'I love you' — it's three words, two spaces, one sentence; but they're the hardest one could say and are the heaviest to admit. And once they're gone, they're out forever and there's nothing to take them back.
Unless you shoot them with a gun, with 'I hate you' as your bullet; with 'leave me' as your trigger and 'fuck you' taking aim. And these are heavy, heavy words that seem to fling without abandon — flying as high as they could go before you realize what had happened.
Then what remains is an echo that haunts you to your bones, what dies is a part of you that could've become someone else.
It's for these reasons and these alone that 'I love you' — he'll never say it.
Because a part of him will always wrestle with if he had said this to the right person, if he truly meant it at the moment, and if he was ready for that commitment. It's a worry because he's seen how 'I love you' can be tainted, and how twisted one could be in trying to impose that onto someone else.
And so he's scared — he'll admit that, when he's overcome with emotion. As if there's an ocean inside his body and it wants to crash into another being, wanting to trace their every line and caress them if he could allow that.
And if Tom's honest as you read this, as he's looking elsewhere than at Harry, he'd want nothing more than to give in and confess how much he means to him. Because his fear towards 'I love you' seems minuscule when he's around him, it's so tiny next to the worry of not sharing with Harry how he feels for him.
That Tom is shaking like a leaf, that won't cower in front of winter; but it'll tremble with where it is as the wind rushes by it. And that's a bit like where he is, cuddled tightly under a blanket — shaking as he hugs him, as they wind around each other. Hip finding hip while feet saunter over, his chest behind a back and Harry's wiggling to come closer.
His glasses, abandoned.
His hair, a rightful mess.
His laughter, like fireworks.
His touches, they're a treasure.
They're burning him twice over and Tom holds him so tightly, meeting Harry with every move and wanting to tell him —
.
.
.
" — you can stay with me."
And it's like a promise near his neck, like a flutter when Harry hears it. About as warm and as comforting as the scarf knit around him, made with kisses and nuzzles and leaving him redder than his alma mater.
Fingers skirt around his jumper when Tom repeats it a little louder, and then he burrows into Harry's hair as the latter turns to hug him. Every squeeze around his shoulders is a resounding 'yes' and 'I'll love to.'