.
"say it," harry warns, and louis can hear the maniacal grin in harry's voice from where is face is being shoved into the younger boy's back.
"no!"
and so harry tosses him onto the couch, laughing and crashing down on top of him like a goddamn four-year-old louis thinks.
"ugh harry, get off me," louis whines, wiggling under harry's weight with another exasperated moan (because even though harry's slight, he's still strong.)
but harry just keeps his arms tied snug around the smaller boy, resting his curly head against louis' chest and smiling contentedly. louis' quicksand and harry wants to sink into him forever, maybe even longer and. and suddenly he's so tired and he senses when louis surrenders, his whole body going limp before he reaches up and starts to card his fingers through harry's dark curls.
"harry," louis says. he means it to be chiding, but the fondness in his voice and the gentle circles he's kneading into harry's scalp betray him.
"mmm," harry tries, not even bothering to open his eyes. louis is warm and harry turns a little, nuzzling his face against the exposed skin on louis' shoulder where his oversized jumper (harry's pretty sure it's his) rode down. "you're wearing my sweater," he mumbles after a moment when louis still hasn't said anything.
"have you eaten anything today?" louis asks, ignoring harry's statement and choosing to move one of his hands down to harry's back, swishing his hand ridiculously over the folds of his coat like he's testing the warmth of bathwater.
harry knows he is testing, testing the feel of his bones under the thick fabric; seeking out compact ridges of periosteum that cage the nerves in his spinal cord. louis' always worrying, harry thinks. suddenly he doesn't really like louis touching him and he shifts a little, feeling his heart flutter anxiously.
"did you?" louis pesters and harry knows he's not going to let it go.
"yes, i ate. can we please not talk about this anymore? i'm fine louis." he picks at the stray threads escaping louis' jumper. his fingernails are getting long he notices; he should probably trim them.
"harry," louis whispers, the sound like a cold draft blowing in harry's face and he cringes away from it. "i can feel the bones in your neck."
harry clenches his jaw, suddenly angry. he hates the hand louis' curving around the base of his skull, hates the other nosing along his back like an eavesdropping old woman.
"i need to cut my fingernails," he says tightly, wrenching himself up and walking down the hall to the bathroom where he locks the door and trims his nails and then turns the shower on and crawls in, collapsing on the white porcelain, his sobs joining hot and loud with the tears of the shower.
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
…
a few months later and it's february. niall calls it "ski and snowboard weather" as he tries to drag liam and zayn off the sofa and out into the snow drifts. zayn doesn't laugh like it's a joke, just glares at niall and lights a cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke in niall's face. liam laughs nervously, like he does before there's a fight.
and maybe everything is tense.
harry doesn't eat anymore, not really. he crawls out of bed in the mornings while louis' asleep, makes toast and slathers it with butter and jam, takes it out to break off and feed to the chickadees on the front porch. sometimes there's an old woman in her front yard next to his, covering her citrus trees from the frost with bright blue tarps. harry likes to go help her, likes the little grateful smile she gives him before she trudges back into her house in her muddied slippers and jade velvet sleep jacket.
afterwards he slips back inside, teeth chattering viciously as he goes about the business of setting his plate on the counter near the coffee pot, making sure the jam jar sits uncapped on the opposite counter with the used butter knife beside it. louis will see it when he comes in the kitchen and assume that harry's eaten breakfast already.
he makes a cup of tea for louis, a mug of black coffee for himself. harry doesn't drink tea anymore; the caffeine in coffee stifles his appetite. he brings the steaming tea up to his nose and inhales the warm steam, reveling in the slight bittersweet scent and feeling a pang of desperation clawing away inside him. this feels like a dead end, and he wonders how long he has until he crashes.
louis' still asleep when harry wanders back into their room, nudging the door open with his bony hip as he tries not to spill the overflowing cups. he sets them on the nightstand, burrowing back under the sheets (cold on his side) and over onto louis' side where it's warm and he can press little kisses to louis' celestial nose, curl his hand under the younger boy's t-shirt and rest it against his soft tummy. where he can pretend for a little while that louis' in love with him too.
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
"please harry, just tell me what i did wrong, just tell me so i can fix it," louis' begging.
it's march and the snow's melting but there's still no sun. and harry's bones are getting more determined as they fight to pierce through his dry skin. everything about him is silent and white and frail, like the parchment pages of the bibles in louis' childhood church. like a weather vain, he'll spin in the slightest breeze.
and louis' so scared.
"please harry, you haven't spoken to me in a week. please just tell what what's wrong and i'll do whatever you need me to, to make it right."
harry's lying in his and louis' bed, wrapped in about fifty fleece blankets so he doesn't get hypothermia—even though louis has the heat set to 80 and he must be getting hot.
he sees louis' face and oh there're tears in his eyes, and out of the fog of his starved-brain he reaches out to run his thumb gently over the tears in louis' eyelashes.
"you didn't do anything," harry says, voice slightly hoarse from not speaking for so many days. he's so tired. he knows he's going to die and he doesn't even care. the world feels claustrophobic the way it's backed him into a corner of "you can't eat" and "you're so ugly and worthless" and "louis will never love you" and the worst: "you will never get better."
instead of looking relieved louis' face just scrunches up and oh harry's never seen him cry before, not with any sound or tears actually falling but suddenly he's pressing his face into the blanketed curve of harry's shoulder and sobbing, his whole body shuddering as he sniffles and blubbers into harry's comforter.
"louis, don't cry," harry says, trying not to let his own eyes water.
"harry!" louis sobs, not lifting his face but moving his mouth up from the blankets so he can breathe, huge gasping breaths like he's being carved apart. "please come back to me, i c-c-can't lose you i-i-i—"
"shhhh, just breathe lou," he whispers, running his bony fingers through louis' silky hair and trying to calm him enough so he can speak.
"i can't lose you, i-i-i can't." his sobs are out of control now and he pushes himself up, dashing out of the room before harry has a chance to see his face.
a half an hour later and louis' coming back in, eyes red but otherwise looking much calmer than he did earlier.
he puts an arm under harry's leg, another under his back and picks him up bridal style, carrying him out of the bedroom.
"lou, what are you doing," harry says, and he's not even strong enough to put that little inflection in his voice, the little lilt that labels it as a question.
"we're going to the hospital. i should have done this much sooner." his jaw is clenched as he carries harry out to the car, trying not to cry again at how light he is now. he feels like every second harry's slipping away a little more and he's frightened that it might be too late.
harry won't look at him as louis buckles him in the front seat, tucking his blankets in tight around him. he doesn't speak the whole way to the hospital, and he doesn't speak at all when the E.R. nurse tells louis to stay in the waiting room while she takes harry's vitals. he's so tired and everything feels far away, and under it all his weakening heart thumps a little harder in protest. harry doesn't want to be at the hospital, feels a little panicked that they'll make him eat but then he just feels heaviness tugging all his limbs down, down, down, even his eyelids and then he's somewhere else entirely.
when he wakes up later louis' there, and through the lingering fog in his mind he thinks he tells louis he's in love with him. he doesn't care anymore if he knows, he doesn't care; he thinks he might have said that too but he can't be sure. but he knows louis says it back, will never forget when louis sits down on the hospital bed and pulls harry up against his chest, strong arms winding warm and overlapping his tiny frame, tangling in the heart monitor wires. he's not gentle but harry's glad. he wants louis to hold him so tight that those awful voices won't come back again, that the overwhelming closeness of louis will seal everything else in the world off, keep him locked together so he'll never break again. "i love you too harry, oh god i'm so in love with you."
it's a gradual process, harry's recovery. louis' like a mother the way he monitors and observes everything harry eats, whether he throws it away, whether he's gaining enough weight. louis likes to bake harry sugar cookies with sprinkles because that's what harry likes, even though it's not christmas.
and in may when it's warmer outside, louis spreads a white quilt out on their back lawn and lays harry out over the top like an oversized apricot meant to dry in the sun, smoothing a hand over harry's cheek and teasing that harry looks "like an albino who fucking needs a tan." harry giggles, maybe for the first time in a long while, when louis pulls off his own shirt and then harry's.
they make love for the first time out in the afternoon sunshine with the other boys inside, knowing they could come out any second but not caring. louis pushes in gentle, a glorious grin making kissing difficult but he keeps his mouth against harry's anyway. harry comes first, whimpering and warm underneath louis, green eyes glittering like the sea at sunrise and louis licks it all away before coming deep inside harry.
they wrap themselves up in the quilt after and just whisper and laugh—until it rains and they rush back inside, hair dripping and harry beginning to shiver and louis makes them hot cocoa.
for the rest of their life it feels like that, like the world is always fighting to hurt but it's okay because louis is bright and warm and there and he loves harry and harry doesn't think his cheeks will ever stop aching from smiling because he remembers, he remembers how it felt to have that awful voice telling him he'd never get better but he did, he's healed now and he never has to go back to that awful space again. louis's arms are tight around him, and nothing hurts.
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky