Niall and Harry stumble in, clearly exhausted from the day’s events. Niall notice him, just says a quiet good night, and stumbles into his bedroom. Harry, however, catches sight of the flare of Louis’ cigarette, stopping short when he catches sight of Louis by the window.
In the five seconds before Harry speaks, Louis looks at him, pinpoints the different parts of him, the parts that hide during the morning light. Harry holds himself surely, but whereas in the morning he exudes confidence, effortlessly catching everyone’s attention, right now his confidence is quiet, muted. Not dull, never dull, just…gentle. Subdued. Less like the boy who breaks Louis’ heart without trying, and more like the one Louis fell in love with five years ago.
“Hey,” Harry starts, his voice cautious.
Louis takes another drag of his cigarette. “Hey.” He doesn’t offer anything else after that.
He half-expects Harry to leave, to bid him good night and go on to their room, but he doesn’t. Instead he stays still, his eyes flitting to the cigarette in Louis’ hand.
“You’re smoking.” His tone is a mixture of accusing and questioning.
Louis shrugs. “I am.”
“I thought you were trying to quit.”
“Bad habits die hard, I guess.”
Harry stares at him, clearly at a loss of what to say. Louis can feel the disappointment radiating off him in waves, but he ignores it, tapping the excess ash on the bowl he’d stolen from the kitchen, keeping the cigarette between his fingers.
“So,” he starts pleasantly, once the silence has gotten unbearable. His voice seems to have gotten a little raspier from the smoke, and he clears his throat, doing his best to dispel it. “How’s Dua?”
“Good,” Harry says slowly. There’s an uncertainty in his words, like he isn’t sure what to make of that question, what to make of Louis. Like Louis is a stranger he has no idea how to deal with.
Louis swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s nice,” he replies, taking another, last drag of his cigarette, sucking on it greedily. It’s burnt all the way to the filter now, and Louis stubs it out on the bowl. “I’m happy for you Haz. `m glad you found someone.”
And at that, Harry draws in an audible breath. “Lou,” he says.
“Yes, Harry?”
Harry doesn’t continue. There’s an uncertainty on his face, visible despite the dim light of the room. He looks like he’s got a hundred thousand things to say but doesn’t know how to tell Louis all these, like he’s unsure of how Louis would take it. And that makes Louis feel like he’s just been kicked in the gut, because in all the years they’ve known each other, Harry’s never once had trouble telling Louis anything and everything that crossed his mind.
Eventually Harry sighs a quiet, little thing. “Nothing,” he says, and the look on his face tells Louis that he’s lying. Louis doesn’t press though, doesn’t feel like he can anymore. “I’ll see you in the room, later?”
Louis nods, swallowing thickly. “Yeah,” he says. “See you.”
Harry’s watching his face, his green eyes burning with an intensity Louis hadn’t known he was capable of. After a few seconds, he nods, turning on his heel and making his way back to the room. Louis waits until he hears the quiet click of the door before he leans back against the wall, his heart sinking as he presses his eyes shut.
This is what it feels like now, he thinks sadly. Just hearing Harry’s voice.
He gives himself a moment to wallow, to feel the ache in his chest and the thudding of his heart. It’s a familiar feeling—one that first reared its head five years ago, when Harry had smiled blearily at him and said, you’re my best mate, Lou; one that Louis’ steadily been reacquainted with these last few days in Nice.
Once the moment’s passed, he sits up, fixes his fringe, and brings his makeshift ashtray to the kitchen. He tosses the filter and all the ashes into the bin, rinses the bowl and sets it aside. Then he goes down the hallway, opens the doorknob to the first door on the right, and creeps in.
There’s snoring—it takes a moment before Louis is able to pinpoint it as Niall’s, who seems to have plopped down on the bed in his beach clothes and passed out. Liam’s on the bed next to him, and on the far end of the room, next to the wall is Zayn.
He doesn’t startle when Louis climbs on to the space beside him, but he does shift on the bed, his eyebrows knitting together into a confused frown.
“Z,” Louis whispers quietly to him. “Can I stay here tonight?”
For a moment, he thinks Zayn doesn’t hear him, his eyes closed and his breathing deep. But then he shifts closer to the wall, mumbles, “if you kick me, you can’t.”
Louis lets out a small, soft, exhale, then slides under the blankets, carefully arranging them on top of him. He turns on his side, listens to the sound of Zayn’s calm, rhythmic breathing, and closes his eyes.
Sleep comes easy after that.