when you're lost, i'll find a way (i'll be your light) | harry/louis

chapter two

When he goes home, his mum is draped asleep on their beige futon. She's resting her cheek on the back of her hand, hair framing her face. Her mum loves afternoon naps, and she desperately needs it in her line of career, teaching little kids in the morning. Thankfully, it's the summer vacation, but her body has just gotten used to sleeping in the afternoon that it's just a reflex now. Their door creaks loudly, it always does, and his mum stirs in her sleep. Harry mutters an apology.

'Hey, Haz,' She sits up, looking rejuvenated with sleep. 'Where'd you been?'

'The bench.' Harry answers truthfully, sitting on the first step of the wooden stairs, chin resting on his palm. He shares everything with his mum, and he knows every little quirks he has.

His mum nods, and softly states, 'I heard what happened.'

He cringes. He hasn't done that in years; running away. When Harry was younger, he didn't used to be this timid, voiceless boy. His mum once said that he used to be really smiley and bright, just all around excited. That he used to be a little star and preened at the title. But then he slowly, gradually just stops. His mum looked really sad when she said that he had lost his smile. It's hard to fathom that he used to be that little boy, he could barely even remember that time. Harry sometimes how different things would be if he didn't have this... condition.

'You wanna talk about it?'

'It's nothing, it's just,' he sighs, 'There's this grandma and erm, I smiled at her and she told me to control myself.'

'Oh, babe.'

'It's fine,' he quickly interjects, and smiles with his mouth closed. ''Cause I think I made a new friend.'

'Really?' His mum sits up, brightening up. When she smiles, her dimples show. Like him and Gemma.

'Yeah. His name's Louis.' Harry says dreamily.

His mum's smile grows bigger. 'Well, I'm happy for you, H.'

'Me too, Mum.'

Harry is awake before sunrise. He has no idea why but his body is buzzing with energy. He's sitting on the chair, drumming his fingers on his desk. He currently has his leather journal spread open, words scattered in the page. Harry loves to write, though he doesn't do it as often as he'd like. It's a passion that started when he was fourteen, though he doesn't really cultivate it as much as he should. He'd write lines for poems, songs, and sometimes, stories that he'd never really finish.

And now, his mind is so awake that he feels like only writing would dampen. He stares at what he's written so far:

Written in these walls are the stories I can't tell

I leave my heart open but it stays right unchanged

I know that in the morning,

I will see us in a light atop a hill

Although I am broken, my heart is untamed

It isn't much, but he's sort of proud of it. He chews his lips, then changes some of the words:

Written in these walls are the stories I can't change

I leave my heart open but it stays right empty again

I know that in the morning, now

I will see us in a light atop a hill

Although I am broken, my heart is untamed

'Harry, breakfast!' Comes his mum's yell from downstairs. His eyes snap on his watch and he curses softly. It's quarter to six and he goes to work at seven. He jumps to the shower and gets dressed—a long-sleeved, patterned shirt that's almost see-through with the two buttons popped off. He wears a thick, plaid brown waistcoat over the shirt, and tucks it in with short, peach-coloured slacks. He looks at himself at the vanity, pausing for a while. He disturbs his curls with his hands and snatches the journal from his desk.