Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(George’s POV)

Over the years, George began to cherish the times when himself and Harry hung out alone.

Whenever Harry was around other people, or in a large group, he acted up a lot, became louder, the loudest of the group, and caused a scene, because it was what was expected of him. He was W2S, after all. He was the life of the party – however whenever he was alone with George, or even alone with George and Chris, and later Arthur Hill, Harry was calmer, quieter, and more at ease. He was comfortable.

George loved all versions of Harry, even his drunken alter-ego that everyone despised, however calm Harry Lewis was by far his favourite.

It was a shame he wasn’t seen more often like that.

It was a shame that everyone expected Harry to be so boisterous all the time.

‘I just want to be me,’ Harry had admitted once to George, years ago, nursing a hangover the morning after a heavy night out with all the boys. ‘I feel like I have to be someone else.’

‘You never have to be someone else around me, Harry,’ George had told him in return, going so far as to make the other man breakfast. ‘You’re allowed to exist as just yourself.’

Despite that particular conversation, Harry still overcompensated in all areas of his social life.

And George watched from the side lines, a frown on his face, ready to intervene should anything go too far, waiting with a teacup nestled on the counter and a spare toothbrush in his bathroom. Just in case.

***

They’d gone out for an evening meal, just the two of them, to catch up.

Harry had been busy with all things Sidemen and George had been busy with work too, the pair of them country hopping and just missing each other by a few hours, so they hadn’t properly seen each other in almost two months – of course, they checked in with frequent text messages, but it wasn’t the same as seeing each other in person.

George thought he’d cleaned up rather nicely: a white polo shirt beneath a checkered, blue shirt, and a pair of black cargo trousers to go with it.

He thought Harry had cleaned up nicely too: a brown turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black trousers to match.

To begin with, Harry was a little… out of sorts, tense, but George didn’t mention it. Instead, he chatted away like nothing was amiss. He knew it took Harry some time to relax, to let go, to just exist when no one else was around to encourage him.

The meal arrived, and George watched, relieved, as the older man slowly thawed out, his sharp edges becoming softer, his words themselves becoming stronger, more precise, his occasional stutter nothing but a distant memory of a forgotten God.

Good. There he is.

He’s himself again.

The food didn’t last long. George, as it turned out, had forgotten to eat lunch due to meetings all day, and Harry always had a healthy appetite. The waitress arrived to take away their empty plates. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen anything for dessert?’ she asked.

Harry gave George a discreet shake of his head.

‘No, thank you,’ George said. ‘Just the bill, please.’

‘Of course.’

Despite Harry’s insistence of, ‘You got the last bill. It’s my turn to pay,’ George didn’t back down so they settled on splitting it in half.

(Although Harry stubbornly added a large tip to his half, such a large tip that George thought the waitress was about to pass out in shock).

‘You’re such a pain,’ Harry said, shaking his head with a wry smile, sliding his phone back into his pocket. ‘It was my turn to pay.’

George shrugged. ‘I’m allowed to treat my friends to dinner if I want to.’ He let out a chuckle. ‘Besides, I thought you would have been jumping for joy at the notion of not having to pay.’

Harry slumped down into his chair, a scowl on his face that made George pause. ‘People always say I avoid paying for things, that I never bring my wallet,’ he said. ‘But I don’t. I like paying for things. I like treating people. I think they say it to get a rise out of me, to irritate me. And… and I never get the chance to pay because of it. Everyone always assumes.’

‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry,’ George offered, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. ‘I’ll let you get the next one, yeah? I won’t even argue about it,’ he promised.

‘Thank you,’ Harry mumbled, his cheeks flushed, staring at the tabletop and refusing to so much as look at George.

It happened every time Harry opened up to George, every time he admitted something to George that no one else knew about: he avoided eye contact and he shut down for the foreseeable future, like it was shameful to share his feelings, like it was a crime to admit he was hurting in any capacity.

‘Do you fancy a drink?’ George offered.

‘I haven’t had a drink for over a month,’ Harry told him softly, tapping the pads of his fingers along the tabletop to a beat George vaguely recalled but couldn’t find the name of.

George didn’t show it, but he was elated at the admission: he feared Harry was drinking too much but he didn’t know how to say anything. The few times he’d mentioned it in passing to members of the Sidemen, or to other people in Harry’s close circle of friends, they’d brushed it off and laughed. ‘Harry always drinks too much,’ they’d said. ‘Harry never knows his limits.’

So why don’t you ever say anything to him?

‘Any particular reason why?’ George asked, watching the man in front of him closely.

Harry’s shoulders hunched, his jaw tense, his eyes pulsing with a hundred different emotions. ‘Just wanted a change,’ Harry mumbled.

Hm. That’s something to unpack later.

‘That’s alright – we can go for a drink another time.’ George paused. ‘Or not. We can go and do something else instead.’

‘No!’ Harry exclaimed, before he darted his eyes around the room. ‘I, uh… I want to. Have a drink, that is. I think it’d be fun.’

George paused. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yeah. Just… just one, though,’ he said, a strange intonation to his voice, like he was asking a question that he already knew the answer to.

‘Just one,’ George promised. ‘Let’s go.’

They left the restaurant and headed into the bar across the street. They found an empty booth at the back of the bar and took up temporary residence there, chatting away once more.

George was pleased to note that Harry’s previous tension was gone. The man sipped away on his beer, not downing it like he would have done before, pacing himself.

Harry looked peaceful once more.

Light.

Calm.

George liked it when Harry was calm, he liked it when Harry was relaxed, because that was the real Harry shining through, like moonlight glowing through the holes in the curtains in George’s bedroom.

But it was too good to last.

A group of lads burst into the scene, stumbling over with lopsided grins on their faces and crowding the booth before George realised what was happening.

‘Oi, it’s Wroetoshaw!’ one of them hollered. Across the table from George, Harry tensed up, his eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape: there wasn’t one. ‘And the one from Netflix!’

George rolled his eyes good naturedly. ‘Evening, lads,’ he said politely.

‘Oi, give us a picture!’ another one called.

‘If you say please,’ George said, an eyebrow raised.

One of them had the decency to look sheepish. ‘Sorry – please may we get some photos? We’ve watched your stuff for years.’

‘Of course you can,’ George said.

They took the photos, numerous of them, and the entire time George watched Harry, keeping a quiet eye on him. The man hadn’t said a single word, just smiled for the photos, yet when the photos stopped, his eyes darted about once more.

‘Oi, Wroetoshaw!’ one of them drunkenly shouted. ‘When are you posting on your channels?’

‘I-I-I, um, I…’ Harry stuttered, his face flushing, leaning away, and when the lads laughed at him, his face flushed an even deeper shade of red.

It broke George’s heart.

And the lads didn’t fucking leave.

They were getting touchy, too, a little rowdy, and George could see that Harry was uncomfortable with it, trying to back himself away further into the booth, trying to disappear. The lads kept leering closer. One went so far as to grab the sleeve of Harry’s shirt.

‘Alright, lads, that’s enough now,’ George said loudly, yanking the lad’s hands away from Harry. ‘It’s time you moved on with your night.’

‘Protecting your boyfriend, are you?’ one of them sneered. They all laughed like they’d told a funny joke.

Harry curled in on himself some more.

‘We’re people too,’ George said simply. ‘Leave us be.’ Harry was silent, his face red, a sheen of sweat building on his forehead. George didn’t know what to do about it. ‘That’s enough,’ he repeated. ‘Look, we’re just trying to enjoy our evening.’

‘Whatever, I always knew you were a couple of fucking fags,’ one of them muttered, motioning for his friends to walk away, laughing amongst themselves.

Harry Lewis fucking flinched, like he’d been shot by a stray bullet, like a flame had caught his tender skin between its biting teeth.

And George fucking lost it.

‘What the fuck did you just say?’ George snapped, incredulous, rising to his feet. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

See, ever since Max had come out to him with tears streaming down his cheeks when they were literally kids, scared of himself and his feelings in a world that only wanted to squash difference and breed carbon copies, George had always been protective of his friends. Chris and Arthur Hill often joked that George was the mother hen of the friend group… and they weren’t exactly wrong.

George had always wanted to be the voice of reason, to speak up when things were said that he didn’t agree with.

The lad in question sauntered back over. ‘I said you were a couple of fags,’ he taunted, a sickening smile on his face. ‘Always knew you were. Always touching each other, aren’t ya?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay,’ George fired back, taking a step closer, anger burning away inside him, a dormant volcano threatening to erupt. ‘Now piss off and leave us be.’

‘Or what?’ one of them mocked. ‘You gonna pin me down and paint my nails? You gonna get on your knees and choke on my cock?’

In a moment of blind anger, George launched himself at the lad and got a good hit on his face. He heard a crack, lots of swearing, and a splutter, and when George blinked, when he came back to himself, he saw the lad on the floor with blood all over his face.

Cool. I broke his nose.

The twat fucking deserved it.

‘Get out!’ George shouted, taking another step closer, shaking his fist out. ‘Leave!’

The lads scarpered quickly, rushing out of the doors in record time.

George watched the door long after they’d left, breathing heavily, shaking out of anger, aware that every eye in the room was on him. He shook his hand out again, clenching and unclenching his fist.

What twats. What fucking twats.

And then George remembered Harry.

He turned around, and his heart sank.

The man was still sat at the booth, no longer red in the face but pale, he still hadn’t moved, and he was trembling all over, like a stray dog lost in the rain.

Oh shit.

‘Harry?’ George asked.

The man looked up, his blue eyes shimmering with tears; yet he also looked confused, a frown drawing his brows together.

George nodded to the door. ‘Let’s go, yeah?’

It took a moment, but eventually Harry got to his feet. They left their half-finished drinks abandoned in the booth and exited the club, Harry pressing close to George the whole time – George said nothing. He knew how uncomfortable Harry could get in social situations, especially when they escalated so fast, knew how he liked to be close to his friends when it happened.

It was dark out, the streetlights glaring down upon them, spotlights seemingly following them as they made a beeline back to the flat George shared with Chris and Arthur Hill.

‘Why did you do that?’ Harry asked quietly, nothing but the sounds of their footsteps echoing around them and the occasional honk of a car horn in the distance.

‘Because it fucks me off,’ George said simply, hotly. ‘I have so many friends and acquaintances who are gay or in the community – there’s nothing wrong with it.’

Harry walked beside him in silence.

‘There are greater problems in the world than someone’s preference in people.’ George shook his head with a huff. ‘What’s so wrong about loving someone?’

They carried on walking.

Still, Harry remained quiet.

Concern spread across George’s skin, clinging to him like fog. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘It’s just… none of my friends have ever done that before,’ Harry said weakly.

‘Done what?’

‘Spoke up like that. About homophobia.’

And George understood. In actual fact, he thought he understood a while ago; he just didn’t want to pry into Harry’s business by bringing up a subject George wasn’t sure if he was welcome in or not.

George came to a stop in the middle of the street. Harry stopped too, illuminated by the streetlight, looking even paler than before, looking like he was about to be sick all down himself.

‘It matters to you, doesn’t it?’ George said kindly. He didn’t push. He allowed Harry space to talk if he wanted to.

‘I’m gay,’ Harry whispered brokenly, like the words hurt, like he was forcing them out of him, like it was an exorcism of the worst kind. ‘I think. I don’t really know. Maybe Bi, I don’t…’

‘It’s alright, mate,’ George soothed. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

Harry nodded. His blue eyes glistened once more.

George’s heart snapped clean in two. ‘You’re safe with me, I promise.’

‘You’re the only person I’ve ever felt safe telling,’ Harry admitted, a weak smile on his lips, but his lips soon began to tremble and he bit them, his smile falling. ‘You’re the only one who knows. Not my family, not the Sidemen… no one.’

Stood beneath the streetlights, George couldn’t even begin to fathom how lonely that must have been, couldn’t even begin to fathom how lonely Harry must have been for years. For his whole life he’d kept an integral part of himself separate, kept it a secret and squashed it down so no one found out.

It was moments like this where George forgot Harry was a few years older because, despite being older, he remained strangely innocent, and very, very young at heart.

George wanted nothing more than to protect him.

‘Well, I for one, Harry Wroetoshaw, am honoured to be the first.’

Watching Harry, seeing the darkness in the depths of his eyes, George got his first glimpse of the lonely man that Harry Lewis was. Beyond the overcompensating, and beyond the drinking and the extroverted man, Harry Lewis was a terribly, horribly lonely man walking a cold and empty path.

It was side that George thought no one had seen before.

Only George.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you told anyone else? Why haven’t you told the Sidemen?’

‘JJ… he made a joke once, years ago, a homophobic one,’ Harry said, swallowing thickly. ‘It was… it was bad, and they all laughed. All of them. Every single one of them. Not one of them stopped him. I don’t… I don’t think they’d have a problem with it, or have a problem with me, but it put me off saying anything. I… I got scared.’ He hesitated. ‘I still am.’

He’s been overcompensating so that they don’t find out.

He’s been overcompensating to mask it, to mask himself.

George swore he was going to kill the Sidemen.

They were a lovely bunch of guys, and George didn’t doubt that they loved Harry, didn’t doubt that they wouldn’t care… but sometimes they were oblivious about the things that mattered. They didn’t always think things through. They said a lot of things without thinking of the consequences.

‘What about Chris?’

Harry just shook his head, panic shining like a beacon on his face. ‘I can’t lose him, George. He’s my oldest friend.’

Oh, Harry.

Chris adores you.

‘I can promise you that you won’t lose him,’ George reassured. ‘Chris loves you. He won’t care about this, okay?’

Because George knew for a fact that Chris had friends in the community too. He knew for a fact that Chris was supportive.

Harry stared at George with big, blue eyes. ‘I’m scared.’

George nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It’s okay to be scared about this, but you don’t have to be, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with it. I promise you.’

Harry sniffled. ‘No one’s ever told me that before, either.’ He wrapped his arms around himself, caging himself in, like he was splitting apart at the seams and keeping all of the pieces of himself together.

George kept his distance, despite every ounce of being wanting to get closer, to comfort him. ‘I will say it however many times it takes for you to believe it,’ George said gently. ‘I will never stop being your friend because of it, and if someone in your circle does stop, then they were never your friend in the first place. Does that make sense?’

‘Y-y-yeah,’ Harry stuttered. ‘Yeah, it does.’

‘And… and if you ever wanted anyone to talk to about this, Max would be more than happy to,’ George said. ‘Of course, you can talk to me, but Max might understand a bit better about what you’re going through. He’s out to everyone, after all.’

Harry nodded mutely.

George noted the way Harry was still shaking.

‘You cold?’

Harry hurriedly nodded. A tear dashed down his cheek, a single pearl amidst a sea of darkness. He was quick to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

George didn’t comment. Instead, he took off his shirt and offered it to Harry, who took it with a broken thank you and put it on over his turtleneck. It wouldn’t do much to fend off the cold, but it was another layer of protection.

‘You’re welcome,’ George said. ‘Now, back to the flat? I think Chris had some Lego sat on the coffee table. I don’t think he’d mind if we worked on it for a while. I’ll even make you a cup of tea, just the way you like it. I have your teacup ready and waiting on my counter.’

I always have it ready and waiting on the counter.

In place of an answer, Harry bit his bottom lip. A harsh breath whistled through his teeth. He shuddered.

George reached out a hand before he thought better of it, letting it fall back to hang uselessly by his side. ‘You sure you’re okay, mate?’

Harry threw himself at George, slamming into him like a truck. George stumbled a little but stayed on his feet, chuckling sadly. Arms wrapped themselves around George’s middle like an octopus, his face smushed against George’s shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said shakily. ‘Thank you.’

George wrapped his arms around Harry in return and held him, trailing his fingers up and down Harry’s spine in what he hoped was a calming manner. ‘There’s no thanks needed, mate, but you’re welcome,’ George said. ‘You’re always welcome.’

And when the tears came in unyielding waves, George stood there in the cold, dark streets of London and held Harry Lewis while he cried.

He held Harry Lewis while he fell apart.

Chapter Text

(Chris’s POV)

Desperate for a video idea, Chris resorted, once again, to a pub golf with his mates: Harry, George, Arthur TV, Arthur Hill, Stephen and WillNe.

As usual, it was complete and utter chaos – only this time, instead of taking part, Chris stayed sober, acting as the referee while his friends got completely shitfaced and embarrassed themselves in public.

Chris had never laughed so much in all his life.

Two holes from the end of the shoot Arthur Hill had all but collapsed into the toilets of the pub, throwing up over and over again while attempting to sing the lyrics to one of his songs, completely and utterly out of it, and after a quick chat with Chris, George Clarke, who was only minutely buzzed from the alcohol, decided to take Arthur home.

‘Can you keep an eye on Harry?’ George had asked before he left, holding Arthur Hill up while he dozed on his feet. ‘I think he’s had too much to drink.’

The again went unsaid.

Over the years Chris had watched George grow a soft spot for Harry Lewis, watched how he’d watched the older man from the side lines with a frown on his face while he thought no one was looking.

But Chris was. Chris was always looking… especially when it came to Harry.

He’d always worried somewhat about him, but he hadn’t worried quite so much now that he had George in his life. Harry was calmer around Chris’s flatmate, Harry was himself, and everyone in the flat knew that Harry’s favourite teacup was ready and waiting on the counter. It always was.

Even Arthur Hill knew it, and didn’t even question its existence.

If Harry rocked up at the flat when neither Chris nor George were there, Arthur simply boiled the kettle and poured Harry a cup of tea in his favourite teacup, keeping the youngest Sideman company until either Chris or George returned home: they played games on the computer, or Harry requested to hear some of Arthur’s latest musical projects.

‘Did you know Harry plays the piano?’ Arthur asked randomly one morning, washing up his plate from breakfast.

Chris let out an incredulous laugh around his own plate of buttered toast. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘We were mucking around in my room the other day – he’s really good,’ Arthur said, not rising for the bait. ‘You should ask him about it… he might surprise you.’

‘I can’t fucking believe Harry can play the piano,’ Chris said, shaking his head.

‘There are probably lots of things he can do that you don’t know about,’ Arthur said, as cryptic as ever. ‘There are also probably lots of things about him that you don’t know about, either.’

Chris fixed his flatmate with a bewildered look. ‘The fuck are you on about?’

But Arthur retreated to his room without a word and shut the door, leaving Chris to ponder his latest dilemma while his toast grew cold.

Harry Lewis.

‘I’ll make sure Harry gets back safely,’ Chris promised, realising he never replied to George. He nodded to Arthur. ‘As long as you promise to look after the idiot over there.’

‘Of course,’ George said. His face turned serious, something that looked holy unnatural on such a happy person. ‘Just between you and me… he stopped drinking a while ago. Harry, that is.’ Worry was evident in his dark eyes. ‘I think this is the most he’s had in months.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Chris said softly, turning around to find Harry drunkenly singing with WillNe, their arms around each other and swaying on the spot. Arthur Hill’s words about Harry echoed once more to the front of his mind: There are also probably lots of things about him that you don’t know about. ‘If I’d known I wouldn’t have asked him.’

If that’s the case, why did he say yes to the video?

Why didn’t he say no?

George shrugged, like the answer evaded him too. ‘Just… look after him, yeah?’

‘Of course,’ Chris said with a frown.

It was a good day out, and as the only sober one, Chris had made sure everyone had a way of getting home after the video ended, taking the liberty to call taxi’s and order Ubers and to send his friends on their way. It was the least he could do, really, after encouraging them to get into such a state in the first place.

Stephen, not wanting to find his way back to Manchester drunk, went home with Will in one taxi, while Chris all but shoved Arthur TV into an Uber when the lad wouldn’t stop talking about space and free will.

‘Text me when you get home,’ was all Chris said. He slammed the door shut, and the Uber left, peeling down the streets of London at speeds Chris didn’t want to think about.

He let out a heavy sigh, his hands on his hips for a moment, before he turned back around, shaking his head fondly at the state of the man in front of him.

Harry Lewis was slumped over on the floor, half asleep where he sat, singing under his breath, the epitome of drunk. He could barely see straight, let alone walk, so Chris, after preparing himself for the long night ahead, helped him up. He slid an arm around Harry’s waist and began the journey back to Chris’s flat: no taxi or Uber would ever allow Harry inside in the state he was (and not for lack of trying) so Chris thought the best option would be to just simply take his friend home with him.

It wasn’t the first time, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

‘Come on, mate,’ Chris said, hauling Harry down the road. ‘We’ll have a sleepover at mine. Just like old times.’

‘I like sleepovers,’ Harry said, giggling to himself.

He got like that sometimes when he was drunk: giggly and happy and it reminded Chris of a young, carefree child.

But Harry isn’t carefree. Not any more.

That much I’ve noticed, even if the Sidemen haven't.

‘I know. You’re just a big kid, aren’t you?’

‘An adult,’ Harry pathetically argued. ‘Not a kid.’

‘Keep telling yourself that, mate.’

The Jersey man helped Harry across the road, and they continued to lumber down the street, a terrible attempt at a three-legged race. The cold air carved away at Chris’s skin like a butcher’s knife. Their sweat glistened beneath the moonlight like a spiders’ web.

‘I’ve got a secret to tell you,’ Harry suddenly slurred, tripping over his own feet for the twelfth time – something Chris swore he was doing on purpose.

At Harry’s words, Chris’s lips twitched upwards, though shifting his grip of Harry in an attempt to keep them both upright. ‘A secret, huh?’

‘But you… you can’t tell Chris,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s a secret.’

Oh he’s so gone. This is going to be hilarious.

‘I won’t tell Chris,’ he said. A broad smile spread across his face. ‘I promise.’

‘If Chris knows I’ll lose him,’ Harry drunkenly ranted, his voice sounding sad, desperate. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’

Like a fish out of water Chris began to flounder, the dark of night growing ever darker with each passing second.

He worried that maybe it was something important.

He worried that maybe it was something Harry would regret telling him in the morning.

What could be so bad that he thinks he’ll lose me because of it?

‘I won’t tell Chris, mate,’ he said, keeping his voice level and steady. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

Despite his outburst Harry remained silent while they walked. They turned a few more corners, crossed two more streets, yet Harry allowed Chris to manhandle him like it was nothing.

The drunk man breathed with his mouth wide open. Chris could smell the alcohol on his breath, thick and strong and all-encompassing.

Chris turned his head away for a second and held his breath, his eyes watering.

And then Harry talked.

‘I think I’m gay,’ he slurred out. ‘Or bi. I don’t… I don’t know.’ He slapped a finger over Chris’s lips, who spluttered at the sudden intrusion, the digit hot and damp. ‘You can’t tell Chris though. I don’t want him to hate me.’

Why would I hate you for this, Harry?

As one of my oldest friends, you mean the world to me.

The fact that Harry thought Chris would hate him for something as trivial as a preference in partner shocked Chris to his very core.

His heart shattered at the smallness to Harry’s voice, and the uncertainty that resided there, yet he humoured a drunk Harry like he always did, like everyone always does, to keep Harry at ease. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Chris said, pulling Harry’s finger away from his mouth. ‘Chris won’t find out.’

‘I don’t want to lose him,’ drunk Harry repeated. ‘He’s my best mate, my oldest friend… I can’t, I can’t lose him.’

‘You won’t,’ Chris said. ‘And if there ever comes a time where you feel comfortable telling him, I don’t think he’d care.’

‘You think?’

‘I think he’d love you the same amount, maybe even more, actually.’ Chris paused. ‘I think he’d think you were really brave for telling him.’

Harry made a noise, his eyes slipping shut in exhaustion.

‘No, no yet, Harry,’ Chris instructed loudly. ‘We’re not at the flat yet.’

‘Don’t tell Chris,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t… don’t tell Chris.’

‘I won’t,’ Chris promised. He pushed open the door to the flat block and got Harry into the lift. They rode it all the way up. Harry had practically passed out by now, slumped across Chris like a sloth, and so Chris re-doubled his efforts of keeping Harry on his feet. He all but carried Harry inside the flat and dumped him on the sofa.

Upon further inspection, both George and Arthur Hill’s bedroom doors were shut; Chris assumed Arthur was sleeping after such a heavy night on the drinks and he assumed George just wanted to be left alone for a while.

He left a glass of water and some painkillers on the coffee table within easy reach of Harry.

The man in question muttered something then, twitching on the sofa.

Chris grabbed the blanket that lived on the back of the sofa and draped it across Harry, covering him, going so far as to tuck him in.

‘Thanks, Chris,’ Harry mumbled, curling up into a ball and burrowing himself further under the soft fabric.

Chris smiled. ‘You’re welcome, mate.’

‘Don’t… don’t tell Chris,’ Harry mumbled again. ‘Don’t… don’t tell him.’

‘I won’t,’ Chris said. He ruffled Harry’s hair. ‘I promise.’

Harry began to snore, and Chris retreated into his bedroom, quietly letting the door slip shut.

Being distraught was never on Chris’s agenda for the day, especially not after a pub golf, but the prior event left him so troubled that it brought tears to his eyes.

He didn’t allow them to fall, no matter how much they stung, no matter how much they burned.

Chris just hoped that one day Harry would feel safe enough, would feel brave enough, to tell him what drunk Harry had let slip – but Chris would take the secret to the grave. He’d never let on that he knew, and it would never be brought up in conversation unless Harry initiated it.

But what he did know was that he’d keep Harry safe in every capacity possible.

He’d keep Harry safe until there was no need to, with his favourite teacup nestled safely on the counter and a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.

Just in case.