Louis nods. “I want to dance,” he repeats, pushing himself up from the table. He catches Harry’s hand in his, twines their fingers together once more. “I want to dance with you.”
He doesn’t give Harry a chance to answer, he just uses all his strength to pull Harry up and towards the dance floor. He doesn’t have to do it for long; eventually Harry untangles their fingers, moves closer to Louis, and steers him to the throng of people with a hand on his lower back.
Louis isn’t sure what happens after that—it’s all a blur of movement, sound and feeling. The songs segue into the next and then the next, and it’s all Louis can do to move with the crowd, to keep himself upright. He finds Niall in the midst of the crowd, with his shirt off and someone’s number scribbled on his chest, and he looks absolutely ridiculous that Louis laughs at him, and Niall laughs right back before slinging an arm around his shoulder, leading him to Liam, who’s also got his shirt off and is crowing something about taking shots.
He looks up at Harry, who’s right beside him—did he leave? Louis can’t remember, but he thinks drunkenly that Harry should never leave, should always be right there with him—and Harry looks at him and shakes his head, pulls Louis away from the shot-administering tandem that is Liam and Niall.
Of course, this means they end up somewhere at the edge of the club, in the hallway leading to the bathroom. Louis leans his head back against the wall and tries to catch his breath, his heart hammering and his head spinning. His vision shifts and blurs, before focusing on Harry, who’s looking at Louis with an expression he can’t read.
Louis blinks at him. “We haven’t danced yet.” It comes out a bit as a slur, his tongue clumsy from the alcohol.
Harry chuckles. “We haven’t.”
Louis’ vision suddenly tilts, his stomach lurching the way it does when it feels like he’s falling, before there’s two large, warm hands on his hips, righting him. “Woah, careful, there,” Harry says, sounding amused. “Can’t have you dying on me.”
Louis huffs. “I’m not going to die,” he says haughtily. Its effect is probably lessened by the way he tips over again, and its instinct that makes him reach up and wrap his arms around Harry’s neck for support.
This close, Louis can see the sweat beading on Harry’s upper lip, can feel Harry’s warm breath ghosting on his face. Can see Harry’s individual eyelashes, and he could probably count them, if he could only remember how numbers work. “I don’t think you’d let me die.”
“You’re right,” Harry says, smiling, and he doesn’t seem to have a problem with their proximity; Louis decides that they should always be this close to each other. His grip on Louis tightens ever so slightly. “I won’t.”
“And why is that?” Louis asks, unable to stop himself from talking. It feels somewhat like he’s on the edge of the precipice, about to cross over and fall.
There’s something unravelling here—like he’s pulling a piece wool on a knitted sweater, watching the whole thing fall apart.
It’s the first time during this conversation that Harry’s expression flickers, changes into something less amused, more earnest, more sincere. He looks almost sad, and Louis thinks of the way he looked, three years ago, when Louis had kissed him for the last time, when Louis had said goodbye at the airport. Louis’ heart had ached then, but he knew he was doing the right thing. He and Harry couldn’t have a future, anyway. It’s not like they’re going to wake up one day, and America and England would magically be sharing a border.
Harry shakes his head, his eyes flickering down to the floor. “You know why,” he says, sounding a bit ashamed.
Drunkenly, Louis thinks: a dangerous spiral. Around and around, deeper and deeper, smaller and smaller circles.
There’s a reason why Harry had flown all the way to London, at Louis’ call. There’s a reason why Harry agreed to help Louis out with his stupid plan, despite his doubts about it. There’s a reason why, these past two weeks, wherever Louis would turn, Harry would be there, smiling and looking so devastatingly beautiful that sometimes, Louis would find it a little bit harder to breathe.
Louis had chalked it up to Harry simply being a good friend—he’d been adamant at keeping touch, after all—but the alcohol turns his thinking around, slots the puzzle pieces together in a different way, and forms a clearer picture than anything he had come up with before.
Three years. Three years.
And that’s why it’s easy—almost nothing, even—for one of Louis’ hands to slip into Harry’s hair, play with the soft curls at his nape. He pays no mind to the hammering of his heart, just waits until Harry’s eyes flicker back up at him, sheepishly.
Then Louis surges forward and kisses him.