We almost Had it

Chapter 6

Harry sighed, leaning into the touch.

Louis' chest ached.

Because this was them, wasn't it? Always orbiting, always finding their way back, always lingering in that unspoken space where they could be more but never were.

Harry was hurting, and Louis would be there. Because he always was.

And if this was all he could have, if he could only hold Harry like this in the quiet moments when no one else was looking, then he'd take it.

Even if it meant that once the hurt faded, Harry might pull away again.

Louis stayed with Harry that night. He didn't say much—just sat there, fingers threading lazily through Harry's curls, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn't alone. Harry never pulled away, never made a joke to deflect, never brushed it off like he usually would. Instead, he let himself lean into Louis, his body heavy with exhaustion, his breath slow and steady against Louis' collarbone.

It wasn't normal, not in the way they were supposed to be. It was them. And that was different.

When Louis woke up the next morning, still slouched on the couch with Harry half-draped over him, his back was sore and his arm was numb, but he didn't move. Because Harry was still asleep, and his fingers were still loosely curled around the hem of Louis' t-shirt, like he needed him there.

Louis let his eyes drift shut again. Just a little longer.

The press didn't shut up about it.

Harry and Taylor's breakup dominated every headline, every talk show, every radio segment. It didn't matter where they went—someone was going to ask about it.

"Harry, mate, the world's dying to know—what happened?"

Louis bit his tongue every time, forcing himself to stay quiet as Harry smiled his way through the same vague, scripted response.

"Y'know, breakups happen. We had fun, she's great, but it just didn't work out."

It was nothing. A clean, rehearsed answer, exactly what management wanted him to say. But Louis still saw it—the flicker of something behind Harry's eyes every time the question came up, the slight shift in his shoulders, the way his fingers would play with the rings on his hand like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

And every time, Louis clenched his fists under the table and said nothing.

It didn't happen all at once, but slowly, things between them started to shift again.

Louis wasn't sure if it was the breakup or if Harry was just tired of pretending, but they found their way back to something softer, something they had spent too long trying to bury.

One night, after a show, they ended up in Louis' hotel room, sharing a bottle of wine and picking at the remains of room service.

Harry was sitting cross-legged on the bed, swirling his glass, watching the way the liquid moved. "Do you ever feel like we don't belong to ourselves?"

Louis looked up from where he was sprawled across the pillows, brows furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Harry sighed, shifting so he was facing Louis properly. "Like... our lives don't actually belong to us. Like everything we do, everything we are, is just... for show."

Louis swallowed. He knew exactly what Harry was talking about, but hearing him say it out loud made something ache deep in his chest.

"We're a product," Louis muttered. "That's what Simon's always told us, yeah? We're an image. A brand. We don't get to be real."