Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was late November in Leeds, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones and didn’t bother leaving. Rain slicked the pavement in a film of silver-grey, city lights breaking across puddles like shattered glass. Harry walked fast, collar turned up, one hand gripping the strap of his camera bag, the other cradling a takeaway coffee he hadn’t even sipped. His boots struck the pavement in a tired rhythm—half beat, half resignation.

He’d just wrapped a freelance shoot for a local indie band—warehouse space, cracked windows, moody backlight—and his head still buzzed with the aftershock of flashbulbs and artificial light. Lately, everything felt like noise. Too many half-finished edits, too many people telling him he was on the edge of something, and yet every day played out the same. Wake, shoot, edit, send, repeat.

Success, apparently.

He turned onto Kirkgate, the older part of the city where time clung to brick and grime, where the roads felt uneven underfoot and the shadows stretched longer than they should.

Harry didn’t usually take this route home. It was longer, rougher, a little too quiet after dark. But something about the crumbling shopfronts and flickering signage grounded him. The modern city hadn’t chewed this part up yet.

He was halfway down the street when he noticed him.

Tucked beneath the bridge, half-concealed by the rusted hulk of an old bus stop post, was what Harry first took for a pile of discarded fabric. A nest of rain-soaked coats, maybe—abandoned, forgotten, just another lost thing in a city full of them.

But then the heap shifted.

A slow, deliberate tilt of the head, like something waking from sleep.

Not fabric. Not forgotten.

A boy—no, a man. Though there was something boyish in the way he folded in on himself, limbs drawn close like he was holding something precious in. His age was hard to place beneath all the layers and the quiet defiance in his stillness. He was all bone angles and shadows—the kind of face you couldn’t quite forget, even if you tried.

A sketchbook rested in his lap like it had always belonged there. In one hand, a biro pen dangled loosely between ink-stained fingers, smudged blue across his knuckles. His coat was threadbare at the cuffs, the hem darkened by rain, and he looked like he hadn’t been properly dry in weeks.

His hair was a dark, unruly mess, too long in the front, clinging damp to his forehead. He pushed it back absently, revealing the cut of a sharp cheekbone and skin flushed ruddy from the cold.

Something about him snagged on Harry’s attention, like a thread caught on a nail. Not just the way he looked—but the way he was. Still. Watchful. Like he saw everything and expected nothing in return.

They didn’t make eye contact.

Harry kept walking, coffee still cooling in his hand, but his pace faltered just enough to betray him.

He didn’t look back. Not then.
But that night, in his cluttered flat above the pub, he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not really sure why.
Not yet.

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Morning came dull and grey, seeping through the threadbare curtain in Harry’s bedroom, barely casting shadows.

His alarm hadn’t gone off—he rarely set one anymore. There was no rush. No office. Just a scatter of email reminders and half-answered texts waiting on his phone.

He rolled out of bed around nine, feet meeting the cold wooden floor with a reluctant thud. The kettle grumbled to life while he leaned against the counter in his joggers and an old sweatshirt, staring blankly at the rain tracing lazy lines down the window, like the sky couldn’t quite be bothered to cry properly.

His flat sat above a pub that closed at eleven and opened at noon. It wasn’t much—a narrow one-bedroom with sloped ceilings and windows that rattled when trams passed below.

The living room doubled as his workspace. Camera equipment lived in open crates beneath the desk, film rolls scattered like loose change. Polaroids and test prints were blu-tacked to the walls in no real order. Half a sandwich from yesterday sat untouched on a plate near the couch, next to an open photo book he kept meaning to finish.

It wasn’t messy, exactly. Just... lived-in. Quiet.
Lonely.

Harry didn’t really know anyone in Leeds—not in the way that counted. He’d moved here two years ago, chasing freelance work and the kind of creative “scene” people romanticised in interviews. And it was true—he had work. He had connections. He went to gallery nights where people greeted him by name, where strangers liked his photos and told him they followed his Instagram and asked what lenses he preferred.

But it all stayed surface-level.

No one ever asked if he’d slept well. If he’d eaten. If the silence in his flat ever felt too loud.

No one wanted to know if he was lonely—only if he was available for a shoot next week, or if he could send over the final edits by Friday.

He hadn’t had anyone over in months.

Sometimes, it was easier that way. No mess. No vulnerability. No one to disappoint.

Still, that morning, as he drank his too-strong coffee and sat barefoot in front of the window with his knees drawn to his chest, Harry found himself thinking not about work, or edits, or gallery emails—

—but about the boy under the bridge on Kirkgate.

The way he’d held that sketchbook like it mattered.
The bruised look of him—not hurt, not visibly, but bruised all the same.

Harry didn’t know him.
Didn’t even know his name.

But he couldn’t quite shake the thought of him, curled up against the bones of the city like he belonged to it in a way Harry never had.

The rain hadn’t let up all week. It came and went in soft sheets—never loud enough to be a storm, just steady enough to keep the city soaked and sullen. The news had called it the wettest November on record.

Harry had his scarf pulled high, wool coat buttoned to the throat, camera slung low beneath the layers like a secret.

He hadn’t meant to come this way. Or maybe he had. Maybe his feet had figured it out before his mind caught up.

He told himself he was scouting locations. Something rawer than the staged chaos he’d shot in the studio yesterday. He needed something real. Something with chipped corners and crooked lines. The city always had that—if you knew where to look.

It had been a week since he’d last walked this stretch of Kirkgate. A week since he’d seen the boy tucked beneath the bridge like an afterthought.

He’d almost forgotten about him. Not entirely, but in the way a song slips from your head until something brings it back.

Harry felt a flicker of guilt. Then reminded himself—he’d only seen him for a couple of minutes. A glance, not even an encounter.

He didn’t even know his name.
The guy hadn’t even seen him.

He’d been busy. Shoots, edits, deadlines piling up. It was okay that he’d forgotten.
Wasn’t it?

But the truth was… he hadn’t really forgotten. Not completely.

He’d thought about him once while rinsing a plate after dinner, wondering if he ate often.
Thought about him again during a shoot, when someone had asked for a grittier vibe and Harry had almost said, I know just the place.

And last night, when the wind had howled down Albion Street and rattled the windows like it wanted in, he’d wondered—just for a second—if that boy had somewhere to go.
Somewhere dry.
Somewhere warm.

He shook it off. There was no point thinking like that. People passed through this city all the time, clinging to corners like shadows. You couldn’t stop for every one of them.

And yet…
There he was again.

Same spot.
Different sketchbook—thicker this time, its spine cracked and softened with use. He sat cross-legged, pencil tucked behind one ear, unwrapping something in foil with slow, deliberate hands. Probably a sandwich.

His coat looked heavier than last week’s. Like it had been worn through three winters by three different bodies and still wasn’t enough.

Harry stopped across the road, pretending to check his phone, camera strap dragging at his shoulder, suddenly feeling heavier than it actually was.

He glanced up once. Then again.

The boy hadn’t seen him. Or wasn’t letting on that he had.

He wasn’t drawing today—just watching. Eyes trained on the passing foot traffic, sharp beneath the fringe of damp hair stuck to his forehead. There was something wary in him. Something alert.

I see you, his stillness seemed to say, even though his gaze never lifted.

Harry reached for his camera, reflexive, like muscle memory. He lifted it. Angled slightly down the street. Fingers adjusted instinctively.

Framed the shot from across the road—wide enough to catch the cables of the tram line, the crooked tilt of the charity shop’s signage, the glint of wet pavement.

And him.

The boy sat tucked into the space like he belonged there, like the city had grown around him. He wasn't posing—Harry could tell. There was no performance to the way he cradled the sandwich in his hands, no self-conscious shift under the weight of the world watching.

Just... stillness. A strange kind of grace in the way his knees folded in tight, the way his shoulders curled to shield his meal from passersby. His jaw was dusted with stubble, darker where the rain had caught it, and his hair—longer than Harry remembered—clung to his forehead in messy, wet strands.

Harry zoomed into him. The lens sharpened everything. The frayed cuff of his sleeve. The line of ink on his fingers and wrist. The hollowness under his eyes.

He hadn't walked this way in a week.

He should've come sooner.

To do what, he didn't know. He wasn't naïve—he didn't think a takeaway coffee or some loose change would fix anything. But still. He felt it in his bones—that quiet, shapeless urge to do something. To witness. To offer... something.

And he hadn't.

He'd let days pass like it didn't matter. Told himself the guy had probably moved on, found somewhere better to be. Told himself it wasn't his place, his problem.

But he was still here. And Harry—he hadn't done anything.

He didn't press the shutter.

He lowered the camera slowly, as if the act itself might fracture something fragile.

It didn't feel right. Not today.

He didn't want to capture him.

He wanted to understand him.

Without another glance, Harry shoved his hand into his coat pocket and walked on. Fast. Like he could outpace the feeling before it sank in too deep.

But that night, back in his flat—rain still needling the windows, edits blinking half-finished on his laptop—he opened a new project folder. Gave it a placeholder name. Something vague.

Stupid.

BridgeBoy.

No one would see it. It was nothing.

Still, he saved it.

Just in case.

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The city was colder now. Leeds in December had a way of feeling like it never quite woke up—permanently grey skies, breath hanging in the air like smoke, everything damp and dragging. Harry had started carrying gloves in his coat pocket but never remembered to wear them.

He came on purpose this time though he hadn't walked this way in over a week. Again.

Not because he'd been too busy—though he told himself that. Told himself he had deadlines. Shoots. Edits. Told himself he needed to try new routes, shake up the routine, like it was some artistic choice.

But the truth sat lower, heavier.

He hadn't come because he was guilty. Because maybe he'd imagined a responsibility that didn't belong to him. Because some part of him felt like if he showed up again, it would mean something.

And worse—he hadn't come because he didn't want to be seen. Not by the boy, but by himself. Didn't want to be the kind of man who romanticised hunger and rain and someone else's reality. He didn't want to turn a person into a feeling, a subject, a story. Even if he already had.

He was embarrassed. Though he couldn't explain why.

But now, here he was again. Same corner of the city. Same knot in his chest.

He was there again—of course he was. Same spot, though this time he sat with his back against the wall under the bridge, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He wasn't drawing. Just sitting. Watching people walk past like it was something to study.

Harry stopped across the street again. The light was soft, diffused by the thick cloud cover. The kind of light that made everything feel cinematic. Real, but distant.

He lifted the camera slowly, carefully.

Framed the shot.

Fingers on the shutter.

And clicked.

The sound was quiet, barely audible over the street noise—but it was enough.

The boy looked up.

Straight at him.

Their eyes locked.

Harry froze.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe. The boy didn't look surprised—more curious than anything. His expression unreadable, like he was trying to figure out if he cared enough to be angry.

He didn't speak. Didn't even nod. Just stared at each other for one long second.

Then Harry dropped the camera to his chest, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Too fast. Too obvious. His heart thudded against his ribs the entire way home.

That night, he loaded the photo onto his laptop. It wasn't perfect. The angle was slightly off. A car had blurred through the frame, but the boy’s face was clear.

Blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, mouth just slightly parted like he was on the edge of saying something.

Harry stared at it for a long time.

He didn't add it to the BridgeBoy folder.

He saved it somewhere else.

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Harry had no shoots lined up that day. He told himself he'd take it slow—do some editing, maybe finally sort through the pile of film rolls on his desk. But instead, he found himself wrapped up again, scarf snug at his neck, takeaway cup warm in his gloved hand as he walked the familiar route toward Kirkgate.

The coffee was from the café near his flat. He hadn't asked how the boy took it—hadn't even thought to, really. He just ordered what he liked. Black, no sugar. Clean. Bitter. Real.

He didn't know why he brought it.

It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't anything, really. Just... something small. A way to say I see you, maybe. Something to place in his hands so Harry wouldn't have to find the words.

But when he turned the corner, the spot was empty. No sketchbook. No coat curled around small limbs. No boy watching the street like it might betray him at any moment. Just the grey city, wet brick, a smear of chalk graffiti on the shop wall behind the bus stop.

Harry slowed to a stop. He stood there for a minute, eyes scanning like maybe he'd just moved—maybe he'd shifted spots, maybe he was just out of sight. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Harry sat down on the cold bench across the street. Steam from the coffee curled into the air, dissolving too fast. He stayed there for a while, legs stretched out in front of him, cup balanced on his knee.

People passed. Cars moved. The world kept going.

But BridgeBoy didn't come back.

Not that day.

Not the next.

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Harry couldn't have told anyone how many times he looked at the photo over the following days. The one he hadn't meant to take. The one he hadn't meant to keep. He told himself he was studying the composition, the lighting, the contrast of his coat against the stone—but it wasn't true.

He wondered where he'd gone. If he was warm. If he'd gone to stay with someone—family, maybe? Did he even have family?

It was strange, how much space someone could take up without ever saying a word. How quiet could echo when you weren't expecting it to.

The flat was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt too loud. He moved through the rooms slowly, barefoot on cold floorboards, jumper thrown over yesterday's T-shirt. The radiator hadn't kicked in yet. Outside, the sky was a thick stretch of grey, colourless and soft at the edges.

Most of his work was digital these days—clients wanted speed, clarity, precision—but the film was for him. For the quiet. For the darkroom smell still clinging faintly to his clothes, though he hadn't developed anything in weeks.

There were negatives hanging by the window, catching the pale morning light. A few were sharp—moody shots from a rooftop in Chapeltown, a perfect curve of smoke caught mid-air. Others were blurry, overexposed. Accidents. Ghosts. He looked at them like they might tell him something he missed in the moment.

He could've stayed in. Made toast. Read a book he wouldn't finish. Pretended not to care.

But instead, he found himself wrapping up again as he walked the familiar route toward Kirkgate.

The city had dipped into a brittle kind of cold. Not dramatic snow, just the dry, cracking kind that clung to your knuckles and made everything feel harder than it needed to be.

Harry had walked Kirkgate every day this week.

He told himself it was coincidence the first time—just passing through, looking for texture, for angles. But by the third morning, he knew he was lying to himself. He didn't care about the shopfronts or the peeling posters or the way the light hit the bus stop glass at ten a.m. sharp.

He was looking for him.

Or maybe just checking. Just... making sure.

That the boy with the sketchbook and the wary eyes and the bruised edge of a smile hadn't vanished for good. That he was still there, still real, not just a one-off ghost of the city Harry had conjured up from loneliness or guilt or something stickier.

He didn't know what he expected, maybe nothing. Maybe just the reassurance of stillness in the same spot. A shape that hadn't changed.

But every day the boy wasn't there, something in Harry sagged. Not dramatically. Just a little. A quiet sort of disappointment he tried to shove down and keep walking through.

Still, he went. Again. And again. Like superstition. Like ritual.

And that morning, when he turned the corner—finally—he was there.

Slumped lower than usual, tucked in the curve of the bridge like he was trying to disappear. Same layered coat. Same battered sketchbook balanced loosely on one knee. But his face—

Harry's stomach turned.

His left eye was bruised, faint but unmistakable—a soft, purplish bloom beneath the skin, fading at the edges now. There was a scratch near his temple. His lip looked swollen.

Harry stopped dead. The cold bit at his cheeks, but he barely felt it. Air burned in his lungs, sharp and sudden, like he'd been running. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, wild and messy. He stared across the street, hands clenched into fists inside his gloves, breath fogging in short, uneven bursts.

He didn't even know him.

That thought flashed through his mind like something thrown in desperation. He didn't know this boy—had never heard his voice, didn't know his name, didn't know anything except how he curled in on himself and the way he stared at the street like he could see right through it.

Still, Harry couldn't stop looking. Couldn't ignore the tight coil of panic winding through his chest, sharp and hot.

The city was full of people like him. People Harry had walked past for years. People he hadn't seen—hadn't let himself see. He'd taken photos of cracked pavement and rusted signage and overlooked the bodies sleeping beneath them.

So why him?

Why this one boy with a pencil behind his ear and a sketchbook balanced on his knee like a shield?

Harry didn't have an answer. Only the sick, rising feeling that he should've come sooner. That maybe if he had, this wouldn't have happened. Even though he knew that was ridiculous. Even though he knew he was just a stranger, too.

Before he could think himself out of it, he ducked into the café on the corner.

The woman behind the counter didn't even look up. Black coffee. One. Takeaway. He barely heard his own voice over the pounding in his ears. The cup was hot against his palms when he stepped back outside. He held it tighter than necessary, fingers numb despite the heat.

This time, he didn't stop across the street.

He crossed.

Each step felt too loud, like it echoed. Like the pavement might crack if he moved too fast. Up close, the bruising looked worse. Darker. The kind of thing that lingered for days. His lips were chapped. There was paint or ink smudged on his sleeve. Harry hovered for a moment, throat thick. Then, gently, he held out the coffee.

"Hey," he said, voice low, uncertain. "Thought maybe you'd want this."

The boy looked up slowly, like his neck ached with the effort. His eyes, darker up close, blinked once in recognition—then dropped to the cup. He didn't reach for it straight away.

Harry's arm twitched with the need to do something, anything to fill the silence. "I wasn't sure how you take it," he said, words tumbling out faster than he meant. "So I brought sugar too. Just in case. You don't have to use it or—"

The boy lifted one hand, palm out in a quiet gesture. It's fine. I've got it. He took the cup with his other, fingers brushing Harry's glove in the exchange. His hands were red from the cold, knuckles raw and cracked. Tattoos on his fingers seemed to bleed into the skin around them like they’d been done a lot time ago. Still, he wrapped them around the cup like it was the best thing he'd been given in weeks.

"Thanks," he said. Barely above a whisper, rough at the edges. But it was a voice. His voice.

Harry felt it somewhere stupid, just beneath his ribs.

Now that he was standing in front of him, properly up close for the first time, he could see more than just the boy's face. There was a blanket stuffed into a battered rucksack, the hem stained with something that looked like paint or maybe just the street. A tin of pencils poked out of the side pocket. A crushed water bottle. A roll of tape. Another sketchbook—smaller, this one warped slightly from damp. Tucked between his feet was a faded plastic bag that looked like it might've once held food.

Harry's throat tightened.

This wasn't a spot he passed anymore. This was someone's whole world, condensed into a corner.

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

He just stood there, shifting his weight, unsure if he should leave or sit or introduce himself or walk into traffic. The boy took a careful sip of the coffee, his eyes fluttering shut for a second like he could feel it sinking all the way down to his toes.

His fingers fidgeted with the sugar packet, shifting from one foot to the other like the ground itself was too uncertain.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Are you... hungry?"

The boy's eyes flicked up, cautious. A pause. Then a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Harry exhaled like he'd been holding the question in his chest too long. "Okay. Cool. I'll, um. Be right back."

He turned on his heel, already calculating the nearest place that might have something warm and decent, when he stopped short and spun back around.

"You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

The boy blinked at him. Then, to Harry's surprise, he laughed—a low, brief sound that cracked the tension like a pebble through glass. He shook his head, his fringe covering his bruised eye as he did.

"No," he said, eyes squinting like the sun might finally break through the clouds. "Nothing serious, anyway."

Harry grinned, a little sheepish. "Alright. Just checking."

And then he was gone—boots crunching on the damp pavement, heart thudding stupidly hard for a man who'd just asked someone if they could eat a sandwich.

He walked fast, coat flapping behind him, scanning shopfronts like he'd never seen any of them before. There was a Tesco down the road, but that felt impersonal, too plastic-wrapped and soulless. He kept going.

A few steps later, he spotted a little deli tucked between a vape shop and a charity bookshop, its windows fogged from the heat inside. The chalkboard out front was half-smudged from the rain, but he could still make out: homemade soup + any sandwich £5.95.

Perfect.

A bell chimed as he stepped inside. It was warm, humid from the soup pots, and smelled like sourdough and tomato and something faintly sweet. The counter was stacked with wrapped sandwiches, brown paper bags folded neatly, and handwritten labels stuck to the glass with curling tape. A short woman behind the till gave him a polite nod and a "hello".

He grabbed a soup—leek and potato—and a cheese and pickle sandwich that looked hearty enough to fill someone up. He added a bottle of water.

Then hesitated.

Something sweet. A flapjack caught his eye, golden and studded with raisins. He reached for it, then swapped it for a chocolate chip cookie the size of his hand. Less... worthy. More comforting.

Then, a banana. Healthy. Not too much. Just something.

He stood there holding it all, staring down at his bundle of food like he was cradling an offering. It felt like too much. Or maybe not enough. He didn't want to overdo it. Didn't want to look like he was trying too hard, or assuming too much. But he also didn't want to hand over a single sandwich and act like that was enough.

After a beat, he added a napkin and a spare spoon from the counter, just in case. Then paid, tapping his phone on the machine quickly and hurried back out into the cold, bag clutched tight in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn't careful.

Harry crossed the street more quickly this time, bag swinging at his side, the chill biting harder now that he'd been warm. The steam from the coffee still curled lazily between the boys fingers as he sat, hunched and quiet, sketchbook forgotten on his lap.

When Harry reached him, he held the paper bag out with both hands, like he was offering something breakable.

"Um," he started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I wasn't sure what you liked so I just... sort of guessed. There's soup, leek and potato. And a sandwich, cheese and pickle. Hope that's okay. There's also a cookie, and a banana. And water. Obviously."

He huffed a small laugh at himself. "That sounded like a lot just now, didn't it? It didn't feel like that much when I was buying it."

Louis didn't interrupt. Just looked up at him, eyes unreadable but not unkind. He reached for the bag, slow and careful, and nodded once.

Harry cleared his throat. "There's also a napkin and a spoon in there. In case you didn't—well, just in case."

Louis let out the smallest huff through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but something near it. He didn't say much—still hadn't said anything, actually—but he gave Harry a small, grateful nod as he wrapped his fingers around the warm paper bag.

And Harry stood there, not sure if he should sit down, or walk away, or say something else entirely.

Louis tugged the soup out of the bag and peeled the lid back with steady fingers. The steam rose up quickly, fogging the air between them for a second. He picked up the plastic spoon, turned it in his hand, then tossed it gently back into the bag. Instead, he brought the container to his lips and drank straight from it, careful and slow.

"Thanks," he murmured, voice low and a little rough.

Harry's stomach flipped at the sound—partly because it was only the second time he'd heard his voice, and partly because it was just... soft. Like it had taken effort.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. He looked down, then back up, and gestured vaguely to Louis' face. "What, um... what happened?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Your—uh—your eye."

Louis raised an eyebrow over the rim of the soup cup.

"Sorry," Harry rushed, holding up his hands. "Don't answer that. I didn't mean to be nosy. That was—shit—sorry."

But Louis swallowed a mouthful of soup, licked his bottom lip where it had caught the edge of the cup, and said, "Couple of lads nicked my sleeping bag."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Few nights ago," Louis added, like he was talking about the weather. "Didn't like me being in their spot, I guess."

There was a pause—Harry's mouth opened, then shut again. Anger prickled under his skin, hot and helpless.

"Jesus," he muttered, because he didn't know what else to say.

Louis shrugged one shoulder, like that was just how it went. Like he'd already moved past it.

But Harry hadn't. Not even close.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, the words catching in his throat.

Louis gave him a half-smile then, a little crooked, like he didn't quite believe Harry had anything to be sorry for but appreciated it anyway. He lifted the soup again.

Harry hesitated. "Can I—do you need anything else? I mean, I could—"

Louis shook his head. "This is good. Really."

Harry nodded, eyes darting to the pavement, to Louis' hands wrapped around the warm cup, then back up again. Something clenched tight in his chest.

"I should—um. I should get going," he said, already taking a small step back. "But... yeah."

"See you around," Louis said, not quite looking at him.

Harry turned, scarf already pulled a little higher, head ducked against the wind. He could feel the burn behind his eyes, sharp and sudden. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked quickly, heart thudding like it didn't know how to settle.

He didn't look back. Not because he didn't want to.

But because he wasn't sure he could.

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon at his desk, but the editing window on his laptop sat untouched behind a dozen open tabs. His search history quickly became a mess of charity names, phone numbers, eligibility requirements.

Shelter—for free advice, but they were mostly phone-based.

Homeless street angels — an outreach offering hot and cold food, clean clothes and toiletries but only on a Thursday evening.

St. Anne's —support for finding a safe place to stay. But was it drop-in or referral only?

There were so many. And still, somehow, not enough.

He clicked through another site, scanning bold text and bureaucratic language that somehow managed to say both everything and nothing at all. Some places offered emergency beds—but only after an assessment. Others required a small payment, or had waiting lists. Some were only for people aged 16 to 25.

He didn't know if the boy would even qualify. He didn't even know if he'd want to go.

Didn't know how old he was, what he'd done before this, what he needed now. Harry didn't know anything, and it made his fingers curl tight around his mouse, made his jaw clench until it ached.

Hell, he didn't even know his name.

He just wanted to help. But help, it seemed, came with rules. Systems. Conditions. And the boy didn't seem like someone who fit easily into systems.

Harry stared at the screen until his vision blurred, until the coffee on the table had gone cold, until the tabs blurred together like static.

Then he closed the laptop.

And sat in the quiet.

Still not sure what to do.

By the time evening settled in, the light outside had dipped into that washed-out blue-grey that made the city look colder than it already was. Harry stood by the window with a mug he hadn't touched in an hour, eyes flicking down the street like he might somehow spot him from six streets across.. Like the boy might've wandered out of the frame of Harry's thoughts and appeared right there, under the streetlamp.

He considered going back out. Just to check. Just to see if he was still there.

The idea of him—alone again, face bruised, without even a sleeping bag—made something twist deep in Harry's stomach. He didn't know how long a bruise took to fade, but it hadn't looked fresh that morning. Which meant he'd gone at least two nights without it.

Harry set the mug down and rubbed his hands over his face. "I should've asked," he muttered to no one. "I should've—"

He didn't even know what he was meant to do. But he knew he couldn't sit in his flat, warm and fed, doing nothing.

He'd go tomorrow. He'd buy a sleeping bag. A proper one—the thick kind, waterproof, insulated. Maybe a coat too. And socks. Warmer ones. The kind with that fuzzy lining that made your boots fit tight.

Yeah. He'd do that. That would help.

And maybe—if the guy let him—he could ask about shelters. Not in a pushy way. Just... gently. See if he'd ever stayed in one before. If he had somewhere he trusted. Somewhere that wasn't just stone and damp.

Harry exhaled, slow. The city outside didn't look like it was going to get any warmer.

He hoped to God he'd see him tomorrow.

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The next morning was a Saturday, and the sky was already heavy with grey when Harry stepped out of his flat, collar turned up against the bite in the air. He skipped his usual café, didn't even bring his camera. Just kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets and walked with purpose, boots echoing against the slick pavement.

He knew the camping shop near the centre of the city—one of those cluttered, slightly overpriced places with a bell that rang aggressively when you walked in. He'd passed it a hundred times, always glancing in at the shelves of gear and kits and wondering who actually used half the stuff. Today, he was one of them.

The smell hit him first—rubber and nylon and something vaguely earthy. He wandered toward the back where the sleeping bags were stacked on tall racks, their bold colours making them look almost cartoonish against the industrial shelves.

He stood there for ages.

Insulated. Down. Synthetic.

1 season, 2 season... all the way to 4+ season.

"4+ season, for high mountain use and extreme temperatures," the tag read, bold and matter-of-fact. Surely that one would be best? If the city could get into minus temperatures at night, wouldn't that be the safest option?

But then—what if it was too bulky to carry? What if it looked too new? Too much?

He shifted from foot to foot, scanning labels like he might suddenly understand every technical term on them through sheer will.

Eventually, he gave in and approached an employee stacking head torches nearby. She looked up with a polite smile.

"Hi—sorry, uh—bit of a weird question," Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm looking for a sleeping bag for someone who's sleeping rough. It needs to be warm. Really warm. But also not massive. Something practical, I guess."

The woman didn't blink. "Not weird at all," she said kindly. "We get that question more than you'd think. I'd recommend this one—synthetic fill, rated for down to minus ten, compresses well but still holds heat. It's not the lightest, but it'll last. And it's waterproof."

Harry nodded, heart thudding. "That sounds perfect. Thank you."

At the last minute, just as he was heading to the till, Harry paused by the rack of jackets near the front window. Rows of practical, no-nonsense coats in muted colours. Most were designed for hiking or winter camping—windproof, waterproof, insulated, all the things someone living outside would need but never ask for.

He ran his hand along the sleeves, fingers brushing over tag after tag. It felt strange, picking out a coat for someone whose size he wasn't even sure of. He grabbed a medium, then swapped it for a large. The man was slight, but the extra room might help—he could layer under it if he needed to.

It was dark navy, simple. Nothing flashy. Just warm.

He added it to the pile along with a pair of thick thermal socks. Then another, just in case. A beanie. And a small multipack of hand warmers he spotted at the till, wincing slightly at the growing total, but not stopping. Not now.

When he stepped back outside, the cold hit harder, like the temperature had dropped while he'd been inside making decisions. He zipped his own coat higher, shifted the bag in his grip.

Then he started walking.

Familiar streets stretched out ahead of him, damp and grey underfoot. Kirkgate wasn't far. He didn't rush, but he didn't dawdle either. There was a pull in his chest now—something anxious and hopeful and a little afraid.

He didn't even know if the boy would be there. He hadn't been, once before.

But Harry hoped. Enough to go back. Enough to try again.

As Harry approached the bridge, he spotted the figure before he was fully there—curled small, tucked into the same sheltered space like part of the stone itself. A familiar hunch of shoulders, the top of a hood pulled low. From a distance, it could've been anyone.

But it wasn't just anyone, it was him.

Harry's chest tightened with something. Relief, maybe. Or worry, still too big and restless to quiet.

He slowed as he reached the edge of the space, boots scuffing softly against the pavement. The boy was sketching—head down, pencil moving quickly across the page in his lap, lip caught between his teeth in quiet concentration. He didn't look up.

Harry waited a second.

Then, gently, he crouched down beside him, one arm braced across his knees.

"Hey," he said, quiet again. Like last time.

The boy finally looked up.

There was a pause—just a beat—and then the faintest flicker of recognition in his eyes. He glanced from Harry's face to the bag in his hands, then quickly darted a look around the street behind him, as if checking who else might be watching.

Harry felt himself shift awkwardly under the weight of it, like he was holding something too bright out in the open.

"I, um..." he started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "Brought you some things."

He sat up a little taller then, shifting like he hadn't expected much but now maybe he was curious. He places the pencil down gently across the spine of his sketchpad and eyes the bag Harry's holding.

Harry reaches in and pulls out the coat first—it's folded awkwardly, the sleeves bunched into themselves. "This one seemed good," he says quickly, already hearing how fast he's talking but unable to stop. "It's thermal, waterproof. Windproof too, apparently. I got a bigger size in case you wanted to layer underneath or y'know, move around in it without it being tight or anything."

The boy nods, slow but interested, and he's already shrugging his coat down one shoulder, then the other. It's stiff with damp, the fabric gone thin in places. Underneath, he's wearing a wool jumper that might've once been navy, the hem fraying and cuffs full of little chewed-up holes.

Harry tears the price tag off the coat and hands it over.

Without a word, the boy pulls it on. The zip catches once near the bottom but he yanks it up, then pulls the collar high against his neck. It swamps him slightly, just like Harry hoped it would.

Harry watches him, forearms pressing on his thighs, heart thudding hard again. Not with nerves this time. Something warmer. Satisfaction, maybe. A shaky kind of hope. Something like that.

"Looks good," he says, almost sheepish.

The boy doesn't say much—just gives a tiny nod, like it'll do. Like it's enough. But he keeps the collar up and doesn't take it off.

That's enough for Harry.

"This is great. Really. Thanks. You didn't have to, obviously."

It's the most Harry's ever heard him talk.

His voice is rough—raspy like maybe he hasn't used it much, or maybe like cold air and street sleep have worn it thin. There's a northern lilt there, tucked low into the vowels, and it hits Harry unexpectedly. Makes something clench behind his ribs.

He doesn't say anything. Just smiles a little, small and unsure, and starts pulling the rest from the bag. Two thick pairs of thermal socks. A beanie, soft and flecked with grey. A pack of hand warmers, the kind you snap and shake to activate.

The boy eyes them all like he's not quite sure it's real.

Then, without hesitation, he kicks his boots off right there on the pavement. His old socks come off next—Harry tries not to look but can't help noticing they're damp at the toes, thin and worn to threads in spots.

He doesn't seem embarrassed though. Just focused.

He pulls on the new socks—one pair over the other—then slips his boots back on, stamping his feet a little to settle into them. Then the beanie goes on next, tugged down over his ears with quick fingers.

The hand warmers he tucks into his coat pockets without a word.

Harry stays crouched, hands hanging loosely between his knees, watching the boy move like he's done it all a hundred times. Like every layer is a small kind of armour.

Harry watches as the boy tucks his old coat into a beaten-up backpack. It's one of those cheap canvas ones, the kind with frayed seams and busted zippers, barely holding its shape. The old socks get stuffed into the side pocket, along with a half-empty packet of crisps and a damaged biro.

Harry shifts on his feet. He wonders, Would it be weird if he offered to wash the stuff? Maybe it'd help, freshen things up. But then... Would that make it seem like Harry thought he was better than him? Like he's some charity case?

He swallows the thought and just reaches for the last thing in the bag.

"There's, uh..." he nudges the bag toward him, "a sleeping bag in there, too. I got one of the proper ones—four-season, insulated, for, like... mountains and stuff."

Louis stills. Then huffs out a short, surprised sound that's almost a laugh. "Shit. Someone's definitely gonna jump me again now."

The words hit Harry like ice water.

His stomach clenches. "Fuck, yeah—shit, sorry, I didn't even think—like, I can take it back? Seriously, it's fine. I just thought it'd help, but if it makes things worse—"

He's babbling. Tripping over his own voice.

"I just... I didn't wanna cause any issues for you," he says, eyes darting to the bruises still healing beneath Louis' eye. "Have you ever thought about staying in a shelter?" The question slips out before he can stop it.

Louis looks at him then. Quiet. Guarded. Not angry, but not answering, either.

Harry's heart is racing again.

"Have I thought about staying in a shelter?" he repeats, like it's the strangest question he's been asked all week.

Harry immediately feels heat rise to his cheeks. "Sorry—no, ignore me. Obviously you've thought about it. I just meant..." He scratches behind his ear, the chill biting at his fingers. "Maybe it'd be good to get out of the cold for a few nights? I was looking stuff up yesterday, there's a bunch of places—some of them don't need an application or anything. I could help you look or—"

He doesn't even realise he's babbling again until the boy cuts him off, not unkindly.

"What's your name?"

Harry blinks. "Oh—Harry."

The boy hums. "Harry," he repeats, trying it out. Then: "You talk a lot, don't you, Harry."

There's no bite to it. Just a quiet amusement, a dry observation that somehow settles Harry's nerves more than any polite thank you could've.

He laughs softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Sorry. I do."

He hesitates, then asks, a little more carefully, "What's yours?"

The boy looks at him for a beat. "Louis," he says.

Louis, Harry thinks. He finally knows. It lands in his chest like a stone—heavy, grounding.

Louis.

"Thanks for all this," Louis says, quieter this time. "It's great. Really. I'll think about the shelters."

That feels like the end of the conversation. A gentle, unmistakable full stop.

Harry nods, a dozen unsaid things pressing against the back of his throat. He wants to offer again—to take something away, to bring something else, to fix it—but Louis is already shifting, already reaching for his sketchbook like the moment's passed.

So Harry swallows it down. Stands. Tucks his hands into his coat pockets.

"See you again, Louis," he says, soft but certain.

Louis doesn't look up, just nods once, pen already scratching against the page.

Harry walks away slowly. When he reaches the other side of the bridge, he pauses, glancing back. The morning is still and grey. Louis is just a figure hunched against the wall, pen moving, coat collar pulled high.

Harry lifts his film camera from his coat pocket. Clicks once.

Then he turns and walks home.

Later, curled up on the sofa with a blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, he opens his laptop again. Searches shelters. Eligibility. Intake requirements. Emergency housing. He bookmarks pages, jots down numbers, reads for hours.

He falls asleep like that—face pressed into the cushion, laptop screen dimmed, and Louis turning over in his mind like a name he doesn't want to forget.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

The next morning, Harry has a shoot in the centre—corporate, bland, uninspired—but it pays well, and he’s already promised the client. Still, he’s up earlier than he needs to be, padding around his flat with that quiet sense of purpose that’s started creeping into his mornings lately.

He dresses slowly, checking his reflection in the mirror. His curls are as unruly as ever, and there’s a faint crease in his shirt, but he doesn’t bother fixing either. He packs his cameras carefully, slings his bag over one shoulder, phone and keys in the other pocket.

And then, without overthinking it, he heads toward Kirkgate.

The deli on the corner is small and warm and always smells like fresh bread. He hadn’t even known it existed before yesterday, but now he steps inside like he’s always been coming here.

The glass counter is lined with bagels, rolls, pastries. He scans it for too long, trying to imagine what Louis might want. Egg and bacon? Just toast? Does he even like breakfast?

Eventually, he notices a breakfast sandwich—egg, hash brown, a bit of sausage, all pressed inside a toasted bun. And a coffee, black, same as before. Just in case.

He tucks the wrapped sandwich into a paper bag, the heat warming his fingers through the sides, and heads out, walking toward the place under the bridge like it’s already part of his daily rhythm. Like something he just... does. Something that matters.

When Harry reaches the bridge, the street is quieter than usual—just the sigh of a bus in the distance, the scrape of a bin being dragged over pavement.

Louis is there, but he looks asleep. Curled up inside the sleeping bag, back against the cold brick wall, beanie pulled low over his eyes. His hands are tucked beneath his arms.

Harry slows.

He shouldn’t wake him. That feels… invasive. Cruel, even. God knows how much or how little sleep Louis actually gets out here.

But he’s already close now, his shadow spilling across the space where Louis sits.

He crouches slightly, trying to be quiet, gentle. “Louis?” he says softly.

Louis startles immediately.

His head jerks up, the beanie pushed up in a quick motion, eyes squinting against the grey morning light. His hand braces against the ground like he’s ready to stand or run—Harry’s not sure which.

But when his gaze lands on Harry, something shifts.

His shoulders drop, not dramatically, just the smallest fraction. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something softer in his eyes.

Relief, maybe. Or maybe Harry’s imagining that. Wishful thinking.

“Sorry,” Harry says quickly. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I just—brought this.”

He holds out the coffee and the paper bag, suddenly unsure of himself again.

They don’t talk much. Harry doesn’t push. He asks if Louis slept alright. If he wants sugar. If the breakfast roll is too greasy. Louis gives small answers. Quiet thanks. A crooked half-smile that Harry sometimes catches before Louis turns away.

It becomes part of Harry’s day. Unspoken. Gentle. Strange.

But in the afternoons, Louis is never there.

Harry walks past a few times after shoots or on the way back from the post office, half-expecting to see him. But the spot is always empty—just pavement and concrete and the faint outline of where a sleeping bag has pressed into the dirt.

He wonders where Louis goes.

A soup kitchen maybe. A drop-in centre. Somewhere warmer.

He hopes it’s somewhere warmer.

Harry looks up local resources again the other night, the same tabs still open on his laptop. Most centres are day-use only. A few have creative workshops or art sessions—he likes that idea. It seems like something Louis might go to, if he’s in the mood for people.

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

He just keeps showing up.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

Harry walks with his head down, scarf pulled up high against the wind, camera bag slung over his shoulder. The afternoon light is dull, the kind of grey that settles over the city like a damp blanket. He’s taken a longer route home on purpose, cutting back down Kirkgate again even though he has no reason to. Not really. Just—maybe.

He isn’t looking when it happens.

His shoulder clips someone coming around the corner, a soft thud of bodies and movement. The sound of plastic hitting pavement.

“Oh—shit, sorry,” Harry says quickly, already crouching down. “I wasn’t—”

The guy has dropped a drink. A takeaway cup rolls to a stop near the kerb. They both reach for it at the same time.

Harry’s fingers brush chilled knuckles, and when he looks up, his next apology catches in his throat.

It’s Louis.

Bundled in the coat Harry bought him, beanie pulled low, bag slung over his shoulder. He looks just as surprised.

“Hi,” Harry says, dumbly, still half-crouched. His hand hovers near the cup.

Louis blinks at him, then lets out a breath—something close to a laugh. “It’s alright,” he says, voice rough but not unkind.

Harry stands, brushing his palms together. “I didn’t see you. Sorry. Again.”

“S’fine.”

There’s a pause.

“You alright?” Harry asks, giving him a quick once-over—a habit now, that quiet check-in. Louis looks okay. Cold, but okay.

Louis nods, adjusting his grip on the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Just—heading somewhere.”

Harry hesitates. “Yeah? Somewhere good?”

Louis gives a small shrug. “Warm, at least.”

Harry smiles at that, trying not to read too much into it. “Glad I ran into you,” he says honestly.

Louis looks at him for a second. “Thought you only showed up in the mornings.”

“Guess I’m expanding,” Harry says with a small grin, then adds, “I was just walking. Thought I’d check, see if you were around.”

Louis doesn’t say anything to that. Just looks at Harry for a beat longer, then bends to pick up his drink.

Harry clears his throat. “Well, I’ll let you go. Don’t wanna keep you if you’re on your way somewhere.”

Louis hesitates. “You’re not… doing anything now?”

Harry blinks. “No, not really.”

Louis nods down the street. “Come on then. I know a place. Good soup.”

And just like that, they fall into step.

Harry follows quietly. The streets are busy in that late afternoon way—school kids heading home, traffic picking up, shops starting to close—but somehow, walking next to Louis, it all feels a little muted. Like the city's turned down its volume just for them.

He glances sideways at Louis when he thinks he won't notice. His hair falls long over one side of his face, a fringe that sweeps down nearly to his cheekbone. It hides him a bit—makes him look smaller, more guarded. But Harry can still see the skin underneath is mostly healed. The bruise under his eye, the cut near his brow—they've faded now. Pale shadows of what they were.

Harry is relieved, and he doesn't quite know why. Just—he's glad.

They walk in silence for the most part. Louis doesn't say anything, and Harry doesn't push. Every so often, Louis glances over, like he's checking to see if Harry's still keeping up. He doesn't say anything, but he gives a little smile, soft and barely there.

That's when Harry notices his eyes.

They're blue. Not a dull kind of blue either, but clear and striking. Lovely, really. He doesn't know how he hadn't noticed before. Maybe it was the bruises, or maybe Louis hadn't looked directly at him much until now.

Harry looks away quickly, like he's been caught staring, and focuses on the pavement instead. He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling up though. Just a bit.

Louis gestures ahead with a small nod. "It's just up here," he says, and it's the first thing he's said in a while.

Harry follows his gaze and spots the sign outside the squat red-brick building—he recognises it instantly. One of the charities he'd read about late into the night, half-asleep with tabs open across his screen. It feels strange seeing it now in real life, not in a browser window, but comforting too.

He smiles to himself.

"Am I... allowed in?" he asks after a beat, glancing sideways. "I mean, given I'm not exactly..."

"Homeless?" Louis finishes, grinning. There's a quiet tease in his voice but no edge.

Harry laughs a little, sheepish. "Yeah. That."

Louis shrugs, his bag shifting on his shoulder. "Yeah, you're alright. Stick with me. I can bring someone with me if I want."

And just like that, Harry's chest goes warm. It's nothing big, really, just a sentence—but the casual I can bring someone sticks with him more than it should. He keeps walking, biting back a smile, and doesn't say anything. Not yet.

Harry stays close, hovering just behind Louis as he gives his name to the volunteers at the front desk. His voice is calm, like this is something he's done a hundred times before.

"Brought a friend with me," Louis adds, glancing back at Harry.

Harry feels something snag in his chest at the word—friend. It catches him off guard. It's simple, casual, probably said without a second thought, but it settles in his stomach like something heavier. Friend. It's not quite what they are. But what else would Louis call him? A stranger who keeps bringing him coffee and coats and breakfast rolls? A guy who talks too much and hovers awkwardly nearby?

Still, friend feels like more than he deserves. Like something that might stick, if he lets it.

The volunteers smile warmly, nodding like they're used to it. "Course you did. You're both welcome."

Louis turns to him then. "I'm gonna have a quick wash, yeah? Can you keep an eye on my stuff?"

Harry nods immediately. "Yeah. Of course."

Louis sets his bag down beside the table and disappears down a hallway, the door swinging shut behind him.

Harry sits.

The room smells of instant coffee and cleaning spray, a faint trace of toast lingering from earlier. There's quiet chatter from other tables, the low clatter of mugs being washed up in the back. Across from him, Louis' bag slumps against the chair leg. The sketchpad peeks out from the side pocket, the corner of a page slightly curled.

It's right there. Just a tug away.

Harry stares at it. His fingers twitch like they're ready to move on their own—but he doesn't. He won't. It's not his.

Instead, he folds his hands in his lap and waits.

He shifts in his chair and glances around the room. It's not what he expected, though he's not really sure what he did expect. The space looks like an old sports hall — high ceilings, faded basketball markings still visible on the scuffed wooden floor. The overhead lights buzz faintly, casting a dull glow over the room. Fold-out tables are scattered about with mismatched chairs around them, some already occupied.

People drift in slowly. Some move with the familiarity of routine, nodding to the volunteers, shrugging off damp coats, finding their usual seats. There's an older man with a walking stick and a flat cap, who sits near the back and starts chatting with a woman who looks about the same age. They talk like they've known each other for years — soft laughter, slow smiles, quiet ease.

There's a group of three lads who can't be older than seventeen. One of them has a backpack with a broken zip held together with a hair tie. They huddle near the radiator, rubbing their hands together, speaking in low voices that sound like mock bravado.

A girl with bright orange hair and a tear in the knee of her jeans drifts past Harry's table, headphones in, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn't look at anyone.

Some people glance at Harry and keep going, clearly too preoccupied to care who he is. But a few linger—quick looks, some longer than others. Curious, maybe. Suspicious. One man, in a navy hoodie with frayed cuffs, narrows his eyes just slightly as he passes by. Like he's trying to figure out if Harry's lost or just playing at something.

Harry sits straighter in his chair. Tugs his sleeves down. He suddenly feels too clean. Too warm. His coat too new. He wonders what he looks like to everyone else. What they think he's doing here.

He keeps his gaze on the hallway Louis disappeared down and waits.

A volunteer with greying hair and a friendly smile approaches his table, a large metal coffee pot balanced in one hand and a stack of cups in the other. "You alright, love?" she asks.

Harry nods. "Yeah, thank you. Could I—could I get one for my friend too?"

The woman nods with no questions asked and sets down two polystyrene cups. She pours the coffee from the pot with practiced ease. The rich smell of it steams up into the space between them.

"There you go, love," she says, and moves on to the next table.

Harry wraps his hands around the warm cup and glances at the one beside it, waiting for Louis to return.

The longer Harry sits there, the more out of place he feels. His shoulders are tense, his fingers tapping against the side of the polystyrene cup. He pulls his camera bag a little closer to him on instinct—then immediately feels guilty. What's he doing? No one here has even looked at it. Still, it's his most expensive gear. Lenses he's spent years collecting. It's hard to switch off the protectiveness.

He shifts in his seat and tells himself to stop being an arse.

Just as his thoughts begin to spiral again, Louis returns, pulling him from the loop. Harry looks up, relief blooming in his chest without warning. Louis looks... different. Younger, maybe. His face is freshly washed, a slight flush on his cheeks from the cold water or maybe the walk back through the hall. His fringe is pushed off his face now, revealing the fading bruise completely for the first time. His skin looks smoother, his jaw more defined. Vulnerable, even.

Harry smiles as he approaches. Not wide or anything, just enough to show he's glad to see him.

Louis doesn't really smile back, but he doesn't grimace either.

Louis drops into the seat opposite him with a soft thud, adjusting the collar of his coat and tucking his damp fringe behind his ear. He glances at the coffee cups on the table and nods toward them. "This mine?"

Harry slides it across. "Yeah. Thought I'd grab you one too. Well—asked for one, I didn't steal it or anything."

Louis huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh. "Thanks."

Harry watches him wrap his hands around the cup, notices how his fingers are red from the cold, even after the wash. "You, uh—look different," he says before he can stop himself. "Nice, I mean. Not that you didn't before, just..."

Louis raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his coffee, eyes steady on Harry over the rim of the cup. "You always this smooth?"

Harry blinks, caught off guard, a slow grin tugging at his lips. He ducks his head, wrapping both hands around his own cup. "Right. Yeah. Fair."

Louis doesn't say anything for a second, just glances around the room. His eyes skim over the group of older men playing dominoes a few tables down, the girls no older than nineteen sitting close near the wall. Then he turns back to Harry. "You alright?"

Harry nods, a bit surprised by the question. "Yeah. Just... feel like I don't quite fit in here."

Louis shrugs, like that's nothing new. "No one really does. That's kind of the point." He leans back in the chair and takes another sip of his coffee, eyes flicking to the camera bag. "Don't worry. No one's gonna rob your stuff."

Harry flushes. "Did I—was I that obvious?"

Louis tilts his head, a corner of his mouth twitching. "A bit."

Harry groans and leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "I'm sorry. That was shit of me."

Louis just shrugs again, but there's something a little lighter in his face now. "You're alright, Harry."

Before Harry can respond, someone comes by with a tray of steaming bowls of soup. The woman smiles and nods toward him.

"Soup, love?"

Harry starts to say yes out of habit, but then hesitates. "Oh—no, it's okay. I don't want to take from someone who actually needs it."

She gives him a kind look. "There's plenty to go round."

Still, he shakes his head gently. "Thanks, though."

Louis is already halfway through his bowl by the time Harry glances back. He looks at Harry over the rim of it. "You always this noble?"

Harry huffs a small laugh. "I just didn't feel right taking it."

Louis shrugs like it doesn't matter either way. "Suit yourself."

They fall into a small lull, the quiet buzz of the room filling the space between them. Then Louis wipes at his mouth with his sleeve, sits back a little in his chair.

"So," he says, like it's just occurred to him, "you look after all the homeless guys in Leeds, or am I just special?"

Harry blinks, caught off guard. "I—no. I mean, not that you're not—" He fumbles.

But before he can finish his sentence, a voice from one of the nearby tables rises—something about someone nicking someone else's coat. A volunteer hurries over and there's some quick shushing, a half-hearted apology, a bit of bickering.

Louis turns to look, unconcerned. "That'll be Dave and Big Ron. Happens every other day."

Harry watches for a second, then glances back at Louis. "You know everyone?"

Louis shrugs again. "You stick around long enough, you pick stuff up."

He doesn't say it with pride, exactly. Just fact.

Harry studies him for a moment. "How long have you been sticking around?"

But Louis only sips from his coffee again, eyes fixed on the far wall. Doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.

They stay for a while longer, sipping the last of their coffees. The noise in the hall fades into a low murmur—people chatting, chairs scraping, the occasional laugh or cough cutting through. Harry's eyes wander to Louis' bag again, to the sketchpad still half-tucked into the side pocket.

Louis notices. Of course he does.

"You a bit nosy, Harry?" he asks, voice light.

Harry flushes. "No. I mean—maybe. A little. Sorry."

Louis smirks into his cup, then nods toward the camera bag at Harry's feet. "So what's in yours, then? All your fancy gear?"

Harry brightens. "Yeah, actually. Couple of film bodies, few lenses. Nothing too flashy."

Louis quirks an eyebrow. "You take photos of everyone who gives you the time of day, or am I just special?"

Harry grins. "You already asked if you were special."

"Didn't hear an answer I liked."

Harry shakes his head, laughing softly, then hesitates. "I'd actually love to shoot you. Properly, I mean. If you'd ever want to."

Louis leans back a little, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "What, like... me on a windswept hill, staring into the distance?"

Harry laughs again, but there's a sincerity in his eyes when he says, "Something like that. You've got a good face."

Louis doesn't respond to that. Not really. Just rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches at the corners like he's trying not to smile.

When Louis finishes the last of his soup and his second hot drink, he glances toward the door. "Reckon that's enough charity for one day."

Harry nods and stands with him. Louis swings his bag up over his shoulder, adjusting the straps like it's second nature, like he doesn't feel the weight of it anymore.

Harry watches him, eyes catching on the details—his shoulders rolling slightly under the bulk, the way his hair's dried in soft tufts that curl near the nape of his neck.

"You need help carrying anything?" he offers, tentative.

Louis snorts. "What, you gonna carry my life around for me, too?"

Harry shrugs, hands in his coat pockets. "Only if you ask nicely."

Louis huffs out a laugh. "Come on, camera boy."

And with that, he pushes the door open and walks out into the cold, Harry falling into step beside him.

The streets thinning out as they head toward the edge of the city centre. Louis tells him he's going to a park nearby—"Got a mate there," he says, not offering much more.

Harry nods. "I'll walk with you a bit."

Louis doesn't say anything to that, just keeps walking, and Harry matches his pace. The silence stretches between them, but it's not awkward, not really. It's just... quiet. Every now and then, Harry glances at Louis, watches the way he walks like he knows exactly where he's going. Like he's done this route a hundred times. He probably has.

Harry wants to ask him things. Where he goes at night. How long it's been like this. Who his friend is. But he doesn't. It all feels too personal, like asking would shine a light too bright on something Louis prefers to keep in shadow. So instead, he stays quiet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, camera bag bumping gently against his side.

When they reach the edge of the park, Louis stops and turns to face him. The sky's starting to tint pink behind the trees, the air biting sharper now the sun's slipping away.

Louis tilts his head slightly. "Well. Thanks for the soup date."

Harry lets out a breath of a laugh. "Soup date?"

"Yeah," Louis says with a straight face. "Real romantic stuff. Polystyrene cups. Fluorescent lighting. You know how to treat a lad."

Harry grins. "Only the best."

Louis' mouth twitches at that, and he nods once, quick and decisive, like they've said all they need to. "See you in the morning, maybe."

"Maybe," Harry echoes, softer.

Louis gives him one last glance, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then turns and walks off into the trees, the weight of his bag shifting with every step.

Harry watches until he disappears from view, then turns back the way he came, already thinking about what he'll bring him tomorrow.

The sky darkens quickly now, that strange December light where everything goes a little grey-blue before the streetlamps blink on. The cold settles in heavier, curling beneath his coat collar, biting at his fingertips. He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he turns down a quieter street.

He keeps thinking about Louis.

Not just the dry humour or the way he half-smiles when Harry says something daft. Not just how he looks with his fringe swept back and that bruise almost gone. But the way he moved through that hall like he knew it, like it was routine. The way he tucked himself into the crowd without much fuss, then left again just as quietly.

Harry has only seen a corner of Louis' world, and already it was so far removed from his own it makes his chest ache. Soup in plastic bowls. Bags clutched close. Quick nods instead of long conversations. People sitting alone, even in a full room.

And now, Louis is out there again.

He said he had a friend in the park, but what did that mean? Were they camped out somewhere? Was there a tent? A bench? A bus shelter? Harry's mind races with possibilities, none of them good. It's so cold tonight—his own cheeks are numb, and he's heading toward a flat with central heating and a thick duvet and a hot shower.

He wonders what Louis will have.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

Harry gets home and drops his bag by the door, tugging his coat off and flicking the heater on immediately. The place hums back to life around him, warm air pushing through the vents. But it doesn't shake the chill that's settled in his bones.

He sits on the edge of the sofa, hands curled around a cup of tea he barely tastes, staring out the window. Somewhere out there, Louis is figuring out how to make it through another night.

Harry wants to help. He's just not sure how.

But he'll bring coffee in the morning.

He'll keep showing up.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

It's colder this afternoon, the kind of cold that settles in your lungs and makes your fingers clumsy, and Harry's not sure why he walks toward the bridge. He'd taken coffee and breakfast to Louis this morning. Something that had become a habit, or maybe routine.

As he approaches he can see Louis, standing with his back against the underside of the bridge, bag already slung over his shoulder. His hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, and the wind tosses his fringe across his forehead. He's squinting out across the road, but when he hears footsteps, he glances over—and spots Harry.

He lifts his chin in that quiet way of his. Not a smile exactly, but a greeting all the same.

Harry's heart does something dumb in his chest. He heads over, hands buried in his pockets, scarf wrapped tight around his throat. "Wasn't sure I'd see you today."

Louis shrugs one shoulder. "Figured I'd loiter dramatically for a bit. You know. Keep the mystery alive."

Harry laughs under his breath. "Well, it's working."

They fall into step together without asking. It's easy now, this part. No big conversation, no plan. Just the quiet agreement of company.

Louis nods at Harry's bag. "You working?"

"Supposed to be," Harry says. "Got a client who wants city shots in this light. You know, moody, wintery, vaguely sad." He glances sideways. "I'm getting the vibe down pretty well, actually."

Louis smirks, a flash of something playful in his eyes. "Glad I could contribute."

They walk a few paces in silence. The air smells like chimney smoke and frost, and Harry feels the weight of Louis' presence beside him in a way that makes everything feel less sharp.

"You headed to the hall?" Harry asks eventually.

Louis shakes his head. "Not today. Got somewhere else to be."

Harry nods, doesn't push.

But then Louis looks at him, brow slightly raised. "Wanna walk with me anyway?"

Harry nods, too quickly probably. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

So they turn together, down the next street, and Harry doesn't know where they're going, but he figures it doesn't matter. Louis asked him along.

They don't walk far at first. Just down the street that heads past the minster, the traffic from the main road loud for this time in the afternoon.

Louis kicks at a bit of ice with the toe of his boot. "So, that offer you made... about taking photos of me."

Harry glances at him, curious. "Yeah?"

"Did you mean it?" Louis asks, eyes still on the pavement. "'Cause I'd be up for that. Actually."

He says it casually, but there's something in the way he almost smiles when he says it—something that makes Harry's chest go warm.

"Of course I meant it," Harry replies. "You'd make a great subject."

Louis lifts his eyebrows. "You saying I'm photogenic?"

Harry shrugs, grinning. "I'm saying you've got a good face."

That earns him a real smile. A proper one this time—small, but wide enough to reach Louis' eyes. He huffs a laugh and nudges Harry gently with his elbow. "Alright, smooth-talker."

Harry bites his lip to hide his own grin, heart hammering a bit harder now.

Louis stops at the edge of the pavement, turns toward him. "Can we do it today?"

Harry blinks. "Today?"

Louis nods. "Only if you've got time, I mean. I know I'm not... a model or anything, but it could be fun."

He looks at Harry then—really looks at him—and there's something in his expression that surprises Harry. Not just interest. Hope.

Harry hesitates for only a second, but then nods. "Yeah. I've got film I need to use anyway."

Louis' smile stays this time. "Wicked."

They end up at St. John's Park, just a few streets up from the bridge. It's small and mostly empty, the trees bare and skeletal, benches streaked with frost. A low winter sun hangs crooked above the rooftops, casting a pale gold wash over everything.

"This alright?" Louis asks, already shrugging off his backpack.

Harry nods. "Yeah, perfect light."

Louis tosses his bag onto a bench and turns to face him. "Right then, where do you want me, camera boy?"

Harry raises a brow, pulling his camera out of the bag but doesn't say anything.

Louis grins, already posing—one arm dramatically draped over a tree trunk, head tilted like he's in a perfume advert. "Like this? Very high fashion."

Harry snorts. "You don't really scream high fashion."

Louis lowers his arm, mock-offended. "Wow. Rude."

Harry fumbles slightly, lifting his camera. "No—I just mean... you're better than that. Your face—" he pauses, cheeks a little pink from more than just the cold, "—it's more suited to something real. Honest. Like the kind of portrait that makes people feel something."

Louis blinks at him. The smirk twitches back at the corners of his mouth, softer now. He doesn't say anything.

Harry clears his throat. "Alright, stand by that low wall. Hands in your pockets. Look to the left."

Louis does it, sort of. His version involves a slow, overly dramatic turn, a pout, and a mock model stare into the middle distance.

"Okay, no pouting," Harry says, grinning now as he looks through the viewfinder. "Just look."

Harry takes the shot, then another. "So how long have you been sleeping rough?"

Louis drops the pose instantly. He walks toward a metal railing and leans against it instead. "How long've you been a photographer?" he throws back casually.

Harry hesitates, then goes with it. "Since I was sixteen. Properly since I finished uni."

"What did you study?"

"Photography."

"Wow," Louis says, mock surprise in his voice. "Imagine that."

Harry grins. "Avoiding the question."

"Not at all," Louis says sweetly. "Just rerouting."

Harry clicks another photo. Louis stands still this time, watching him, wind tugging at his hair.

"How old are you?" Harry asks.

Louis stretches his arms behind his head. "Thirty-two."

Harry raises a brow. "You don't look it."

Louis smirks. "You trying to say I look younger or rough as fuck?"

Harry laughs. "You've got a good face, remember?"

Louis hums, exaggeratedly pleased. "You just love telling me that."

Harry grins through the viewfinder.

They keep going like that. Harry giving directions, Louis offering him grief in return. It's easy—strangely easy—and Harry doesn't know if it's because Louis makes it that way, or because some part of him just wants to stay in Louis' orbit a little longer.

It felt familiar. Like they'd known each other longer than just a few weeks. Like Louis wasn't from an entirely different world. Maybe if things were different—if timing or circumstance had shifted just slightly—they could've been real friends. The kind who text dumb things and meet up for drinks after work.

Harry checks the film advance lever. "One frame left on this roll. Make it a good one."

Louis straightens up, brushing his hands together. Then he pauses. "I should take one of you."

Harry blinks. "What?"

"You heard me. Camera boy. Document your own life and all that." Louis nods toward the camera in Harry's hands. "Go on. Reckon I've got the eye for it. It's just point and press, innit?"

Harry hesitates. Just for a second. The camera is heavy in his hands, expensive and familiar. He looks at Louis, then at the camera again. Thinks—fleeting and uninvited—What if he runs with it?

It's a horrible thought. Ugly, really. Louis' bag is still on the bench; he wouldn't get far. But the fact that it crosses Harry's mind at all makes his stomach twist.

He looks back at Louis, who's watching him curiously, eyebrows raised, like he knows something passed through Harry's head.

Harry swallows, sets the camera to auto and hands it over anyway. "Alright," he says quietly. "Don't mess it up."

Louis rolls his eyes and directs Harry into a patch of sunlight. Harry stands there, stiff and awkward.

"Relax," Louis says, peeking over the top of the camera. "You've been bossing me about all afternoon and now you're going stiff on me?"

Harry huffs out a laugh. "Bit different being on this side of the lens."

Louis lifts the camera again, finger ready on the shutter. "Nah, you'll be fine. You've got that moody artist thing going on."

Harry tilts his head, lips parting just slightly, trying not to overthink it.

Click.

Louis lowers the camera. "There. Gotcha."

Harry blinks, caught off guard by how gentle the moment felt. Louis steps forward to pass the camera back, careful with it—more careful than Harry expected. His fingers brush Harry's as he lets go.

"Thanks," Harry says, checking the frame count to confirm they're out. "You might've just captured my soul."

"Did it come out all tortured and mysterious?" Louis teases.

"Guess we'll find out when I develop it."

Louis nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Hope I did you justice, camera boy."

Harry slings the strap over his shoulder again, eyes catching Louis'. "You probably did."

And for a moment, standing there with the winter light around them and the soft click of that final shot still hanging in the air, Harry feels like something has shifted. Just slightly. But enough to notice.

"How long does it take to see the pictures, anyway?"

"Couple days," Harry says. "Maybe three, depending how busy the lab is."

Louis nods like that's acceptable, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Then he glances up at the sky, brows lifting. "What's the time?"

Harry checks his phone. "Quarter to six."

"Shit," Louis says lightly. "I'm meeting someone. Gotta dip."

"Where are you staying tonight?" Harry asks before he can stop himself.

Louis pauses for just a beat, then shakes his head, already moving backwards with that crooked smile on his face. "You better make me look good in those headshots."

"That's not really how it works, we've already taken—"

But he's already turned, already walking off with a lazy wave over his shoulder, boots scuffing on the icy pavement, collar pulled high.

Harry stands there long after he's gone, fingers tight around his camera, heart twisted up. He tells himself not to worry. Not to spiral. But the wind cuts harder than it did before, and the sky looks heavier with snow.

And Louis hadn't answered. Not really.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

The next afternoon, Harry isn't really expecting to see Louis. He'd been hopeful that their afternoons might become a thing—just like their mornings had—but mornings were always quick. A quiet hello, a soft you alright?, coffee and breakfast passed over before Harry had to rush off to work.

The afternoons were different.

The afternoons were special.

There were rarely time constraints.

But when he rounds the corner and the bridge comes into view, Louis is already there—hands in his coat pockets, breath misting in the cold air, backpack slung over one shoulder. He lifts his chin in greeting like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Harry doesn't say anything about it. Neither does Louis.

But when Harry slows beside him, Louis turns and starts walking, and Harry just falls into step.

The next day it's the same.

And the day after that.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don't.

Sometimes they circle the same block three times, Harry pointing out little things he likes—a peeling mural on the side of a bakery, a rooftop with fairy lights.

Louis listens, asks questions, always more interested in Harry than giving anything away of his own. He doesn't offer much up front—sidesteps anything too personal with a joke or a shrug—but he laughs at Harry's dumb stories, calls him out when he's rambling, and somehow always keeps the conversation just on the line between light and meaningful.

A week in, Louis leads them toward the market.

It's busy with the run-up to Christmas—twinkly lights strung between stalls, the smell of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts thick in the air. Kids run past with chocolate-smeared faces, shoppers jostle with paper bags tucked under their arms.

Louis grabs a toothpick sample of fudge from a tray and grins when Harry raises an eyebrow.

"What?" he says, mouth full. "It's free."

Harry buys them each a hot cider from a wooden booth, hands Louis one without comment.

Louis takes it, eyes flicking to his face like he's about to say something smart—something dry and dismissive—but instead he just mutters, "Ta," and takes a long sip.

Harry watches him from the corner of his eye.

He still doesn't know where Louis is sleeping. Doesn't know what he does when they part ways.

But every afternoon, without fail, he's there.

And Harry's starting to wonder if maybe this is the closest thing to consistency either of them have right now.

By the time they reach the edge of the market, it's calming down. A few stalls are still open—flimsy tarpaulin fluttering in the wind, the smell of leftover food lingering in the cold air. The light's dimming, everything bathed in that soft grey-blue of late afternoon.

Louis sits down on the steps outside the market and Harry sits next to him.

"How was your day?" he asks eventually, voice low, casual.

Harry, a little caught off guard by the question, says, "Good."

Louis shoots him a deadpan look. "Don't give me that dry answer, Harry. Give me a proper one."

Harry huffs a quiet laugh, glancing over at him. "Alright, alright." He runs a hand through his hair. "It was a bit annoying actually. I had this client who wanted photos for her lifestyle blog. She was... picky. Kept asking for things like 'more whimsy' and 'less shadows' but refused to move into better light. I don't usually do one-on-one shoots like that, mostly businesses or events. But she was a friend of someone I know, so I said yes."

Louis hums, nodding slowly. "More whimsy, huh?"

Harry grins. "Exactly. Whatever that means."

"It's nice though," Harry adds, "doing something different now and then. Even if it's a pain."

"Is it actually nice though?" Louis asks, glancing sideways at Harry with one brow raised, like he's waiting to catch him in a lie.

Harry laughs under his breath. "Okay, no. It was shit. She kept changing her mind—wanted soft light, then bright colours, then asked me to make her dog look 'more photogenic'. And every time I showed her a photo, she'd do that thing where she nodded slowly, then said, 'Hmm... I love it, but can we try something totally different?' Like, what does that even mean?"

Louis lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes still forward but clearly listening. Properly listening. Not just waiting for a pause to speak, but taking it all in.

Harry glances at him. "You're good at that, you know."

Louis raises a brow. "At what?"

"Listening."

Louis shrugs. "It's not that hard."

Harry smiles faintly. He can't remember the last time someone genuinely asked about his day and then seemed to care about the answer. He's about to say something else when he thinks to return the question. "What about your day? Do anything interesting?"

But Louis doesn't answer directly. Instead, he nods toward a bench just ahead of them, where a young couple is sitting stiffly together, not talking.

"First date?" he asks.

Harry squints. "Huh?"

Louis tilts his head in their direction. "Looks like they're on a first date. He's doing that weird thing where he's half-hugging the bench, and she's angling toward him like she regrets saying yes."

Harry looks again. The guy's arm is stretched awkwardly along the back of the bench, barely touching the girl, who's sitting stiffly, hands in her lap. Silent. Uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Harry says, smiling now. "You might be right."

"They haven't said a word since we’ve been sat here," Louis adds, clearly amused. "Bet he made her walk through the whole market first too, before buying her one of those stale churros."

Harry laughs, then nudges him lightly. "You're such a cynic."

"Observant," Louis corrects, smirking.

"Where do you think they've been?" Louis asks, nodding toward the couple again.

Harry looks over. "I dunno," he says. "One of those cafés near the station, maybe."

Louis sighs, heavy and theatrical. "No, Harry. They've been to an interactive art exhibit where she pretended to enjoy it and he took photos of her in front of every single piece. Then they walked too far without realising and ended up in a vintage shop, where he tried on a stupid hat to make her laugh. It worked, but only a little."

Harry blinks at him. "How... do you know that?"

"I don't," Louis says simply. "But it's fun to imagine."

Harry laughs. "Okay, alright.” He thinks for a moment, catching onto the game, “She made him take the hat off, but he bought it anyway. Said it gave him 'character.'"

Louis grins. "Exactly. And then they argued over which stall to get food from, so they got chips just to shut each other up. She's regretting it."

"He's regretting it more," Harry adds, and they both watch as the guy shifts again, too stiff, clearly not sure where to put his hands.

"She's thinking about texting her friend to fake an emergency call."

"And he's wondering if it's too soon to say he's 'had a lovely time.'"

Louis snorts, then falls quiet for a moment. "You've got to find ways to entertain yourself when you're alone most of the day."

Harry turns to look at him. Louis is still facing the couple, but his voice has changed slightly—less amused, more honest. It's so casual he almost misses it. But he hears it anyway.

"Yeah," Harry says, softer now.

Louis hums. "Even though the city's always busy—people everywhere—it's still easy to feel alone."

The words slip out so quietly, so simply, Harry almost doesn't catch them. There's no follow-up, no joke to chase it down. Just that one quiet truth.

Harry swallows. "I'm usually surrounded by people who know my name but... none of them actually know me, you know?"

Louis nods, eyes still fixed ahead. Something about him looks far away all of a sudden.

And then, barely above a whisper, he says, "Highlight of my day's probably this. Seeing you. Makes me feel a bit less alone."

It sounds like he's saying it more to himself than to Harry, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

Harry's heart lurches. He opens his mouth to respond, something warm and real catching in his throat—but before he can say anything, Louis is already moving. He stands abruptly, slings his bag over his shoulder with practiced ease.

"See you tomorrow, Haz," he says, voice light again like none of it had just happened.

Harry blinks. Haz?

He doesn't get a chance to respond. Louis is already turning away, disappearing into the thinning crowd with quick steps and no glance back.

Harry's left sitting there, the space beside him colder somehow, the weight of that small confession pressing heavy against his ribs. Louis didn't seem to hang around when things got too real. Didn't let things sit too long in the open.

And Harry can't stop replaying it—his voice, the nickname, and that soft, thrown-away truth.

Harry doesn't go straight home, instead he steps into the photo lab, the smell of chemicals hitting him immediately—faintly metallic and sharp, familiar in a way that grounds him. It's quiet inside, just the low hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of traffic outside the windows. Harry hangs his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.

He's lucky, really. A friend of his—Rob, a fellow photographer who owed him a favour—let him borrow the lab for the night. Said he had no use for it until the weekend. It's a godsend. Harry's been itching to see how the shots of Louis turned out. Maybe more than he should be.

One by one, the images start to develop.

Louis, half-grinning with a tree behind him.

Louis, dramatically posed, eyes too wide, mouth mid-laugh.

Louis by the railing, head tilted down, hair messy from the wind.

Louis in a quiet moment, not posing, just... existing.

Harry lingers on that last one the longest. There's something about it—unguarded, honest. He hadn't even meant to take it; Louis had just turned slightly, eyes soft and unfocused, like he'd let something drop for a split second.

He thinks about the market, about Louis' voice when he said, "Makes me feel a bit less alone."

Like it cost him something to say it.

Harry leans back against the worktable, fingers smudged with chemicals, heart uneasy.

He starts thinking about the shelters again. How full they'll be as the weather gets worse, especially this close to Christmas. He wonders if Louis even tries anymore. Wonders how many times someone like Louis has been turned away or judged or handed a leaflet and told to come back in the morning.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, watching the photo drip dry on the line.

He wants to bring it up. Wants to ask Louis, gently, if he's tried lately. If he'd let Harry help.

But he doesn't know how. Doesn't know if Louis will shut down, crack a joke, walk away like he always does when something starts to feel too real.

Still, something's shifted. Harry can feel it. He can't keep pretending their afternoons don't mean anything. Can't keep pretending he's not worried every time Louis walks off without telling him where he's going, or where he's sleeping.

He stays in the lab until the photos are all done, and when he finally heads home, he tucks the print of that quiet photo—the one where Louis isn't performing—into his coat pocket.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry doesn't have work. He still wakes early out of habit, throws on his coat and scarf, and heads out like he does every morning now, collecting coffee and breakfast on his way.

Louis is there when he arrives, like he is every morning. He's leaning against the wall under the bridge, his smaller sketch book is in his hands, he's scribbling away. He looks up at Harry's approach, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You're late," he says, even though Harry isn't.

"I'm not."

"Debatable."

Harry rolls his eyes, standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn't make a move to leave. Louis has already tucked his sketchpad into his pocket. He doesn't ever share his sketches with Harry.

Louis squints sideways at him. "You're not in a rush today?"

Harry shakes his head. "Day off."

There's a flicker of something across Louis' face—surprise, maybe, or something gentler. "Nice."

Harry hums. He sips his coffee. He stays.

Louis glances at him again, eyebrows raised. "So, what—you just hanging around here all day like a stray or what?"

Harry laughs softly. "Maybe."

Louis smiles at that. And when he does, he looks... younger somehow. Less guarded. The lines around his eyes crinkle, his mouth curves without the usual bite of sarcasm. It shifts something in Harry, the way Louis looks when he lets the armour slip.

"Wanna hang out?" Louis asks, casual, like he's not offering something rare. Like he isn't handing Harry a small miracle in the shape of a question.

Harry answers too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

Louis smirks. "Alright, calm down, love. I might get the wrong impression."

Harry ducks his head, grinning.

Louis reaches down and slings his bag over his shoulder, coffee in one hand, the morning sun hitting his face just right. "Where first then?"

Harry glances sideways at him. "I know a place."

Louis raises a brow but doesn't question it. Just falls into step beside Harry as they start walking, their shadows stretching out ahead of them on the pavement.

Harry takes them a few streets over, down a narrow side road with cobbles slick from last night's frost. The kind of street people walk past without really seeing. At the end of it sits a crooked old shop with flaking green paint on the door and gold lettering faded into the windows. Everton's Antiques & Books, the sign says.

Louis looks up at it with mild curiosity. "Bit early in our relationship to be antiquing, don't you think?"

Harry just gives him a look and nudges the door open. A bell tinkles overhead as they step inside.

The shop smells like dust and time—like worn paper, cracked leather, forgotten stories. It's dim and narrow, lit only by a few overhead bulbs and the sunlight that manages to slip in through the front windows. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, bending under the weight of old hardbacks, odd bits of porcelain, stacks of sheet music, ancient globes and clocks, faded postcards pinned to corkboards. There's no system, no logic to the layout—it's just chaos in the shape of nostalgia.

Harry had mostly brought him here to warm up. What he really wanted to say was, "Do you want to come back to mine? Wash your hair. Take a proper shower. Wear socks that aren't stiff with cold." But he didn't. He doesn't want to offend Louis, doesn't want to make him feel like a charity case or a project. So instead, he brings him somewhere warm and lets that be enough for now.

He watches as Louis wanders off down one of the aisles, fingers skimming the spines of books without much thought, like he's done it a hundred times before. Eventually, he pulls a book from the shelf—a thick, heavy one—and flips it open, head bent, mouth slightly parted in quiet concentration.

Harry steps up beside him.

Louis doesn't look away from the page when he speaks. "Before all this... I think I would've loved to work with something like this. Curating. Perusing." His lips twitch faintly. "Big word for someone who smells like bus fumes, I know."

Harry doesn't laugh, not really. He just watches him, sees the way Louis holds the book like it means something. Sees the way he's still holding on to who he used to be, in tiny, unexpected ways.

"What's it about?" Harry asks gently.

"Old maritime maps," Louis murmurs. "Shipping routes. Lost ports." He smiles a little to himself, then closes the book softly, placing it back with care.

And for a moment, it's like the world outside doesn't exist. Just them and the dust and the quiet and the smell of books.

They drift deeper into the shop, the floorboards creaking under their feet. Louis stops every now and then to glance through something—an atlas missing half its pages, a music box that won't wind, a shelf of cookbooks from the seventies with suspicious stains on the covers.

Harry walks beside him, quiet for a while, then says, gently, "When you said 'before all this'... how long has it been?"

He doesn't expect an answer. Louis always shrugs those kinds of questions off, covers them in sarcasm or a quick change of subject. Harry's been trying to piece him together for weeks now—through sidelong glances, half-there anecdotes, and the way he avoids anything that might give too much of himself away.

But this time, Louis doesn't move to deflect straight away. His fingers pause on the spine of a book, and for a long second, he just stares at it.

"Since I was nineteen," he says eventually, voice quiet. "So... not exactly a kid. But not ready, either."

Harry's heart pinches. "What happened?"

That's when Louis moves again, quick to pivot. He steps over to a different shelf, plucks a battered paperback with a lurid cover and a title that reads How to Spice Up Your Marriage in Ten Days. He holds it up with a straight face.

"Think this could help you and me?"

Harry snorts despite himself, and Louis grins, triumphant in his escape.

But even as he's making a joke out of it, Harry notices the way Louis' hands linger too long on the book, like maybe it's easier to hold something than sit in what he just said. Like maybe saying it out loud cost him more than he let on.

Harry doesn't push. He just stays close, shoulder almost brushing Louis', quietly hoping he'll keep trusting him with these little pieces of truth.

He lingers near the till with a slim poetry collection he hadn't meant to pick up but kept thumbing through while Louis wandered. He watches as Louis crouches to leaf through a stack of old paperbacks, fingers careful even though the books are falling apart at the edges.

"You want anything?" Harry asks, already pulling his wallet from his coat. "My treat."

Louis glances up, then shakes his head. "Nah. It's just more stuff to carry, innit?"

He says it casually, like it's nothing, but something about it tugs at Harry unexpectedly. He nods, doesn't push, and steps up to the counter.

The woman behind the till barely glances up as she totals the book, and Harry—quiet and deliberate—slips the old shipping log Louis had been flicking through into the pile too, casual as anything.

Outside, the cold bites sharper than before, breath curling in the air between them.

Louis pulls his coat tighter and glances over. "You buy that trashy romance for research purposes?"

Harry snorts. "Obviously. Got a marriage to save, remember?"

That earns him a quiet smile, soft and unexpected.

They fall into step as they move down the street, the shop door clicking shut behind them.

Louis stops at the corner of the street and looks over. "Alright. My turn."

Harry blinks. "Your turn?"

Louis grins, eyes flicking with something mischievous. "I know a place."

He starts walking before Harry can ask where.

And Harry—without thinking, without hesitation—follows.

They walk for a while, deeper into a part of the city Harry doesn't really know. The streets are quieter here, buildings more spaced out, the edges of things rougher and worn. Louis doesn't say much, just tosses back the occasional glance to make sure Harry's still behind him.

Eventually, they stop in front of a chain-link fence—about six feet high, patched in places, bent in others. Beyond it is an old warehouse, long abandoned, with broken windows and ivy climbing up one side.

Harry squints. "Right. So this is where you murder me then?"

Louis lets out a laugh and glances at him, eyes dancing. "You caught me. Took you long enough. Figured I'd lull you in with charm first."

Harry huffs a nervous laugh but still eyes the building warily. "Well, you're definitely charming, I'll give you that."

Louis smirks and steps toward the fence, nodding toward a section where the metal's been pulled back just enough to squeeze through. "Don't worry. You'll fit."

Harry watches him slip through with ease, then sighs and follows.

Inside, the air smells faintly of rust and damp, but it's surprisingly dry. Light filters through the broken windows above, dust floating like static in the air. There are traces of people—old blankets, crushed cans, graffiti scrawled across the walls.

"Sometimes people crash here," Louis says, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Not so much lately though. They've stepped up security again. Especially at night."

Harry looks around. "You've stayed here?"

Louis shrugs. "A few times. Beats getting soaked through or frozen solid."

Harry swallows. There's a lump in his throat he didn't expect. He's not sure what to say, not sure if there is anything to say.

But Louis is already moving on, walking further in, acting like it's all perfectly normal. Because for him, it probably is.

Harry doesn't take it for granted—that Louis is showing him this. It's the first real glimpse into what his life looks like when no one else is watching. There's something fragile about it, something quietly important.

Louis leads him up a narrow staircase tucked behind a rusting metal beam. The steps creak beneath their weight, flecks of paint curling off with each shift of movement. They climb in silence, boots echoing faintly until they reach the upper level.

Up here, the air feels different—more open. A whole section of the wall is missing, like it's been torn away, and the winter light spills in wide and grey. The city stretches out beyond them, rooftops and cranes, trains weaving through tracks in the distance. From here, it almost looks beautiful.

Louis walks straight to the edge and sits down, legs dangling like it's the most natural thing in the world. Harry's heart stutters just watching him, the long drop yawning below. Louis glances back, eyes catching the hesitance on Harry's face.

"You're not gonna fall," he says, half a smirk curling his mouth. "Unless you're planning on it. Then I'd at least appreciate the warning."

Harry huffs softly but moves forward, lowering himself beside Louis. He mirrors his posture, legs swinging over empty air, even though every instinct in his body is telling him not to.

They sit in silence for a bit. Louis pulls a beanie from his coat pocket and tugs it over his ears, his cheeks pink from the cold, his nose slightly red. The wind moves gently around them, carrying that industrial, wintry smell—metal, smoke, something sharp and distant.

Harry sneaks a glance at him. He looks younger like this, softer around the edges. His eyes crinkle when he squints against the light, his mouth twitching like he's halfway to a thought he hasn't said yet.

"This where you come to think?" Harry asks eventually.

Louis shrugs, the movement small. "Sometimes. Not like I've got a lot of quiet corners in the world."

Harry nods. "Thanks for bringing me."

Louis doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. He just taps the side of Harry's boot gently with his own, and that says enough.

Harry wants to ask more. About where he goes when it's cold. What he eats. How he manages. But he also doesn't want to spook whatever delicate thread they're walking on.

So he says nothing. Just sits with Louis, boots swinging above the city, while the wind brushes past them like it knows they both needed the stillness.

They sit there for a while, the city humming below them, until Louis speaks—quietly, out of nowhere.

"What do you do for Christmas?"

Harry turns to look at him. Louis is still facing forward, eyes on the skyline, like he's just thinking out loud.

"I... dunno," Harry says, after a beat. "Usually go back to stay with my mum and sister. Sometimes both, sometimes just one of them."

Louis glances at him. "But not this year?"

Harry shrugs, picking at a thread on his glove. "Hadn't really decided. Don't know if I feel like it."

That earns him a small nod. Louis doesn't pry, which Harry's grateful for. But then—

"You the youngest?"

Harry looks over. "Yeah. Why?"

Louis smirks faintly. "Dunno. You've got youngest sibling energy. Bet you got away with murder."

Harry huffs a laugh. "I was an angel, actually."

Louis gives him a look.

"Alright, fine. Maybe I got away with some things."

Louis snorts. "Knew it."

Harry nudges him lightly with his shoulder. "You asking 'cause you're the oldest?"

Louis shrugs. "Something like that."

He doesn't expand, and Harry doesn't push. Just sits there beside him, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city blur at the horizon. A little more of Louis revealed, without asking for anything in return.

Louis is quiet for a moment, gaze drifting. Then he says, "Actually got four younger sisters."

Harry turns to look at him, surprised. He keeps his voice light. "Yeah?"

Louis nods. "Different dad to me, but... I love them. Big age gap, mind. Used to go see them all the time." He smiles a little at the memory, distant and fond. "Loved being the older brother. Still do, really. They're funny. Loud. Proper chaos."

Harry doesn't say anything, just lets the space stay open in case Louis wants to keep going.

And he does.

Louis' eyes drop to his hands, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve. "Doubt I'll see them this Christmas though."

Harry's voice is quiet. "No?"

Louis shakes his head. "Stepdad's not my biggest fan."

There's something in the way he says it—flat, like it's just a fact, like he's used to saying it and then moving on.

Harry doesn't push. Just gently presses his leg against Louis', solid and warm beside him. Louis presses back.

They sit in silence after that, but it's not uncomfortable. It just feels... still. Shared.

It's past midday when Harry's stomach grumbles, a low, embarrassing sound that makes him shift slightly.

He glances sideways. "You hungry?"

Louis turns to look at him, lips twitching like he's amused by the question. He nods. "Yeah."

He stands up first, graceful and sure-footed, like the ledge isn't three floors up and crumbling in places. Harry, less trusting of his own balance, shuffles back on his hands before pulling his legs back over the edge.

Louis glances down at him and, without a word, holds out his hand.

Harry takes it.

The touch is brief but warm, grounding. They don't mention it.

As they're walking, weaving back through the warehouse and out into the sharp daylight, Harry glances sideways again.

"Will you stay in a shelter over Christmas?" he asks, voice tentative. Careful not to sound like he's prying too much.

Louis hums, gaze flicking down the street ahead of them. "Yeah," he says, after a beat. "They'll have plenty of space around then."

But something shifts in his face—his jaw tightens, his eyes going a little distant, like his thoughts have slipped somewhere else entirely.

Harry notices, but doesn't say anything.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

The day before, they'd parted ways after eating. Not with a plan, not really. Just with Louis glancing at the sky and saying he and some others were going to check out a new location.

He didn't explain what kind of location. Didn't invite Harry, either. Not in a mean way—just in the way that said this is separate.

Still, neither of them moved right away. They lingered near the street corner, their goodbye stretching out with silence and small shifts of weight. Like maybe both were waiting for the other to say something else.

Harry reached out before he could overthink it. Touched Louis' arm—just a light squeeze at the crook of his elbow. Something unspoken in it. A see you later, not a goodbye.

Louis looked at him, unreadable as ever, but he nodded. Said, "Night, Haz," like it was a promise. Then turned and walked off in the opposite direction.

Now it's morning and cold light is bleeding through the curtains, city sounds already buzzing far off.

Harry's at the small table in his flat, a steaming cup of tea beside him, sleeves pulled over his hands. He's looking through the photos again. The ones he developed earlier in the week—black and white prints, the stack he's already gone through spread across the table.

Louis, in every frame.

Harry lingers on one of the prints, finger hovering near the curve of Louis' cheekbone, then brushing down the line of his jaw.

And then there's the photo Louis took—the one of Harry.

He's in focus, front and centre. But it's not posed. He'd been about to say something when Louis captured him. His lips are slightly parted and he's looking directly down the lens, not at the camera though, at Louis.

And somehow, that feels different. Intimate, even. Like some version of himself got caught in the open, before he had the chance to pull a smile over it.

Harry puts the photos in an envelope and tucks them into his pocket. Louis will be excited to see them, he thinks.

Harry wraps his scarf tighter around his neck before stepping outside, breath clouding in the sharp air. There's that kind of stillness in the morning that always comes just before snow—like the city's holding its breath. He feels it in his chest, that hush in the air, like the day is balancing on the edge of something.

He takes the familiar walk to the deli, the one on the corner with the steamed-up windows and the little brass bell above the door. It jingles when he pushes it open, and the warmth inside hits him like a wave—cured meats, strong coffee, toasted bread. A small joy every time.

"Morning, love," the woman behind the counter calls. Janet, he thinks her name is. She's got silver hair pulled into a bun and sleeves pushed up like she's been up since dawn.

"Morning," Harry beams, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together. "Smells especially good today."

"That's 'cause you're cold," she says, smiling like it's an inside joke. "You want your usual?"

He hesitates for a beat, then shakes his head. "Mix it up today, I think. Can I get one of those bacon and egg baps? And maybe a pain au chocolat, if there's one left?"

She gives him a knowing look as she wraps the bap in wax paper. "You're spoiling someone."

Harry shrugs, but he can't help the little smile tugging at his mouth. "Maybe."

She slides the coffee over—two cups, lids already on. "Double shot for you, just in case your mystery man's keeping you up too late."

He laughs, cheeks warm. "He's not my mystery man."

"Not yet," she says, pointed, and Harry can only grin and pay, muttering a thank-you as she waves him off.

Outside, the wind cuts sharper, but Harry barely notices. The bag of warm pastries swings at his side, the coffees steady in his hands, and there's a weightlessness to his steps as he makes his way toward the bridge.

Yesterday had felt like something shifted. Like Louis had let him a few inches closer.

And somehow, impossibly, this quiet, sarcastic, beautiful man had become the part of Harry's day he looked forward to the most.

Harry is whistling to himself as he makes his way through the quiet streets, his breath curling in the morning air like smoke. The paper bag of food swings lightly from his wrist, still warm against the chill, and he cradles the coffees. There's a lightness in him today he hasn't felt in a long time—like he's walking into something good.

But as he turns the corner beneath the bridge, the tune in his throat fades. Their usual spot is empty.

He slows to a stop, blinking at the vacant space like maybe he just hasn't looked hard enough. But no, street is empty, the space that was usually occupied, vacant. No Louis. No sign of him.

Harry scans the area again, heart giving a tight little lurch in his chest. Louis hadn't said anything about not coming today—had he? He racks his brain, tries to retrace their conversation from yesterday. There'd been that thing about checking out a new location with a few others, but he hadn't said he wouldn't be here. Hadn't said anything, really.

Harry shifts on his feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the food and drink in his hands, absurdly out of place now. The air feels colder than it did a moment ago, like something has been pulled out from under the day. A curl of worry tugs at him.

Where would he even go to ask if someone had seen him?

He doesn't know the others Louis sometimes mentions, the loose constellation of people he stays near, drifts between. No names. No real places. Harry knows the city, but not Louis' version of it. He doesn't know Louis' last name either.

He stands there for another long minute, scanning every face that passes, coffee cooling in his hands.

"Where are you, Louis?" he murmurs.

Harry's heart stutters as he turns—and there Louis is, walking fast toward him from the end of the street.

Relief hits like a wave, but it's short-lived. Louis looks... different. Slumped. His usually light, sharp presence dulled by exhaustion. His trousers cling to his shins, damp and stiff-looking, and Harry registers with a jolt that he isn't wearing his coat. Just a thin hoodie zipped halfway up, sleeves pushed down over his hands. And—God—he's barefoot, save for a pair of threadbare socks, soggy and grey from pavement.

Harry doesn't wait. He steps forward quickly, closing the space between them.

"Morning," Louis says, like everything's fine. Like he isn't shivering and soaked through and—

He reaches for the coffee like it's any other day, like this is their usual rhythm. But his voice is hoarse, scraped raw at the edges.

"What happened?" Harry blurts, eyes wide, scanning him up and down now that he's close. "Louis—what the hell happened?"

Louis doesn't answer right away. He pops the lid off the coffee and wraps both hands around it, holding it close to his face. Steam curls up, soft and ghostly, and he leans into it like it's the only warmth he's had in hours. It probably is.

Harry watches as Louis closes his eyes for a second, lips trembling. They look almost blue.

"You're freezing," Harry says, softer now, panic and concern folding into something gentler. "You're—Christ, Louis. You're freezing."

Still, Louis doesn't explain. Doesn't make a joke or brush it off like usual. He just sips the coffee, jaw tight, and looks past Harry like he can't bring himself to meet his eyes.

"Yesterday's new location?" Louis huffs out a dry breath, trying for levity. "Not a good one."

It's meant to be a joke—Harry can tell—but it falls flat. Louis' voice is rough, brittle. Harry just stares at him, incredulous.

"Lou," he says quietly, "you're freezing."

Louis shrugs, noncommittal, like he's trying to play it off. He takes another sip of coffee. "Uh, yeah. Pretty much. Dunno, must've been like early hours that someone nicked them off me."

Harry blinks. "Your coat and your shoes?"

Louis nods, "Didn't get beaten up this time though, so I'd call that a win."

The words hit Harry like a punch to the chest. He just stares, heart twisting, brain working furiously.

"Who?" he asks suddenly, sharp. "Who took them?"

Louis finally glances at him, eyebrows lifting like Harry's just asked the stupidest question. "Dunno, Haz. It's not like we do name exchanges."

But Harry's jaw is tight, eyes darting like he's mentally mapping the city, planning to go knock on doors—or fences, or god knows what—until he finds whoever did it and demands Louis' things back.

"Why, what're you gonna do? Fight them to give them back?" Louis laughs a little, though there's no real humour in it. He's stepping from one foot to the other, shifting constantly like he's trying to coax warmth back into his toes through sheer movement.

Harry says the only thing that makes sense in that moment. "You're coming back to mine."

He grabs Louis' arm, firm but not rough, nearly sloshing the coffee over the side of the cup as he does.

"Whoa—careful," Louis mutters, raising the cup a bit higher. "You almost burnt me."

Harry doesn't answer. Instead, he quickly sets his own coffee and the food bag down on the low wall beside them. Then he's shrugging out of his coat, ignoring Louis' half-hearted attempt to protest.

"Harry, you don't need to—"

"Shut up a minute," Harry says gently, already draping the coat over Louis' shoulders. Louis exhales a shaky breath but doesn't argue further. Harry takes his coffee from him so Louis can slide his arms into the sleeves, helping guide them through. Once he's done, he hands the cup back to him.

Then, without hesitation, Harry pulls off his beanie and tugs it down over Louis' head. His hands linger for a second, adjusting it so it sits right, his eyes searching Louis' face for any signs of bruising or a fight. But thankfully, there's nothing.

"Lou, your lips are blue," Harry repeats, voice softer now. "I don't know how you're not more concerned about this."

Louis shrugs, small and tired, but doesn't resist. He lets himself be led, his steps slow but obedient. His shoulders hunch deeper into himself, like now that someone else is steering, he can finally let go a little.

It's not a long walk to Harry's flat, but Louis drags behind, his pace slow, every few steps punctuated by a soft stumble. His shivering worsens, teeth chattering so hard Harry can hear it even over the city noise.

Even in the short walk home, in broad daylight, Harry's cold. The chill cuts through his jumper, his skin prickling beneath the fabric. He can't even begin to imagine how cold Louis must've been overnight with no coat, no shoes. He doesn't want to imagine it. The thought makes his stomach turn.

He should've pushed sooner—for Louis to stay at his, or at the very least to sleep in a shelter. But even as he thinks it, Harry knows deep down it wouldn't have made a difference. Louis would have resisted and avoided. Changed the subject like he always does.

At the front door, as Harry fumbles with his keys, Louis hesitates. His body tenses just slightly, eyes flicking up at the building, the closed door, the unknown of what's inside.

Harry notices, pauses, then quietly gestures. "It's alright. Come in."

Louis inhales, holds it for a second, then steps forward.

Up the narrow staircase, neither of them says much. Harry leads, glancing back every few steps, until he unlocks the flat and pushes the door open.

Louis follows him in.

It's a small, open one-room flat—bed tucked in the corner, sofa and TV opposite, a little kitchenette with a table nearby. Normally, Harry likes the cosiness of it, the way everything's within reach. But with Louis stepping inside, dripping and cold and looking so out of place in the middle of it all, Harry suddenly sees the space through someone else's eyes. It feels too small. Too messy. Too his. The mismatched mugs on the counter, the crumpled blanket on the sofa, the photos strung up across the window—he's proud of them, usually, but now they just make him feel oddly exposed.

Louis stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, damp socks on the wooden floor, arms folded tightly over his chest. He looks around, eyes lingering on the photographs, like he's not quite sure what to do with himself here.

Harry steps past him without a word, placing the coffee and the bagged-up breakfast on the small kitchen counter.

"You can sit, you know," Harry says gently, nodding toward the worn, overstuffed armchair by the window. "Or shower. Or change. Whatever you need."

"S'nice," Louis says, voice sluggish, the cold still clinging to his face like it's frozen into his skin. He says it slowly, like each word takes effort to shape. Harry doesn't answer—just crosses the room and clicks the radiator on, the old thing sputtering to life with a hum and a couple of faint clanks.

"You need to shower," he says, no room for argument.

Louis snorts, lips twitching faintly. "Wow, thanks. Way to make a guy feel attractive."

Harry only looks at him, unimpressed. He walks over and gently slips the strap of Louis' bag off his shoulder, setting it down beside the armchair. "Bathroom's over here," he says, already moving.

Louis follows without protest, socked feet quiet against the floorboards.

Harry steps into the small, slightly musty smelling bathroom ahead of him, pulling a towel from the narrow cupboard above the toilet. "Shower's a bit temperamental," he says, busying his hands, folding the towel even though he's about to hand it over. "Takes a second to heat up and then scalds you if you look at it funny, so don't turn it all the way to hot or you'll regret it. And sometimes it makes a noise like it's about to die, but it won't. Probably."

Louis just watches him.

Harry clears his throat, placing the towel on the side of the sink. "I'll, uh... I'm gonna nip out for a couple of minutes. Won't be long."

Louis raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask where.

Harry avoids the look, already stepping backward. "Just... make yourself at home. Sort of..." He pauses, hand on the doorframe. "Warm up. Shower for as long as you want. Just... leave the clothes."

He steps back towards the shower and turns the water on for him, waiting until the old pipes stop groaning and the steam starts to rise. Then he slips out of the bathroom, rummaging through his drawers with purpose.

When he returns, his arms are full—soft grey joggers, a pair of thick socks, a washed-out band tee, and a navy jumper that's easily two sizes too big. He sets the pile down carefully on the closed lid of the toilet, avoiding Louis' eyes, even though he can feel them on him.

"It's all clean," Harry murmurs, unnecessarily. "They'll drown you, but... better than nothing."

Louis doesn't say anything, just stands there, still shivering slightly, watching him.

Harry hesitates at the door before pulling it shut behind him. "I'll be back soon," he says, voice quiet. "Take your time."

And then he's gone.

Harry walks briskly, head down against the cold, his hands shoved in his pockets as he searches for the nearest shop that's open. When he finds one, he moves through the aisles in a kind of autopilot—grabs a toothbrush, more toothpaste, deodorant. Pants, socks, joggers, another hoodie. He stops in front of the shoes for too long, chewing at his lip before picking up a pair that looks close enough to Louis' size. They can always be returned.

It still doesn't feel like enough.

He wants to fix it all, to give Louis something solid, something warm, but everything he picks up feels like a small drop in a vast ocean. Still, he carries the bag home like it's something important.

Back at the flat, it's quiet. The bathroom door is still closed, steam curling out beneath it. Harry exhales a little in relief—Louis is still here. He sets the bag on the sofa and starts unpacking, carefully pulling off tags, lining things up neatly. The shoes go by the front door. He puts the toothbrush on the little table near the kitchen, lines up the toothpaste next to it. The new clothes go into a small folded pile on the arm of the sofa.

Then, finally, he sits. The cushions dip beneath him as he leans forward, forearms to thighs with his hands dangling between his knees. His foot bounces. He watches the door, listening to the muted sound of running water, and waits.

It's only a few minutes when he hears the water stop and a few more until the bathroom door creaks open and Harry looks up instantly.

Louis steps out, hair damp and curling at the ends, cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the water. The shivering has stopped. His lips are no longer blue, and his skin, though pale, looks a little more alive.

He's wearing Harry's clothes—dwarfed by them, really. The joggers are too long, pooling around his ankles, and the jumper hangs past his fingers. He's got his old clothes bunched up in one arm, still damp, and he stands in the doorway like he's not quite sure what to do next. But he looks warm. And clean. And so, so tired.

Harry stands up. "Put those in the basket," he says gently, nodding to the corner by the radiator. "I'll get them washed later."

Louis looks down at the clothes in his arms, then crosses the room and drops them into the basket. He doesn't say anything, just shifts his weight awkwardly on the spot, eyes flicking around the room like he doesn't want to assume he can sit down.

Harry turns to the counter and flicks on the kettle. "Go on. Sit. I'll make us some tea."

Louis nods, slow and quiet, and lowers himself onto the edge of the sofa. His movements are cautious, like he doesn't quite believe he's allowed to be here. But he's here, Harry thinks, and that's a start.

Harry sets the tea down carefully, the mugs clinking softly against the worn wood of the coffee table. He eases down onto the sofa beside Louis, close but not too close, a small space left between them. He doesn't speak right away. Just sits there, looking down at his mug, watching the steam curl up from the surface. The quiet feels heavy, but not uncomfortable—just full of things neither of them have quite figured out how to say yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Louis' fingers tugging gently at the drawstring of the joggers, twisting and unravelling it, then twisting it again. His nails are clean now but his hands still look cold.

Harry scrubs a hand down his face, lets out a breath like it's been stuck in his chest all morning. "Lou," he says, quiet. "I'm so sorry."

Louis' fingers pause, just for a second, and then keep moving. He doesn't look up yet. Doesn't say anything. But Harry sees the way his jaw moves like he's holding something back.

Harry's not even sure what exactly he's apologising for. That Louis had to sleep out in the cold. That someone stole from him. That he couldn't stop any of it. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Harry," Louis says, voice softer than before. "You've done so much for me the last few weeks."

Harry doesn't answer right away—he doesn't know how to. The words sit heavy in his chest, stuck behind the lump in his throat. So instead, he leans forward and reaches for Louis' mug, fingers brushing the warm ceramic. He passes it over gently, their hands almost touching.

Louis takes it carefully, curling his hands around the heat like he still needs it.

Harry sits back again but turns slightly toward him, his shoulder angled just so, like he's offering something without saying it out loud. There's still so much he doesn't understand, so many gaps he wants to fill in. But not right now.

"You should sleep," Harry says quietly, watching the way Louis is sinking deeper into the sofa cushions. "You can use the bed... if you want. Or the sofa, I don't mind."

Louis shakes his head, eyes already half-lidded. "Sofa's fine," he murmurs.

Harry rests a hand on Louis' thigh as he stands, a gentle squeeze of reassurance before stepping away. He crosses to the bed and grabs a pillow, then returns and places it at one end of the sofa with care. "Just get yourself comfortable, Lou," he says, voice low and fond. "I can work from here today."

He picks up the blanket from the arm of the chair and holds it out. Louis takes it wordlessly, the edges of a grateful smile tugging at his lips. He lingers for a second before retreating to give him space, watching as Louis shifts to get comfortable, tugging the blanket around his shoulders.

Harry sets himself up at the small table with his laptop, dragging his chair out softly so it doesn't make too much noise. He opens his emails, but his eyes keep drifting to the sofa.

The flat feels unusually quiet—thick with the kind of silence that makes every little sound feel louder. He can hear Louis breathing, soft and shallow. Every time he shifts beneath the blanket, every sniff or sigh carries in the stillness. It makes Harry hyperaware of his own movements, like even the clicking of his keys might be too much.

He clears his throat, gently. "Do you want some background noise or something, Lou?"

"Yeah... please," Louis replies, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Harry grabs his phone and cues up a playlist—something soft and mellow, instrumental with the occasional distant vocal. The kind of music that fills the silence without trying to take up too much space. He plays it through his speaker, the sound low but warm, and glances over as Louis shifts slightly, letting out a breath like he's already more at ease.

It's just enough—enough to make it feel okay, to breathe, to rest, to be.

Harry gets a surprising amount of work done—more than he ever manages in coffee shops with comfier chairs and fewer distractions. Somehow, the gentle hum of the playlist and the soft, steady sound of Louis breathing behind him creates a calm, focused atmosphere he hadn't anticipated.

By the time Louis stirs, Harry's on his bed, feet crossed at the ankles, laptop set aside, scrolling absently on his phone. The light outside has dimmed into early evening, and his flat is bathed in soft amber from the lamp in the corner.

He notices Louis shifting out of the corner of his eye—slowly sitting up on the sofa, stretching his arms high above his head with a soft groan. His hair's dried messy, sticking out in odd directions, and the sleeves of Harry's jumper are pushed up to his elbows. The blanket pools around his waist as he squints around the dim room like he's trying to place himself.

His eyes land on Harry.

"Hey," Harry says softly, sitting up straighter and tucking one leg under himself. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, like he's not sure if Louis will be ready to talk, or even just ready to be awake again.

"Hey," Louis says, voice thick with sleep, still a little hoarse. His eyes find Harry through the soft light of the lamp. "Did I sleep long?"

Harry nods, putting his phone down as he stands. "Pretty much all day. You needed it."

Louis hums, and glances around, a little dazed. "It's quiet."

"I kept it that way for you," Harry says, walking over. "Didn't want to wake you."

Louis shifts his legs up automatically to make space. Harry sits beside him, not too close, but close enough to feel it. The sofa dips slightly under the weight.

"You get much done?" Louis asks, his voice softer now, not quite looking at Harry.

"Yeah," Harry replies. "Couldn't concentrate at first, but then you started snoring and it helped."

Louis scoffs, nudging him lightly with his foot. "Did not."

"You did," Harry teases, grinning. "Little bit."

Louis' lips twitch, but he doesn't quite smile. He leans his head to the side against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "You've got a nice place."

Harry glances around like he's just noticing it too. "Thanks. It's small. Gets quiet."

"Yeah." Louis opens his eyes again, looking at him now. "But it's warm."

Harry nods. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need."

Louis blinks slowly, like he's trying to figure something out, then just says, "Thanks."

Their eyes linger for a moment longer than usual. Neither of them moves.

Harry clears his throat, glancing away. "You hungry?"

"A bit."

"I'll find something."

Louis doesn't respond right away, just watches Harry for a second longer before murmuring, "You're really kind, y'know."

Harry swallows. "I'm not."

"You are. You don't have to do any of this."

Harry stands and heads toward the kitchen, his voice quieter now. "Yeah, well. I want to."

Louis watches him go, lips parted slightly, like there's something else he wants to say but doesn't.

Harry's rummaging through the cupboard when he says it, casually, over his shoulder. "Oh — I, uh, got you a toothbrush and stuff... in case you wanted to, y'know, brush your teeth or whatever."

Louis pauses for a second, almost like he's surprised. "Right. Yeah. Thanks."

"It's just on the table." Harry points to where he set them down earlier, and Louis stands from the sofa, collects the toothbrush and disappears into the bathroom again. Harry can hear the tap running, the quiet clink of the toothbrush against the sink.

When Louis comes back, Harry's heating a pan on the stove. He stands leaning against the counter behind him. "Whatcha making?"

Harry looks up, startled just a little by how quiet Louis' voice is. "Uh, nothing fancy. Just a toastie or something. Got cheese, if that's alright."

Louis nods. "Sounds good."

Harry reaches for the bread bin, leaning past Louis, close enough that he can feel the heat of him. Harry opens the bread bag with a bit too much focus, his hands a little too deliberate.

There's a pause before Louis speaks again, "You always this prepared for guests?"

Harry huffs a quiet laugh, slicing some cheese for the toasties. "Not usually. Guess you're special."

Louis doesn't say anything right away, but Harry can feel the smile — can feel Louis watching the side of his face. It makes his skin itch in the best way.

Just as Harry sets the first toastie in the pan, Louis shifts closer, coming to stand at his side. Their arms nearly touch. Harry glances over, and their eyes meet—briefly, but meaningfully.

"Smells good," Louis murmurs, eyes dropping to Harry's hands, then flicking back up.

"You're easy to please," Harry replies, his voice lower now.

Louis' shoulder bumps lightly into his. "Not always."

Louis turns and leans back against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching as Harry moves around the kitchen. When Harry reaches past him to open the cupboard just above Louis' shoulder, he has to step in close, their bodies almost touching.

Louis tilts his head slightly to look up at him, eyes steady. The space between them hums.

Harry swallows hard, grabs the plates, and steps back, trying to ignore the heat blooming in his chest. He plates up the toastie and hands it to Louis.

"Thanks," Louis says, holding the plate, but still looking at Harry.

Harry puts his toastie in the pan. "You should eat before it gets cold."

"Yeah," Louis murmurs, though he hasn't moved. He tilts his head, searching Harry's face for something unspoken. "This feels weird."

"What does?"

Louis shrugs, smile just tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I dunno. All this. Being here. Feels a bit like..."

"Like what?"

Louis' eyes flick down to Harry's mouth, just for a second, then away again. "Like I'm not gonna want to leave."

Harry swallows. His heart thuds hard against his ribs.

They eat in silence for a while, the kind that doesn't feel awkward, just... comfortable. The kind that only comes after something has shifted.

After eating Harry suggests they watch a film, he scrolls through Netflix trying to land on something, glancing at Louis. "Wanna pick?"

Louis shakes his head. "Nah. I've not seen anything recent. You pick."

Harry nods and puts something on—something light, warm-toned, easy to follow. He doesn't think either of them has the energy for anything intense tonight.

They sit on the sofa again, close but not too close. Until their knees bump once, then again, and neither moves away. It's subtle. Thoughtless. Like gravity.

Harry finds himself more aware of Louis than he is of the film. He's aware of the shift in Louis' breathing, the quiet sigh he lets out after a while, the way he slowly starts to lean just a little more. Harry doesn't look. Doesn't say anything. Just lets it happen.

Then, sometime during the second act of the film, Louis' head drops gently onto his shoulder.

Harry freezes, heart skipping a beat. He can feel Louis' hair against his neck, his breath ghosting over the fabric of his T-shirt.

He turns slightly, just enough to glimpse Louis' face—eyes shut, mouth parted slightly in sleep.

Harry's heart thuds quietly, but he lets his head tilt too, slowly, until it's resting lightly on top of Louis'. It feels stupidly perfect. Too much. But also not enough.

The film continues to play quietly in front of them, but Harry doesn't really watch. He just listens to Louis breathe.

And for the first time in a while, he doesn't feel alone.

The credits roll in a slow blur of white names on black, the room dipped in a soft hush. Harry reaches for the remote and clicks the TV off, the sudden silence making the space feel even smaller.

He carefully shifts, lifting Louis' head just enough to slide out from beneath him. Louis murmurs something unintelligible but doesn't wake. Harry guides him gently down to lie across the sofa, his hand light at the back of Louis' neck, easing him onto the pillow. He tugs the blanket up, draping it over Louis' body with careful hands.

Just as he's pulling away, Louis' fingers curl around his wrist. His grip isn't strong, but it's enough to stop Harry in his tracks.

"Don't go," Louis mumbles, eyes still closed, voice low and sleep-rough.

Harry's heart lurches a little. He brings his free hand to pat over Louis', thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

"I'm not going anywhere, Lou," he says softly.

But Louis is already asleep again, hand slipping away as his breathing deepens.

Harry lingers a moment longer, watching him. Then he crosses the room quietly, slipping into bed without switching the lamp off. He lies on his side, facing the sofa. His eyes trace the curve of Louis' shoulder beneath the blanket, the rise and fall of his chest.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep watching him, but he does.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

Harry wakes slowly, blinking against the soft morning light that filters through the curtains. It takes him a second to remember where he is — or rather, who's in the room with him. His eyes drift to the sofa.

Louis is awake, lying on his back with one arm tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The blanket's slipped down a little, exposing the curve of his neck and collarbone, the faint scruff on his jaw catching the light. He looks relaxed, but there's a faraway kind of tightness in his expression — like he's thinking too much.

Harry watches for a moment, still and quiet, not sure if he should say something or pretend to still be asleep.

Then Louis turns his head and catches him.

"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep but not unfriendly.

Harry clears his throat, shifting slightly under the covers. "Morning."

Louis tilts his head a little on the pillow, looking at him more directly now. "Did I fall asleep during the film last night? Or did you?"

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. "Bit of both, I think."

Louis hums, eyes flicking back up toward the ceiling. "Didn't mean to. Was just... warm. Comfortable."

Harry swallows. "Yeah. It was nice."

Louis doesn't reply right away. He just nods slightly, lips pressed together, like he doesn't quite know what to do with that. Neither of them says anything for a moment.

Then Harry sits up, raking a hand through his hair. "I've got cereal. And coffee. If you're hungry."

Louis turns his head again, this time with a soft smile. "Coffee sounds good."

Harry's already in the kitchen when Louis disappears into the bathroom. The water runs behind the door, and Harry moves around the small space with soft purpose, spooning instant coffee into two mugs. He sets them on the coffee table just as the bathroom door creaks open again.

Louis comes out looking a little more refreshed — hair damp at the ends, face rinsed clean — still in the same clothes, but somehow a little less crumpled. He pads over quietly, drawn by the smell of coffee.

"Smells good," he says.

"Only way I know how to start a morning, not quite as good as the deli coffee but it'll do." Harry replies with a small grin and slides Louis' mug over.

They sit on the sofa again, mugs in hand, turned slightly toward each other. Their knees almost touch. Neither of them moves to create more space.

Louis blows on his coffee, glancing at Harry. "You got big plans for work today?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nah. I emailed around yesterday, pushed everything back for a few days. Just in case you needed anything."

Louis' brows twitch upward. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," Harry says, quiet but sure. "I'm glad I did anyway."

Louis looks at him for a second longer than necessary. "What's the plan for the day then?"

Harry takes a sip of his coffee, glancing toward the window. "I figured we could take a walk. Get your clothes washed somewhere. Maybe grab you something else to wear too."

Louis nods, hands wrapped around the warm mug. "I can manage with just these, honestly."

Harry looks at him. "You don't have to, though."

Louis shifts in his seat, eyes dipping to the coffee like it holds an answer. "You've already done enough. I don't want you spending more money on me."

"I don't mind," Harry says, softly. "Really, Lou. It's not about that."

"It is for me," Louis says after a beat, voice quiet. "I don't want to be some... charity case."

Harry's heart twists. "You're not. You needed help, and I want to help. That's not charity. That's just... caring."

Louis doesn't answer right away. He just stares down into the mug cupped between his hands. There's a small crease in his brow, the kind that shows up when he's thinking too hard, or feeling too much.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose. "Okay. Just one or two things. But only if they're cheap."

Harry smiles gently. "Fine. Charity shop only, then. Deal?"

Louis huffs a laugh, but it sounds a bit choked. He nods again, and Harry sees it—the small moment of surrender, the quiet trust.

They finish their coffee slowly, neither in any particular rush. When their mugs are empty, Louis shifts forward. Harry stills, holding his breath as Louis leans past him—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel it—reaching for his bag at the end of the sofa. He drags it over Harry's legs without comment, sets it on the floor, and starts unzipping it.

Harry exhales, watching him—quiet, curious.

The contents are minimal but telling — creased sketch pads with bent corners and smudged edges, some pages hanging loose where they've been thumbed through too often. A bundle of pencils and pens, most of them worn down, wrapped together with a stretched-out elastic band. A roll of tape. A tin of mints rattling half-full. A couple of folded flyers and handouts from shelters, one of them slightly water-damaged. A pair of socks, mismatched and balled together. A bus ticket stub. A folded paper star.

Louis doesn't look up as he lays them out, arranging things absently, like he's done this a hundred times. Like every piece of it has its place.

Harry steps closer and crouches beside him, nodding toward the sketchpads. "Can I?"

Louis hesitates for a second, then nods.

Harry picks up the top one carefully and flips it open. The pages are filled with quick, scratchy linework — sketches of people on benches, crumpled buildings, worn-out hands. A sleeping dog curled on a coat. The edge of a boot pressing into slush. They're messy but detailed, undeniably observant. Honest.

"These are..." Harry swallows. "They're really good."

Louis shrugs like it doesn't matter, but there's colour rising in his cheeks. "Just something to do. Keep my hands busy."

Harry glances at him, a softness in his voice. "Do you ever draw people you know?"

Louis' eyes flick to him for a second, then back to the bag. "Sometimes."

Harry doesn't push. He gently closes the sketchpad and sets it aside. "Let's find you a clean pair of socks, at least."

Louis huffs a laugh, light but real, and sifts through the bag again.

The laundrette is warm and humming with the low spin of machines. Louis insists on doing it himself, pulling his things from the bag with quiet focus. Harry doesn't argue. He just sits on the bench nearby, sipping a takeaway coffee, watching the way Louis moves — precise, almost methodical, like he needs this to be done a certain way.

Harry doesn't say much. He knows this isn't about laundry. It's about control. About doing one small thing for himself when so much else lately hasn't been his choice.

When everything is washed and folded — neatly, with care — they leave the laundrette and walk a few blocks to a nearby charity shop. It's nothing fancy, but it's well stocked, the racks lined with basics and decent winter layers.

Louis picks through the hangers slowly, his fingers brushing over sleeves and tags. He keeps checking the price labels, eyes narrowing each time.

"You don't have to do that," Harry says gently, nodding toward the shirt in Louis' hands. "Seriously. You need clothes. Let's just get what you like."

Louis doesn't answer right away. He nods, barely, and sets the shirt over his arm.

They come away with a small bag — a couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, a dark jumper, a second-hand coat that fits him well. As they walk, Louis is quiet again, shoulders slightly hunched.

Harry's starting to notice the difference in his silences. This one isn't the same as when he dodges a question or shrugs something off with a joke. This silence feels tighter. Like he's folding in on himself. Like he's unsure if he deserves any of this.

They don't talk about it. Just walk side by side, the bag swinging gently between them. They avoid going near Kirkgate. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe not. Neither of them brings it up.

Back at Harry's, the flat feels warmer somehow — maybe from the dry clothes, or the shared silences that don't feel quite as heavy anymore. Harry throws together a quick lunch, just a sandwich each, and sits at the kitchen table to check some emails. Two more jobs left before his break over Christmas, both pushed back a few days. Easy things. He'll get them done quickly.

Louis is curled into the armchair, feet tucked under him, knees to his chest. He pulls out one of his smaller sketchpads, one Harry hasn't seen the inside of yet—the cover is worn soft, the edges bent like it's been carried around for years. Louis doesn't say anything, just flips it open and settles in, pencil already moving.

Harry watches him for a second, then turns back to his laptop. He's got edits to finish, deadlines creeping closer, but the click of pencil on paper keeps drawing his attention back across the room.

Every so often, Louis glances up at him—quick, flickering looks, like he's checking something. Not the TV. Not the room. Just him.

Harry doesn't ask what he's drawing. He doesn't have to. The way Louis looks at him, the way he tilts his head and squints like he's lining up features in his mind—it's obvious. Probably him.

The thought sends something warm and restless curling low in Harry's stomach, but he pretends not to notice. Just brings his mug to his lips and keeps typing.

Harry cooks and Louis stands, leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, watching the way Harry moves around the space like he knows every inch of it. He probably does.

"I never really got the chance to learn how to cook," Louis says, after a moment. His voice is quiet, but steady. "Always kinda wanted to. Thought it looked fun. But, y'know..."

He trails off. Doesn't need to finish the sentence.

Harry doesn't push. Just nods and stirs something in the pan, the sound of sizzling filling the space between them.

Louis goes on, softer, "Used to sofa surf mostly. Mates from school, some from college. People let me crash for a bit but... people get tired of it. I get it."

Harry looks over at him, something tightening behind his ribs. "I could teach you," he offers, gentle. "If you still wanna learn. We could do it one night."

Louis looks at him for a second too long. Then nods. "Yeah. I'd like that."

They eat at Harry's little table by the window. Harry talks about a client he's shooting for next week — a home and garden spread for a magazine, someone's fancy kitchen with fairy lights and glossy tiles. Louis nods along, but it's clear his mind is elsewhere.

A few minutes in, he shifts slightly, looks at Harry and asks, "Would it be alright if I used your laptop tomorrow? Just to check some stuff. Shelter accommodation. For Christmas."

Harry's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down instead, swallows the lump rising in his throat.

"Yeah," he says quickly. Too quickly. "Yeah, of course. Good idea. That'd... that'd be good. Great."

But the words sit heavy in his mouth. His heart sinks, leaving something hot and prickly in its place — like he's been caught off guard by something he should've seen coming. Something that feels like goodbye, even if no one's said it yet.

Louis doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. Just turns his attention back to his plate, picking at the last of his dinner.

Harry forces himself to do the same.

After dinner, they settle on the sofa, starting off on opposite ends like the night before. Louis gets to pick the film this time — some older Marvel thing Harry's never seen. "Used to love this stuff," Louis says, scrolling through the options.

The opening credits roll, colours flashing across the screen, and Harry gets up without a word. He returns a minute later with a bowl of popcorn and, instead of sitting back where he was, he drops down closer. Close enough their legs touch along the side. It's casual. Kind of.

Louis glances at him. A flicker of surprise in his expression, maybe. Harry meets his eyes for a heartbeat, then looks away, settling the bowl on their legs.

The film plays and Louis slowly starts to sink deeper into the sofa, the kind of slow slouch that happens when someone's finally relaxed. His shoulder presses into Harry's now, warm through the fabric of their shirts. Their arms are close. Close enough that their hands are hovering awkwardly in their laps— not touching, but not not-touching either.

Harry shifts slightly, under the guise of moving the now empty popcorn bowl onto the coffee table. He lets his hand fall to the side of his own leg, the back of it brushing lightly against Louis' thigh.

He doesn't look at him. Just stares at the screen like he's completely absorbed in the film. But he can barely hear the dialogue over the thud of his own heartbeat, loud and insistent in his ears.

Louis doesn't pull away. Doesn't move at all. Just stays right there, shoulder to elbow to thigh, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The film ends and the credits begin to roll, casting shifting shadows around the darkened flat. The only light now comes from the TV, blue and grey flickering softly across their faces. Louis has his head leaned back against the sofa, eyes not on the screen but on Harry.

Harry shifts, turning slightly, his legs folding underneath him as he moves to the edge of the cushion to face Louis properly. Their eyes meet in the dim light, and for a long, quiet moment, neither of them says anything. But it's there — thick in the space between them. Whatever it is that's been building, threading its way through all the silences and near touches.

Harry swallows and reaches for the blanket draped over the arm of the sofa. He passes it to Louis, their fingers brushing in the exchange. His hand lingers on Louis' thigh, gentle, grounding.

"Night, Lou," he says, voice soft.

Louis' gaze doesn't drop. "Night, Harry," he murmurs back, just as quiet.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

The next morning starts with coffee again. Harry's in the kitchen, spooning instant into mugs, muttering, "I swear I'll get something better than this."

Louis, already sitting at the table with the laptop open, glances over. "It's fine, Harry. Really."

Harry doesn't reply, just nods and brings over the mugs, setting one down beside Louis. Louis murmurs a quiet thanks, eyes still scanning the screen. He's on a shelter's website now, typing out an email. Harry sees the words — Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day — and his chest tightens.

He wants to say, You don't have to go. Stay here. I want you here. I want you with me — but he doesn't. The words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth, behind his heartbeat.

Later, it's quiet. Louis has curled up on the sofa with a battered paperback he found on Harry's shelf, his legs tucked beneath him, head bent. The light is soft through the window, and something about it makes Harry remember.

He pulls an envelope from his coat pocket that's hanging by the front door and takes the photos out, flicking through the stack. The ones he took of Louis and had meant to show to him that morning.

"Here, Lou," he says, crossing to the sofa. "Look at these. You look great."

Louis sets the book aside and shifts to sit cross-legged, back against the armrest. He leans in, close enough that Harry can smell his shampoo — clean and a little citrusy, something from the stuff he'd bought him the other day. Their heads are almost touching.

Louis takes the photos from Harry's hand, careful with them. His fingers brush against Harry's as he pulls them closer. He doesn't say anything at first, just starts flipping through them slowly.

A soft sound leaves him — almost a breath of laughter — when he sees one of himself in his "high fashion" pose.. He lingers on one of him leaning against a wall, backlit by light. He looks... thoughtful. Still. Beautiful.

"These are good," he says, voice quiet.

"You made them good," Harry replies.

Louis glances at him then, a flicker of something in his eyes. Gratitude. Embarrassment. Maybe a little disbelief.

"I don't usually like how I look in pictures," Louis says.

Harry smiles softly. "Then maybe you've just never had someone look at you properly."

Louis keeps flipping through the photos, one by one, and starts making quiet comments under his breath.

"This one looks like I've just seen someone kick a puppy," he mutters, holding up a photo where his brow is furrowed too deeply.

Harry laughs. "You were mid-sentence."

"Still. Tragic. That's the face of a man who's just remembered he left the oven on, despite not having an oven."

Harry huffs out a laugh, his gaze drifting—not to the photos, but to Louis' face. The way his mouth twitches just slightly before a smile, the faint line between his brows when he's concentrating. His eyelashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks.

It's only a couple of nights, barely two days, but Harry notices how different Louis looks already. Less guarded. The tension that used to live in his shoulders seems to have ebbed just slightly. There's a calm to him now that wasn't there before, like the edge has dulled a bit.

Louis holds up another shot, smirking. "Alright, this one's got the energy of someone who's just heard free pizza is involved." Harry grins at him.

And then he reaches the last photo—the one he took. The only one of Harry. He quiets for a beat, eyes fixed on it.

"Not bad, right?" Harry says, voice a little shy. "You could be after my job with that one."

Louis glances at him, one corner of his mouth tugging up. "It's easy when you've got a subject like that."

Harry flushes, colour blooming fast in his cheeks. "Shut up."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are." Louis grins, and bumps his knee against Harry's playfully. "Cute."

Harry opens his mouth to say something—he isn't even sure what—but nothing comes out. Just a soft, breathless laugh and the warm press of Louis' knee still against his.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

That night, Harry is pulled from sleep by a low whisper cutting through the quiet.

"Harry," Louis says, voice rough, unsure. "Are you still awake?"

He wasn't. But he is now.

"Yeah?"

There's a pause so long Harry almost thinks Louis has changed his mind, drifted back off. But then—

"I can't sleep."

Harry breathes out a quiet laugh through his nose. "What's on your mind?"

He hears the soft shift of fabric, the creak of the sofa, then bare feet padding quietly over the floor. In the faint spill of light from the window, he can just make out Louis' outline.

Louis lingers there for a moment, close to the bed. "Can I... can I lay here for a sec?"

Harry's heart thuds. His palm twitches against the mattress.

"Yeah," he says, voice softer than before. "Sure."

He shifts further over, even though he's already hugging one side of the bed. Louis doesn't get under the duvet. He lies on top of it, back flat against the mattress, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Harry stays on his side, facing him, his eyes tracing Louis' profile in the half-light—his nose, the shape of his mouth, the slight scrunch to his brow.

He doesn't say anything. Neither of them does, not for a long moment.

Then Louis exhales. "Earlier," he says, quietly, "when I was on your laptop... I looked up my sister. My oldest one."

Harry waits, listening.

"She's got two kids now," Louis continues. "Well, I guess I knew that already. But they're so big. It's like they grew up overnight." He laughs once, but there's no humour in it. "They all look older. Like real adults."

His voice wavers, and Harry watches as Louis blinks hard at the ceiling.

"I saw they went to Lapland last year. Mum, Dad, the girls. Looks like they had a good time. Looks like they're... happy." He swallows. "They probably are."

Harry doesn't say much. Just hums, gentle and steady, letting Louis know he's there.

One of Harry's hands moves slightly—hesitant, but deliberate—into the space between them. He doesn't touch Louis, not quite, but it's close enough to offer something. Warmth. A reach. An anchor.

Louis doesn't take it, but he doesn't move away either.

He just lies there, quiet, his breathing slow but not quite settled, his eyes wide open in the dark.

Louis is quiet for so long that Harry starts to think maybe he's drifted off. But then—

"Before," Louis says suddenly, voice low, like he has to force the words out. "When I was nineteen and my stepdad kicked me out... it was because he found out I'm gay."

He laughs—dry, bitter—and it's the kind of laugh that makes Harry's chest hurt.

"Oh, Lou," Harry says softly, and before he can stop himself, his hand moves—gentle and instinctive—to rest flat against Louis' chest. A grounding gesture. A comfort. Or at least, he hopes it is.

Louis doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look surprised. He just stares at the ceiling.

"It doesn't bother me now, obviously," he says, shrugging, like it's no big deal. But Harry doesn't think it's so obvious. Not with the way his voice has gone tight, not with the way his heart is thudding fast beneath Harry's palm.

"It was a long time ago. I'm over it."

Harry says nothing, just keeps his hand there.

Louis exhales. "It was a bad fight. My mum didn't want me to leave. But she wouldn't leave him either. So I knew I couldn't stay. Couldn't live in a house with someone who hated me just for who I am."

His hand comes up now, slow and tentative, and rests over Harry's on his chest. His fingers curl just slightly, not quite holding, but there. Present. Solid.

Harry swallows. "I'm really sorry, Lou. No one should ever have to deal with that. Ever."

Louis shrugs again, a little tighter this time. "He found a photo," he says after a moment. "I had it in my backpack from college. Me and the guy I was seeing. Wasn't even anything dodgy, just... us. Smiling. He said it was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen."

Louis' voice drops into a cruel mimicry now. "'If you think I'm gonna allow some fag in my house, you've got another thing coming.'"

Harry's whole body tenses.

There's a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of traffic outside, the faint buzz of electricity in the walls.

"I hate that that happened to you," Harry says finally, quietly. "You didn't deserve that."

Louis doesn't respond. But he doesn't let go of Harry's hand either.

Harry tries to steady his breathing, slow the pace of it just enough to match Louis'. He can't take his eyes off him, even though Louis is still staring up at the ceiling as he speaks. Maybe it feels easier that way, to let the words out into the air rather than give them a direct destination.

Still, Harry wants to be closer. He shuffles in under the duvet, limited by the way the covers are tucked around him, but just enough that his knee brushes Louis' through the blanket.

Louis turns then, slow and careful, onto his side to face him. Their hands end up between them on the bed, not quite touching—until they do. The backs of their fingers graze and linger, a quiet point of contact neither of them shy away from.

"I don't think you'll ever understand how grateful I am," Louis says, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry doesn't say anything. He doesn't think he could, even if he tried. But he understands. Of course he does. Because he's grateful too—grateful to have met Louis, to know him, to be trusted by him.

Their little fingers shift, curling around each other. A quiet promise. A silent thank you.

Neither of them speaks after that. Whatever's being said lives in the space between them, in the stillness, in the warmth of their joined hands.

They must fall asleep like that, somewhere in the silence.

Because the next thing Harry knows, the morning light is casting a soft glow across the room and he's waking slowly, still on his side. His hand is outstretched in the middle of the bed, fingers curled slightly around nothing now.

Louis isn't there.

A flash of panic cuts through him, sharp and immediate—had Louis said too much? Felt too exposed? Did he leave?

But before the thought fully lands, Harry sees him.

He's in the little kitchen, silhouetted by morning light. Mug in hand, bare feet on the tiles, his shoulders hunched sleepily. The smell of coffee floats across the flat.

Harry exhales, tension melting out of his spine. Louis hadn't run. He was still here.

That afternoon, Harry suggests they head out for a bit—get some air, clear their heads, stretch their legs. "Walk along the canal?" he says, casual like it's nothing. But it's not nothing. It's a bit like those afternoons from before, when they'd walk aimlessly, only it wasn't aimless at all. It was always about walking together.

Harry takes his film camera with him, slung over his shoulder. "Just in case inspiration hits," he explains, brushing it off with a shrug, but Louis catches the way Harry glances at him when he says it.

It's cold out—sharp and frosty, the kind that stings your cheeks and bites at the tips of your fingers. Their breath hangs in the air as they walk, boots crunching over patches of frozen leaves. The sky is pale and bright, and the world feels strangely still.

Harry stops now and then to take photos. He snaps a few of the water, silver-grey and slow-moving. A cluster of ducks huddled near the bank. Frost clinging to iron railings. Cracks in the paving stones. Patterns of light bouncing off the canal's surface.

At one point, he passes the camera to Louis. "Here, come on. Try it. I'll show you how to adjust the aperture."

Louis squints down at the knobs. "You're gonna have to walk me through it like I'm five."

Harry grins. "That I can do." He steps in close, gently brushing Louis' hand aside so he can point at the right dial. "See this? You turn it to let more or less light in depending on how bright it is. Then here—this ring's for the focus."

Louis hums, peering through the lens. "And how do I know if it's focused?"

"Well, everything that's supposed to be sharp will be sharp. You'll just... see it."

Louis lets out a laugh. "Helpful. Cheers."

Harry chuckles, stepping even closer to look through the viewfinder over Louis' shoulder. "Try on that tree. See how the branches go sharp when you get it right?"

"Mm," Louis says, but it comes out distracted. "Don't think I've got the eye for this like you do."

"You don't need an eye. You've got instinct. That sketchpad of yours proves it."

Louis doesn't reply, just keeps fiddling with the lens. "Bet you say that to all the blokes you take pictures of."

Harry swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat. "Only the ones who look good through the lens."

Louis turns his head slightly, grinning, and they're close now—close enough that Harry can see the flecks of blue-green in his irises, the pink on his cheeks from the cold. "So... just me, then?"

Harry huffs out a laugh, trying to keep it light, keep it safe. "Cocky."

"You started it," Louis says, looking back through the camera. "I really don't think I'm getting this, Harry."

"Alright, hang on," Harry steps in closer behind him, quiet at first. Then his arms are reaching around either side, his hands ghosting over Louis' on the camera. "Here," he murmurs, voice low beside Louis' ear. "Let's try adjusting the focus again. Tell me if that looks better or worse."

Louis doesn't move, just lets Harry guide his fingers on the lens. They twist the dial together—slow, careful—and Harry keeps talking, soft and close. His breath brushes Louis' neck with every word, warm against the cold air. Their bodies are nearly flush, Harry's chest a solid line of heat against Louis' back, his arms a loose but definite boxed around him.

"Better now?" Harry asks.

Louis shifts a little, and Harry swears he feels it—Louis leaning in just slightly. "Yeah... yeah, better. Go back a notch—no, wait, there. There."

Harry stays a moment longer than he probably needs to, just breathing beside him.

Louis clicks the shutter. "Alright, camera boy," he says, grinning as he lowers the camera. "Careful. You keep whispering in my ear like that and I might start thinking you're here for more than just the ducks."

Harry steps back quickly, laugh awkward, cheeks flaring pink. "What, me? I'm just here for the wildlife."

Louis turns, handing him the camera back with a smirk. "Right. And I'm only here for your excellent instant coffee in the morning."

Harry takes it, trying to look unaffected but failing miserably.

"You can borrow it whenever you want, by the way," Harry says softly.

A slow smile spreads on his lips. "Think I'd rather just come along with you. Get the real-time tutorial experience."

Harry rolls his eyes, biting back a grin. "Sure. Real-time tutorial."

They start the slow walk back to Harry's flat, the sun dipping lower, sky streaked with cold pastels. As they walk, their hands keep brushing—knuckles, then fingers, again and again. Neither of them tucks their hands into their coat pockets, despite the wind. It's too cold not to, but neither of them does it. It's like their hands are trying to figure something out before they can say it out loud.

Back at Harry's, the flat smells like garlic and rosemary. Harry stirs something on the hob while Louis sits at the table, hunched over Harry's laptop again. He's scrolling through emails, eyes flicking back and forth, lips pressed tight.

"It's not looking good," Louis says finally, tone flat.

"Oh?" Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yeah, it's a no from St. Mark's, St. George's, and New Pathways." Louis slumps back in the chair, the wooden legs creaking beneath him. His back is to Harry as he drags a hand down his face, palm catching on his jaw. "Still haven't heard from Greenbridge yet. They'll have space. I know they will."

But his knee starts bouncing, fast and anxious, and he picks at the skin near his thumbnail.

"You know you can stay here over Christmas, right?" Harry says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Louis laughs, humourless. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry."

There's a beat, and then a sigh. Louis swivels in the chair to face him. "Sorry."

Harry shrugs, turning back to the pan. "I can't just keep taking up your sofa and your life, Harry," Louis says, softer this time.

"Why not?" Harry asks quietly, not turning around.

Louis doesn't reply straight away. Then: "I'll think about it."

They leave it there.

Later, after they've eaten, Harry picks Love Actually off the shelf and puts it on with an overly innocent look. Louis groans the moment the opening narration starts.

"No. No way. Absolutely not this film."

"It's a classic," Harry says, "Cinematic masterpiece."

Louis rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts.

When the Keira Knightley cue card scene comes on, Harry sits up straighter and starts whispering each line dramatically, miming the cards.

"'But for now, let me say—without hope or agenda—just because it's Christmas...'" Harry's voice goes all soft and mock-sincere.

Louis is snorting by the third card, and when Harry gets to the line about "To me, you are perfect," Louis laughs—really laughs. Loud and unguarded, head tipped back just a little.

Harry turns to look at him, taking it in. His chest tightens, and he forgets what the next card says.

Louis catches him staring and raises an eyebrow, still grinning. "You missed your cue."

Harry blinks. "Worth it."

Louis snorts again, nudging his knee against Harry's. "Idiot."

That night, after lights out and quiet goodnights, Harry lies on his side, facing the wall. It's not long before he feels the mattress dip behind him.

Louis doesn't say anything. Just slides in again, same as last night, on top of the duvet, facing Harry. But this time he's closer—closer than he needs to be, really. Harry can feel the warmth of him, the edge of his breath in the space between them. He rolls onto his other side.

Neither of them speaks. Their hands meet in the middle, like they knew exactly where to find each other. Fingers curl together. Louis gives Harry's a small squeeze.

And just like bringing coffee and breakfast to the bridge every morning, and their afternoon walks in the cold, it goes unspoken. It just becomes part of their routine. Something known and quiet and safe.

Harry's eyes flutter closed, heart thudding softly in his chest. Louis' thumb strokes gently over the back of his hand. Neither of them moves again.

They fall asleep like that.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

When Harry wakes, the room is quiet, soft with early light filtering in through the gap in the curtains. It takes him a second to realise what's different—and then he remembers.

Louis is still in the bed.

He's on his side, back to Harry now, shoulders rising and falling gently with each breath. The duvet's twisted somewhere near Harry's waist, but Louis is still lying on top of it, same as the night before, like there's a boundary he won't cross.

Harry stays where he is, eyes fixed on the back of Louis' head. His hair's a bit messy, flattened in one spot, sticking out in another. He looks peaceful. Young, even though Harry can't see his face. Not that he isn't still young, but—God, he's been through more than most people twice his age.

Harry swallows thickly. It's not lost on him how they got here. That Louis is in his bed because his shoes and coat were stolen. Because he had nowhere else to go. Because the world was cruel enough to spit someone like Louis out and keep kicking until he had nothing left.

They hadn't talked about it. How long Louis would stay. Not properly. Harry knows they will eventually—knows they have to—but not today. Not while Louis is still warm and quiet and safe. Not while this strange, gentle bubble still exists between them.

Louis shifts a little then, murmurs something sleep-muddled under his breath and pulls his knees up slightly. Harry doesn't move, doesn't say anything—just watches, heart aching with something.

He lets himself look a little longer. Just a little. Then Louis starts to stir.

Louis stretches, arms above his head with a soft groan before he rolls onto his back, eyes blinking up at the ceiling like he's trying to remember where he is. Then his head turns, and Harry's already watching him, smiling quietly.

Louis squints at him, voice gravelly with sleep. "How long've you been staring at me, weirdo?"

Harry just shrugs, still smiling. "When d'you think you'll start sleeping under the duvet instead?"

It catches Louis off guard—rare, but Harry clocks it immediately. His mouth opens, like he's got something clever lined up, but then it closes again. He frowns slightly like he's annoyed with himself for being caught unprepared.

Harry grins, smug now. "Mm, thought so."

And before Louis can recover, Harry's shifting to get out of bed, climbing right over Louis' legs since he's up against the wall. Louis huffs a breath, dramatic and put upon, but he doesn't move away.

Harry's bare foot brushes Louis' thigh as he swings it over, warm skin against cotton. Louis feels it, Harry knows he does, but neither of them say anything.

Harry disappears into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "You want coffee or are you gonna pretend instant is beneath you again?"

"Rude," Louis calls back. "I'll still drink it, won't I?"

Harry's already smiling again.

About an hour later, Louis is curled into the armchair, legs tucked up as he watches Harry move around the flat. Harry's methodical with it—camera bodies laid out in neat rows, lenses checked and wiped down, batteries swapped and film sorted into labelled canisters. It's the kind of rhythm that comes with years of repetition, but today it feels different. Feels like he's being observed.

He glances over. Louis is quiet, watching him with that soft, unreadable expression Harry's come to expect when Louis thinks too long.

"You sure you don't mind me being here alone?" Louis asks, voice light but genuine.

Harry zips a lens into its pouch and shrugs. "Obviously not. Eat whatever's in the fridge. Or don't. Do whatever you want."

Louis nods, then: "Can I use your film camera while you're out?"

Harry hesitates for just a second. The camera is his favourite. His first, even. But he looks at Louis—barefoot and curled up, still rumpled from sleep but sharp-eyed—and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, you can."

He crosses the room, lifting the camera gently from the shelf where Louis left it after their walk. A quick flick of the back confirms what he remembers.

"There's five frames left," he says, holding it out. "That enough?"

Louis grins, reaching for it. "I'll make 'em count."

Their fingers brush as Harry hands it over, and Harry smiles, a little caught off guard by how warm the touch is. "Just don't go becoming a better photographer than me while I'm gone."

"Too late," Louis says smugly, sinking back into the chair like he's won something.

Harry rolls his eyes, grabbing his jacket and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Arse."

They say goodbye at the door, Harry with his scarf looped loosely around his neck, hair still a little messy from the way he's been running his fingers through it all morning. The strap of his camera bag digs into his shoulder, heavy with gear.

Louis leans against the doorway, still barefoot, arms crossed as he watches Harry pull on his gloves.

"If you need anything," Harry says, pausing to adjust the scarf, "you can use the laptop. It's unlocked. Just, like... email me or something, I guess."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Email you?"

Harry shrugs. "I dunno, or write a strongly worded letter. Tape it to a pigeon. Smoke signals. Just—don't set the place on fire, alright?"

"I'll do my best," Louis says with a smirk, tipping his head. "Can't promise anything."

Harry snorts, stepping back into the hallway. "I mean it. Eat something. Go outside, if you want. Just—"

Louis' grin softens. "I'm fine, Harry. Go take your fancy pictures."

Harry lingers for half a second longer, eyes flicking over Louis like he's trying to memorise him. Then, with a quick, "See you later," he's off down the stairs, boots thudding softly against the worn wood.

Before he turns the corner toward the tram stop, he glances back up at the window of his flat one last time.

He wonders if Louis is already fiddling with the camera. If he'll eat. If he'll be okay on his own all day.

Of course he will be. Louis knows how to take care of himself.

Still, something twists low in Harry's stomach. Maybe he should get Louis a phone—something cheap. Just in case. A ridiculous idea, really, considering they're little more than friends.

But as he turns and walks toward the station, Harry knows he'll probably do it anyway.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

When Harry returns, the first thing he sees is Louis—cross-legged on the bed, sketchpad balanced on one knee, pencil in hand. The flat's quiet, save for the soft scratch of graphite against paper. The kind of calm that settles into the bones.

Louis glances up as Harry sets his camera bag down gently by the door, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. He looks like he belongs there—like the space somehow arranged itself around him.

"Hey," Louis says, voice soft and settled, like he hasn't spoken in a while and doesn't mind.

Harry pushes a hand through his curls, scratching briefly at his scalp. "Hey. How was your day?"

Louis shrugs, lazy and loose. "Quiet. Drew some stuff. Took some questionable photos with your camera."

Harry lets out a warm, tired laugh, low in his chest. "Can't wait to see what you've blessed my film roll with."

"Might be a couple in there worth keeping," Louis says with a smirk. "Maybe."

Harry slumps onto the sofa with a groan, spreading out like he's claiming the whole thing, head tipped back against the cushion, eyes closed. "Client was a nightmare. Nothing went right. Lighting was shit, everyone was late. I don't even know if I got anything usable."

Louis closes his sketchbook and sets it on the floor. "Tea?"

"My hero," Harry mumbles without opening his eyes, lips curving into a grateful smile.

A few minutes later, he feels the mug pressed gently into his hands—still hot, still steeping. He barely has time to say thank you before Louis sinks down next to him, not on the other end of the sofa like he would've last week, but close. Close enough that Harry can feel the brush of his thigh, can smell the clean scent of his soap and something warmer underneath.

Harry takes a sip and hums quietly, then lowers the mug, letting it rest on his stomach. And then—he feels it.

A hand, tentative at first, lands on his shoulder. Fingers light, not quite sure of their place. But then they move—soft strokes over the slope of his neck, the pads of Louis' fingers finding the spot just beneath his hairline, rubbing gentle circles.

Harry exhales, long and slow, melting into it like gravity's shifted. Like Louis is the centre of the pull now.

He'd meant to tell him—meant to say he missed bumping into Louis on his way home for their usual afternoon walk. But this? Coming home to him, finding him here, calm and settled in Harry's space, touching him like this... it's better. So much better.

Louis keeps rubbing, light and rhythmic, not demanding. Not even expecting anything back. And it shouldn't feel like a big deal, but it does. It feels like everything.

Harry's pulse ticks up quietly in his throat. The heat of Louis' hand is bleeding into his skin, and he doesn't dare open his eyes.

"I could do this for hours," Louis murmurs, barely above a whisper. Like maybe he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Harry swallows thickly. "Yeah?" he manages, casual as he can. "Dangerous thing to say to a man with a bad back."

Louis huffs a laugh, warm and fond. His hand slows a little but doesn't stop.

Harry finally opens his eyes just a sliver, turning his head slightly. Louis is looking at him the way he always seems to now—unbothered, at ease. Like sitting this close, like sliding into Harry's bed at night, like touching him just to touch him, is something natural. Like it's what they do now.

And maybe it is.

But his fingers twitch with the want to touch back.

His whole body feels like it's buzzing under his skin, like the tension is too close to the surface now, impossible to ignore. He presses the mug harder against his knee, grounding himself with the sting of heat, trying not to think about what it would feel like to reach across the narrow space between them and pull Louis into his lap. Not to kiss him. Not even to speak. Just hold.

He won't. He can't. He won't be the one to ruin this.

Then Louis' thumb brushes just behind his ear—a slow, deliberate stroke—and Harry shudders, the reaction sparking through him before he can contain it. The air between them tightens, warm and electric.

He opens his eyes. Turns his head just slightly, cheek brushing against Louis' palm as he looks at him.

Louis doesn't flinch. Doesn't stop.

Harry studies him, just for a moment. The soft light catching on his cheekbones. The curve of his jaw, still slightly hidden under the scruff of hair. His lips, parted slightly in focus. His lashes lowered like he's lost in the motion of his own hand.

God, he's so fucking beautiful.

"You shaved," Harry says quietly, his voice catching in his throat.

Louis' cheeks go faintly pink. "Hope you don't mind. I used your razor."

Harry shakes his head, slow and a little dumbstruck, gaze still lingering. "Course not. It looks—" he swallows, mouth twitching like he doesn't trust it to smile properly, "—you look great."

Louis ducks his head but doesn't look away.

And Harry is hardening, slowly but undeniably. Not fully, but enough that he suddenly can't sit still. His jeans feel tight and wrong, and Louis is too close and warm and easy, and it's too much.

There's a beat where neither of them moves. It hums with tension, sticky and sweet and dangerous.

Then Harry shifts back with a soft groan and untangles himself, standing abruptly and padding barefoot into the kitchen. Like he needs air. Like the fridge might help.

But he needs the cold blast of light. The faint hum of the compressor. Something grounding, something real, something that isn't the magnetic pull of Louis behind him.

Because God—he wants to turn around. Wants to press Louis into the cushions, kiss him like he's starving, map every inch of his skin with his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Every part of him is thrumming with it. Want. Need. Ache.

It lives in his fingertips. Tugs low in his stomach. Curls into the space behind his ribs and makes a home there.

But even with all that—Even though it burns in him like a fever—

It still isn't enough to let himself take it.
Not yet.

"Right," Harry sighs, forcing his voice to stay light. "I'm not cooking tonight," he calls over his shoulder.

Louis, now half-sprawled on the sofa with the remote in hand, doesn't even glance up as he flips through channels. "Didn't think you were."

Harry shuts the fridge with a soft thud, already thumbing open his phone. "Pizza?"

"Obviously."

They order a large one—half with whatever Louis claims is "normal," half with whatever Harry's craving—and when it arrives, they settle on the sofa, the box steaming between them on the coffee table. The glow from the TV spills across their laps as some absurd reality dating show starts up, all glitter and jump cuts and slow-motion entrances.

"She said she wants a man who owns three properties and cries at sunsets," Louis says around a bite. "That's not a red flag, that's a whole red forest."

Harry snorts. "This surely isn't what dating's actually like."

Louis raises a brow. "You're telling me you've never made a man fill out a compatibility quiz before the second date?"

Harry grins. "No, but I did once go out with a guy who told me photography wasn't a real job because—quote—'you just press a button.'"

Louis pauses, mouth full, then slowly turns to him. "You're joking."

"Wish I was. I told him he could press the button if he also wanted to stand knee-deep in river mud for three hours waiting for the light to change."

Louis barks a laugh. "Bet he didn't call you back."

"Nope," Harry says, reaching for another slice. "Dodged a bullet, though. He had no books in his flat and tried to say lasagne was just 'wet pasta.'"

Louis clutches his chest. "A crime. You dated a criminal."

They keep laughing, half-focused on the show, half on each other. At some point, Harry leans back and props his feet on the coffee table. Louis ends up reclined sideways, his legs draped over Harry's lap like it's nothing. The empty pizza box is pushed aside to make room.

Harry's hand finds Louis' thigh, casual at first, fingertips idly moving across the soft fabric of his joggers. Louis is still talking about the show, something about how one of the contestants looks like he's never had a thought in his life—"like, you can actually hear the WiFi buffer when he tries to speak"—but Harry's barely tracking the words.

He's watching the curve of Louis' mouth as he speaks, the way his hand gestures lazily through the air, the steady warmth of him across Harry's lap. But his palm has stilled, resting heavy on Louis' thigh now, and he's too aware of the heat beneath his hand, how close they are, how easy it would be to just lean forward and—

He swallows thickly, shifts slightly, hoping Louis won't notice the growing tension in his body, the blood pooling low and urgent.

He looks away from Louis, toward the TV, but the bright colours and voices barely register.

Louis is still speaking, voice smooth and low, but Harry can't stop wondering: does he feel it too?

Does he lie in bed at night thinking about how close they are?

Or is it just Harry, trying to hold himself together while everything in him wants to lean in closer?

By the time the credits roll on yet another episode, they're both quieter, voices slower, laughter more like soft huffs of air. The room's gone warm and comfortable around them, shadows stretching across the floor.

Harry stands, brushing crumbs off his joggers and gathering up the empty pizza box. "I'll deal with this," he murmurs, padding off toward the kitchen.

Louis stretches out on the sofa for a second longer, then reaches lazily for the remote and flicks off the TV. The flat falls into a calm hush, only the low hum of the fridge filling the space as Harry returns.

They both hover near the bed, suddenly uncertain. It's the first time they've reached it at the same time—usually Louis waits until the room is dark and Harry's already settled before claiming his place on top of the duvet.

Now they stand there together, brushing shoulders, not looking at each other.

Harry clears his throat and climbs in first, shuffling toward the side pressed closest to the wall. He lifts the edge of the duvet—just slightly, but unmistakably—and glances at Louis.

For a second, Louis hesitates, gaze flicking from Harry to the space beside him. Then, without a word, he slips in under the covers too.

The mattress dips as Louis settles next to him, not quite touching, but closer than usual. His hand reaches over his head, groping gently for the switch, and the little bedside lamp clicks off.

Darkness folds around them, soft and intimate.

Harry lies still for a moment, listening to the sound of Louis breathing beside him. Something quiet and electric zips down his spine. Not because anything's happening—but because something could.

"Hey," Louis says into the dark, voice low and close. "When can we get that film developed?"

Harry turns his head, pillow rustling beneath him. "I can text Rob tomorrow. See when the lab's free."

"Can I come?" Louis asks. "Would love to see how it's done."

"Yeah," Harry says, softer now. "Course you can."

There's a beat, long enough for Harry to hear the way Louis shifts slightly closer. Not by much, just a few inches—but enough to make the mattress dip, enough to feel it.

"What'd you take photos of?" Harry asks, keeping his voice just as quiet. Just as careful.

Louis exhales a quiet laugh. "You'll have to wait and see."

Harry huffs a smile. He's about to say something back—something teasing or clever—but then he feels it: the brush of fingers in the middle of the bed. Louis', tentative but deliberate, finding his. Not on accident. Not this time.

Harry curls his fingers slowly, lacing them through Louis' like it's the most natural thing in the world. And it is. And it absolutely isn't.

It's different tonight.

They've done this before, touched like this in the dark, hand-holding that went unspoken, folded into the quiet as if it meant nothing at all.

But this—this is charged. There's nothing casual in the way Louis' thumb presses along the side of Harry's hand, the drag of skin to skin, warm and deliberate.

They've shuffled close enough now that Harry can feel Louis' breath when he speaks, low and slow.

"I liked using your camera," Louis murmurs.

"Yeah?" Harry's voice cracks slightly as he says it. He clears his throat, but the tension doesn't ease.

"Yeah," Louis says. "Felt kind of... I don't know. Like it was mine for a minute."

Harry's chest tightens at that, and their hands squeeze around each other at the same time. A shared inhale.

Louis shifts again, closer. His knees brush Harry's under the duvet, and neither of them pulls back.

The silence between them stretches long and taut, a wire pulled tight. Neither of them moves. Not really. Just soft, subtle shifts. A press of knuckles. A brush of toes. A shared breath hanging hot between them.

Harry swallows. His mouth is dry. "You can borrow it whenever."

He feels Louis nod in the dark, slow and sure.

"I might," Louis says. "I liked the way it felt in my hands."

Harry shudders at the phrasing, at the sound of Louis' voice dipped just a little deeper, and the images that flicker behind his eyes. He turns onto his side toward Louis, even though he can't see much—just a silhouette, a shape close enough to touch.

His whole body feels wound tight, heart in his throat, breath locked somewhere behind his ribs.

He wants to say something else, something smart or teasing or safe.

Instead, he just holds Louis' hand tighter. Doesn't let go. Doesn't move away.

And Louis doesn't either.

Harry's foot shifts forward beneath the duvet and brushes against Louis'.

He doesn't mean to, not really—it's small, instinctual. But when he doesn't pull away, when he inches forward just a little more, his shin presses flush against Louis'. Louis doesn't flinch. Doesn't move.

Instead, his fingers start to move again, tracing absent shapes into the back of Harry's hand. A slow drag. A light scratch of nail. The kind of touch that feels louder in the quiet.

Harry stills his leg, breath caught, giving Louis an out—space to move away if he wants to.

But he doesn't.

He presses in instead, slow and sure, his leg warm and solid against Harry's. Their knees knock. Their thighs press close. And then Louis' hand slips lower, fingertips brushing along the inside of Harry's wrist, then gliding down to his forearm, tracing the faint trail of hair there.

They aren't like magnets, inexplicably drawn to each other, not quite—more like water rising in a sealed glass, inching higher with nowhere left to go. Something inevitable. Something bound to spill over.

Their bodies are so close now their legs are completely entangled, breath mixing warm in the space between their pillows. Louis' hand still rests on Harry's arm, thumb stroking slow arcs into his skin. Harry's other hand twitches, aching to move—to reach for Louis' waist, to pull him the rest of the way in until there's nothing between them at all.

He doesn't.

The only sound in the room is their breathing—shallow, measured, not quite steady. Every exhale feels heavy, like it carries something unsaid. Something crackling just under the surface.

Harry swallows, throat dry, heart hammering behind his ribs.

He's never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

All coherent thought has left Harry's brain. Louis' face is right there—close enough to count the freckles across his nose in the faint light, close enough to kiss. It would be so easy to close the space between them.

Surely Louis wants that too, doesn't he?

He's pressed against Harry like he's trying to crawl inside his skin. His leg, his hand on Harry's arm, his breath fanning warm over Harry's lips. Harry's not imagining it. He can't be.

"Louis," Harry whispers, like a question he's too afraid to ask aloud.

"Yeah?" Louis whispers back, voice low and raspy in the dark.

Harry doesn't say anything at first, still weighing it up—what it would mean, what it might ruin. But the want in his chest is heavy and thudding and impossible to ignore.

"I really want to kiss you," he murmurs.

There's a pause. A heartbeat. Maybe two.

"Why don't you then?" Louis says, quiet but steady.

And that's all Harry needs.

His hand finds the side of Louis' face, fingers brushing along his cheekbone, thumb just barely grazing his jaw. He pulls him in, and their lips meet with a rush—hard at first, like neither of them knows how to be gentle with the tension that's been building between them for weeks.

Then it softens. Melts. The shape of it shifts into something slower, more deliberate.

Louis makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and Harry feels his shirt bunch at the chest where Louis grips it tight, dragging him closer. Harry slides his hand to the nape of Louis' neck, tangling in the slightly longer hair there, grounding himself in the reality of it—of this.

Their kissing is tentative, exploratory. Like they're trying to figure out where the other starts and ends. But then Louis catches Harry's bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently.

Harry gasps, pulling back just a couple of centimetres. Their foreheads rest together. Breath mingles in the narrow space between their mouths, hot and shallow and hungry.

Then Harry presses in again, mouth slotting over Louis' like it's second nature, like it's always been meant to be.

They kiss for what feels like ages—deep, slow, searching. Like they're making up for all the time they didn't, all the times they brushed hands or exchanged looks and said nothing. The muffled sounds of the outside world pass by unnoticed, save for the distant rattle of a tram cutting through the silence. It's the only thing mingling with their heavy breathing.

Eventually, they part, but not far—just enough to rest their foreheads together, breaths still uneven and warm between them. Harry's hand finds its way back to the side of Louis' face, thumb brushing lightly over his bottom lip like he's still not sure he's allowed to touch.

Louis' hand, in the meantime, has snuck under Harry's T-shirt, palm flat against the dip of his ribs. His fingers flex there, like he's memorising the shape of him.

"Why did it take you so long, camera boy?" Louis murmurs, soft and teasing.

Harry huffs a laugh, breathless and a little wrecked by it all. But he doesn't have an answer. Because—why did it take so long?

He doesn't say anything. Just leans forward and presses his lips to Louis' forehead instead, a quiet apology, a promise, maybe both.

Harry stays there for a moment, eyes closed, forehead pressed to Louis', his thumb still brushing slow strokes against his cheek. Everything feels like it's humming—his skin, the air between them, the weight of Louis' hand under his shirt. He could stay like this forever. Could keep kissing him until the sun came up. But he exhales a soft breath and pulls back just enough to look Louis in the eyes.

"I really want to keep going," he admits, voice low and thick. "God, I do. But..." His gaze flicks down to where Louis' hand is still resting against his ribs, then back up. "I don't want to rush anything. I don't want you to feel like you owe me this, just because you're here."

Louis' brows knit, and he shakes his head immediately, fingertips brushing a little higher like he doesn't want to let go. "I don't—Harry, I want this too."

Harry smiles, soft and genuine, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Louis' mouth.

"I know," he says, and he does. "I just think... maybe we leave it at this for tonight? I want to do this right. Not when we're both half asleep and tangled up and..." He trails off, brushing a hand gently over Louis' cheek. "Not when I might never want to stop."

Louis looks at him for a beat, gaze steady, then nods slowly. "Okay," he says, almost a whisper. There's no bitterness in it. Just understanding. Then he huffs a quiet laugh, thumb brushing Harry's side. "God, you talk a lot."

Harry lets out a soft laugh of his own, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it's news."

Louis grins, lazy and fond. "Just saying. Could've had sex three times by now with all that heartfelt monologuing."

Harry rolls his eyes, but he's beaming as he nudges Louis with his shoulder. "Shut up." He leans in again, this time for a slower, gentler kiss. When he pulls away, he tugs the duvet up over them both, shifting until they're lying properly, bodies still close. Louis turns onto his side and Harry follows, fitting himself behind, his arm resting carefully over Louis' waist. It's warm, quiet, safe.

Louis sighs, already starting to relax into it. "Night, camera boy."

Harry smiles against the back of his neck. "Night, Lou."

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

The morning light slips through the edges of the curtains, pale and hazy, softening everything it touches. Harry stirs slowly, the weight and warmth of Louis still wrapped around him, their bodies moulded together like they were made for it. Louis is curled into his back, one arm slung around Harry's middle, and Harry's hand is covering it, holding him there without even realising.

When Louis shifts slightly, Harry assumes he's just waking—until he feels the press of lips against the back of his neck. It's barely more than a brush, cautious and quiet, but it sends a shiver racing down Harry's spine. He exhales a soft, surprised moan, head tilting instinctively to give Louis more space.

Louis doesn't say anything, just kisses him again, a little firmer this time. Harry can feel him exhale too, like they're both slowly breaking apart under the weight of everything they've held back.

Harry's hand tightens around Louis'. God, he wants... he wants to pull Louis over him, wants to feel the weight of his body, solid and sure. He wants to rut up against him, wants Louis' hands under his shirt, his mouth on his throat, on his chest—wants to hear what Louis sounds like when he loses control.

But he stays still, jaw tight, body buzzing with restraint. He doesn't move except to press his hips back just a fraction, so Louis can feel it. Just enough for Louis to know he isn't the only one losing his mind over this.

Harry's voice is a low rasp when he finally speaks. "You keep kissing me like that and I'm not gonna be able to leave this bed."

Louis lets out a quiet, breathy laugh against the back of Harry's neck. "Then maybe don't," he murmurs, his fingers tightening just a little around Harry's middle.

Harry huffs, not quite a laugh, not quite a moan. "Don't say that unless you mean it," he says, voice strained and thick with sleep and want.

There's a beat of silence—charged, heavy. Then Louis says, "I do."

Harry groans, burying his face in the pillow. "Jesus," he mutters, and then forces himself to shift forward and break the contact, the loss of Louis' warmth immediately missed. "We need to get up," he adds, more to himself than anything. "If we stay in bed any longer I'm not going to have any self-control left."

Louis doesn't protest. But he doesn't move either.

Harry climbs over the side of the bed and stands, dragging a hand through his curls with a quiet sigh. He throws a glance over his shoulder.

Louis is still lying flat on his back, arm slung over his eyes, duvet just barely skimming his hipbones.

"You okay?" Harry asks, not moving.

"Yeah," Louis murmurs, voice low and hoarse. "Just... need a couple minutes."

Harry nods, even though Louis can't see it. "Alright," he says softly, then heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He turns on the tap and splashes cold water on his face, bracing his palms against the edge of the sink. The porcelain is cool beneath his fingers, grounding.

He stares at himself in the mirror.

He can still feel Louis' mouth on his skin. The press of his hand. That quiet, breathless laugh.

And it would be so easy. So fucking easy—to go back out there, crawl back into bed and let himself have it. Have him.

But there's a part of him—deep and unsettled—that won't let him reach for it. Soon, maybe. But not yet.

Because as much as he wants Louis—wants him with a kind of ache that lives under his skin—he can't ignore the doubt curled tight in his chest.

What if Louis only wants this because he feels like he should? Because Harry let him stay. Because Harry has made space for him, over and over again, without ever asking for anything back.

He doesn't want to be someone Louis feels like he owes something to. He wants to be chosen.

And that's the thing—Harry's never wanted something so much, but he needs to know Louis wants it, too. Not out of comfort. Not out of gratitude. Not because the silence between them got too heavy.

But because he does.

He dries his face and leans against the counter. Christmas is only a few days away. Louis still hasn't heard from the other shelter. What if he gets an email and leaves before Harry can say everything he's been holding in? What if he doesn't come back?

Harry's stomach twists. He knows Louis can't stay forever. But God, he doesn't want to lose this now that they've finally started to find each other.

He presses the heel of his palm to his chest and lets out a breath, then reaches for his toothbrush.

When Harry comes out of the bathroom, he stops in the doorway for a moment. Louis is sat up in bed, legs stretched out under the duvet, a small sketchpad balanced on his thighs.

Harry recognises it. It's the one Louis sometimes pulls out when he's quiet and focused on the sofa or the armchair. He's never offered to show Harry what's inside, just glances up now and then, like he's checking angles. Or maybe catching Harry in a moment he wants to keep.

Louis doesn't look up, pencil moving steadily, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Harry feels the tug of curiosity in his chest, but he doesn't step closer. Doesn't ask. He'll wait—wait until Louis wants to show him, lets him in.

So instead, Harry smiles to himself and heads into the kitchen. He picks up his phone and shoots a text to Rob about the photo lab, hoping they can get there today.

The kettle flicks on with a low hum and Harry leans against the counter, watching the steam start to rise. His mind's still racing a little from earlier, from Louis' mouth on his neck, from the heat of him so close.

He's not sure how many more hours he can spend in this flat with Louis without giving in completely.

"You want to go out for breakfast, Lou?" Harry calls lightly, turning just enough so Louis can hear him from the bed.

There's a pause, then the soft sound of the pencil being set down. "Yeah, alright," Louis says, voice still a little gravelly from sleep. "Where're you thinking?"

Harry shrugs. "Dunno yet. Somewhere with strong coffee and no risk of me crawling back into bed with you."

Louis huffs out a laugh from the other room. "So we're picking a place with terrible seating and lots of people, then."

"Exactly," Harry grins, pouring the hot water into two mugs. "Public safety measure."

Chapter Text

They head out wrapped in scarves and wool coats, the city already alive despite the early hour. It's crisp out, the sky pale and washed out, clouds threatening more cold than snow. The streets are buzzing in that specific kind of December way—crowds weaving through each other with shopping bags in hand, cafés spilling warm light onto pavements slick with yesterday's rain, the sound of Christmas music bleeding out from doorways.

Every breakfast spot they try is packed—queues out the door, window glass fogged with the warmth of bodies inside. After the third try, they settle on a little place tucked down a side street, one of those cafés with handwritten chalkboard menus and mismatched mugs. It smells like cinnamon and baked bread and something sweet, and there's a small table free near the window.

Louis orders black coffee and a bacon sandwich. Harry gets a croissant and a cappuccino with far too much froth.

"This is so much better than your instant stuff," Louis says after his first sip, curling his fingers around the mug like it's his lifeline.

Harry's jaw drops theatrically. "Heyyyy," he says, dragging the sound out as he slumps back in his seat. "My coffee plays its part, alright. Reliable. Efficient."

Louis grins around the rim of his cup. "Sure. If the part is emotional damage."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Betrayal this early in the day?"

Louis just shrugs, all cheek and smugness. "You'll survive."

By the time they finish eating, the café is even more crowded. They take their time leaving, lingering just long enough to steal the last sips of warmth from their mugs before squeezing back out onto the pavement.

The crowd has thickened again, everyone bustling in every direction, wrapped in scarves and stress. Harry reaches out instinctively and Louis meets him halfway, their fingers locking together like they've done it a hundred times before.

It's casual. Unspoken. Natural.

They don't let go, even as they duck around people and cross streets, even as Louis complains about a man with a twelve-foot roll of wrapping paper almost impaling them.

It's just gone midday when Harry's phone buzzes in his coat pocket. He pulls it out as they wander past a stall selling mulled wine and roasted chestnuts, thumb skimming over the message from Rob.

Harry turns toward Louis, a little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Rob says we're good to go. Lab's free now if you fancy it?"

Louis lifts his brows, surprised but smiling. "Now?"

Harry shrugs, hopeful. "Why not? I've been dying to see what you took photos of."

That earns him a low chuckle. Louis rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting briefly away. "Don't get too excited," he says, though he's clearly flattered. "I was just messing around. You're the actual photographer."

Harry bumps their arms together as they start heading toward the tube. "Doesn't matter. I wanna see the world through your eyes."

Louis laughs again, but there's a hint of pink in his cheeks. "Now I feel nervous. What if it's all just blurry shots of your shampoo bottles?"

Harry looks mock-affronted. "Joke's on you, my shampoo bottles are very photogenic."

Louis snorts, nudging him. "Yeah, alright. Let's go before I chicken out."

Harry's heart lifts a little with every step. He can't wait to see what Louis saw—what he found worthy of capturing. Something about that feels intimate, almost more than the kisses or the hand-holding or even sharing a bed.

It feels like a glimpse into Louis' mind.

And Harry wants all of it.

The lab is tucked away behind a nondescript door on a quieter stretch of the city centre. Peeling paint, a buzzer that sticks—nothing special from the outside. But inside, it's warm. Familiar. The air carries the faint, sharp tang of developer and fixer, and the steady hum of extractor fans overhead is a kind of white noise Harry finds oddly comforting.

"This is it," Harry says, glancing over at Louis as he pushes the inner door open. "Not very glamorous, I know."

Louis steps in behind him, eyes flicking around like he's trying to memorise it all at once. "It kind of looks like my old school science lab."

Harry laughs. "That's not entirely wrong, to be fair."

He leads Louis down the narrow hallway, slowing by the double doors of the darkroom. "Okay, so in here's where the magic happens. You'll see when we go in, but there's two doors—you can't open both at once or the light'll get in and ruin the film."

Louis squints at them. "That feels like a challenge."

Harry throws him a look. "Please don't."

"I'm just saying—two doors, secret rules, potential destruction? Sounds like a game show."

Harry grins. "'Who Wants to Be a Photographer,' where one wrong move costs you everything."

"High stakes," Louis says solemnly.

"The highest," Harry agrees, nudging his shoulder. "But seriously, it's not that deep. Just keep the inner door closed until I say, and you're golden."

Louis hums. "Right. Don't break the rules, don't ruin the film, don't set off any hidden alarms."

Harry snorts. "You're doing great so far."

Louis glances over at him, something fond behind his grin. "You're very... gentle about this."

Harry tilts his head. "Gentle?"

"Yeah," Louis says, shrugging. "Like you want me to like it."

Harry shrugs back, a little self-conscious. "I do. I love this part—the process. And I want you to see why."

Louis doesn't tease him for that. Just looks at him for a beat, then nods, smile softer now. "Okay, then. Show me."

Harry pushes the outer door open. "Come on, game show champ. Let's go make some magic."

Harry walks Louis through the darkroom setup step by step, standing close as he points out the trays of chemicals, the enlarger, and the racks where the negatives will hang to dry. His voice is calm, even a little excited in that quiet way he gets when he's explaining something he really loves. Every so often, Harry's hand brushes Louis' back or grazes his arm as he gestures. Natural. Practical. At least, that's what he tells himself. But each one sparks—quiet and unmistakable.

Louis listens intently, asks a few questions—some sincere, most clearly just to wind Harry up. Harry suspects as much but doesn't mind. It's the kind of annoying he's grown fond of. The kind that makes him smile without meaning to.

Once everything's ready, Harry flips the switch. The overhead light clicks off, and the room glows dim and red.

"Ooh," Louis says immediately, voice low and teasing. "Romantic. If I'd known it was this kind of red light, I'd have worn something a bit sexier."

Harry huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes, even though Louis can't see it. He's close. Close enough that their shoulders bump when they move at the same time. Harry's suddenly too aware of it—the heat between them, the soft air shifting around their skin.

He clears his throat. Focus. "Okay, we'll start with the developer."

They move through the process slowly, deliberately. Harry narrates each step like muscle memory, his tone low and even. His hand finds Louis' wrist to guide it to the right position—gently. He doesn't have to touch him, not really, but he does. His fingers linger longer than necessary, just a second more, and Louis doesn't pull away.

"Just a gentle swirl," Harry says as Louis picks up the tray. "Like you're stirring tea. Not summoning a storm."

Louis hums, dipping his gloved hands into the edge of the tray. "Very zen of you. Are we developing photos or entering a meditative state?"

Harry leans in slightly, lips brushing near Louis' ear as he replies, "Bit of both."

Louis shivers. Just slightly. But Harry feels it—feels it everywhere.

They continue, switching trays, timing each bath. At one point, Louis bumps into Harry as he turns, a quiet "Sorry" slipping out—but neither of them really steps back.

Harry reaches past him for the fixer, chest brushing against Louis' arm, and he feels it—how Louis stills. Just for a second. As if he's holding his breath.

"So this one's the developer," Harry says again, voice soft, like the dimness calls for quiet.

Louis leans over the tray, suspicious. "And if I stick my hands in it, do I grow a third eye or just lose the ones I've already got?"

Harry snorts, the sound close and warm. "You're wearing gloves. You'll be fine. It's not toxic unless you drink it."

Louis raises a brow. "Bit rude that you felt the need to clarify."

Harry grins, brushing their arms together again as he moves to check the time. "You're the one sniffing the chemicals."

They fall into a rhythm. Their movements start to overlap—bumping, brushing, grazing.

Harry rests a hand lightly on Louis' back when he needs to move around him. Louis leans in a little too close when he asks a question. The space between them buzzes—quiet and charged.

"Right," Harry says at last, once they've clipped the negatives to dry. "Now we wait."

Louis squints up at the strips, his gloved hands still resting lightly on the table beside Harry's.

"You're telling me we just did an entire chemistry class and don't even get to see the photos yet?"

Harry glances sideways, gaze lingering on the curve of Louis' cheek, the faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

"Patience," he murmurs—maybe to Louis, maybe just to himself. "Good art takes time."

Louis turns his head a fraction, voice softer now. "Can't relate."

They step back from the drying rack, careful, quiet. The hum of the building presses around them, but in here, everything feels sealed off. A pocket universe. Red-lit, silent, pulsing with something unspoken.

Harry leans against the counter, arms folding loosely. He tries to make it look casual. Louis joins him a beat later, shoulder brushing Harry's like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"So," Louis says eventually, faux-innocent. "What happens if we mess up the next bit? Do the pictures melt? Catch fire? Turn into cursed objects?"

Harry turns toward him, mouth twitching. "No darkroom horror stories, sorry. Worst case, they come out too light, too dark... or not at all. But I've done this hundreds of times. We'll be fine."

Louis nudges their arms together again, just lightly. "Love how you keep saying we, when all I've done is stand here and look pretty."

Harry swallows down a smile. "You're here, that counts," he says, quieter than he means to. "And for the record, very pretty."

Louis hums, gaze drifting back to the drying rack—strips hanging ghostlike in the red glow.

"Still feels like magic. Like—I looked through the lens and saw something, and now it's real. That's mad, yeah?"

Harry doesn't answer right away. He's watching the way the light grazes Louis' face, the way his lips curl at the corners.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low. "It's magic."

They stand there for a moment longer, letting it settle between them, before Harry gives a small nudge with his elbow.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's bring them to life."

They move to the table, setting up the enlarger and trays. Harry starts with his own—photos from their walk: the canal, the ducks, the frost on a tree branch. Louis leans in close, eyes wide as the first image begins to bloom in the tray, shapes ghosting into view beneath the surface.

"Oh my god," he breathes. "That's actually—witchcraft. Has to be."

"It's not witchcraft," Harry says, stepping up beside him. "It's just silver halide crystals reacting to—"

Louis looks up at him. "You're cute when you go all documentary voice, but I'm choosing to believe it's witchcraft."

Harry shakes his head but doesn't argue. "Suit yourself."

Louis glances back at the photo, tone breezy but just a little off. "So what happens if I drop one of these trays? Or splash you with chemical goo? Is that how superpowers work?"

Harry swallows. "No. That's a different genre."

Louis hums thoughtfully. "Shame. You'd look good with x-ray vision."

Harry blinks. Stares at him. "Why—why would that be the one?"

"Just seems appropriate," Louis says, bumping his hip into Harry's lightly.

They work through another couple prints in near-silence. Or at least, Harry tries to work. Louis stands close, warm and loose beside him, throwing in the occasional offhand question—

Do people ever snog in here?

What if I inhale the fixer fumes?

Is that why my heart's going all weird?—

until Harry's answers get shorter, his brain slowing with every brush of Louis' elbow.

"You ready to try one of yours?" Harry asks finally, hoping the shift in focus will help. It doesn't.

Louis glances at him, eyes a little too wide, a little too innocent. "Only if you promise to hold me through it."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "You mean your hand?"

Louis just shrugs, not elaborating.

Harry steps in behind him, chest brushing Louis' back. "Okay, um... line it up here. Yeah, good. Keep it steady."

His hands come up to guide Louis', resting lightly on his wrists. Their arms press together. Louis doesn't move away—leans in, if anything—and Harry suddenly forgets what he was going to say next.

Louis doesn't help. "So if I mess it up," he says, tilting his head slightly, "do I get kicked out or just gently scolded?"

Harry breathes out a laugh, caught off guard. "You... what?"

Louis looks over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. "Just wondering how strict the darkroom rules are. For science."

Harry blinks at him, visibly thrown. "Right. Yeah. For science."

They lower the photo paper into the tray together, Louis' hands in gloves, Harry's bare, guiding from just over his wrists.

"Just gentle," Harry murmurs, voice low at Louis' ear. "Rock the tray side to side. Slow."

Louis does as told, head ducked slightly, concentration creasing his brow. Harry can feel the heat of him, the tension in his arms. He's standing so close, breath brushing Louis' temple with every exhale.

The image begins to appear, faint and ghostly at first, then gradually sharper. Harry squints, leans in closer.

His breath catches.

It's Louis. A mirror selfie, taken in Harry's bathroom. The background is blurred with condensation, edges softened by the heat. His hair's wet, messy. A towel hangs low on his hips, clinging to the sharp lines of his body. The suggestion of a V just visible, the faintest shadow where it disappears beneath terrycloth.

Harry doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

In front of him, Louis shifts slightly, shoulders held tight. "That one's alright, I think," he says, voice too casual—but Harry hears the thread of nerves tucked underneath. The way his swallow catches. "Thought it'd come out too dark."

Harry's hands—still guiding Louis'—are sweaty now over Louis' gloves. He should step back. Say something sensible. But his body won't obey.

"It's..." he starts, but the word dies in his mouth.

Louis head tilts just slightly, not enough to meet his eyes. "What?" he says, lightly. Teasing, but testing. "Didn't expect me to be my own muse?"

Harry lets out a breath, shaky. "Didn't expect you to be half-naked in my bathroom, no."

Louis laughs, soft and short. It falters at the edges. "Bit of a thirst trap, innit?"

Harry doesn't answer. He just shifts his grip on Louis' wrists, thumbs grazing over warm skin, catching the fast, fluttering pulse beneath. It drums steady against his fingertips—louder than the quiet hum of the darkroom, louder than his own breath.

He looks down at the tray. Louis is still blooming into view, his figure bold and casual, caught mid-laugh or smirk—Harry can't quite tell. The posture is cocky. The light softens the lines of his skin, turning the photo almost tender. It shouldn't feel this intimate. But it does. It always does, with Louis.

Then Louis clears his throat, voice a little too light. "So, uh... still doing okay?"

Harry can't trust his voice, not with how tight his chest feels. He just nods.

Louis reaches for another sheet of paper. His fingers skim Harry's—brief, accidental—and Harry has to shift his stance, trying to hide the way his breath catches, the way every inch of him is drawn taut like a wire.

"Next one?" Louis asks, casual enough on the surface, but Harry hears the crackle underneath. The way his voice frays at the edges, stretched thin.

Harry nods again. Still silent.

Louis steps back into place, slotting easily between Harry's arms. They move in tandem, lowering the next print into the tray. The water ripples gently. Red light flickers across their skin. Harry guides Louis' hands again, touching the inside of his wrist, trailing up his forearm. It's just instruction. It's just printing. But Harry feels like he's burning up.

Then the image starts to emerge.

Harry goes still. His breath stutters.

It's Louis. Again. But this time, he's on Harry's bed.

The sheets are rumpled. The pillows—Harry's pillows—are unmistakable. He's shirtless, stretched out, head tipped into the pillow, mouth parted. One hand rests against his chest, fingers just touching the edge of the tattoo over his heart.

Harry stares. Every thought in his head empties out, except him. Louis. His bed.

His hair is a mess. Like he's just woken up. Or just been kissed.

And his eyes— They're looking straight into the lens. Soft. Intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he knew exactly who he was doing it for.

Harry exhales, sharply. His grip on Louis' wrists falters—just for a second. Then it tightens again. Too much, maybe. Louis tilts his head, just a fraction. Eyes flick up toward Harry.

"That one's alright too, yeah?" His voice is quieter now.

Harry still can't speak. His whole body burns. His jeans are tight. His skin feels too small. Everything inside him is coiled and humming—like the next moment might undo him completely.

Harry exhales sharply. Leans in even closer so his whole body presses against Louis' back. His voice is low. Wrecked. "You did that on purpose."

Louis doesn't deny it. Doesn't say anything at all.

The silence that follows is thick—heavy and electric, like the darkroom's pulled all the air from the building and left only heat. Their breathing in sync. Their bodies too close.

Harry can't look away. Louis' voice is quieter when it comes again, like he almost regrets breaking the moment. "Should we, um... develop the next one?"

Harry doesn't respond right away. His breath brushes the nape of Louis' neck. His hands twitch, holding themselves still. Just barely.

And then— One hand comes to rest on Louis' hip. Firm. His fingers dig in slightly as he pulls him back.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Until Louis is flush against him.

Louis gasps, hand shifting to brace himself on the counter.

Harry exhales, lips skimming the shell of Louis' ear. "Nah," he murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. "No, I don't wanna develop another one right now."

He noses along the curve of Louis' neck, lips brushing hot skin. His bottom lip catches the lobe, teeth barely grazing before pulling away. Louis' breath catches, fingers white-knuckled on the countertop.

Harry grinds forward—firm and unmistakable.

"Been thinking about you," he whispers, just a breath. "Since the first bloody day I bought you coffee. Since you looked at me, all tired and stubborn and gorgeous, and told me I talk a lot."

Louis lets out a shaky laugh that turns, helplessly, into something closer to a moan when Harry rocks against him again.

"I wanted you in my bed. In my space." Harry's voice hitches, unsteady. "In my hands." One of those hands slides under Louis' jumper, palm broad and warm over his stomach. "I didn't know if you wanted me like that. Not really."

"I did." Louis breathes it out like confession. Like surrender. "I do."

Harry presses a kiss to the side of his neck. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He sucks just below the jaw, lips hot, tongue slow. Then, against damp skin, he mutters, "Wanted you so bad this morning. When you were curled up next to me, breathing soft. Nearly lost my mind."

"I kept thinking," Harry murmurs, lips dragging along his throat, "if I said the wrong thing, you'd disappear. That you'd slip through my hands before I even got to touch you properly."

His hand, the one under Louis' jumper, slides higher, fingers splaying wide over his chest. He can feel Louis' heart racing, hammering into his palm like it wants out.

Louis lets out a laugh—wrecked, disbelieving. "You never shut up."

Harry's teeth graze his jaw. "You never let me."

Louis' head tilts back, exposing more of his throat. "You really gonna start this in the darkroom?"

Harry presses in harder, hips flush. "You started it the second you took that photo in my bed."

That gets a reaction—a sharp exhale, like Louis can't quite hold himself together under the weight of being seen like that.

Then Harry's hand drops again, fingertips skimming past Louis' waistband, pausing at the edge of his boxers. Not dipping in. Not yet. "Tell me to stop," he says softly, lips brushing his ear. "And I will."

Louis doesn't speak at first. He just trembles—taut and waiting. And then, finally, "Don't."

It's barely more than breath. But it's not hesitant. It's permission.

Harry groans, deep and guttural, and he sinks into it—all restraint gone. He kisses behind Louis' ear, then his jaw, then lower—claiming every inch of skin he can reach.

Louis arches back into him, desperate now. "You could've," he breathes, voice rough and breaking. "This morning. When I was in your bed. Should've."

Harry swears under his breath, his grip tightening.

The air is heavy with heat and scent—chemicals and sweat and something charged that feels like static and want. The soft red glow of the room washes over them, but Harry only sees Louis.

"Tell me you want this," he rasps, desperate now. "Tell me I'm not fucking this up."

Louis twists just enough to meet his eyes. "I want this," he says, clear and fierce. "I want you."

And that's all it takes—Harry turns Louis round to face him and crashes their mouths together, everything unravelling at once.

His hands go to Louis' wrists, fumbling with the gloves there, tugging at the fingers, snapping elastic in his rush to get them off. One sticks stubbornly and he huffs, laughing breathlessly against Louis' mouth as he yanks it free. Louis helps, shaking his hands, gloves falling somewhere between them, forgotten.

Harry's hand slides down, tracing the waistband of Louis' joggers again. He dips his fingers just beneath, teasing, voice nearly gone. "Here?"

Louis nods, tugging Harry closer like it's the only way he'll stay upright. "Yeah."

Harry's breath stutters, forehead pressing to Louis' like he needs the contact to keep steady. "Jesus, Louis," he murmurs, voice trembling, eyes locked on his.

Then he moves.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just sure. Fingers slipping further, knuckles brushing heat, until he's finally there—finally wrapping his hand around Louis' cock, warm and hard and already leaking against his palm.

Louis lets out a sharp, broken noise, his entire body jerking like the touch short-circuited him. He clutches at Harry's shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists, trying to ground himself, to stop himself from falling apart too fast.

Harry groans—wrecked and reverent—like he's the one unravelling. His thumb swipes across the tip, slow and slick, and Louis chokes on a moan, forehead dropping to Harry's shoulder.

"You're so fucking hard," Harry breathes, like it's something holy, something that floors him. "All this—for me?"

Louis doesn't say anything, he just nods, jaw slack, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His hips twitch forward instinctively, seeking more, chasing the friction.

"You feel—fuck, you feel incredible," Harry says, lips brushing Louis' ear, voice thick with awe. "Been thinking about this for so long. Wondering how you'd sound. How you'd fall apart."

Louis gasps as Harry twists his wrist just slightly, just right, and his knees nearly give out. "Harry—" he breathes, raw and pleading, "please."

"Let me have you," Harry whispers against his skin, voice rough, shaking. "Let me make you come."

Louis jerks in his arms, a ragged moan escaping him and Harry feels it like a lightning strike. He groans—deep and guttural—like the sound alone is enough to undo him.

He can feel Louis straining, trembling, his hips rolling forward on instinct, like he needs more. His head tips back, and Harry can see the flutter of his lashes, the way his mouth falls open around another breathless curse.

"Jesus," Louis gasps, high and wrecked, "that's—fuck, that's good."

Harry feels it when Louis' hands slide lower, slipping down his back, slow and greedy, until they're cupping over the curve of his arse—squeezing, pulling him close.

Louis moans into his mouth when their hips meet again, grinding together with a need that crackles like static.

"Need to touch you," Louis pants, wild-eyed, voice gone frantic. "Let me."

Harry's breath stutters, hand faltering just enough to give Louis the chance to shift his grip and slide one hand down the back of Harry's jeans, past the waistband. Harry feels Louis palm over his arse, he groans into the side of Harry's throat, then brings both hands around to the front.

His fingers fumble with the button of Harry's jeans, breathing uneven, heart hammering. "Help me," he says, desperate, and Harry's already there—one hand abandoning Louis' cock to make quick work of his own jeans, pushing them down with a hiss of breath. Louis helps, shoving them low enough to free him, and then—god—they're there. Skin to skin. Cock to cock. Both of them flushed and throbbing, pressed together in the dark red glow of the room.

The sound Harry makes isn't human.

"Oh my fuck," he breathes, forehead crashing into Louis', vision going blurry for a second. His hand moves without thought—gripping both of them at once, hot and heavy and so much—and he strokes, slow and tight, once, just to feel it.

Louis chokes on a moan, whole body trembling. His hands are back on Harry's arms, clutching, bracing. "Harry—Jesus—that—"

"I know," Harry groans, eyes dropping between them. He can't stop looking. Their cocks pressed together in his fist, leaking, sliding slick against each other. "Look at us. Look how fucking perfect you are."

Louis looks, too. Harry can feel it—can see the moment it undoes him a little more, can feel the twitch of his cock in his hand, the way his thighs start to tremble. Harry strokes again—deeper now, faster, his grip steady, his thumb working slick between them.

Louis gasps, hips rolling into Harry's fist like he can't help it. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice breaking. "Feels so—so fucking good."

Harry swallows the rest of it with a kiss—wet, open, filthy—tongues sliding together, breath catching between them. Their bodies are flush and slick and shaking. He strokes faster, harder, twisting at the top, matching the frantic rock of Louis' hips.

Their cocks drag against each other, soaked and slippery with precome, the friction hot and overwhelming. Harry knows—feels it in every twitch of Louis' body—neither of them are going to last much longer.

He keeps going, doesn't slow down, hand tight around both of them as he works them fast and filthy. Louis is gasping into his mouth, breath catching on every stroke, fingers tangled in Harry's hair, clinging to the back of his neck like he's afraid to let go.

Then suddenly, Louis stumbles back a step, dragging Harry with him until his lower back hits the edge of the table. The developer tray wobbles with the impact—chemicals sloshing over the rim and onto the floor—but neither of them so much as glance at it.

Louis grabs the table behind him for balance, fingers splayed wide on the metal edge—but he barely lasts like that. Within seconds, he's reaching for Harry again, fists curling in his shirt, dragging him closer, holding on like he needs him to stay upright.

"Harry," he gasps, voice hoarse and strung-out, hips jolting forward in short, desperate thrusts.

Harry's heart slams in his chest. "I've got you," he murmurs, eyes locked to Louis' face—to the way his lips part around every shattered breath, to the sweat glinting at his temple, to the wide, glazed look in his eyes. "Come for me, Lou. Let me feel it."

Louis lets out a raw, broken sound—half gasp, half moan—and his whole body jerks. Harry watches it hit him: the tremble in his thighs, the way his head tips back, mouth slack and shaking as he comes hard. His cock pulses in Harry's hand, release spilling over both of them, hot and messy and perfect.

Harry swears, loud and guttural, as he feels it—feels Louis' cock pulsing against his, the heat of it, the twitching spurts, the way Louis gasps and shudders through it like it's ripping him apart.

"Fuck, fuck—fuck," Harry pants, forehead dropping to Louis' shoulder, his hips rutting forward helplessly now, chasing it. "That's—Jesus, Louis—that's it Lou—"

It hits him all at once—sharp and sudden and overwhelming. The heat, the wetness, the weight of Louis trembling in his arms—it's too much. His cock pulses hard in his fist, and then he's coming too, moaning low and ragged against Louis' throat.

His release mixes with Louis', thick and warm between them, slicking their cocks, dripping over his hand. He keeps stroking through it, slower now, more drawn out, until the tremors fade and all that's left is heat and breath and the wet slide of their skin.

Louis slumps back against the table, completely spent, chest heaving. Harry leans into him, forehead pressed to his, trying to catch his breath. His hand lingers, gentle now, still wrapped around them both like he doesn't want to let go.

"Fuck," Louis says eventually, voice hoarse, eyes fluttering open to meet Harry's.

Harry grins—soft and blown-out, like he's still floating. "Yeah," he says, breathless. "That was—yeah."

Behind them, the photo tray continues to drip onto the floor. The room smells like chemicals and come and something wild and unspoken, still lingering in the space between them.

Harry finally pulls his hand away, bringing it to his mouth on instinct. He licks a stripe across his knuckles, slow and filthy, eyes never leaving Louis'.

Louis groans, dropping his head back. "You're insane."

Harry just smiles, still high on it. "You started it."

They don't speak for a moment—just breathe.

Their chests rise and fall in sync, foreheads pressed together, lips barely brushing with each exhale. Their cocks are still pressed between them, softening in the mess of it all, warm and sticky and somehow... sweet. Like they've carved out a moment in time that no one else gets to touch.

Harry tilts Louis' chin, catching his mouth in a kiss—slow and quiet, just lips brushing, a shared breath. His fingers stroke along the back of Louis' neck, thumb dragging over sweat damp hair.

Harry hums into it, smiling against Louis' lips. "You're ridiculous," he whispers, nudging their noses together. "You got developer fluid on your trousers."

Louis lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh, still winded. "You shoved me into the table."

"You backed into it," Harry argues, grinning now. "Like a very sexy, very desperate little menace."

Louis rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too, cheeks pink and eyes soft. "You're the menace."

Harry snorts, then pulls back slightly, glancing around the room until he spots a clean rag hanging from a hook. He grabs it and wipes his hand quickly before tossing it toward the spill on the table and floor.

"Rob'll never notice," he mutters, using a corner to clean the worst of it off Louis' front with surprising gentleness. "Doesn't need to know we defiled his darkroom."

Louis snorts, still leaning against the table. "Defiled is a strong word."

Once they've wiped down enough to feel somewhat presentable, they tuck themselves away, still messy, still flushed, but less obviously fucked-out. Harry tosses the rag into a bin, then turns to Louis again, catching his jaw in one hand and kissing him—soft and full, nothing rushed.

Louis melts into it. It's quieter now, but no less charged. The kind of kiss that says we'll talk later, but I'm here.

They tidy the rest of the prints together, Harry sliding them into a envelope with practiced care. He looks at Louis once it's sealed, a question in his eyes—come with me?

Louis nods.

They step out into the evening, the cool air a sharp contrast to the warmth still clinging to their skin. The city buzzes around them—cars humming past, footsteps tapping hurriedly across pavement, voices overlapping in snatches of conversation and laughter. Shop windows glow with fairy lights, spilling golden light onto the crowded streets, and people bustle by clutching bags and boxes, flushed from the cold and last-minute Christmas shopping.

Halfway down the path, Harry's hand brushes against Louis'. Louis catches it without thinking—fingers slotting between his like it's the most natural thing in the world. Their hands swing slightly as they walk, a small, quiet thing amid the chaos, like it's always been this easy.

It's not loud or dramatic or anything monumental.

Just a boy with a camera, a boy with a sketchpad, and the soft warmth of skin on skin in the hush of night.

Harry unlocks the door to his flat, nudging it open with his hip while still holding the envelope of prints. The place smells faintly like coffee and laundry detergent, and Louis exhales beside him like he's finally able to relax—like the weight of the night slips off his shoulders the second they step inside.

"Shower?" Harry asks, already kicking off his shoes. "You're literally wearing developer fluid."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Only if you're getting in with me."

Harry pauses, then gives a short laugh, fond and helpless. "It's tiny."

"So?" Louis says, voice all challenge, already tugging his jumper over his head. "We'll manage."

They do. Barely.

Clothes are peeled off and tossed vaguely in the direction of the hamper, landing in a messy pile just short of it. Harry tries not to stare too hard, but it's the first time he's seen Louis completely bare—nothing between them, no clothes, no half-lit shadows, no sheets or careful angles. Just Louis, standing in the soft bathroom light, unapologetically naked and watching him with quiet confidence.

It hits him then—this is the first time Louis is seeing him, too.

Harry steps into the shower before the water's properly hot, the tiles still cold against his feet. Probably for the best. His skin's already burning.

He reaches a hand out, and Louis takes it.

The shower is as small as he warned—narrow and cramped, barely enough space to turn without brushing up against each other. So they don't bother trying. Louis steps in close, water streaming over both of them, and suddenly they're chest to chest, hip to hip, all heat and heartbeat and slick skin.

Harry looks down. Louis is gazing up at him through wet lashes, hair flattened, droplets sliding down his temples. His eyes are bright even in the steam, steady and unreadable, like he's trying to memorise the moment.

Harry can't help but brush a hand over Louis' cheek, thumb catching a bead of water at the corner of his mouth. He feels open, a little stunned.

"Hi," he says softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Louis huffs a quiet laugh, nose scrunching. "Hi."

And it's stupid, Harry thinks—how something so small can feel like everything.

Harry looks down, taking him in—really taking him in—for the first time.

Louis' blue eyes are wide, shining through the mist, lashes clumped together from the water. His scruffy chin is dotted with the start of a beard, the stubble catching the light and making him look older, rougher, realer. Water drips from his jaw to his collarbone, trails down the lines of his chest.

And God, his chest.

There are tattoos—the ones Harry could see in the photo he took but they're clearer here. Some are small and faint, the kind of stick-and-pokes done in low light with a shaky hand. They're scattered across his chest and arms in no particular order, raw little symbols and words in a similar style to the ones on his fingers. A few look old and faded, others darker, newer. Harry figures being unhoused doesn't exactly lend itself to high-end tattoo studios. But it makes them feel more his, like pages from his private journal etched into skin.

His hand moves on instinct, sliding up from Louis' hip, tracing the ink just beneath his collarbone. His fingers brush over the simple lettering across the centre of Louis' chest: it is what it is.

The words are unpolished and a little crooked, the kind of thing someone etched into him with cheap ink and too much time. But Harry can't imagine anything suiting Louis more. There's something devastating about it—how resigned and brave it is all at once.

He swallows around the ache in his throat and dips his head, pressing a kiss to the centre of Louis' chest, right over the ink.

Louis' hands slide to Harry's waist as he does, holding him steady, thumbs brushing against the wet skin at his sides. When Harry lifts his head, their mouths meet in the middle—slow and deliberate, steam curling around them as they kiss.

They wash as best they can in the cramped space, bodies bumping gently as they twist and reach for bottles, passing them back and forth with murmured "heres" and "thanks." At one point, Louis has to duck under Harry's arm to rinse the shampoo from his hair, and Harry catches the curve of his smile just before the water hits his face.

It's quiet, easy. No pressure, just touch and warmth and the slow comfort of sharing space.

When they finally step out, dripping onto the bathmat, Harry grabs a towel from the rail and hands it over, watching as Louis scrubs it through his hair. He wraps his own towel around his waist, then pushes his damp curls back from his forehead.

"I'll put the kettle on," he says, already stepping out into the hallway, bare feet padding across the floorboards. "Want peppermint or boring builder's?"

"Builder's," Louis calls after him. "But only if it's strong enough to stun a horse."

Harry huffs a laugh and disappears into the little kitchen, flicking the kettle on and grabbing two mugs down from the open shelf.

Louis lingers near the bed, towelling off a bit more before tugging on the joggers Harry had set out for him. He doesn't bother with a top, just sits back on the edge of the bed, towel still loose around his shoulders.

"I'm just gonna check the emails from the shelters again," he says when Harry reappears with two steaming mugs. "Y'know... just in case someone's come through last minute."

Harry nods, gaze flicking towards the laptop on the table before he steps forward and sets a mug on the bedside table. "Yeah. Course."

It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. If something has come through, it means Louis could be leaving in the morning.

Neither of them say that part aloud.

Harry drifts back into the kitchen with his tea, steam curling from the mug as he sets it down and starts to sift through the envelope of darkroom prints they'd developed earlier. It's a small distraction—he tells himself it's just to give Louis some space—but his hands are a little too careful, a little too slow as he sorts through the photos.

He picks a few out and walks to the window. The string there is already dotted with mini wooden pegs, and he clips the new prints up, one by one, arranging them so the light from outside hits just right.

Behind him, Louis is tapping away at the keyboard, the clacking oddly harsh in the quiet flat. It sounds like banging to Harry, too loud, too pointed, like every keystroke is hammering in the countdown.

He tries not to look, but he does anyway. Steals a glance over his shoulder. Louis' face is neutral—focused—but too neutral. No furrowed brow, no smile, nothing that gives anything away.

Harry stands at the kitchen counter, fingers curled around the edge, staring at his tea as if it could settle the twist in his stomach.

Then Louis speaks.

"Oh, cool," he says from the table, tone too light, like he's trying to carry it with a lift that doesn't quite reach. "Greenwood has space, they said."

Harry doesn't move. Doesn't look back. Just continues to stare into his tea like it might offer him an answer, some kind of clarity or calm.

"Oh. Cool," he says, matching Louis' tone, trying to wedge something cheerful into it—but it catches, thin and brittle around the edges. He lifts the mug, takes a sip. Pretends it doesn't burn on the way down.

Harry sighs, soft but audible, and finally turns around, the mug still warm in his hands.

"That's good, isn't it, Lou?" he says, trying to keep his voice steady, casual, like it doesn't feel like something's splintering in his chest.

Louis closes the laptop with a quiet snap and spins the chair around to face him. "Yeah," he says, and he's smiling now, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Isn't it?" He glances down at his lap for a second, then back up, clearing his throat. "I can go anytime from midday, it says."

Harry swallows. The smile he forces is tight at the corners, and he can feel it falter as soon as it's there. "Right. That's... yeah. That's good."

His eyes flick, unbidden, to the old backpack by the front door—the same one Louis had slung over his shoulder the day Harry bought him here. It's been there ever since, like it was always ready to go. Just in case.

Harry looks away quickly, lifting the mug again just for something to do with his hands. "Do you, uh... do you need help packing anything?" he asks, voice low.

Louis shakes his head, that not-quite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Nah," he says quietly. "I don't have a lot, do I?"

The words settle heavily in the space between them. Harry doesn't know what to say to that—not really. His chest tugs in a way he doesn't have language for, so he just nods instead and turns away.

He sets his mug on the counter, suddenly aware that he's still only in a towel, the fabric now cool and damp against his skin. He pads over to the chest of drawers, pulls it open, fingers drifting through the familiar softness of worn-in cotton—t-shirts and joggers, the things he always reaches for when he needs comfort.

He's just about to grab a pair when he feels Louis, warm and solid, pressing in behind him. Arms loop around his waist, and then Louis' mouth is brushing lightly over the skin of his upper back, the kiss more comforting than sexual. Harry lets his head drop forward, eyes fluttering shut.

Louis turns him gently, palms warm on his sides. They look at each other for a beat, then Louis leans in and kisses him. It's soft, unhurried. A quiet thing.

Harry cups Louis' face with both hands, thumbs pressing lightly into his cheeks. Louis moves forward, guiding them both, and Harry lets himself be led back toward the bed. The towel slips as they go, loosening at his hips.

Just as it begins to fall, Harry instinctively reaches to catch it, hand fisting in the edge—but Louis covers it with his own. Their eyes meet again, Louis' gaze steady.

"It's okay," he murmurs.

Louis peels the towel away and tosses it toward the end of the bed. Neither of them says anything. They just climb onto the mattress together, bodies finding each other without needing to talk, like they've done this a hundred times—like they'll do it again.

Harry falls back against the pillows, his head tipping to the side as Louis climbs over him. The weight of him is grounding, a quiet kind of comfort. Louis kisses the corner of Harry's mouth, then down his jaw, his stubble scraping lightly against soft skin.

Harry lets out a breath when Louis mouths at his neck, slow and deliberate, tongue flicking against the spot just below his ear. His hands settle on Louis' back, fingers splaying wide. Louis presses closer, hips cradling Harry's, and Harry can feel the shape of him through his joggers.

Louis trails kisses lower, over the curve of Harry's collarbone, across his chest. He pauses to suck at a spot just beside his nipple, and Harry gasps, arching slightly. His cock twitches against Louis' stomach, half-hard already, thickening with every soft brush of Louis' lips.

"You're..." Harry breathes, voice hoarse, "God, Lou."

Louis just hums, glancing up at him through his lashes with a lazy, pleased smile before continuing his path downward. He kisses the centre of Harry's chest, the dip of his sternum, and then further, over the soft curve of his belly.

Harry's breath stutters when Louis settles between his legs, hands slipping down to gently coax them apart. One hand rests on Harry's thigh while the other curls around the base of his cock, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke.

Harry's hips twitch. His eyes flutter closed. And then Louis leans in, mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the underside of him before finally he sinks down slow, lips wrapping around the head.

Harry groans, head tipping back against the pillows, hands flying up to clutch at the sheets.

"Fuck," he gasps, voice cracking. "Louis..."

Louis doesn't say anything. He just hums low, mouth full, and starts to move. He takes his time with it.

His mouth is hot and wet and perfect, his movements slow and purposeful. He pulls back just enough to swirl his tongue around the tip before sinking down again, deeper this time, hollowing his cheeks as he goes. His hand wraps tighter around the base, stroking in tandem with the slow bob of his head, and Harry can't help the way his thighs tense, how his fingers reach out blindly for something to hold on to.

"Jesus," Harry breathes, voice wrecked. His eyes flutter open for a second, only to land on Louis between his legs—cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his mouth stretched around Harry's cock—and it just about undoes him.

He bites his lip, trying not to moan too loudly, but a choked sound slips out when Louis moans around him, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. Louis seems to notice, does it again on purpose, and Harry's hips twitch in response.

"Louis," he says again, almost a plea now.

Louis pulls off for a moment, his hand still working him slow and steady. He looks up at Harry through his lashes, lips shiny, breathing hard. "Yeah?" he murmurs, voice wrecked too, like he's just as turned on, just as undone by all of this.

Harry blinks down at him, chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead. "You're so—fuck, you're so good at this."

Louis smirks, a lazy little thing, and leans back in without replying—taking him deep again in one slow, smooth motion.

Harry cries out softly, thighs trembling, hand sliding to Louis' shoulder, grounding himself.

Everything about it is overwhelming in the best way—the slick slide of Louis' mouth, the tight heat of his throat, the press of his tongue every time he moves. And Harry can't stop watching him now, can't stop looking at the way Louis is giving this to him like he wants to, like he needs to.

His head drops back against the pillows again as his orgasm begins to coil, low and hot, in his stomach.

"I'm not—" he manages, breathless, warning. "Lou, I'm—"

Louis doesn't stop. If anything, he sinks down further, taking Harry deeper, one hand steadying his hip now as Harry begins to shake.

It's too much. It's perfect. Harry comes with a strangled gasp, his whole body tensing beneath Louis' touch, mouth open and neck arched, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure crashes over him in thick, pulsing waves.

Louis swallows him down, steady and unhurried, only pulling back when Harry flinches from oversensitivity. He rests his cheek against Harry's thigh for a second, breathing hard, one arm still draped lazily across Harry's hip.

Harry's hand finds Louis' hair, gentle fingers threading through the strands.

"Fuck," he murmurs, completely wrecked. "That was..."

He can't even finish the sentence. He's too blissed out, too warm, too full of Louis.

And Louis just laughs softly against his skin, like he knows.

Louis presses a kiss just above Harry's hip before pushing himself up, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Are you hungry?" he says, casual and fond, like they haven't just melted each other into the mattress. "Show me how to make that pasta thing you're always on about?"

Harry huffs a breathless laugh, arm thrown over his face. "Give me, like, five minutes. I can't feel my legs."

But Louis is already up, padding towards the kitchen barefoot. "Better hurry," he calls, disappearing toward the kitchen. "Or I'll just put crisps in a bowl and call it a salad."

Harry grins into the pillow, heart full.

They crawl into bed after eating, limbs loose and full-bellied, the kind of comfortable that comes from shared warmth and quiet laughter over a half-burnt garlic bread. The room is dim, only the low orange glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls.

Harry ends up with his head on Louis' chest, one arm slung across his middle, fingers absentmindedly drawing slow circles over the skin there. Louis smells like Harry's body wash, feels like home under his cheek.

He wants to ask. Wants to say, Will you come back? After Christmas? Wants to tell him he can stay for as long as he wants, that he doesn't have to go it alone anymore. That Harry wants him here.

But he doesn't. Not tonight. The words feel too big, too fragile in the hush between them.

Instead, he listens to the steady thud of Louis' heart beneath his ear, lets it anchor him. Louis will come back. He has to. Harry lets himself believe that, for now.

He falls asleep like that—wrapped in Louis' arms, warm and safe and quietly, hopelessly fond.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

Harry watches from the kitchen, cradling his mug in both hands like it might ground him. Louis is crouched by the door, methodically rolling his clothes, folding them into the worn backpack like it's just another day. Like it's not killing Harry to see him do it.

He's so careful with it—shirts smoothed down, socks paired and tucked into corners—and it hits Harry then just how used to this Louis must be. How practiced. How often he's probably had to pack up his whole life in minutes and carry it on his back.

Harry wants to ask him to stop. To say, you don't have to go, stay here, let me help you figure this out. He wants to unzip the bag and pull everything back out, scatter it across the floor and say, you live here now. With me.

But he doesn't. Because he doesn't know if that would help or just make it harder. And because he promised himself he wouldn't make Louis feel like he owed him anything.

Still—he aches with the want of it. Of Louis staying. Of mornings like this that don't have to end with a half-hearted smile and a too-casual thanks for letting me crash.

Harry sips his tea. It tastes like nothing. He watches Louis tuck his sketchpad into the side of the bag, zip it up with a finality that makes Harry's chest twist.

He doesn't say a word. Just stands there and watches the boy he's falling for prepare to leave him.

Louis straightens up, glancing around like he's checking for anything he's missed. Harry leans against the counter, arms folded loosely, the words already forming in his throat before he's even sure how to say them.

"You know," Harry starts, careful, "after Christmas... I could help you look for something. Somewhere to stay, I mean. Doesn't have to be just you figuring it all out."

There's a pause. Then Louis gives a single nod, small but certain. "Alright," he says. "Yeah, maybe we could do that."

Harry nods as Louis slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and gives the flat one last glance, like he's memorising the corners of it. Harry stands near the door, fingers twitching at his sides.

"Do you want me to walk with you?" he asks. "To the shelter, I mean."

Louis smiles, soft and a little sad. "I'll be alright. You don't need to go out in the cold. Just... stay where it's warm, yeah?"

Harry hesitates for a second before nodding. "Okay."

They step closer at the same time. The hug is firm and lingering, Louis' face tucked in close to Harry's neck, Harry breathing him in like he's trying to hold onto it. When they pull back, there's a kiss—gentle, familiar, final.

"Don't miss me too much," Louis murmurs, his thumb brushing Harry's jaw.

Harry smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "No promises."

And then Louis is gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Harry is alone again in the quiet hush of his flat. It feels colder already.

Harry spends most of the day wandering from the kitchen, to the bed, to the sofa, like he's forgotten what to do with himself. He's barely touched his tea. The flat is too quiet, and everything is still.

Later, when the sky starts bruising toward evening, he pulls his laptop onto the sofa and starts going through the photos he's taken over the past few weeks—every frame where Louis had turned his head toward the light just right, or wasn't looking at all, soft and unaware and beautiful.

Some are blurry, some are so sharp they ache. Louis asleep on the sofa. Louis in Harry's hoodie, sleeves bunched at his wrists, fingers smudged with pencil and ink. Louis laughing.

He goes to move them to the folder he's been saving them in—Bridge Boy, named back when Louis was just some mysterious stranger—but his hand hovers over the title. Then, slowly, he renames it.

Louis.

Simple. Honest. Because that's who he is now.

Afterward, the flat feels even emptier. Like even the photos are hollow.

He tries to cook something, but gives up halfway through. Can't stand how the silence clings to everything. He sits down on the sofa, stares at the armchair Louis used to curl up in while sketching. He can see him there, legs tucked under himself, sketchpad balanced on his thigh. Can hear the teasing laugh when Harry burns something on the hob, the off-key hum when he makes coffee.

The bed's still unmade from this morning, Louis' indentation still in the pillow, his scent barely hanging on.

Harry sinks onto the edge of it, chest tight, stomach curled in on itself.

He knew he'd grown dependent—he knew it. But it's ridiculous, this hollow ache that's burrowed into his ribs. He keeps catching himself turning to say something aloud. Keeps thinking he hears footsteps or the sound of sketch pencils rolling across the table.

Louis is in everything. Every inch of this place is a reminder.

And for the first time since the door closed behind him, Harry lets the thought take root:

What if he doesn't come back?

What if that was it?

⋆｡˚ ☁︎⋆｡

Harry hasn't really slept. He's tried—he's laid on Louis' side of the bed, cheek pressed into the pillow that still smells like him, like that might help. It doesn't. Not really.

He keeps wondering if Louis is doing the same. If he's curled up on some scratchy cot or thin mattress somewhere, bag tucked against his chest, thinking about Harry's warm, cluttered flat. If he's missing him even half as much.

By morning, Harry gives up. His head throbs dully, and his chest feels heavy with all the words he never said. He gets up, dresses quietly, and steps out into the frozen city.

Distraction, he tells himself. Fresh air. Movement.

He hasn't walked past Kirkgate in over a week—not since Louis started staying with him. It wasn't on purpose, avoiding it. But now, as his boots crunch over the frostbitten pavement and the air burns sharp in his throat, his feet carry him there anyway. Muscle memory. Or maybe something deeper. Maybe heart memory.

The tramline glints faintly in the low winter light as he crosses it, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He glances up without thinking, eyes dragging toward the wall just before the bridge.

And that's when he walks straight into someone.

Or someone walks straight into him.

"Oof—shit, sorry—"

Harry stumbles, heart vaulting into his throat, and his hands shoot out on instinct to steady the other person.

And then he sees him.

Bundled in his coat, backpack slung over one shoulder, hood half-down, cheeks pink from the cold. He looks tired. He looks frozen. He looks exactly like Harry remembers.

For a second, they just stare at each other, breaths clouding in the cold air. Harry's hands are still on Louis' arms.

"What the fuck," Harry's voice isn't angry—it's breathless with disbelief, sharp-edged with concern. "Louis—what the fuck are you doing out here?"

Louis huffs out a visible breath and shrugs, eyes darting away. "Just needed some air. Left the shelter for a bit. That's all."

Harry takes in the way Louis is shivering, the way his fingertips are red and stiff in his sleeves, how his nose is raw from the cold. Fresh air his arse.

"It's freezing," Harry says. "You're freezing."

Louis pulls his coat tighter around himself. "M'fine."

"You said Greenwood had space," Harry says, quieter now. "You told me they did."

"They did!" Louis replies too quickly. "They do. I just—I needed to get out for a bit. Just for a walk."

Harry narrows his eyes, heart kicking against his ribs. "This early? In this weather? Louis, that's not just a walk."

Louis doesn't answer. His lips are pressed into a thin line. His breath curls up around him like fog, but he doesn't move.

"Was there a fight?" Harry asks, stepping forward. "Did someone—was it not safe?"

"No," Louis says immediately. "No. Nothing like that."

Harry lists off other possibilities, trying to make sense of it—curfew issues, someone stealing his things, the shelter being overrun, a volunteer being cruel.

Louis shakes his head again, each no quieter than the last.

And Harry realises. There's nothing to explain because Louis never went at all.

His chest goes tight. "You didn't go to Greenwood."

Louis looks down at his shoes. That's all the answer Harry needs.

"You lied to me," Harry says, and it comes out gentler than he expects.

Louis shrugs. "I didn't— I just thought it'd be easier. For both of us."

Harry feels something ache behind his ribs. "Easier?"

"I'm not your problem, Harry," Louis mutters. "I can't just live in your flat forever, sponging off you. It's not fair. I had to go."

"So instead of staying where it was safe, you came back out here? To this?" Harry gestures to the icy pavement, the bridge, the shadows in the corners of the street. "Jesus, Louis. You slept rough again. On Christmas Eve."

Louis looks away again, blinking hard.

Harry steps closer, lowering his voice. "You're coming home."

Louis starts to shake his head but Harry cuts him off, firm now. "You're coming home, Louis."

The walk back is silent. Not quiet—silent. Louis doesn't say a word, and Harry doesn't either, not really trusting what might come out if he opens his mouth.

Their boots scuff the pavement, one after the other, and Harry's mind won't shut up. It's louder than the traffic, louder than the wind. Louder than anything.

Why did he lie? Why didn't he stay?
Was it pride? Shame?
Was it because he never planned to come back at all?
Did he just not want to be around Harry anymore?
Was all of it—every kiss, every night curled into one another—just something temporary for him? Just survival?
Maybe he just doesn't... like you like that.
Maybe you read it all wrong.

Harry feels sick. He leads the way up the stairs, unlocking the flat with fingers that barely feel the key. Louis steps in behind him and Harry stares at the door a moment too long after shutting it.

Then he turns.

"You lied to me," he says again.

Louis doesn't look surprised. "I know."

"You told me Greenwood had space."

"They did," Louis replies, automatically. Then, with a sigh, "They emailed to say it fell through. I just didn't tell you."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Why?"

Louis runs a hand through his hair, damp from the snow. "I just... couldn't. It was already feeling too much. Being here, taking up your space, eating your food, using your water, your heating—"

"So you were gonna freeze instead?"

"I was gonna figure it out."

"Alone?" Harry asks, voice rising. "You were going to figure it out alone?"

"That's what I've always done, Haz."

Harry flinches at the nickname, because Louis still says it soft and familiar, like everything hasn't just been torn apart. Like Harry isn't standing here with his heart hanging out of his chest.

"You don't have to anymore," Harry says. "That's the point, Louis. You could've stayed. You should have stayed."

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

Louis doesn't answer.

Harry feels the frustration rise up like bile. "Is it me? Did I do something? Say something? Is it—do you just not want me? Was this just a temporary thing for you?"

Louis looks up sharply, eyes wide. "No."

"Then what the fuck is it?"

Louis throws his hands out. "Because I didn't want to need you this much, alright?"

Silence.

Harry blinks.

Louis keeps going, voice cracking at the edges. "Because I do need you. And that terrifies me. I've been on my own for so long that letting someone help me feels like I'm giving up a piece of myself I don't know how to get back. And I didn't want to stay here and start feeling like it was mine when it's not."

"What about me?" Harry snaps, voice cracking. "What about what I need, Louis?"

That stops Louis cold.

His head jerks up, stunned, like he wasn't expecting it. Like the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

Harry can feel it now, the sting behind his eyes, burning hot. His chest heaves and he feels selfish asking Louis to think about him too, but he can't help it.

"What... what you need?" Louis echoes, almost disbelieving. "Harry, you have somewhere to live. You have a job. You've got money. You've got—family."

The volume of his voice rises with every word, until they're not just talking anymore—they're shouting.

"I have to do everything alone!" Louis yells. "I'm not like you, Harry. My life is hard."

"So you think because I've got a flat and a job that everything's easy for me?" Harry shouts back, stepping forward, shoulders tense, hands shaking.

"Yes!" Louis spits, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry stares at him, chest rising and falling fast—and then something just breaks in him.

"Well it's not, Louis!" he shouts, his voice cracking apart. "It's fucking hard here as well! You think this flat makes me happy? That money means anything when I come home and sit in silence? Before I met you, I'd never felt so fucking alone!"

Louis is silent, frozen in place.

"You've changed my life," Harry breathes, his voice a wreck now, wet and uneven, tears finally falling. "You ask me how my day was. You remind me to eat. You laugh with me, and you see me, and you stay."

Harry wipes his face angrily with the sleeve of his hoodie, like he's annoyed at the tears for showing up at all.

"I don't want to do this alone anymore," he says, quieter now, like all the fight's drained out of him. "I want to help you. For fuck's sake, Louis, I want you here. Not because I pity you. Not because I want to save you. But because I love you."

He hadn't planned to say it. Hadn't even realised it until now. But it sits there between them like something inevitable.

Louis doesn't move.

Harry lets out a sharp breath, a humorless laugh. "Right. Okay. Fuck. I shouldn't have said that."

But Louis speaks before he can turn away. "Harry..."

Harry doesn't look up.

"Harry, look at me."

He does.

And Louis is crying now too, silent and still. "I didn't know," he says, voice thin. "I didn't know I'd made you feel less alone."

"You did," Harry whispers. "You do."

Louis steps forward, close enough to touch, but doesn't yet. His voice breaks. "You... you can't just say that."

"I didn't mean to," Harry says. "But it's true."

Louis shakes his head slowly, like he's trying to clear it. "I don't know how to be what you deserve. I've never done this right. Every time I've tried, I've ruined it."

"You haven't ruined anything," Harry says, steady now. "You're just scared."

Louis laughs, but it cracks. "Of course I'm scared. I've been alone since I was nineteen. I don't know how to let someone in without wrecking it."

Harry takes a small step forward. "You don't have to get it perfect. I just need you to try."

Louis steps forward again, "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm scared all the time. I don't want to mess this up."

"You won't," Harry says, without hesitation. "We'll figure it out. Together."

Louis nods slowly, and finally reaches for him.

And this time, when they cling to each other, it's not just to keep warm. It's to keep each other grounded. To stay.

They hold on for a long time, neither of them moving, like letting go might undo whatever fragile thread just stitched them back together. Louis tucks his face into the curve of Harry's neck, breath warm against his skin, while Harry presses his nose into the top of Louis' head and breathes him in—clean laundry and rain and something distinctly him.

Their bodies mould together easily, like they remember how.

Eventually, Harry's arms loosen just a little, not wanting to let go but knowing he needs to. He lingers for a beat longer, pressing the softest kiss into Louis' hair.

Then he pulls back, gently, and heads to the kitchen, hands still trembling slightly as he fills the kettle, blinking back the last of his tears. He doesn't say anything, but when he glances over his shoulder, Louis is right there, sitting on the sofa.

Harry makes tea the way Louis likes it, even though he never really asked. He just remembers. He brings the mugs over, handing one off, and sinks into the space beside Louis.

Louis leans into him instantly, his head dropping onto Harry's shoulder like it's always belonged there. He exhales long and slow, and Harry feels some of the tension bleed out of both of them.

"I'm sorry," Louis murmurs, barely more than a breath against Harry's hoodie.

Harry turns slightly, pressing his lips to Louis' hair. "Me too."

Their mugs rest forgotten on the coffee table. Louis shifts, their arms brushing, and his little finger finds Harry's, linking them gently. It's nothing big, just a quiet promise passed between fingertips.

"I don't want to argue with you," Louis says, eyes on their hands. "I want help."

Harry feels his chest ache in the best kind of way. He tilts his head to look down at Louis, their eyes meeting. Louis looks a little scared. A little hopeful. Harry leans down and kisses his forehead.

"I've got you," he says softly.

And he hopes, prays that Louis believes him.

"I, um... I got you something. For Christmas. I should have given it to you before you left but..."

Louis lifts his head a little, blinking at him. "You did?"

Harry nods, already shifting to stand. "Yeah. It's not... big or anything. Just—wait here."

He disappears into the bedroom for a moment, rummaging quietly. When he returns, he's holding a wrapped rectangle—plain brown paper tied with a bit of string. He hands it over with the most tentative look on his face.

Louis takes it carefully. "You didn't have to get me anything, you know."

"I wanted to," Harry says, settling beside him again. "You kept going back to it. That day in the bookshop."

Louis unwraps the paper slowly, revealing the old shipping log book they'd stumbled across weeks ago in the dusty antique bookshop tucked near the Corn Exchange. The one Louis had picked up and turned over in his hands, tracing faded lines of ocean routes and ports, before carefully putting it back on the shelf.

His breath hitches just slightly.

"Harry..."

"I just thought—" Harry shrugs, awkward, fidgeting. "You liked it. And I dunno. I liked watching you look at it."

Louis turns the book in his lap, fingers brushing the worn cover. He doesn't speak right away, just flips it open to a random page and stares at the delicate blues and inked coastlines like it might fall apart under his fingertips.

Finally, he looks up. "This is the nicest thing anyone's got me in... fuck, I don't even know how long."

Harry's throat is tight when he says, "Well. You deserve nice things."

Louis doesn't say thank you, not with words. He leans in instead, pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek, then his temple, then his lips—gentle and lingering, full of something close to longing.

And then they just sit again, quiet and close, the book open across Louis' knees, their shoulders pressed together as they turn each page in unspoken sync.

Christmas Day unfolds quietly, like the world outside has slowed just for them.

There's no tree, no wrapped presents, no carols playing softly in the background. But there's warmth. There's laughter. There's Harry in the kitchen in his joggers, sleeves rolled up, trying to figure out how to make something vaguely festive with what's in the cupboard.

Louis leans against the counter, absolutely no help at all, pressing kisses to Harry's shoulder every time he passes by with a spoon or pan. He keeps asking things like "Do potatoes need to be washed if they're already brown?" and "What's the actual difference between stuffing and just... seasoned breadcrumbs?" until Harry throws a dish towel at him with a fond groan.

They eat at the little kitchen table, knees bumping under it. The food is decent, if a little chaotic, and Harry insists that Louis say one thing he's grateful for before they can eat. Louis rolls his eyes but plays along. He says, "You," and Harry looks down at his plate like it didn't completely shatter something inside him.

Afterward, they don't even pretend to tidy up. They fall into bed together, limbs tangled, full-bellied and content in that strange, floaty way only holidays seem to allow.

They talk for hours—about nothing, about everything. Harry tells stories from his childhood, laughing as he mimics voices and gestures. Louis admits he hasn't had a proper Christmas since he was a teenager. They giggle over stupid things, the kind of laughter that bubbles up in the quiet of a shared bed. At one point, Louis kisses Harry's jaw mid-sentence, unprompted, and Harry just grins, trailing little shapes over the skin beneath Louis' ribs.

Harry's head ends up on Louis' chest, fingers still moving in slow, idle circles. He feels each breath Louis takes, the steady rhythm of his heart, and lets it soothe him. Louis has a hand in Harry's curls, carding through them gently, and the silence between them settles like a soft blanket.

After a while, Louis shifts a little, voice low and certain as he says, "This is my favourite Christmas Day. Ever."

Harry tips his head up at that, eyes shining, and leans in to kiss along Louis' jaw. Louis hums softly beneath him, tilts his head just enough to give Harry more space. Encouragement. Gratitude. Something wordless and warm. Harry keeps going—kisses the stubble along Louis' cheek, the corner of his mouth, and then finally, finally, catches his lips properly.

The kiss deepens without them meaning it to. Harry moves to hover half on top of Louis, his thigh sliding between Louis' legs—and that's when he feels the unmistakable press of Louis hardening against him.

Harry lets out a quiet, breathy laugh against Louis' mouth. "Is that a shipping map in your boxers, or are you just happy to see me?"

Louis snorts, tipping his head back with a groan. "Jesus Christ, that was terrible."

"I try," Harry grins, grinding down just slightly to make his point.

Louis grabs Harry's hip with one hand, the other cupping the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss—this one slower, deeper, more intent. There's something hot and electric building now, melting into the spaces between them. The kisses turn sloppier, hungrier, but still laced with that sweet familiarity.

Harry mouths at Louis' jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat. Louis sighs beneath him, legs spreading just a bit more, hands running over Harry's back and waist like he can't decide where to touch first.

"God, you feel good," Louis murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

Their bodies press closer with each shift, each touch, and it's not hurried, not desperate—it's all quiet want and aching patience, like they're savouring the feeling of finally being here. Together.

Harry's hands roam—up Louis' sides, under the hem of his shirt—and Louis lifts his arms wordlessly, letting him pull it off. Then Harry tugs off his own shirt, tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed. When their bare skin meets, it feels like something new, something reverent, like every nerve ending in Harry's body is lighting up just to touch Louis.

Harry leg is between Louis' thigh, and Louis grinds against him, hips moving with a kind of desperate rhythm. Harry feels the sharp bite of teeth on his shoulder—Louis, trying to muffle the noises spilling out of him.

"God, you're—" Louis starts, but his voice catches when Harry leans in and licks up the side of his neck, then sucks hard just beneath his ear, marking him.

"I'm what?" Harry murmurs, lips brushing over hot skin, his voice low and ruined and just a bit smug.

Louis breathes hard, arching under him. "Too fucking good at this," he says, voice breaking, his nails scratching lightly down Harry's back. "Makes me feel like—like I'm losing my fucking mind."

Harry exhales a breathless laugh against his jaw, then scrapes his teeth along it, slow and deliberate. "You should see yourself," he whispers, dragging his mouth lower, kissing across Louis' chest.

Louis curses under his breath, but it's cut off by a moan when Harry bites gently at his nipple, then soothes it with his tongue. He's trembling a little now—Harry can feel it—and that only makes him want to push further.

"You want me to stop?" Harry asks, lifting his head just enough to meet Louis' eyes, even though he already knows the answer.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Harry grins, heat coiling low in his stomach. He kisses Louis once—slow and firm—and then starts to slide down the bed, trailing his mouth over warm skin as he goes. His fingers hook into the waistband of Louis' joggers and he glances up, just to be sure, but Louis lifts his hips without hesitation, eyes dark, lips parted.

Harry pulls them down slowly, dragging the soft cotton over Louis' thighs, his knees, his ankles—kissing along the trail as he goes. The boxers are discarded somewhere behind him, but Louis, stretched out and breathless, holds his attention like nothing else ever has. He's flushed, hard, glistening at the tip, and Harry has to pause, just for a second, to take him in. To breathe.

He smooths a hand over Louis' stomach, fingers brushing over the flutter of muscle beneath warm skin. Then lower. His palm curves around him with aching gentleness, reverence, thumb brushing the sensitive underside. Louis twitches in his hand, hips stuttering upward, and Harry tightens his grip just slightly—dragging his fist in a slow, steady stroke.

Louis moans, choked and needy, his hand gripping the sheets desperately. His thighs fall further apart, and Harry can feel how badly he wants it—wants him—in every tremble, every gasp, every desperate exhale of his name.

He twists his wrist at the end of each stroke, the way he knows Louis likes, and watches as his head tips back, mouth slack, eyes fluttering. The sound he makes is wrecked, all raw need and want, and it lights Harry up from the inside like a match to dry paper.

Louis is unravelling beneath him, and Harry feels like the luckiest person alive just to hold him while he does.

Harry's heart is pounding. His whole body is burning. He looks up the length of Louis' body—flushed, panting, hair clinging to his forehead—and thinks, This is mine. I get to have this. Him.

And then he leans in again, mouth trailing over skin, and keeps going.

"Shit—Harry—don't stop, don't—"

"You sound so fucking pretty when you moan," Harry mutters, lips brushing Louis' hip, then his inner thigh. He licks a stripe up the sensitive skin, teeth catching lightly, and Louis jolts, hips jerking off the bed, his fingers tangling tight in Harry's curls.

"I'm gonna lose it," Louis groans. "I swear—God—if you don't fuck me soon I'm gonna fucking combust."

Harry lifts his head, breathless, eyes dark and blown wide, lips slick from kissing. "Yeah?" he says, crawling back up over him, dragging his cock along Louis' as he goes, the friction dizzying. "You want me that bad?"

Louis groans like it's physically painful, his eyes squeezed shut. "You know I do," he pants. "You've known since the first time you bought me coffee"

That hits Harry square in the chest—raw, intense, overwhelming. He grabs Louis' face in both hands and kisses him like he's starving for it, tongue sliding deep, catching every sound Louis makes as their cocks grind together, hot and aching between them.

When Harry finally pulls back, he rests their foreheads together, both of them panting, sweat-damp and flushed.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You drive me insane."

Louis' mouth is red, eyes wild. He licks his lips and looks at Harry like he's the only thing he's ever wanted. "Good," he says, low and wrecked. "Then you'll know exactly how I feel."

Harry groans like he's breaking apart, eyes fluttering shut—and then, finally, he reaches for the drawer.

He shifts up on one elbow, hand dragging slowly down Louis' stomach, catching the way his breath stutters as he reaches over. His fingers fumble for the small foil packet, pulling it free. When he turns back, Louis is watching him—lips parted, flushed, eyes dark and wrecked, hair wild against the pillow.

Harry grins, biting his lip as he leans down to kiss him—slow and messy and deep, the kind of kiss that leaves them both gasping. His hand slides down Louis' thigh, coaxing it higher around his hip. Skin on skin, heat pressed close, his cock heavy and aching between them as he shifts to line them up.

The foil tears with a soft sound, and Harry rolls the condom on, breath ragged, chest heaving like he's just sprinted a mile. Louis never looks away—watching him with parted lips, eyes dropping low, jaw tight.

Harry leans over him again, mouths brushing, his lips finding Louis' neck, kissing, sucking just hard enough to make him shiver. He rolls his hips slow, cock brushing where Louis is hot and wanting, teasing—just for a moment.

Louis groans, head tipping back. "If you keep dragging it out, I'm gonna start begging."

Harry huffs out a low laugh against his skin. "Yeah?" he murmurs, tongue flicking over the mark he just left. "Bet you'd sound incredible."

Louis makes a choked sound, hips twitching. "Fucking hell, you're awful."

Harry grins against his throat.

Their mouths crash together again—urgent, open, a little wild. Hands claw at bare skin, searching for something solid. At some point, Harry fumbles in the drawer by the bed again, coming up with a small bottle, pressing a quick kiss to Louis' jaw as he flips the cap. He slicks his fingers, takes his time with it—careful, attentive, coaxing Louis open until he's panting into Harry's mouth and pulling at his hair.

Then Harry reaches between them, adjusting them both, and finally—finally—he starts to push in, slow and steady, careful and burning.

Louis gasps, sharp and high, his hands clenching around Harry's biceps. Harry stills instantly, heart hammering, eyes on Louis' face.

"Okay?" he whispers.

Louis nods, exhaling like he's just remembered how to breathe. "Yeah. Fuck. Yes."

Harry sinks in the rest of the way with a low groan, forehead resting against Louis', everything hot and blinding and too much and not enough. Louis wraps his legs tighter around him and Harry stays still for just a moment longer, letting them settle before he moves.

And then—slow, deep thrusts, mouths finding each other again in half-kisses and gasps, skin slick with sweat, fingers tangled. The room feels small around them, but nothing matters except the two of them and this rhythm, this heat, this shared breath.

Louis' breath stutters every time Harry moves, the slow drag of his hips pulling soft, desperate sounds from his throat. His hands roam blindly—Harry's back, his shoulders, his face—like he can't get enough of touching him, like he's scared he'll disappear if he lets go.

Harry's hand slips between them, wrapping around Louis again, stroking him in time with each roll of his hips. It's all too much, but neither of them want it to stop.

"Harry," Louis breathes, voice breaking on his name.

Harry groans, pressing closer, kissing him deep and messy. "I've got you," he murmurs against his lips. "Feels so good, Lou. You feel so fucking good."

Louis gasps—at the way Harry says it, at the way it feels—and his fingers dig into Harry's sides, urging him deeper. Their rhythm falters, turns frantic, needier, and Harry's falling apart just watching him come undone beneath him—cheeks flushed, lashes damp, lips parted in pleasure.

"You close?" Harry manages, panting against his mouth.

Louis nods helplessly, body trembling. "Yeah, I—God, I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," Harry whispers, fucking him through it, never looking away, never letting go. "Let me see you."

Louis spills with a cry, clinging to Harry, his whole body arching as pleasure crashes through him. Harry follows not long after, buried deep and shaking, pressed to every inch of Louis like he never wants to be anywhere else again.

They stay like that, trembling and tangled, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing slowly evening out.

Harry shifts just enough to press a kiss to Louis' collarbone, but he doesn't move far—too warm, too sated, too happy to be anywhere but here. His cheek rests against Louis' chest, listening to the slow thump of his heart. Louis' fingers keep tracing over his shoulder in lazy, aimless shapes—circles, maybe, or hearts, Harry likes to imagine.

Neither of them speaks for a while. There's no need. The silence is thick but soft, comfortable. The kind that feels like safety.

Harry hums quietly, his hand resting low on Louis' stomach. "You good?" he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex.

Louis nods. Harry can feel it, the movement of his chin against his hair. "Mmhm. You?"

Harry smiles, eyes closed. "Yeah."

There's a beat, then Louis' fingers pause. "That was..."

"Yeah," Harry agrees again, lips curving. He shifts to look up at him, eyes a little glassy in the dim light. "I'm not going anywhere, you know."

Louis looks down at him. His face is unreadable for a second, then something softens. His hand comes up to brush Harry's hair from his forehead.

"I know," he says quietly.

Harry feels it like a weight settling gently on his chest. He nods once and lets his head fall back down, melting into Louis' touch, into the warmth of his body, into the moment.

Sleep comes slowly, gently, and then all at once.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎｡⋆

They wake slowly, with soft kisses and warm limbs tangled under the sheets. There's no urgency, just the quiet press of mouths and fingertips trailing sleepily over skin. At some point, Harry makes coffee—brings it back to bed and nearly spills it when Louis tugs him back down with a grin, bare thighs warm against his sides.

Later, wrapped in blankets and still a little groggy, they sit side by side on the sofa with Harry's laptop balanced between them. They scroll through page after page—half-serious, half-exhausted—until they find something that makes them both pause. It's small, but it looks clean, safe. A permanent place. An actual place.

Harry glances at Louis, waiting, and Louis just nods. Quiet, hopeful.

It's available soon. Days, not weeks.

The next few days unfold like a dream they're both trying not to wake from.

In the kitchen, Harry teaches Louis how to cook the meals that have become his favourites—spaghetti tossed in garlic and oil, the creamy mushroom risotto Harry once made when they had nothing else in the flat. Louis watches closely at first, arms folded and eyebrows raised, but by the second night he's stirring pans and tasting sauces, pretending he doesn't care while secretly beaming every time Harry praises him. He burns the pasta twice. Harry kisses him anyway.

In the quieter hours, Louis sketches. He curls up in the armchair with his sketchpad balanced on his knees, pencil smudged on the side of his hand. Harry doesn't ask what he's drawing, just watches the way his brow furrows and softens, how focused he gets, like the world is quieter in those moments. Sometimes Louis shows him. Sometimes he just closes the book and tucks it under his arm, lips twitching with a secret he's not quite ready to share.

They walk through Kirkgate on the greyest of afternoons, hands brushing occasionally. It's familiar ground now, though it still carries the weight of that first meeting, the heaviness of a cold morning and a frightened heart. Louis stops outside a shop and looks at the bridge. He doesn't say anything but Harry knows. Harry buys them both hot drinks from the deli he used to bring Louis coffee from.

Harry takes photos of him constantly—quiet ones, stolen in morning light, or dramatic ones mid-laugh or mid-eye-roll, depending on the day. Louis huffs but never really minds. Sometimes he poses. Sometimes he flips Harry off, and Harry snaps that too. On one walk, Harry passes the camera to a stranger and asks them to take a picture of the two of them together. Louis leans in close. They don't even look at the camera, just at each other.

At night, it's all quiet kisses and tangled sheets, touches that turn from teasing to tender to desperate. Some nights they're soft with each other, barely moving, like they're trying to memorise the shape of each breath. Other nights are hotter, sharper, hips rolling, mouths hungry. But always, always, they fall asleep with their little fingers linked, curled into each other like it's the only way they know how to rest.

It's not a perfect goodbye. But it's the best version of one they can give each other.

The last morning comes quicker than either of them expected.

There's no dramatic sunrise, no lingering warmth. Just grey skies and the quiet hum of the city waking up outside the window. Louis zips up his bag while Harry folds the blanket they've been sleeping under for the past week. Neither of them says much.

The shelter will arrange the move. Louis will stay there a day or two, maybe three, and then—well, no one knows where he'll be placed. It could be another part of Leeds. It could be miles away.

They don't talk about that part. Not really.

Harry helps him with the zip that keeps sticking and Louis does up the buttons of his coat. They stand in the doorway of the flat, facing each other, neither moving.

"I'll walk with you," Harry says.
Louis just nods.

The walk is quiet, slow, drawn out by the weight in their chests.

Harry's offered before—once when they were curled up on the sofa with tea between them, again while Louis wiped down the counter like he hadn't heard. Each time, Harry had said it casually, lightly, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could get you a phone, you know. Just something cheap. So we can talk."

And each time, Louis had smiled, soft but firm. "Not yet. I just need to do this by myself"

Harry doesn't understand but he doesn't push it. Just slips a piece of paper into Louis' coat pocket when he isn't looking—his number, email, everything. Just in case.

At the shelter, Louis hesitates before going in. He turns to Harry with a grin that's too wide, too shaky.

"If I end up in bloody Newcastle, I'm blaming you."

Harry snorts, blinking back the sting in his eyes. "Right. 'Cause I'm the one running the housing system."

Louis shrugs. "You've got a lot of influence. With your... fancy cameras and weird books."

It breaks the tension. Harry laughs, breathless and cracked at the edges.

And then Louis steps forward, both arms winding around Harry's waist, holding him close.

"You know this isn't goodbye forever, don't you?" he says, voice low and steady against Harry's neck.

Harry nods, lips pressed together, fingers curling into the back of Louis' coat like he can hold him there a second longer. "You better find a way back to me."

Louis squeezes him tighter. "I will."

And then, after one last kiss—brief, soft, shaking—they let go.

Louis turns and walks into the shelter.

Harry stands on the pavement for a long time, watching the door even after it's closed, until the cold finally creeps through his coat and the world starts moving around him again.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎｡⋆

Harry doesn't notice it right away.

He closes the door to the flat behind him and leans against it for a second, eyes closed, keys still dangling from his fingers. It's too quiet. Too still. He kicks his shoes off and walks towards the bed on autopilot, maybe to sit, maybe to lie down and pretend his world is still spinning without Louis in it.

That's when he sees it—something small and familiar but out of place, sitting on the crumpled duvet where Louis had slept just the night before.

His sketchpad.

Harry stops. It's the little one Louis always kept close. Tucked in the front pocket of his bag. Clutched in his hands when he thought no one was looking. The one Harry had never, ever seen the inside of.

He crosses the room slowly, sits on the edge of the bed like he's afraid he'll disturb something fragile. It's only when he picks the sketchpad up and turns it over that he sees the post-it note stuck to the cover, written in Louis' messy, slanted handwriting.

for every question why, you were my because – L

Harry stares at it.

His throat tightens instantly, eyes prickling. It's not a mistake. Louis didn't forget it. He left it here—for Harry.

With trembling fingers, Harry peels the note back and opens the sketchpad.

The first page nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

Harry, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, his dimple carved deep into his cheek like Louis had tried to etch joy itself onto the paper. Harry, squinting into the sun, curls falling messily across his forehead, lips parted like he's just about to say something. Another—Harry bent over a crossword, chewing the end of a pen, his brow furrowed in thought. There's something soft about each of them, like Louis hadn't just drawn what he saw, but what he felt.

Then there are the pages of hands. Just hands. Sketch after sketch—his fingers wrapped around mugs, scribbling in a notebook, tugging on a hoodie sleeve, reaching to tuck hair behind his ear. There's one of his hand resting palm-up, like it's waiting for something. Someone.

Another page is dedicated entirely to his profile. Not posed—these are stolen moments. Harry mid-conversation, nose scrunched, jaw set, the slope of his neck and line of his throat lovingly shaded. Some are no more than rough outlines. Others are detailed down to the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

One page has nothing but Harry's eyes—dozens of them, each one slightly different. Tired. Wide with laughter. Glazed over in thought. Sparkling with mischief. In every version, they're unmistakably his. And in every one, Louis has captured something more than sight—he's captured knowing. Knowing him.

Even the mouths—Jesus. Harry's lips drawn from every angle: pursed, smiling, pouting, caught mid-word. Louis has drawn him with his lip between his teeth, with a crooked grin that only ever appears when he's teasing. And the way Louis has shaded the corners, soft and smudged, like he couldn't help but linger there with the pencil... it makes Harry's stomach turn over.

There are pages where Harry's body is curled up asleep, knees tucked in, face pressed to a pillow. One where he's walking away, shoulders hunched in his coat. One where he's dancing in the kitchen, half-finished and light with motion, as though Louis had to sketch it before the memory faded.

Harry flips through more. Some are dated. Some are smudged with fingerprints, as though Louis had gone back to touch them, revisit them, maybe even cry over them.

It's all Harry, Harry, Harry.

And it's all Louis.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎｡⋆

It had been six weeks.

Forty-two days.

Harry hadn't counted them at first. But after the second week of silence—after refreshing his inbox too many times, checking his voicemail just in case, rereading the last message until the words lost shape—he started doing it without thinking. The days stacked up like quiet disappointments. No calls. No messages. No Louis.

He tried to stay busy, keep his life moving like Louis hadn't left a hollowed-out space behind.

He walked down Kirkgate most mornings, camera slung over his shoulder. The same old rhythm—early light spilling over the cobblestones, corner shop owners setting out their displays, the butcher already shouting cheerful insults across the street. He photographed it all, like always. But it felt quieter now. Like Louis' laughter wasn't bouncing off the brick the way it used to.

He stopped by the deli sometimes. Ordered what Louis used to—a simple black coffee, even though he didn't like it as much as he used to. He sat by the window, flipping through his contact sheets, pretending not to glance at the door every time the bell rang.

The studio work helped. At least in the darkroom, things made sense. Light and time and chemistry. He developed prints slowly, carefully, watching familiar shapes bloom into focus. A man in the market. A girl on her bike. That corner of the park where he'd once taken photos of Louis half-lit by the afternoon sun, caught mid-laugh and unaware. He held that one up to the light more than once. Tried not to wish Louis had been with him this time, to help hang the new prints, to kiss his cheek while he focused the enlarger.

He took photos in the park again, alone this time. Same bench. Same path. Different light.

He sat there for hours one day, his camera resting idle in his lap as people passed by—mothers with prams, teenagers dragging their feet, men in suits on lunch breaks, kids kicking footballs through the grass. He watched them the way Louis had taught him to. Not just seeing, but imagining.

The woman with the red scarf and tired eyes—Harry decided she worked nights at the hospital and had two kids who loved dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. The boy on the skateboard was running away from home, but only for the afternoon. The elderly man with the newspaper in his coat pocket was secretly a poet, still writing about the woman he loved in 1963.

He found himself smiling sometimes, telling the stories in his head like Louis used to whisper to him during their walks or when they'd just sit together.

"That one's off to propose," Louis would say, nodding toward a man pacing by a flower shop.
"That kid's hiding a treasure map under his jumper."
"That woman's pretending not to cry 'cause she didn't get the job, but she will next time. She's got a lucky coat."

Harry used to laugh and make up his own, and they'd trade them like sweets.

Now, sitting there alone, he kept doing it. Whispering them in his mind. Pretending Louis was still there to hear them. Pretending they were still sharing this bench, Louis' head on his shoulder, both of them looking out at the world like it was a story they hadn't finished writing.

And every night, before bed, he looked at the same three photos.

Louis on the sofa, soft and half-asleep.
Louis on the in bed, looking at Harry with hearts in his eyes.
Louis beside him, just before he left—smiling like he didn't want to go.

Harry looked at them like they were a map. Like maybe, if he stared long enough, he'd figure out where Louis had gone.

But then, one Wednesday morning, Harry opens his laptop and sees an unfamiliar name in his inbox. A short subject line: Exhibition Invitation – Re: Community Art Project.

His heart stutters.

The email is from a local charity he vaguely remembers reading about before. They work with people who've experienced homelessness, offering creative workshops and support. Harry clicks the message open.

Dear Harry,

We're pleased to invite you to a small exhibition hosted at the Leeds Art Museum, showcasing work created through our Community Arts Programme. The featured artists include individuals who've recently taken part in our residency and outreach work.

We thought you might be interested to attend.

Best wishes,
The team at Accumulate Homelessness Charity.

At the bottom, there's a flyer attachment with the gallery date—this Friday—and a soft, watercolour-style title in the centre:

"From the Ground Up: New Perspectives from New Starts."

And then, near the bottom, he sees it.

One of the featured artists:
Louis Tomlinson

Harry stares.

For the first time in weeks, something clicks back into place inside him.

Louis hadn't forgotten. He'd been waiting. Making. Building something.

And now—he wanted Harry to see it.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎｡⋆

The museum is quiet when Harry steps inside, all echoing footsteps and murmured conversation. He tugs at the sleeves of his jumper, palms damp, heart thudding with that strange cocktail of hope and fear. He doesn't know what he's expecting—Louis, standing there by the entrance with a crooked grin? A message hidden in brush strokes? Nothing at all?

He takes a shaky breath and moves further in.

The exhibition is small—tucked into a side room of the museum, its white walls scattered with framed pieces, soft lighting casting golden halos over them. A handwritten sign at the entrance reads: "From the Ground Up: New Perspectives from New Starts."

Harry walks slowly, taking his time. It feels like something sacred.

The first piece he stops in front of is a watercolour cityscape—Leeds in winter, buildings soft and a little crooked, as if remembered from a dream. The next is a charcoal sketch of two hands almost touching, detail in every line and wrinkle. Another is a mixed media collage made from newspaper scraps and bus tickets, stitched together with thread into the silhouette of a figure curled on a bench.

It's raw. Personal. Harry's throat tightens.

Then, he reaches a small corner labelled "Portrait Study."

And he knows.

He knows before he even reads the placard.

The first piece is of an older woman, strong nose and deep laugh lines, captured mid-smile. There's a gentleness in her eyes. The second shows a teenager sitting on the curb, chin in hand, painted in muted purples and greys. The third is of a man with closed eyes and headphones, lost in music—sketched in ink, bold and loose.

But it's the last one that stops him cold.

It's a painting. Acrylic. Warm tones. Soft shadows.

A figure laying on their side in bed, half-curled beneath rumpled sheets, arm flung over their eyes like they're trying to hide from the morning sun. There's no face. No signature features. Just skin and the soft curve of a shoulder, the crease of a bare knee. But Harry knows.

He knows the slope of that body. He knows the rumpled duvet, the dent in the pillow. He knows that morning—their morning.

It's him.

Only someone who had loved him in quiet moments could've seen him like this. Could've remembered the shape of his sleep, the tenderness in stillness.

He steps closer, chest aching, eyes burning.

There's a tiny plaque beside it. It reads:

"Rest (study in stillness)"
Artist: Louis Tomlinson
A moment worth staying for.

Harry feels him before he sees him.

A shift in the air. A familiar presence. Like something in him straightens up instinctively, like his body knows before his mind can catch up.

Then—

"Bit bold of you to be admiring my muse without asking for a selfie first."

Harry exhales a breath of laughter, surprised and shaky, eyes still fixed on the painting. His heart is a snare drum in his chest. "Thought I'd get away with it," he murmurs.

"Not a chance."

Harry turns.

Louis is standing beside him, hands in the pockets of his coat, a soft smirk playing at his lips. His hair is shorter now, neat around the ears, and he's nearly clean-shaven, just a hint of stubble left behind. His cheeks look healthier, a little fuller, his skin clearer. His eyes—

God, his eyes.

They're brighter.

Harry stares, drinking him in. He doesn't say anything right away. Just looks. Louis lets him.

"You look..." Harry starts, but the words catch.

Louis lifts a brow. "Like I've been sleeping indoors?"

Harry huffs a laugh again, his eyes darting over Louis' face, lingering at the corners of his mouth like he might miss something if he looks away too fast. "Like you're doing better," he says softly.

Louis shrugs one shoulder, almost shy about it. "Yeah," he says. "Turns out, having a pillow and three meals a day works wonders."

Harry nods, his throat thick. His eyes drop to Louis' lips, then flicker back up. "I missed your face."

Louis' smile wobbles, just a little. "I never stopped drawing yours."

Louis nudges his shoulder against Harry's, casual and familiar, then tips his head toward the back corner of the room. "C'mere."

Harry follows, still reeling a little from just seeing him again, let alone being tugged gently through a room like they've never been apart. Louis pulls him behind a display wall, quiet and tucked away from the bustle of the exhibit.

And then, without a word, Louis leans in and kisses him.

It's soft. Sweet. The kind of kiss that feels like a whisper of something longed for and finally, finally returned. Louis' hands cup Harry's jaw, thumbs brushing the hinge gently like he still can't believe he gets to touch him again.

Harry melts into it. Into him.

When they part, just barely, Harry murmurs against his lips, "Do you wanna get coffee after this?"

Louis pauses, eyes flickering open, lips brushing Harry's.

"No."

Harry's face falls, just a flicker of confusion, something tight in his chest pulling taut—

But then Louis grins, thumb stroking under his chin. "I'd rather go to yours."

They walk back to Harry's with their little fingers linked, swinging gently between them. The air's crisp, but it doesn't matter—Louis is here, warm at Harry's side, his shoulder brushing close with every other step. They don't say much. Just share soft smiles, the kind that feel heavier with meaning than any words could manage.

When they reach the flat, Harry fumbles with his keys, his hands a little shaky. Louis stands close behind him, nose tucked against the back of his neck like he can't stand to lose contact, not even for a second.

The door clicks open, and the second it shuts behind them, Louis pushes Harry back against it.

The kiss is immediate—frantic. All lips and breath and hands that can't decide where to land first. Louis kisses like he's making up for lost time, for every second spent wondering if this moment would ever come. Harry moans softly into his mouth, hands gripping at Louis' hips, pulling him in close.

Between kisses, there are touches that make both of them shiver. Gentle hands cupping jawlines, fingers brushing over ribs and up under shirts. Louis' voice is low and breathless when he murmurs, "Missed you. Missed this."

Harry swallows, head tipping back when Louis kisses along his throat, soft and reverent. "I kept the sketchbook on my pillow," he whispers, and Louis makes a choked noise in response, kissing him deeper like it's an answer.

Clothes are peeled away slowly—like unwrapping something precious. Louis' shirt is pulled over his head, Harry's jeans undone with shaking hands, their mouths meeting over and over between layers being stripped. They stumble, laughter spilling out in gasps between kisses, Louis walking Harry backwards toward the bed.

They collapse onto it with a sigh and a tangle of limbs, skin warm against skin, hearts racing in sync.

Harry looks up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and full. "You're really here," he breathes.

Louis smiles down at him, touching his cheek with the back of his fingers, voice low and certain. "I'm here."

⋆｡˚ ☁︎｡⋆

They're a tangle of limbs beneath the duvet, warm and bare and sated. Louis' head rests on Harry's chest, one leg hooked between Harry's, fingers drifting in slow, idle patterns over the curve of his stomach. The room smells like skin and sweat and something sweeter.

Harry kisses Louis' temple, soft and lingering, his hand cradling the back of his neck.

"Tell me everything," he murmurs into his hair. "Where you went, who you met, what you've been doing. I want to know it all."

Louis hums against him, his fingers pausing for a second, then resuming their slow path.

"I stayed at the shelter for a couple of nights, then they moved me to a supported living place in Manchester. It's... not glamorous. A bit noisy at times. But it's mine. I've got my own key, you know?"

Harry smiles softly, tightening his arms around him a little more. "I'm really glad."

Louis lets out a small, almost fond sigh. "There's this guy there—Manny. Older, ex-navy or something. He taught me how to make the most horrendous tea, but he's a laugh. He keeps trying to set me up with the woman who runs the canteen."

Harry chuckles quietly, nudging his chin against Louis' hair. "I'll fight her."

Louis snorts, a breathless laugh escaping him. "I'd pay to see that."

The silence settles comfortably between them, the warmth of their bodies and the steady rhythm of their breaths enough to fill the space. Fingers trace gentle patterns across bare skin—soft, slow, like they don't want to break the peace they've found.

Louis speaks again, voice quiet but steady. "I started helping out with the art stuff pretty quickly. At first, I didn't think much of it—just something to keep my hands busy. But then they let me use the studio sometimes, and... someone saw my sketches. It kind of... took off from there."

Harry's heart skips a beat, a warmth flooding through him at the thought. He presses a kiss to the top of Louis' head. "That's amazing, Lou. I'm so proud of you."

Louis tilts his head up to meet Harry's eyes, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows across his face. "It felt good. Like I was finally doing something again. Like I wasn't just... lost anymore."

Harry cups Louis' face gently, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, his thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek. "You were never lost."

Louis swallows, his eyes searching Harry's, as if he's still trying to ground himself in the reality of the moment. "You kept me steady. Even when I couldn't see you. Even when I didn't know when or if I'd ever get to."

Harry pulls him closer, their noses brushing as he whispers, "I meant it. I was always here."

Louis kisses him then, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that feels like an unspoken promise. Grateful, soft, and full of quiet hope.

He shifts just enough to look up at Harry, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on Harry's ribs. His eyes are soft, almost bashful now, as if uncertain how to share what's next.

"I've got a job now," he says, voice quieter. "With the shelter."

Harry's heart skips, his brow furrowing just slightly as he waits.

"I'm teaching art. Mostly teenagers, some adults too. Little sessions a few days a week. Doesn't pay a lot, but it's enough. And... it means..." He pauses, glancing up at Harry with a shy smile, his eyes glinting with something that's almost too hopeful. "It means I can move back to Leeds."

Harry blinks, as if he's making sure he heard it right. His chest tightens in disbelief, then fills with something else entirely—something warm, something that stretches out into a quiet joy. "You're moving back?" he asks, his voice thick with emotion.

Louis nods, his smile widening with something that feels like the first light of a new day. "Literally tomorrow."

Harry's breath catches, and for a moment, he just stares at him, feeling everything at once. Then, without thinking, he leans in and presses a kiss to Louis' forehead. Then his cheeks, soft and warm, before brushing his nose against Louis' in a delicate, lingering touch. He kisses his closed eyelids, reverent, before finally pressing his lips to Louis' mouth.

It's a slow kiss, like he's trying to pour every ounce of relief, joy, and love into it. It's deep—anchored in something steady and unshakeable, something that has been building for weeks, if not longer.

When they pull apart, Harry smiles, breathless, eyes shining in a way that makes his chest feel impossibly full.

"I'm so fucking happy," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I've been waiting for this. For you to come back. I... I don't even know what I thought. But this—this is everything."

Louis' hand gently finds Harry's cheek, his thumb brushing slowly across his jaw as he pulls Harry in for another kiss, this one softer, more tender.

Louis shifts closer, curling into Harry like he's finally come home. Their legs tangle beneath the sheets, and his voice drops to a near whisper, full of quiet weight.

"Thank you," he murmurs, as if the words can't quite express the depth of what he means.

Harry pulls back just slightly, searching Louis' face with a soft smile. "For what?"

"For everything," Louis says, his eyes steady, sincere. "For bringing me coffee. For being my friend. For always being there when I had no one else. For making me come back. For not letting me run away from what I needed. I... I couldn't have done any of this without you."

Harry's heart aches at the softness of it, the raw honesty in Louis' words. He leans down and presses another kiss to Louis' forehead, this one lasting longer.

"You could've," he says gently, brushing his thumb across Louis' temple. "You did. You always did. You just needed a little help to see it. But you walked through it, Lou. You did that."

Louis shakes his head slightly, an unspoken protest on his lips.

Harry smiles and leans down, whispering, "I just stood next to you. You did all the hard stuff. But I'm glad I was the one who got to help you through it."

Louis exhales shakily, like he's on the verge of tears, and presses his face into Harry's neck. His breath comes out in a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.

The late afternoon light filters soft and golden through the window, spilling across the floorboards in long, lazy streaks. Louis is stretched out on the bed, his sketchpad resting gently on his stomach, one hand moving idly over the paper, the other absently toying with the edge of the sheet. There's a quiet serenity to him, a sense of peace, like he's finally found a place where he belongs.

Harry sits at the edge of the bed, camera resting in his lap, just watching him for a moment. His gaze lingers on the soft curves of Louis' face, the way the light catches the gentle slope of his nose, the curve of his lips as he concentrates.

Louis catches his eye and quirks an amused brow. "You gonna take a photo or just stare at me like a creep?"

Harry grins, unable to hide the warmth spreading through him. "Both."

He lifts the camera slowly, the motion deliberate, like he's savouring the moment. He lets the viewfinder frame Louis exactly as he is — soft, real, at ease. His heart does something funny in his chest, something deep and steady, and Harry finds himself holding his breath just a little. This image, this feeling, this moment... it's everything he's been searching for.

Click.

Louis lets out a soft laugh under his breath, a sound full of quiet amusement, but he doesn't look up from his sketching. "You framing that one too?"

Harry doesn't lower the camera right away, his eyes still on Louis. He smiles, a quiet, genuine thing. "Every last one," he says, voice low, the truth of it settling between them like a promise.

Outside, the city continues on, the sounds of traffic, of life, drifting through the open window. But in here, in this small space, it's still. It's safe. It's theirs.

And this time, Harry doesn't feel lonely at all.

THE END.