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because I feel like you don‟t trust me.”

“Zayn,” Louis says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I do trust you.

You know I trust you. God, do you think—there‟s nobody else I want

helping me clean up all my messes, okay?”

“As if anybody else would,” Zayn says, but there‟s affection in his tone

and it‟s the best thing Louis‟ heard all night.

“Trust me, I know. And it means a lot to me, I swear,” Louis says. “It‟s

just... that shit, I don‟t talk to anyone about that. I don‟t really even talk

to my mum about that. I don‟t even like to think about it. It‟s not your

fault, it‟s mine, because I‟m a fucked up emotionally constipated

weirdo, all right? But if I was going to talk to anybody about it, it‟d be

you. And you sure as hell have gotten closer to it than anyone else, if

that‟s worth anything.”

Zayn nods a little but stays quiet, so Louis continues.

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“And I‟m gonna work on that, okay?” Louis says. “I‟m gonna tell you

everything, the whole sordid story, start to finish, when I‟m ready. But

I‟m not ready yet.”

He holds Zayn‟s eyes for a minute, then reaches out and tugs on one of

his hoodie strings.

“All right?”

At last, Zayn smiles a little, and Louis feels some of the weight on his

chest lift. “That‟s fair,” Zayn says.

“Excellent,” Louis says, taking a deep breath and deftly hiding his eyes

with a glasses cleaning maneuver. He picks up the glass of whiskey and

dumps it down the drain. “Can we not fight anymore right now? I hate

it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Zayn says. He comes around the counter and catches

Louis by the sink, hauling him into a rough hug. “We‟re still good?” he

says, muffled by Louis‟ shoulder.

“Still good,” Louis says as he squeezes back. Neither of them lets go

and Louis feels it, so powerfully all of the sudden, how much he‟s been

missing having somebody‟s arms around him lately, how much he‟s

needed somebody to take care of him, and he‟s not going to bother

hating himself for it tonight. Zayn rubs one hand through the hair on

the nape of Louis‟ neck and it‟s not nearly enough to fix everything

else but it‟s enough that for the moment, Louis doesn‟t feel alone.

Because Zayn‟s here, and Zayn‟s always going to be, and Zayn‟s heart

is hurting for somebody else too.

“Love you,” Zayn says.

“Love you too,” Louis says back, and it feels good to say it to someone,

honestly. Feels like home.

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They break off finally, and he‟s pretty sure he‟s got Zayn‟s snot on his

shirt, and that‟s okay. “So,” Louis says brightly. “We need to find you a

rebound, eh?” Zayn punches him on the arm and Louis punches back

and then they‟re laughing and climbing onto the couch with half-melted

ice cream and making fun of the late night adverts on telly, and it‟s all

right. Everything may be terrible, but this, at least, is all right.

393

394

Harry‟s leaving at the beginning of July.

His internship doesn‟t start until halfway through the month, but he

wants to head down to London a couple of weeks in advance so he can

have time to get settled. He‟ll be working in central London, so he‟s

hoping to find a flat somewhere near a tube stop that isn‟t terribly

expensive and getting some help from his parents. He won‟t need a car

there, so he‟s shipping most of his things over ahead of time and his

mum and sister are going to come collect his car from Manchester and

keep it for him in Holmes Chapel.

Louis knows all of this clinically, just information tacked up inside his

head that he chooses not to process. Harry rattles it all off one

afternoon over a sandwich on Louis‟ couch, and Louis waits until he‟s

done speaking and then pushes him onto his back and ignores the

whole thing completely.

That‟s the only kind of sex they have anymore, and it‟s starting to feel

like the only kind of conversation they have anymore either. It‟s not

anything definite. It‟s not like the first time Harry ever kissed him, or

the look on his face when he told him about the internship, some sharp

thing pinning down a point on the map of his life to mark exactly when

and where something happened. There‟s not a moment when Louis

knows for sure that they‟ve fallen apart. They just keep drifting.

Harry hardly ever sleeps over anymore, and Louis isn‟t sure whose idea

that was. He imagines he can‟t have seemed particularly welcoming the

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past few weeks, immediately rolling off of Harry and onto the far side

of the bed as soon as they‟ve both gotten off. So okay, maybe he started

it, but still. What is he supposed to do, let Harry hold him when they

both know that they‟re just killing time? Louis‟ not willing to play

make believe, but that doesn‟t make him the bad guy. He remembers

the first time Harry went back to his own flat in months, two fingers on

his tense back for half a second and then the sound of Harry pulling his

jeans back on and letting himself out, and the dull ache in the back of

his throat.

He hates how much he misses small pieces of Harry. He misses Harry‟s

hands around his waist and his lips against the side of his neck in the

mornings when he‟s making his tea. He misses Harry‟s stupid voice

mumbling nonsense about pop music and art and vinyl records at all

hours of the day and night. He misses fairy lights on the ceilings and

the way things felt when they were good, misses the way Harry‟s face

used to light up when he saw him. He wishes he didn‟t miss any of it.

Mostly, he wishes he‟d never let himself get used to it. Or that at least

he hadn‟t known better. Because he had, he‟d absolutely known better,

and now that means he doesn‟t even have the right to be upset, because

he brought this entire goddamn mess upon himself. If he hadn‟t known

better, at least he wouldn‟t make himself nauseous every time he was

self-indulgent enough to miss something he knew wouldn‟t last.

And this is what he wanted, wasn‟t it? He wanted things to fade out, he

wanted Harry to let him get away. He wanted to move on, right?

Fuck. It doesn‟t matter what he misses or what he wants. It never

mattered. He was an idiot to think it did.

Harry goes hunting for a flat in London and doesn‟t mention it to Louis

until he‟s already there, just a text from Victoria Station that he won‟t

be around that weekend. So that‟s that, Louis assumes. There‟s

officially future for Harry somewhere else, another flat all picked out

and signed for, and he‟s not invited. It‟s not an outright rejection, he

guesses, but it‟s enough. It sure as hell isn‟t an invitation. It‟s enough to

sting, and it‟s enough to make it inescapably real.

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Whatever. He slept alone for twenty-six years, he can do it for the next

twenty-six too.

He figures he should start preparing now, as much as he can. The first

step is to start cleaning out his flat. He doesn‟t have to get rid of

everything that reminds him of Harry; he probably couldn‟t without

burning the place down, anyway. He just needs to get rid of the things

that remind him of Harry-and-him.

There isn‟t a huge amount of physical stuff, thank God. The one major

thing is the bear. He still has the stuffed bear Harry won for him at that

carnival a million years ago stashed away in the back of his closet, and

he can‟t stand its glass eyes staring at him every time he gets dressed

anymore. He can‟t bring himself to throw it out, though. He tries, but it

just looks at him all accusingly from the bin.

His rescue comes in the form of a toy drive at the school for the local

children‟s hospital. Early one morning, Louis lugs the bear into the

school and drops it off in one of the big colorful collection boxes in

front of the cafeteria. He pats it on the top of the head once before

walking off, and then feels like a complete twat. At least no one saw

him.

What he doesn‟t count on, though, is that he has to walk to the

computer lab during his free period, which takes him by the cafeteria.

And Harry decides to come with him.

Louis hopes like hell there have been enough donations to cover the

bear up, but he curses inwardly when he sees that the head is still

poking out of the box. Harry is in the middle of a rant on the terrible

management of the England national football team when he spots it.

“Is that—“ he starts, and then trails off, his pace slowing a bit. He

doesn‟t stop, though, just catches up to Louis and walks next to him in

silence. They only get a few more yards before Louis can‟t endure it.

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“Figured a sick kid would get more use out of it than I would,” he says

quietly.

“Yeah, no, it makes sense,” Harry says quickly. “I just—no, you‟re

right.” He‟s quiet for the rest of the hour, though, and when they walk

by the cafeteria again on their way back to Louis‟ classroom Harry

stares at his phone the whole time.

Hopefully Harry thinks that Louis can give the bear away because it

doesn‟t mean much to him. Hopefully he never figures out that it‟s the

exact opposite.

Once his flat is clear of incriminating objects, Louis starts cleaning out

the rest of his life.

He starts with weeding out Harry‟s music from his iTunes, which is no

small feat, since there‟s so much of it. He deletes almost all of it,

because even the stuff that he really likes has become unlistenable

because it all reminds him of Harry. He doesn‟t think about there being

consequences for that until Harry is in his classroom during his free

period and gets an itch to listen to a particular song.

“Pull up that album I gave you last month,” he says absentmindedly.

“The folky one with the female singer.”

Louis knows which one he means, but it won‟t do any good. He

searches for a lie, can‟t find one, and gives up. “Oh, um. I don‟t have it

anymore.”

Harry looks up at him, expression unreadable like he‟s waiting for

Louis to say something else. Louis doesn‟t. “Oh,” Harry says. “Okay.

What about Ed Sheeran‟s new album?”

Louis winces internally, but there‟s nothing to be done. “Don‟t have

that one either.” He‟s not going to apologize.

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“Ah,” Harry says. He doesn‟t say anything else for a long time that

afternoon.

The next day he doesn‟t come by Louis‟ room at all during free period.

Louis spends that hour berating himself every time he glances at the

door, half-expecting him to rush inside with flushed cheeks and some

excuse for why he‟s late. It doesn‟t happen.

Harry‟s in the teachers‟ lounge for lunch like always, though. He greets

Louis with poorly-hidden nervousness in his eyes, but Louis doesn‟t

ask. Harry can do whatever he wants with his time. It‟s fine. Louis just

got used to it, is all. Harry wove his way into Louis life long before