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looks scared, and Louis did that, and he‟s going to start making up for

it now.

He‟s an actor, or at least he used to be. He‟s given a lot of speeches in

his life, used a lot of beautiful language to say beautiful things. Harry

deserves that, deserves an epic soliloquy in iambic pentameter,

deserves a volume of sonnets, and Louis wants to give him that, but

when he looks at Harry and the fear in his face he doesn‟t feel like an

actor. He feels as much like himself as he ever has, stripped bare, and

so what bubbles uncontrollably out of his mouth is as simple and

inelegant as it is true.

“I‟m sorry,“ he starts, because it‟s the most urgent thing in his head.

Well, second most urgent. But right now he needs to get that look off

Harry‟s face. “Haz, I‟m so sorry. I know this is sudden, and out of the

blue, but I had to come see you. I had to tell you how sorry I am.”

Snap, and Harry‟s taken another picture, but he hasn‟t taken his eyes

off of Louis once.

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“And I know,” Louis swallows hard, “I know that‟s not enough, and I

know it‟s probably too late, and maybe it doesn‟t matter to you, but I

just—I need you to hear everything.” Harry still hasn‟t said anything,

hasn‟t so much as nodded, but he‟s still looking at Louis and hasn‟t fled

the room yet, and Louis figures that‟s as good as he‟s going to get.

“I need you do know how much you meant to me. Mean to me. How

much I loved you, the whole time.” The words almost echo in the

unforgiving empty brightness of the room. Louis feels something rising

in his chest, like he‟s going to laugh or throw up or both, but he keeps

going. If he stops to think about what he‟s just said he‟ll fall apart.

“God, Harry, I loved you the whole time. Still do, as a matter of fact.”

Snap snap snap, and Harry is holding down the shutter button, but

Louis can see a tremor in his hands.

“I‟m sorry I never told you. I should have, I should have told you a

million times. I almost did, a dozen times, a hundred times, and I

fucked up every single one. I‟m so sorry for that, Haz. I loved you

before I ever touched you, and I think maybe at some point,” and here

Louis has to take a deep breath, “I think you may have loved me too.”

Harry hitches in a breath, and Louis knows the feeling.

“I hope so. God, I hope I got lucky enough that you loved me. And I‟m

sorry I didn‟t take better care of that, of what we had. I‟m sorry I

couldn‟t accept it then. And I‟m not—I didn‟t come here to try to

excuse how I was. I had reasons, but that‟s not what I want to say right

now.” He lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and digs down for the last

of himself. There‟s not much left, now, but if he goes home alone he

wants to go home empty, too, wants to leave everything he has in this

room. “I want to say that even though I never said so, I was with you

the whole time, Harry. You had all of me that I knew how to give. And

if you would ever have me again, I would give you all the rest.”

There‟s one more snap, and Louis has more to say but he also has to

know. “Jesus, Harry, is this the time?”

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Finally, finally, Harry speaks, and it‟s like a jolt straight down Louis‟

spine to hear that same low voice. “You know what I realized? When I

moved?” Louis just shakes his head. “I don‟t have any pictures of you,

not straight-on. Not looking at the camera. Just ones I had to sneak, just

bits and pieces of you.”

“I‟m sorry for that, too,” Louis says, but Harry just barrels on.

“I‟ve got pictures of people I met on the street and never saw again, and

I didn‟t have any pictures of you. Which drove me crazy. And I

thought, when I saw you, I thought, well, this might be the last chance

you get, Styles, so.” He swallows thickly. “So you might as well get a

picture before he runs away again.”

There's a tiny voice in the back of Louis' head insisting that Harry's the

one who ran away, but Louis knows what he means. He was gone

before Harry ever was. It's only fair.

“I‟m not leaving,” he says slowly. “I mean, I will if you want me to,

obviously, but. I don‟t want to leave you. I never did. I want to be with

you.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and tugs at his own fingers,

wringing his hands and trying to stay in once piece long enough to get

this last bit out. “And I don‟t know how you feel anymore. Maybe you

hate me, I wouldn‟t blame you, but. I love you. I loved you the first

time you kissed me, and I loved you at Christmas, and I loved you

when I couldn‟t even look at you. I love you even more now, I think.

And I can‟t imagine I‟m going to stop anytime soon.”

That‟s all. It‟s all he has and he knows it isn‟t enough, isn‟t even close

to enough, but all he can do is stand there with what he‟s just done and

stare at Harry. Harry, who‟s looking at the floor and whose chest he can

see expanding against his shirt with fast, shallow breaths and who he

loves so, so much.

Carefully, Harry leans over and puts his camera down on the stool next

to him. He looks back up at Louis, and his eyes are wet, and there‟s

something rueful playing around the corners of his mouth.

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“I tried,” Harry says, and his voice is rough and shocking in the quiet of

the room, “I tried to stop loving you, Louis, I tried so hard and I

couldn‟t, I couldn‟t,” and Louis doesn‟t remember moving but there

had been space between them, yards of space, and now there isn‟t, now

his hands are on Harry‟s lapels and Harry is tugging him in by the back

of his neck and saying, “I couldn‟t, Lou, I couldn‟t,” against the corner

of his mouth before shifting and yes.

He holds onto Harry‟s lapels like they‟re the only thing keeping him

alive, and maybe they are, because he‟s finally kissing Harry again and

he never wants to stop kissing Harry again and it‟s all out there, it‟s all

done and the world didn‟t end. It actually worked. He can‟t fucking

believe it, can‟t fucking believe he‟s standing here in a photography

studio in London kissing Harry, and Harry loves him, Harry loves him,

Harry still loves him.

Harry is mumbling things in between kisses, and Louis commits every

word to memory, “love you” and “love you” and “fucking wanker” and

then “love you” again. He says it back just as many times, and he‟s not

afraid of it anymore, not at all. How could he be, when it makes Harry

hold him closer and dig his fingers in and smile against Louis‟ mouth?

How could that frighten him, now that he knows how much worse it

was to go without? Louis would give up every secret he has to keep

Harry warm under his hands.

At some point Harry starts stumbling backwards, and Louis gets him up

against a table and kisses him like it‟s what he was born to do, like

every part of his life has been leading up to right now. His life has

never felt simpler. This is what he‟s supposed to be doing, this right

here, this is what he needs to do for as long as he can. He needs to

cradle Harry‟s face in his hands and pull Harry‟s lip into his mouth and

push his thigh between Harry‟s legs and he needs to tell Harry he loves

him every day for the rest of his life. Simple, simple, easy like

breathing.

Harry tries to spin them around, his arm around Louis‟ waist, but

they‟re so close together that they trip over each others‟ feet, falling

into the half-full rack of clothes. It goes crashing to the floor with a

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metallic clang, and they stagger apart, Louis unable to keep in an

absurd little giggle.

“Oh shit,” he says, half-whispering, his hands still on Harry‟s chest.

He‟d sort of forgotten that Harry was supposed to be actually working.

It‟s kind of tough to remember even now, with Harry‟s mouth red and

his cheeks flushed. Louis did that. Louis gets to do that, hopefully

forever.

“Fuck,” Harry says, his hand tightening in the back of Louis‟ shirt.

“Fuck. Okay. Someone will have heard that.” He turns to look at Louis,

his eyes wild. “You can‟t be here, shit,” he says, and then rather

undermines his point by leaning down to kiss Louis again.

Louis only lets himself melt into it for a second before pulling back in a

supreme act of willpower. “Where,” he says, panting a little and

steadfastly ignoring the way Harry‟s eyes are fixed on his mouth.

“Where should I go? What do you need?”

Harry swears again, finally letting Louis go and pacing away, hands in

his hair. “There are some back stairs,” Harry says. He leans down and

start snatching clothes up off the ground haphazardly. “Turn left when

you leave the room, walk to the end of the hall, and you should find

them. Don‟t worry about the alarms, they don‟t actually go off. You‟ll

come out the back of the building.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, full of every kind of adrenaline. “What are you

going to do?”

“Give me fifteen minutes, and I‟ll meet you back there,” Harry says,

righting the clothes rack. Louis nods and heads toward the door,

silently going over and over Harry‟s directions in an attempt to keep his

head, when Harry‟s voice stops him. “Lou.”

Louis turns to look at him, but Harry doesn‟t say anything else. He just

looks at him, desperation and hope and still a little fear in his eyes.

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Louis knows what it means. He feels it himself, the wrench of walking

away from Harry for even a moment so soon after finding him again.

“I‟ll be there, Hazza,” he says firmly. Harry nods this time, and Louis

can‟t help but smile at him for a moment before pushing through the

door and walking briskly to the stairs. They‟re right where Harry said

they would be.

He makes it down to the back of the building without incident, which is

mostly good, but it means he has fifteen full minutes to kill waiting for

Harry, which means in turn that he‟s so antsy that he wants to crawl out

of his own body. He paces back and forth behind the brick edifice of

the building, kicking restlessly at the gravel, running over every detail

of what just happened in his mind until he can‟t take it anymore.

Finally he just sits and puts his head between his knees, taking deep

breaths and trying to stay calm. Harry will kill him if he has a heart

attack.

He‟s nervous, but it‟s a good sort of nerves. He‟s nervous like he used

to get before a show he knew was going to be good, like when he knew

he had a chance to knock it out of the park and just wanted to get

started, to get onstage and prove what he could do. He thinks this might

be the role he was born for.

His head snaps up at the sound of crunching gravel, and there‟s Harry,

coming around the side of the building and stopping dead when he sees

Louis. Louis scrambles to his feet but doesn‟t move. Harry just leans

against the brick corner, looking winded, and Louis is going stay right

here and let him decide what comes next.

He can‟t keep from beaming, though, taking a moment to look at him

properly. Harry‟s hair is a little bit longer than it was, though still just

as curly, and he‟s wearing fewer bracelets on his wrists. Along with the

camera bag strapped across his chest he‟s carrying a briefcase, of all

things, which Louis is going to give him endless shit about later. But

that doesn‟t matter at the moment, because whatever was keeping

Harry frozen in place has snapped, and he‟s dropping the ludicrous

briefcase and covering the ground between them in a few long strides,

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turning Louis to hold him against the brick wall and bury his head in

his neck.

“It‟s okay, it‟s okay,” Louis says mindlessly and half to himself, sliding