Hats Off to my Distant Hopes

Louis is careful not to wake him as he climbs out of bed. Harry doesn’t really deserve to sleep in, he thinks, as he shuffles barefoot across chilly wood floors toward the toilet. It’s October 1st

, and Harry was last there on

 September 

1st

: the day before the start of White Eskimo’s first-ever tour that spanned further than London.  

He’d banged in at half 3 with no other explanation besides, “I’m exhausted,” and Louis welcomed him into bed without a second question. The surprise turned into elation, and he clung to Harry beneath the duvet, smiling into his chest as he fell asleep, allowing himself that moment, if nothing else: that moment of pure joy, the moment of 

he’s actually here.

Waking up with Harry in bed beside him felt normal despite that it 

isn’t

 normal anymore; it hasn’t been normal for a month, and even then, there was never any helpful or healthy discussion about what it meant that Harry showed up at Louis’ flat every night and accidentally referred to it as

ours

 on more than one occasion.

The faucet squeaks as he twists it to hot and then steps into scalding water, shuts his eyes against the stream and breathes deep.

There’s a Harry in his bed. He’s supposed to be in Glasgow. Louis almost doesn’t want to know the reason why he’s in London because the next question is, inevitably, 

when are you leaving

, and Louis knows that it’ll be too soon.

He doesn’t prepare himself for these types of visits because he’s not exactly owed them, and Harry never dropped a single hint that he might be showing up. It’s impossible not to feel the marked difference between when he’s there and when he’s not, though. Seeing him curled on his side in the normally unused half of Louis’ bed is like seeing the entire puzzle put together, and that’s not fair, nor is it accurate. There’s no puzzle.

Louis slams a few drawers with the towel hanging low around his waist, hoping to startle Harry awake while dripping wet all around his bedroom. He considers turning on the radio to do the job for him, but it’s Harry, and he’s still asleep, or pretending to be. Louis pulls on a pair of briefs, tosses his towel over the door, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Harry,” he singsongs, no louder than a whisper. Harry looks so peaceful and like he’s maybe a couple of days too late on a much-needed shower; weeks late on a much-needed haircut. Louis can’t imagine how tired he must be.

“Harry,” he says again, stern this time, and Harry raises an eyebrow but keeps his eyes closed.

“Sleeping,” he slurs, yanks the blanket up around his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. “Get back in bed.”

“Missed you, too, pal.” Louis flicks him on the cheek, and then gives up, crawls into the narrow space just between Harry and the edge of the mattress. Harry reaches out to grab him and draws him against his chest as he rearranges the blanket over Louis’ shoulders, and in seconds they are cozy, snuggled together with treacherous ease.

“Hair’s all wet,” Harry whines, peeking one eye open and, yes, there it is. His eyes are unbelievably pale in the morning and he’s gorgeous even with blanket marks on his cheek and cracked dry lips. Louis isn’t even put off by his morning breath when Harry looks at him like that, because even that detail is part of the memory he’s been trying to recreate for a month, and it’s suddenly vivid and real and overwhelming and, worst of all, fleeting.