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Tired Tired Sea

“You need time to fall in love with people, but

places? You can definitely fall in love at first
sight with a place.”

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Chapter 1

“and I wish I could leave my bones and my skin

and float over the tired tired sea
so that I could see you again”
– Words // Gregory Alan Isakov

The wind howls early in the morning, a comforting lullaby for

a man who has lived on Fair Isle for almost a decade. Where
some would be awakened by the sounds of birds chirping,
Louis Tomlinson’s eyelids flutter open at the wailing harmony
of the wind and sea. Not quite a storm, not yet, but the end of
October always brings forth more temperamental weather, like
nature slowly preparing herself for the difficult winter months
to come. Louis shivers a little as he brings his comforter closer
up to his shoulder, hiding his neck under the covers. Most of
the B&B’s windows are closed, the one in his room certainly
is, but the wind’s whistling can still be heard so clearly, an
impatient and demanding companion that can never fully be
ignored. Louis sighs, reaching blindly under his pillow with
one hand until he feels the shape of his phone. He turns it on,
blinking quickly as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. He
doesn’t actually need to turn the phone on to know it’s half past
five. There are no clocks in his bedroom, but his body is so
accustomed to the routine he’s cultivated for years that it’s
basically a given. Louis almost smirks when the phone
confirms his suspicion, but it barely lasts a second when he
notices that he’s only at 40%. He’ll have to wait until seven
o’clock to charge it considering that’s when the power comes
back on the island every morning.

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Louis inhales slowly, then lets out a deep sigh before putting
the phone away. He always prefers a higher percentage when
he gets up. Most days, music in his ears is the only thing that
makes his morning jog bearable and the thought of it dying
right in the middle is… less than optimal. Still, there’s nothing
he can do but pray his old iphone won’t be a dick today, which,
knowing how battery draining the device finds literally every
single operation, seems unlikely. Speaking of his morning
ritual, Louis half smiles when he hears a small clatter right
outside his bedroom, followed by a loud whine. Clifford
certainly knows the routine just as well as Louis’ body does and
he’s already nosing at the door in anticipation, nails clinking
against the bottom. Louis usually rarely sleeps with the door
closed because Cliff doesn’t like being alone at night almost as
much as his master, but he suspects a strong gust of wind from
a forgotten open window must have forced it shut, locking his
dog outside. Just at the thought enters Louis’ brain, Clifford lets
out a louder whine.

“‘Kay,” Louis mumbles to himself with a raspy voice, “time to

get up.”

It’s a matter of urgency now, considering he needs to walk the

dog – and jog in the process, even though his body loathes the
idea of keeping fit – then shower before the guests start waking
up and demanding breakfast from him. Luckily, there’s only
one room currently occupied at the South Lighthouse B&B, a
married couple in their mid-sixties who, braver than most,
booked time off on Fair Isle late in the autumn. Louis’
establishment is usually eerily empty this late in the season,
tourists somehow not eager to spend their winter on a cold,
practically deserted island further up north than necessary and
subjected to the harsh weather. Louis, who has witnessed more
than one visitor end up trapped for days after their planned
departure date because of violent storms, can’t really blame

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them. Money is always tight in the winter though, so he can’t
say he doesn’t appreciate Mr. and Mrs. Jackson’s late holiday.
It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he served them breakfast
late, they’re an understanding bunch and their ferry back to the
mainland only leaves in the afternoon so they wouldn’t mind a
late checkout. But Louis prides himself on the quality of service
in his establishment, which means he serves breakfast every
day between half-past eight and ten o’clock. No delays. No
exceptions.

He pushes the duvet off his body, fighting his strong instinct to
stay curled up and warm, then he shivers as he makes his way
down the ladder of his single bed. He’s been teased mercilessly
and often by his army of siblings for essentially being an adult
with a bunk bed, but the old lighthouse keeper’s
accommodation was always the most logical choice for his
permanent residence. It’s the smallest bedroom on site, first of
all, cramped and mostly uncomfortable, with nothing but the
bed, a dresser and a small window to fill it. It was built to be
functional rather than comfortable.

Louis supposes he could charge for the experience what with

the fact that the room is almost identical to what it looked like
when the last lighthouse keeper lived here.

Back in the days, before the tower was decommissioned, the

man in charge of guiding ships home lived in what resembles
more a ship’s cabin than a room while his family lived in the
much more comfortable cottage next door. Now, there’s an
annex joining the two buildings for the guests’ convenience,
meaning that they can walk from the B&B’s main building to
the tower to cuddle up in the reading nook in the lantern room
on top of the lighthouse without having to face Fair Isle’s
windy weather. The corridor joining the two buildings is drafty
though, making Louis’ bedroom cold and uncomfortable even

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on the warmest of summer days. Louis could never, in good
conscience, charge money for people to stay there. It was
always going to be his own, as depressing as it might be, and
Louis quickly started mentally referring to it as a tiny loft of
sorts, with his bed as the only thing on the second floor, just to
make it less unbearable. Though truth be told, Louis prefers
being close to the tower, even if his responsibilities don’t
involve it the way his predecessors’ did. It’s just nice to be out
of the way, he supposes, when his home is full of strangers for
half of the year. And when the B&B is empty Louis can go
straight from his bed to the top of the lighthouse in one minute
to enjoy the view. It’s pretty amazing, considering. Louis
doesn’t spend a lot of time in the reading nook up there when
the B&B is full of tourists, but during winter, when the island
grows quiet and still, the sixty people who inhabit it
permanently the only souls on board, Louis rarely spends an
evening anywhere else.

Once he’s climbed off the ladder, Louis goes to the window,
automatically pushing the curtains open even though he knows
the sun isn’t up yet. He frowns at the still dark sky, the hint of
freezing sea barely visible in the distance, though Louis can
hear its tempestuous presence – to think winter hasn’t even
arrived yet. He sighs, taking his hoodie off in one movement
before throwing it on his bed, nodding with self-satisfaction
when it lands perfectly. He regrets the action immediately when
the air hits his naked skin. He quickly walks to the bulky
wooden dresser under his bed, pressed against the red brick
wall, grabbing the torch on top of it and clicking it on before
opening a drawer. He swears under his breath as he looks
through the drawer, quickly settling for a black long sleeve tee
and dropping the torch into the middle of the rest of his clothes
to put it on as fast as possible. Then, he takes off the sweatpants
he usually wears to bed in order to swap them for another
almost identical pair that’s freshly washed. He’s too lazy to

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change out of the grey wool socks he wore for bed so he simply
raises them up over the bottom of his trousers before slipping
trainers on and making his way to the tiny ensuite attached to
his room. Toilet, sink and the smallest cubicle known to man –
it’s not great, but it gets the job done, Louis thinks as he brushes
his teeth quickly. He’s balanced the torch awkwardly on top of
the toilet which means only half of his face is illuminated,
making him look even more exhausted than he actually is. He
takes a second to grimace at himself in the mirror once he’s
done brushing his teeth, wrinkling his nose at his reflection as
he rubs the palm of his hand against his auburn beard. Lottie
would definitely say he’s in need of a trim, might even chase
him around their mother’s house with a pair of scissors if she
could see him like this. She’d probably have something to say
about moisturizing too, but Louis kind of enjoys his dishevelled
look.

Louis exits the bathroom, clicking the torch off and putting it
back in his place before climbing back to his bed to grab his
phone. Finally, after what Clifford probably feels was an
eternity though it was only five to seven minutes, Louis steps
out of his bedroom and into the waiting paws of his gigantic
dog who, of course, attempts to climb him the minute the door
open.

“Morning Cliff,” Louis says with a laugh, stumbling a little

under the weight. He buries his hands in the fur on both sides
of Clifford’s neck, giving his dog a big kiss before pushing him
off carefully. “Go on, get off me you big brute,” he continues
teasing in what he’d never admit is a babying voice. “Yeah, you
know we’re going on a walk, no need to be so dramatic boyo,”
he adds when Cliff tries to jump on him again.

He pushes past the dog, successfully stopping him from

jumping again, then turns right, walking past the spiral staircase

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that leads up to the top of the repurposed tower until he reaches
what used to be the front door in the 19th century. Now, the
door only leads through the annex to the cottage, helping Louis
and the guests avoid the worst of the Scottish weather. He
shivers as soon as the door opens and he steps into the corridor,
the space so poorly insulated he might as well be walking
outside. Clifford walks past him easily, knowing exactly where
he wants to go and leading the way, clearly unbothered by the
sudden change in temperature. In all fairness, Louis is still half
asleep, eyes squinting and half shut as he follows his dog to the
cottage. He’s always been more sensitive than most to the cold,
something most members of his family – especially his mother
– love to tease him mercilessly about whenever he dares to
complain about the cold so far up North.

It was a bit of a strange choice for him to settle here, Louis will
admit to that.

But as he walks into the shared living room space to grab his
denim jacket and Clifford’s leash from the wooden coat rack
nestled in the corner of the room and he catches sight of the sea
beyond the cliffs through the shadows that he’s lucky enough
to call home, Louis can’t help but think that he’d rather die than
be anywhere else. His sensitivity to cold temperatures be
damned.

Clifford wiggles his tail at the sight of his leash, even though
Louis never really puts it on him and he owns it more as a
precaution than anything else, and they both exit the living
room. Louis puts his jacket on just before they reach the front
door and he takes a second to double check his pocket for
plastic bags and his headphones. Once he’s confirmed he’s in
possession of both items, Louis puts the headphones on and
presses play on his morning run playlist, opening the door and

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letting Clifford get a head start before starting to jog behind
him, following the curve of the cliffs.

Twenty minutes later, Louis stops running as he and his dog

carefully walk down the thin uneven path to reach the beach at
the bottom of the cliff. Clifford happily starts running off into
the water as soon as his paws hit the sand and Louis can’t help
the chuckle that escapes him at the sight. Every morning, it’s
the same. Louis doesn't start jogging again, walking slowly on
the beach and appreciating the view. It's still dark, but there's a
hint of light on the horizon, the beginning of the day almost
there for Louis to witness. The cliffs look impressive, even
more so in the dark, Louis thinks vaguely as he looks back.
They look threatening, like sleeping giants protecting their
coast; dormant, tranquil, but still deadly if needed. Louis loves
them best when they're shrouded in shadows like this, one
breath away from dawn or when night starts to creep in.
Clifford huffs excitedly, forcing Louis to look forward again
and he smiles when he sees the branch he's carrying. Louis
grabs it, easily throwing it before starting to walk again. The
music changes to a melancholic song one of his sisters’
probably recommended to him, the deep voice sad and longing.
It's a song made for the darkness, for the moments before the
world fully wakes, for the comfortable loneliness associated
with them. Louis exhales, putting both of hands into his jacket
pockets and enjoys the empty beach.

Soon enough, Louis and Clifford need to start making their way
back to the B&B. They’ve walked a lot further away on the
beach than Louis usually ventures and a quick look at his phone
informs him it’s almost half past six. He needs to get back
quickly if he wants to have time to shower before Mr. and Mrs.
Jackson wake up. It’s always a difficult balance to strike since

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there’s no hot water before seven and Louis isn’t particularly
fond of freezing showers – he isn’t particularly fond of
freezing anything – no matter how fast they are. He almost has
it down to an art by now though, even if he does get distracted
by the beautiful scenery and his dog’s excitement once in a
while.

By the time he’s back at the lighthouse, it’s only a quarter past
seven and Louis is barely running late. Clifford is as energetic
as ever, jumping around Louis’ body, trying to climb him like
he thinks he’s still a small pup as Louis tries to open the front
door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting you food in a bit, you big drama
queen,” Louis whispers affectionately to him when he finally
pushes the door open and they walk past the small reception
area.

It’s a bit pretentious to refer to it as such when it’s nothing more

than a counter with an old crappy computer and a bright yellow
retro phone tucked in one corner and barely enough space
behind it for Louis to sit down, though he does have a stool.
The wall behind reception has a framed photograph of the
lighthouse hanging from it, one of the few decorative items
Louis kept from the previous owner. It makes Louis laugh at
the pretentiousness of the thought process that went into
picking it and hanging it up every time he sees it, so he never
took it down. The phone and computer are a different story and
speak more to Louis’ laziness to change perfectly functioning
equipment than anything else, but he supposes it adds to the
vintage charm of his establishment.

Louis starts taking his coat off as he walks towards the living
room, Clifford still following behind.

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"Morning!" Mrs. Jackson says happily from one of the brown
leather sofas, making Louis jump in his skin just as he walks
in.

"Mrs. Jackson!" he yelps, turning around with one hand

clutched to his chest, the other trapped in the denim jacket
hanging from his arm. "Jesus, you gave me a fright,” he adds,
taking the jacket fully off with minimum clumsiness and
immediately tugging his headphones off once he’s done.

Despite an aura of sternness, Mrs. Jackson doesn’t seem

offended by Louis’ profanity. She smiles at him kindly, closing
the book she was reading and pushing her glasses on the top of
her head. There’s a discarded torch on her knees that seems to
suggest she’s been reading downstairs for a while, though she’s
abandoned it now that the sun has risen, illuminating the room
in a soft glow.

“I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she replies,

reaching down to pet Clifford when he approaches her to say
hello.

“Mr. Jackson is still sleeping?” Louis assumes, putting both his

jacket and Clifford’s leash back on the coat peg.

Mrs. Jackson rolls her eyes. “He’d sleep through an earthquake

that man, honestly.” She sounds fond more than anything else.

"Oh, I hope Clifford and I didn't wake you up this morning,"

Louis says, already mentally preparing himself to offer them a
discount for the inconvenience when Mrs. Jackson lets out a
loud and beautiful laugh.

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"Unless you were the ones snoring in our room...? You'd think
I'd be used to it after thirty years of marriage, but he still keeps
me up.” She rolls her eyes before continuing. “But I had this
book to finish before we leave anyway, so it sorted itself out
really."

Louis eyes the mystery novel she’s still holding. It’s one of the
guests’ favourites since it’s actually set on the island and gives
them a spooky companion to their visit. Louis always tries to
leave a few copies lying around the building.

"You can always leave with it," Louis offers, gesturing towards
the book. Last time he counted, he had at least five copies
scattered around. There’s definitely two in the reading nook on
the top of the tower and the others are in the bookshelves that
surround all four walls of the living room, except where the
large window is letting the first ray of sunlight in. The room is
more of a library than anything else really, but Louis feels
pretentious referring to it as such when guests are around. And
common room makes it sound like a hostel, not that Louis
dislikes such establishments but he’s aiming for a more
upmarket feel. So Louis calls his library a living room and kind
of hates himself for being so anal about it all.

"Steal your book?" Mrs. Jackson pretends to be shocked. "My

dear, I could never."

Louis smiles at her deadpan delivery. "You know our policy,”

he tells her. “ Take a book, leave a book. And if you can't leave
a book, I'm never too fussy. I don't have eyes around the back
of my head, do I? It'd be fine if you accidentally left with it.”
Louis shrugs. “I probably wouldn't even notice," he adds in an
exaggerated whisper.

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"You're too kind, Louis," Mrs. Jackson says and it's not the first
time Louis has received that type of compliment, but it's the
first time someone has made it sound like a threat. "People will
take advantage,” she adds warningly.

Louis smiles, trying not to look too condescending. She's seen

more of the world that he has, has had much longer to get to
know the unkind way men can treat each other, but she's a
stranger on the island. She doesn't know there's nothing to fear
here. "I think I'm going to be okay,” he replies politely, “but I
can always delay breakfast if you want to give Mr. Jackson
more time to sleep, and yourself more time to read," Louis says
with a small wink.

"If you need more time to wash that jogging stink off, Louis,
you only have to say so. There's no need to try and pretend that
you’re doing me a kindness," she teases without skipping a
beat, pushing her glasses back onto her nose and opening the
book again.

She's very theatrical. Louis has noticed it in the past two weeks
that the couple has been staying at the B&B. He finds himself
strangely thinking he's going to miss her once they've gone. He
knows it's not as simple as that and part of it is fueled by the
knowledge he's about to enter his winter exile and he always
has mixed feelings about the way the world slows down and
the solitude amplifies when everything freezes during the
offseason. Still, she's funny and sharp; Louis appreciates the
company of someone like that. Clifford is the best friend a man
could ask for, but he doesn’t have much wit to offer.

Suddenly, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes disappears as

she gives him a serious look. "We know you do everything by

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yourself here, you know. It's a lot of work. A late breakfast isn't
going to affect your TripAdvisor rating."

Louis laughs. "I appreciate that. I'll only be fifteen minutes

though and then I can get started. I'm assuming you'll be getting
the usuals?"

Mrs. Jackson smiles. "Please. Now off you go, feed that dog
before he dies of starvation."

Clifford jumps to attention when she gestures towards him,

getting up from where he'd dropped himself on the fluffy white
rug in the middle of the room.

"Right, wouldn’t want my child to go without" Louis agrees

jokingly before calling Clifford and leaving the room.

As predicted, Louis feels a pang of loneliness hit once Mr. and

Mrs. Jackson have checked out. He watches them leave hand
in hand, trailing their luggage behind as they start the fifteen
minutes walk into town. From there, they’ll probably make the
mistake of grabbing a snack at Dunn’s grocers, thinking they’ll
need it for the two and a half hours journey on the Good
Shepherd IV back to Shetland. And even though they’ve made
the trip to Fair Isle before, even though they’ve experienced the
sea’s uneasiness and the tiny boat’s rocky journey, they’ll
assume they might get hungry. It’s every tourist’s mistake,
even those with steady stomachs who never get seasick. Next
trip in – mostly with supplies and no passengers now that
October is coming to an end – Roger, the small ferry’s Captain,
will make fun of them for their green faces and unease. It
happens every single time, but as long as they spend more

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money on the island and support their community, no one is
going to warn them against it. Soon enough, Mr. and Mrs.
Jackson will be back home in Lancashire, treasuring the
memories of the adventure they’ve had in the Scottish edges.

Louis sighs on his doorstep, chuckling a little when Clifford

headbutts him in the back of his thigh like maybe he’s thinking
he deserves more attention now that it’s going to be just the two
of them. Louis turns around and walks back inside the cottage,
fingers drumming on the reception counter for a second before
he lifts himself to the tip of his toes, curling his body over it to
look at the shelf hidden from sight. It’s a mess, there’s no way
around it, with various receipts and post-its scattered around
between pens, two novels and Tunnock’s caramel wafer
wrappers right next to a rusty red and yellow Lipton tea tin
where Louis hides his favourite snacks. He hums to himself
before grabbing a black pen, pushing the wrappers around until
he finally finds a notepad.

“Come on Cliff, stop that,” Louis mumbles when the dog tries
to climb the counter, the nails of his front paws clicking against
the wood. He barks in response, but barely has the time to react
before Louis kindly pushes him down. “None of that, you know
better,” he says sternly, putting the pen behind his right ear and
dropping the notepad in the back pocket of his jeans.

Someone else might have waited longer than one second after
their last guests leaving before starting an annual inspection of
needed repairs and improvements all over the building, but
Louis is if he dares think so himself, not most people.

He has maybe four to five months to make sure the cottage and
the tower are in top shape for the next season. His first winter
on Fair Isle, Louis had confidently made the mistake to assume

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he would only need a few weeks to get everything in order for
the next influx of tourists. He had rested – more than any self-
employed person should – and had spent a couple of months
back in Yorkshire with his family and he had left it all for the
month of March. And March madness it had been – Louis still
thinks of it with burning shame. If it hadn’t been for the
kindness of his neighbours, Louis never would have pulled it
off. Nowadays, he knows better. He stays on the island, first of
all, keeping an eye out for the property he rents from the
National Trust. And he never pushes back any tasks if he can
help it. There’s nothing worse he could imagine than having to
bother the crofters of Fair Isle again for more help. Even though
he’d label them all as friends rather than neighbours now, it
would be much more embarrassing to need them still now that
he has got a few years of managing the B&B under his belt.

So Louis walks back to the front door, looking down at the red
and white jumper he’s got on, wrinkling his nose as he mentally
debates whether he should grab one of his jackets, before
deciding it wasn’t that cold outside and that his walk-around
shouldn’t take that long anyway. He opens the cottage door,
taking one step forward to get out while licking his lower lip
when a strong gust of wind makes him stumble backward. He
chuckles a little, trying again with Clifford trailing after him.
Once he’s outside the building, he starts circling the property,
reaching in his back pocket for the notepad to write WHITE
PAINT in capital letters before underlining it. The exterior of
the cottage truly needs a fresh coat. Thankfully, the lighthouse
itself was dealt with a couple of years prior, an expensive
refurbishment that had been financed by The National Trust of
Scotland, so Louis doesn’t have to worry about the tower. He
shivers a little, regretting his life choices but stubbornly
continuing the inspection while swearing under his breath
every time the wind whistles, the cold air teasing the back of
his neck. He spends a long time inspecting each window of the

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ground floor, making sure there’s no draft. He suspects he
might have to fix the library’s and he adds it to the list with a
small question mark next to it, before going back inside to
carefully check each room. First the common areas downstairs,
then the kitchen, before moving on to the bedrooms on the first
floor and each of their ensuites. Soon enough, afternoon
morphs into evening and with it, the list grows and grows.

A few days later, Louis is coming back from the village with
an armful of supplies – mostly paint for the outside of the
cottage – with Clifford walking a few steps ahead of him on the
path. It’s not a road, not really, more like a small muddy
footpath large enough for two where the grass has been walked
on so much there’s nothing left of it and that connects the
Lighthouse to the main road that goes through the village and
up the north side of the island. Not very glamorous, but the
fields of vibrant green, the cliffs and the sea ahead more than
make up for the lack of access to the B&B by car. Only the
most high maintenance of guests usually complain about it.
And by the time they leave, they’ve normally been so charmed
by the picturesque village and the breathtaking seaside views,
that they’ve all forgotten about the lack of amenities.

Louis is only a couple of minutes away when he notices an

unfamiliar figure in the distance, hovering near the cottage
entrance. Louis stops in his tracks, readjusting the large tote
bag filled with paint cans that are digging painfully in his
shoulder with one hand, the other busy carrying a potted plant
that he purchased on a whim, thinking it would brighten his
bedroom. Louis squints before snapping his finger to stop
Clifford from trotting along, calling him back so they can take
a moment to observe the stranger unnoticed. Tall with an
oversized olive green jacket engulfing his slim frame, the man

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is pacing in front of the door, only one strap of his large
backpack on his shoulder. He’s jittery. Even from afar, Louis
can see the way he keeps fiddling. With the straps of his bag
one second, then with the jacket that keeps opening up with
every gust of wind the next. He doesn’t zip it up, just starts
playing with his black scarf as he keeps walking one length of
the cottage before turning around and doing it again. Then, he
starts playing with the straps of the backpack again. If Louis
was a mistrustful person, he’d find him suspicious. As it is, he’s
mostly intrigued.

“Doesn’t look like our regular backpackers, uh,” Louis

whispers towards Cliff before starting to walk again.

He can’t help but feel a bit confused. If his hands weren’t

occupied, he’d grab his phone to make sure he doesn’t have a
missed a text from Roger about dropping new visitors on the

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island with his shipment. Or even from someone in the Dunn
family. As owners of the grocers/general store, they’re
normally the first to know about any visitors. News travels fast
on the island and gossip usually goes through the sixty people
who permanently live on Fair Isle in less than thirty minutes –
ten if the news is particularly juicy. Between whispers, phone
calls and texts but, no one is left out of the loop. Theirs is not a
land of mystery, no matter how many tourists operate under the
flawed romantic notion of outlandish isolation associated with
the island lifestyle. Oh, they’re isolated that’s for sure, cut off
from the rest of the world, but certainly not from each other.
And Louis was just in town twenty minutes ago! There can only
be one reason why he hasn’t been warned: this man has slipped
through the cracks and managed to reach Fair Isle unnoticed.
That’s certainly a first. Newcomers, visitors, tourists, friends
and family of the locals; no one set foot on Fair Isle without
everyone knowing about it. Immediately.

If he’s looking for shelter – as Louis strongly suspects that he

is – there are only three options on the entire island. The South
Lighthouse B&B that Louis proudly calls his own, one small
B&B in the village with more affordable prices, and a Hotel on
the northern tip of the island. Since the entire population lives
in the village down south though, most tourists stay in the area
apart from a few hikers, photographers and other outdoors
enthusiasts who don’t mind abandoning whatever there is of
civilization on the island during their stay. Realistically though,
since most tourists don’t venture up north to sleep, there are
only two viable options for people in need of a room. If
someone is looking for one, Louis is usually alerted –
especially during the drought, the winter months when tourism
dies down and every new visitor is an invaluable potential
source of income. If the stranger had been seen, Louis would
know.

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So the pacing man managed to reach Fair Isle – and the
Lighthouse outside the village – completely unseen. That’s…
that’s different.

“Hey,” Louis calls out as casually as possible once he’s only

about ten steps away from the door.

The stranger startles, taking a step away from the living room’s
window he was trying to peep into before turning around to
face Louis. Clifford barks and, for one second, Louis thinks he
might have to reprimand him, what with the way the man’s eyes
widen and he takes a small step back like maybe he’s afraid.
His face smooths quickly into a neutral expression and he
extends a hand towards Louis’ dog, silently saying hello.

Clifford certainly doesn’t need to be invited in twice and

suddenly he’s crowding into the man’s space like the badly
behaved heathen that Louis proudly raised. Thankfully, Cliff
doesn’t go for any of his most appalling habits – like thinking
he’s still a tiny puppy and jumping on people, almost killing
them in the process. He just headbutts the newcomer in the leg,
saying hello the best way he knows how. He’s so strong the
man does stumble a little backward, but all in all, it could be
worse.

“Hey,” the man whispers, voice surprisingly deep, while

Clifford noses at his hands, starting to lick his long fingers after
a few seconds.

Louis is so busy looking at the way the man seems deeply

unsettled despite not looking uncomfortable under Clifford’s
attention that he doesn’t realise he’s being scrutinized himself
and when he raises his head again, he’s surprised to find deep
green eyes focused on his face.

20
“Sorry?” Louis says, automatically assuming he’s missed
something the stranger has said. He’s attractive Louis notices
distantly, taking in the pink full lips and tall lanky frame.

The man smiles, seemingly without thinking about it, a cold

polite thing that doesn’t reach his eyes and that Louis hates
automatically. He looks sad. “I just said hey.”

“Oh, yeah. Hey. I said that before, right?” Louis jokes. There’s
something about the unblinking eyes staring at him that leave
him undoubtedly perplexed. “Can I help you?” he still asks,
smiling warmly to try and put the man at ease. He points at the
black backpack on his shoulder. “You looking for a room?”

The man nods slowly, eyes going up to the sign above the
cottage door introducing the B&B. “Hum, yeah. Do you work
here?” he asks, pointing at the sign.

Louis smiles proudly. “Yeah, I’m the owner. I can get you
sorted,” he replies, approaching the door. Clifford, of course,
sees the movement and gets in the way, excited to get back
home.

“Come on Cliff,” Louis laughs, trying to push him away with

his leg while reaching inside his jacket for his keys.

He feels a small pressure on his arm and when he looks to his

right, his new customer’s hand is resting on his bicep. “I can
hold that for you if that helps,” he offers, gesturing towards the
potted English Ivy.

“Oh cheers, that’d be brilliant,” Louis replies, dropping the

plant in the man’s arms without hesitation. “Sorry for making
you work on your first day,” he jokes as he finally manages to

21
find his keys. “I promise I don’t usually have guests do all the
work,” he adds, twisting the key and pushing the cottage door
open.

The man remains eerily quiet.

“Come in, come in,” Louis says, trying to push Clifford

towards the living room with empty promises of a treat. “Off
you go, you big baby, let me deal with this.”

“What’s his name?”

Louis closes the living room door behind Clifford before

walking around the reception counter, squeezing himself into
the small space and dropping his tote back on the floor with a
loud clang.

“Clifford,” he replies with what he knows is probably too sappy

of a smile. He can’t help it, he loves his big dumb dog. “And
I’m Louis,” he says as he takes his denim jacket off, nervously
smoothing the bottom of the white and blue Norwegian
patterned jumper he’s got on. It’s a habit he can’t quite rid
himself of, though he’s not fully sure why he feels anxious all
of a sudden.

“You’re not Scottish,” the man notes instead of offering his

name, putting the plant on the right corner of the counter,
opposite of Louis’ embarrassing clutter.

“Well spotted,” Louis teases, grabbing the yellow phone from

the top of the counter and putting it on the hidden shelf on his
side to make some space. He moves the mouse of the dinosaur
he doesn’t dare call a computer out loud, where people could

22
hear, to wake the beast up. “Oh, please feel free to take your
coat off. And drop your bag, it must be heavy.”

The man nods, taking the black backpack off and carefully
putting it up against the counter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound
rude, I was just surprised. This place is… well, I just thought
it’d mostly be a small Scottish community is all.”

Louis nods. It’s a common mistake. “You weren't rude at all.

Most people react the same, but we’re a wildly diverse
community,” he says sarcastically.

The man snorts. “Right.”

“Oi! It’s true, we’ve even got gays,” Louis says, jokingly
pointing at himself. He’s not usually in the business of outing
himself to guests, but he can’t miss the opportunity to make fun
of their ridiculously isolated, ridiculously white and
ridiculously British community. He was the most exciting new
local the island had in years when he first moved and he’s a
white British male.

Surprisingly, that’s what makes the hint of a real smile appear

on the stranger’s face. It’s just the uplift of the corner of his
mouth, but…

“My mistake, then I can see I had some… flawed preconceived

notions.”

They stare at each other in silence for a beat. Then two.

“So…” Louis says, drumming his fingers against the counter.

When it becomes quite apparent that he’s going to have to take
charge, he speaks again. “You’re looking for a room...?” he

23
says, almost a question even though they’ve already established
that very fact.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, a bit flabbergasted at the man’s

unwillingness to elaborate, then he opens the reservation
system window with two clicks. “Well, autumn is always quiet
on the island so you’ve definitely got some options in terms of
room sizes and prices. How long are you thinking of staying?
It’s okay if you don’t know, I know most backpackers have
kind of a day to day approach to travel and as I said, it’s usually
empty from October to the end of March so if you want to book
a couple of nights and reevaluate, that’s completely fine.”

“You’re empty until the end of March?”

“Hum… Yeah. Usually.”

The stranger nods, seemingly to himself. “Yeah, that works,”

he whispers before refocusing his eyes on Louis. “Can I rent a
room until mid-March?”

At first, Louis thinks it’s a joke. “Mid-March?!” he exclaims.

“Please,” the man says, not a hint of mischief on his face.

“What are you going to do here on Fair Isle until mid-March

mate?” Louis asks with a small incredulous laugh. “Not that
I’m judging,” he adds quickly when he sees the way the
stranger tightens his jaw, clearly uncomfortable.

“I just need… a break. A holiday,” he replies and there’s honest

desperation in his green eyes that takes Louis by surprise. Like

24
maybe he thinks he’s going to be turned away now and it’s an
unbearable thought.

Louis nods, too enthusiastically, before speaking again. “Yeah,

of course. It’s just most people pick sunnier places, you know?
Crowded beaches and stuff.”

“I’ve had enough of crowded sunny places, thank you,” the

man mumbles, head bowed towards the floor. With his face
mostly hidden, Louis can still see the way his defined eyebrows
raise sarcastically on the ‘thank you’. “Here’s fine,” he finally
says, looking back up into Louis’ eyes. “Here’s perfect. If I
can… ?”

This should raise so many red flags, yet Louis can’t find it in
himself to be wary or suspicious. There’s so much he should
ask, so much he wants to ask, but he knows better. He can’t.
Not yet. So he smiles kindly instead.

“Of course. As I said, plenty of vacancies to choose from. All

rooms have ensuites, we’ve got a few double beds, a couple of
queens and one king in the Master bedroom. Prices vary mostly
with the size of the bed. And the view of course! The rooms
without a view of the cliffs are less expensive, but since you’re
staying so long we can sort something out. I can give you a deal
or something. Normal rates include breakfast. Duh,” Louis
adds, widening his eyes comically. “Bed and Breakfast, you
know? But there’s extra fees if you want all three meals
included. It’s an option. If not, I guess we can work something
out for you to use the kitchen? There’s pretty much only one
bakery slash coffee shop in the village if you’d prefer that –”
Louis stops when the man raises a hand to silence him.

25
“Just give me the most expensive room, please. And full price
on all meals and stuff. Least I can do is pay the proper fee if
I’m going to be here for four months.”

Louis’ about to open his mouth to protest when the stranger

shakes his head and disappears from view. Louis leans over the
counter in time to see him zip his backpack pocket again before
straightening up and dropping an open envelope full of cash on
the counter.

“I know it’s common practice to pay a deposit and then the rest
upon departure, but is it alright if I pay everything up front?”

Louis gulps. That’s a lot of money. “Yep,” he replies, popping

the ‘p’ and looking back down to the computer screen to book
the Master bedroom. “Until March 15 works for you?” he asks,
typing a few things on the customer form when he gets a nod
back. “And... what name should I put this under?”

“Harry… My name is Harry.”

Louis types the first name, trying not to feel unease at the fact
that it’s all Harry seems willing to say. “Any last name that
goes with that?”

“Any last name that goes with yours?” Harry replies and maybe
it’s a trust thing, Louis speculates, observing the way he’s still
fidgeting. He looks boyish somehow, in the cold autumn light
coming in from the window next to the front door.

“Tomlinson,” Louis offers, hoping it will put Harry at ease.

Harry huffs and it almost sounds like a laugh. “Clifford

Tomlinson,” he says. “That’s a great name.”

26
“Thanks, I thought of it meself.”

“It’s... Twist,” Harry says and the word seems unfamiliar in his
mouth. “Harry Twist.”

“Great,” Louis says, typing it down, ignoring the little voice in

the back of his head telling him it’s probably a fake name, that
maybe he should worry. “Let’s get this payment sorted and then
I’ll show you around.”

It takes them about ten minutes to get everything sorted, but

soon enough, Harry is in possession of his room key. He’s
bending down to grab his bag – probably planning on going
straight to his room – when Louis stops him by placing a hand
on his shoulder.

“You can leave that here for a bit,” he says, trying not to make
it sounds like an order. “It’s just… I can show you around the
cottage and the tower first? That way you’ll know where
everything is and stuff?”

“Oh,” Harry says quietly, stopping mid-way down. He

straightens up, putting his hands in the pocket of his oversized
jacket a bit awkwardly, letting Louis have a furtive peek at a
tattooed wrist he somehow hadn’t noticed before. “Sure,”
Harry shrugs. “That makes sense.”

He looks like he wants to be left alone, seems tired despite the

lack of bags under his eyes. It’s in his posture and the way he
smiles with his mouth, but not with his eyes. Not for the first
time, Louis wonders what on Earth happened to this man – this
boy really – for him to wash up on the distant shore of their

27
small corner of the world with pockets full of cash and what
clearly seems like a heavy heart.

“It won’t take much of your time, I promise,” Louis blurts out,
almost an apology. “Then I’ll give you the wifi password and
leave you to it.”

Harry doesn’t smile, but his posture seems to relax slightly.

“It’s fine,” he says, taking one hand away from his pocket to
start taking his scarf off. “I’d like a tour actually.” He puts the
scarf on top of his backpack before taking a step away from it,
his vans sliding wetly against the floor, little pieces of grass
stuck to the sole. “And I don’t need the password. I don’t have
a laptop with me, so.”

“Oh, well if you need a computer at some point, you can borrow
mine no problem. Feel free to ask.”

Harry’s eyes turn slowly to the monster sitting proudly on the

counter, the rest of his body entirely immobile. Then, he
winces.

“Not that one!” Louis laughs, rubbing two fingers against his
beard. “It can barely run the reservation system on a good day,
let alone any web pages. I meant my laptop.”

“I won’t need it, but thanks.”

Louis eyes him for a second before shrugging. “There’s always

the computer at the bakery if you’d be more comfortable,” he
says, finally walking around the counter with his jacket in hand.
“It’s kind of half a bakery, half an internet cafe really. Mrs.
Clark lets anyone use the computer as long as you’ve purchased
something. She’s really lovely and her pastries are to die for.”

28
Louis eyes the plant on the counter for a second. “Do you think
this looks nice there? It’s not too crowded is it?” He twists the
pot a smidge, biting his lower lip as he ponders it.

“Pardon?” Harry asks.

“That plant? I was going to put it in my bedroom, but it kind of

looks nice here, right?”

Harry looks at the plant for a moment, widening his eyes with
incredulity. Louis can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at
succeeding in making him react with more than a heavily
controlled microexpression.

“Hmmm,” Harry hesitates before shrugging. “It looks pretty…

?”

“Alright, I’ll leave it here, for now, I suppose. I can always

move it later,” Louis says, mostly to himself, as he leads the
way towards the living room. “Cliff is probably going to jump
on you,” he warns over his shoulder before opening the door.
“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Harry replies, following Louis inside the room.

Clifford doesn’t even twitch, comfortable in his spot on the rug

where he’s sleeping soundly.

“Or not,” Louis deadpans, taking in the black curly blob.

“Anyway, this is the living room slash library,” he explains,
gesturing vaguely towards the sturdy wooden bookcases
pressed against every wall. Apart from the top of the tower, this
is probably the coziest room on the property.

29
Harry hums, walking over the creaky wooden flooring to get to
the fireplace. He lets his index trail against the top, turning his
head sideways to read the titles of the books clumsily stacked
on the shelves over it. Apart from the white rug and the three
brown leather sofas, there’s only a big antique chest decorating
the room. The star of the show are the books and the fireplace,
as well as the view. There’s a red cushion on the windowsill,
strategically placed there by Louis to encourage people to sit
down there to read during the summer when the reading nook
gets too crowded.

“This… This is lovely,” Harry says, turning around to face

Louis. He sounds sincere and almost impressed. Not for the
first time, Louis wonders what on Earth brought this man here.
“You have a big book selection, and that fireplace is great.” His
eyes widen earnestly as he takes in the room. “I’m a bit
surprised,” he admits.

“And you haven’t even seen the best bits yet,” Louis teases as
he starts moving towards the exit, taking a second to hang his
denim jacket next to Clifford’s leash on the coat peg.

“Did you bring all those books with you when you moved
here?” Harry asks, too nonchalant not to actually be curious as
he grabs one of them off the shelf and starts flipping through it.
“Are they yours?”

Louis laughs, leaning against one of the bookcases next to the

door. He crosses his left leg over the right, folding his arms
across his chest. “Nah. I mean, don’t get me wrong I always
liked reading, but I didn’t start loving it until I moved here. You
might be surprised to learn that there isn’t much to do here to
entertain yourself… Most of these came from guests.”

30
“Lost and found?” Harry guesses without looking up from what
Louis thinks is a biography of an American crime lord. A
twenty years old backpacker left his entire collection of mafia-
related fiction and non-fiction at the lighthouse a few summers
ago in exchange for three British thrillers Louis had bought for
90p in a charity shop in Inverness.

“Not exactly… Well… I suppose it started that way,” Louis

admits. “There was only one bookshelf in this room at first and
it wasn’t even full. It only had a few of my own books and what
the previous owners had left behind when they moved out. It
wasn’t much, but I liked the idea of leaving them in one of the
shared spaces so people could borrow one during their
holidays, you know? I suppose guests liked the idea because
some of them started leaving their own books to add to the
collection if they finished reading them here. Some of them
were just forgotten in bedrooms or in the reading nook… I’ll
show you soon,” Louis adds mysteriously when Harry’s head
snaps up at the words ‘reading nook’, clearly curious. “Others
were swapped –”

“Swapped?” Harry asks, taking a step forward. “What

does that mean?”

“Take a book, leave a book? If people want to leave with a book

they haven’t finished, they can just swap it for one of their own.
I don’t mind. As long as I’ve got options for everyone, I’m not
that fussed about which books I actually own. Besides, I’m
always checking second-hand bookshops whenever I’m on the
mainland. And so do most of the other residents.”

Harry looks down at the book still in his hand, then bites his
lower lip. “The locals buy books for you?” he asks before
passing a hand through his short hair, messing it up even

31
further. Some strands are curling against his temple in a way
that makes Louis thinks it must look gorgeous when it’s longer.

Louis shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s for themselves too.

There’s not an official library on Fair Isle, you know, so
everyone kind of shares mine.”

“That’s… That’s actually really lovely.”

Louis nods, then smiles, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. It really is.” He

moves away from the bookcase, holding his hand out for Harry
to give him the book. Then, he puts it back on the closest shelf.
“There’s absolutely no order in here, so don’t worry about
putting stuff back where it belongs. We thrive on chaos here.
Cliff especially,” Louis jokes, pointing at his sleeping, peaceful
dog. “Oh! Before I forget,” he adds, pointing at the chest next
to Clifford, “this antique is full of wool jumpers available for
guests to use so please feel free to borrow whatever. It gets
really cold at night with the power off. There’s battery-operated
heaters in every bedroom so you should be fine, but still. Don’t
be shy. They’re all clean, I swear.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the words ‘power off’ and they stay that
way until Louis finishes his speech, his body rooted in place
near the exit. “With the power off?” he repeats, like what Louis
said doesn’t make any sense.

Louis’ eyes widen in turn at the slight tremor in Harry’s voice.

Oh dear. “You do know that there’s no electricity on Fair Isle
between half-past eleven at night and seven in the morning,
right?” Louis asks, suddenly pushy and a bit nervous.

This man is strange, sure, and Louis isn’t sure he can fully trust
him yet, but with the promise of four months of his most

32
expensive room being rented – during winter !!!!!! – the last
thing he wants is for this piece of information to make Harry
run for it.

Harry’s mouth opens, then closes and he gulps visibly. “Right,”

he says, blinking his confusion away. “Right. Of course. I… I
suppose I must have forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, looking more certain now as he’s

getting used to the idea. “It just slipped my mind,” he insists.
“Thank you for telling me about the jumpers. It’s a really good
idea. You’re clearly prepared for every eventuality.”

Louis stares at him for a beat before answering. “I certainly

try,” he finally settles for, before gesturing towards the door.
“Moving on?”

Harry nods, following him back into the corridor, then into the
next room which Louis quickly introduces as the dining room.

“There’s not much that’s interesting here, to be honest,” Louis

explains as he lets Harry have a look around.

Two big windows facing the cliffs with about a dozen

mismatched square tables and chairs, the space is a mix
between a restaurant and family dining room. The most
interesting piece of furniture in the room is the upright piano
that Louis almost never plays but couldn’t bear to get rid of
when the previous owners didn’t bother to leave with it. Each
table is adorned with a handwritten wine/drinks list and right
next to the door there’s a chalkboard standing sign where Louis
usually writes down the weekly menu. He explains so quickly

33
to his guest, pointing at the blank sign while Harry approaches
one of the tables and starts fiddling with the list on it.

“Basically, I’d normally have fixed menus planned and if

people are interested in eating in, I’d add it to their room bill,
but since you’re staying so long and you’ve already paid for the
food, it doesn’t have to be so strictly planned. We can always
discuss the menus and everything. Pick stuff together...”

There’s a long moment of silence where Louis just looks at

Harry who is seemingly lost in thought, his thumb rubbing
against the piece of paper nestled between the salt and pepper
shakers.

“Harry?” Louis finally asks, uncertainly. “Is it alright if we play

it by ear for the weekly menus?”

“Uh?’ Harry says, dropping the wine list. He reaches for his
own wrist, rubbing it with his thumb for a few seconds, before
snapping a rubber band Louis hadn’t even noticed he was
wearing against his skin. “Yeah, yeah,” he replies, clearly not
knowing what Louis said. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees, choosing not to push it. If Harry’s not in

the mood to talk or think that far ahead, it’s fine. Louis can sort
it out by himself. He usually does and no guest has ever
complained about his food, even though it’s not world class.
“Let’s skip the kitchen,” Louis declares, feeling like maybe
Harry is getting tired of this, of him, and wants the tour to be
over as quickly as possible. “All you need to know is that it
could give most flats a run for their money in terms of being
tiny and cramped,” Louis explains as he leads Harry outside the
dining room. They walk along the corridor in silence until they
walk past the door that hides the stairs leading to the basement.

34
“Downstairs is mostly storage. Like canned food and stuff like
that. Alcohol and anything that doesn’t need to be chilled,
basically. That’s where the washing machine is as well for
whenever you need it. Soap and everything is downstairs too,
so feel free to use whatever you need.”

Harry hums along as they finally reach the door leading to the
annexed corridor and the next building.

“So, this actually used to be two buildings,” Louis explains,

pushing the door open and walking into the corridor. “The
cottage and then the actual lighthouse building where the
keeper used to stay… They only built the annex linking the two
when the buildings were first converted into a Bed & Breakfast
back in the 80s, so the guests wouldn’t have to brave the
weather to get to the money shot, you know?” Louis looks over
his shoulder just in time to catch Harry furrowing his eyebrows.
“The top of the tower,” he explains with a bit more flair and
drama than necessary, pushing the door to the next building
open with his hip. He lets Harry walk in first. “It’s the spot with
the best view after all! This door jams a little sometimes so
don’t be afraid to give it a bit of a shove, alright?” he adds,
following along. “The corridor is old and drafty and pretty
much awful and could probably do with some renovations…”
He points at the door behind with his thumb over his shoulder.
“But hey, at least if it rains you’re not stuck going outside, you
know? I sleep here by the way,” he says when they walk past
his bedroom door to get to the bottom of the metal spiral
staircase. “You’ll mostly have the cottage to yourself at night
unless other customers show up, but yeah, if there’s an
emergency or anything like that… this is where you can find
me.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, docile. “Are we going up there?” he asks,

pointing towards the top of the tower.

35
“‘Course we’re going up there.” Louis smiles widely. “After
you,” he says, a bit mischievously.

It’s always the best bit, he figures. The way people’s face just
illuminate with delight when they finally reach the top. Today
is such a nice day as well, not a cloud in sight or any trace of
fog. Just clear blue skies and what Louis knows is an incredible
view of the cliffs and the water beyond.

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts taking the stairs

two at a time immediately, clearly unbothered by the fact that
they’re old, and they’re creaky and they’re spiraling. Louis,
who has had to convince more than one guest that they are in
fact perfectly safe, can’t help but feel surprised by Harry’s
eagerness, his lack of fear. He didn’t even hesitate for one
second and Louis figures this is probably why he’s here at all.
For that unparalleled view up there that, even after years of
living on Fair Isle, Louis just can’t get sick of.

At the top, the stairs emerge onto the side of the lantern room,
right in front of the door that leads outside to the gallery deck
and Louis smiles to himself when Harry stops as he reaches it,
a small gasp escaping his lips as he lets go of the copper railing.
Louis lets him have a moment, staring through the glass panels
at the breathtaking view of the cliffs before he carefully presses
his knuckles into Harry’s back to encourage him to move
forward into the room.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just steps ahead, staring at the

curved wooden bench that surrounds them, long enough to
follow almost the entire circumference of the tower. The top of
the bench is made of white cushion seats, ensuring it’s actually
a cozy and comfortable place to snuggle with a book, or a
camera, or a lover. The floor is obviously made of concrete,

36
which Louis has always hated, but as he looks down at the
fluffy white rug in the middle of the room that matches the one
in the library, he can’t help but feel like he did a good job hiding
the reality and discomforts of the lantern room. On it stands
proudly a dark wooden chest that mostly serves as a coffee
table, with a few discarded books and magazines permanently
and effortlessly thrown on it. Louis winces with embarrassment
when he notices the white enamel mug of tea he forgot on the
table a few days prior.

“Cute,” Harry comments, pointing at the rainbow on it.

Louis blushes, grabbing the mug. “It’s usually much tidier,” he

declares. “I wasn’t really expecting…” he trails off, their eyes
meeting silently, Harry’s clouded with something that might be
mistrust or anxiety. “Well, anyone really,” Louis admits and
Harry's mouth tightens in what no one would call a smile, but
the shadow in his eyes disappear.

“This place is incredible,” he whispers.

“Money shot,” Louis agrees with a smug smile.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. He takes a step forward before kneeling

on the bench, pressing his nose against the window and taking
in the cliffs and the sea, the empty horizon ahead. He seems
almost hypnotized – so still Louis would think him asleep if his
eyes weren’t wide open – unable to look away.

The wind whistles, Louis’ best friend, and he smiles as Harry

inhales and exhales deeply.

“This is gonna be perfect,” he whispers to himself against the

glass, almost like a prayer.

37
Perfect for what, Louis can’t help but wonder, but he forces
himself to stay silent. There will be time for that later if Harry
wishes to share, but for now, Louis knows there’s no point in
hounding him for answers.

Finally, after a couple of minutes of contemplation, Harry gets

up from the bench and starts playing with the elastic band on
his wrist. He barely seems to notice he’s doing it, the movement
absent-minded and distracted as he looks around the lantern
room silently. His green eyes fall onto the tall lamp tucked at
the end of the bench and his lips turn up in the corner at the
sight.

“What’s the point of that if there’s no power at night?” he asks,

a bit cheeky.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, trust me, you’ll need it in

the middle of January when you want to come up here to read
and the sun sets at three o’clock. Or doesn’t rise until past nine.
It’s dead useful. And if you actually do want to come up during
our time off the grid, there are plenty of torches in there,” Louis
says, giving the chest a small kick with his brown boot. “And
in the living room. Well, the library, I mean. And in the
bedrooms. And… pretty much everywhere in the B&B,” he
finishes with a small laugh.

Torches are an essential part of life on Fair Isle. There’s no

denying it. Louis is pretty sure most of his jackets and coats
have at least one in one of the pockets, just in case. He leaves
them around in every common room. Hell, Louis even ended
up hiding extra ones under the sink of every ensuite a few years
back just in case. Some inns or hotels have a copy of the bible
in the nightstands, Louis’ place has extra batteries.

38
Harry nods. “That’s… uh. That’s good to know.” He pauses
before pointing at the chest. “Any jumpers in there as well?” he
asks and Louis can’t quite figure out if it’s meant to be teasing
or not.

“A few,” Louis decides to reply seriously. “Mostly blankets

though. It gets quite cold up here. Especially if you want to go
out on the gallery deck.” Louis smirks. “I don’t know if you
can hear it, but it gets really windy here?”

Harry shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpans, making Louis

snorts.

“D’you wanna see outside?” he offers, pointing at the door

leading to what many tourists jokingly refer to as Louis’
balcony.

Harry shakes his head. “Maybe later?” he offers. “I’m a bit

exhausted. And still kind of jetlagged.”

“Jetlagged?” Louis can’t help but ask as he leads the way back
downstairs, his dirty mug clenched tightly between his fingers.

Harry remains silent behind him, a tense looming presence

against Louis’ back as they spiral back to the ground floor.

“Sorry,” Louis finally mumbles when the silence becomes

unbearable, which seems to be about five seconds after he’s
asked the completely inappropriate question. “It’s none of my
business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No… I… Sorry,” Harry says before clearing his throat. “I

just… I don’t like talking about myself.” He pauses, before

39
adding: “these days” in a whisper. “Feels like I’ve done enough
of that for a lifetime already.”

“Oh,” Louis replies, not really understanding. He doesn’t push

though, doesn’t really see the point when Harry is establishing
such clear boundaries.

“Up until a few days ago, I was in LA for…” Harry

hesitates. “For work. And now I’m here. So I’m still
adjusting.”

And that does take Louis by surprise. While Harry doesn’t look
like the classic backpackers he usually hosts and he clearly isn’t
lacking money, he certainly doesn’t look like the kind of man
who jets off to the US for work. Louis tries to picture him in a
boring suit sipping wine in business class and he can’t help but
want to frown at the image. No, it doesn’t seem right.

They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs by now and when

Louis turns around to face Harry he can’t help but feel a sudden
twinge of sadness at the way he’s curled upon himself, trying
to hide his face in a nonchalant way. Harry looks small, even
though he’s a bit taller than Louis, made taller even by the fact
he’s still on the last step while Louis is back on the floor. And
yet, he’s drowning in his oversized coat, eclipsed by an excess
of olive green fabric. He’s wearing washed blue jeans and a
plain cream jumper underneath, everything about him
screaming that he doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want to
be looked at.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Louis declares sincerely,

surprising himself to find that he actually means it. “You don’t
have to explain yourself.”

40
He might have come in looking a little worse for wear, might
have seemed a little shady, but Louis can’t help but feel like the
guy needs a break. Besides, Louis is used to living with the
unknown, the uncertainty. It’s what winter on Fair Isle is made
of, nothing can be predicted. And it doesn’t scare Louis.

They walk back to reception in silence, not quite a heavy one,

yet it’s not comfortable either. Harry follows him with his
hands buried deep in his pockets, his head hung low, and every
time Louis turns around to check he’s still there he gets the
feeling that maybe Harry regrets speaking up, like maybe what
he told Louis was a secret he didn’t mean to share. Louis isn’t
sure where the feeling is coming from. Maybe it’s the way
Harry hasn’t said a word since, or the way he won’t look at
Louis anymore. Either way, he does his best to ignore it and
once they reach the reception area, he grabs Harry’s bag before
he can protest.

“Please follow me,” Louis declares, pointing to the creaky

staircase to the right of the entrance.

The building clearly wasn’t designed with a B&B in mind and

there’s only a tiny amount of space between the reception desk
and the wall to get to the staircase. It’s always a bit of an issue,
but despite many brainstorming sessions, there truly is no better
space than the entryway for the reception. As it is, Louis very
carefully walks past the desk, keeping in mind the fact he just
added a plant to his decor as he carries Harry’s bag.

Suddenly, as he climbs up the stairs, Louis starts finding the

silence a hint unbearable and he starts babbling about the
island, giving Harry some random information about life in
such a remote place. He’s in the middle of a passionate rant

41
about the application process to move into available property
when they reach Harry’s bedroom.

“Here we are,” Louis says, dropping the subject as he puts

Harry’s bag on the floor next to the door. “Still got your keys?”
he jokes and his smile drops a little when he realizes Harry’s
eyes are confused as he stares at the closed door.

“The National Trust of Scotland owns the island?” he asks, a

sharp frown line digging itself into his forehead, like maybe
what Louis has been saying is a puzzle he needs to sort out.

Louis grins. “Yeah? Did you not know that?” He pauses,

looking Harry up and down slowly. “Did you not research the
place before you picked us for your…” Louis hesitates, words
like holiday on the tip of his tongue. It’s what Harry used
earlier, but it didn’t seem quite right. “Your… retreat?” he
finally settles for. The way Harry’s body stiffens slightly
confirms it.

He shrugs, looking down. “Not really,” he admits. “Just

googled ‘most remote place in the UK’ to be honest. And this
was the result.”

Louis smiles, a little sadly, at the sight of this tall man and the
shadow clearly hanging over his head. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice
more raspy than usual. He clears his throat. “That’s us.”

Harry smiles, polite as he fiddles with his room key.

“You really wanted to be far away, uh,” Louis comments

gently.

42
Harry stops moving, stops playing with the keys, and he looks
back up, straight into Louis’ eyes. “Is that what you wanted?”
he asks and on someone else’s lips, it would sound accusatory.
Louis has many distant relatives who have thought similarly
and have told him off for it, so he’s intimately familiar with the
way his self-imposed exile can be perceived. “Is that why you
left England and moved here? Because you wanted to be far
away?”

It almost sounds like he’s asking permission to feel this way,

like he needs someone to understand and relate, like he’s the
loneliest person in the world who came to the loneliest place in
the world to fix it. It’s almost enough to make Louis lie, to make
him agree with Harry just to make him feel better.

“No,” he says softly. “I wasn’t running away from home. I was

running towards it.”

Harry’s eyelids flutter as he looks back down for a second. “I

understand.” He turns slightly to face his bedroom door,
pushing the key into the lock and turning it. Once the door is
open, he reaches down to grab his bag, putting one strap over
his shoulder and giving Louis a side glance. “I didn’t want to
be really far away,” he admits softly, “I needed it.”

Then, he vanishes into his room.

The rest of the day, Louis barely notices he has a guest at all.
Harry stays firmly locked in his bedroom – a silent but
nonetheless impossible to ignore presence – not making a peep
as afternoon morphs into evening. More than once, Louis stops
what he’s working on to strain an ear towards Harry’s side of

43
the building, trying to catch any sign of life from the now rented
bedroom. Yet, there is nothing. It’s like Harry isn’t there at all,
like maybe Louis made him up in a moment of weakness, when
he was budgeting and worrying about the low season. But the
stack of bills in the till don’t lie, nor does Harry’s blocky
signature at the bottom of the room rental contract. Despite
Harry’s discretion, Louis can’t stop his brain from circling back
to the tall and effaced stranger in need of a break who
unexpectedly entered his and Clifford’s life.

He’s somewhere between a mystery and a puzzle; someone

Louis has the hitch to understand, to get to know.

Around six o’clock, despite no signs that Harry is getting

restless, Louis abandons his to-do list and enters the kitchen to
get their tea ready. He puts on a Spotify playlist curated by his
elder sister, a mixture of oldies and recent tune most of which
by artists he couldn’t name even if he was paid handsomely to,
before starting to cook dinner for two. Quickly, while quietly
humming to himself, he prepares an easy chicken casserole
recipe that barely takes any effort but usually reaps tons of
compliments from his guests.

Once the meal is ready, Louis spends a few minutes debating

whether to bother Harry about it or not, before deciding to settle
down on the table in the corner of the kitchen, big enough for
only two and pushed against the window, where he usually eats
when the B&B is full or his guests want privacy. He eats his
half of the meal first, without guilt, telling himself Harry never
said he was hungry or asked about usual meal times anyway.
Then, he takes care of the dishes, checking the time on his
phone every once in a while, wondering if he should knock on
his guest’s door or not.

44
On one hand, Harry would probably come to him if he were
feeling hungry. Louis did say he was available and he prepaid
for his meals, after all. He’s a grown man. Louis doesn’t need
to hold his hand or force-feed him. On the other hand, Louis
does feel responsible for feeding him. But the clock ticks and
Louis cleans up the kitchen and, suddenly, it’s past nine o’clock
and there’s still no sign of Harry.

Finally, at half past nine, Louis grabs a yellow sticky note from
behind the reception desk before making his way upstairs,
scrawling a messy message and sticking it to Harry’s bedroom
door.

There’s chicken leftovers for you in the fridge in a blue bowl.

Microwave won’t work past 11:30 though. Good night.

Then, Louis grabs a book from the library and squeezes it in

the back pocket of his jeans before making his way to the tower
with a steaming cuppa, Clifford on his heels, happily expecting
a late night cuddle.

45
Chapter 2

The next morning, Louis comes back from his run with Clifford
to find Harry on his way out. They awkwardly bump into each
other in the entrance, Louis letting Clifford in first and
surprising Harry as he was coming down the stairs. He startles
a little, eyes widening when faced with Louis and Clifford’s
presence. He’s bundled into the same long green coat from the
previous night, his large black scarf hiding half of his face.
Even from afar, Louis can see the shadows under his eyes,
betraying the exhaustion that’s pouring out of him. He opens
his mouth to ask if he slept well, though the answer seems
obvious, when Harry looks down to his trainers, clearly
avoiding eye contact. Louis gulps, uncomfortably rubbing the
back of his neck before fully getting in the building, leaving
space for Harry to get out. He’s literally reaching out for the
door handle when Louis remembers how terrible of a host he’s
been.

“Hang on!” he says just as Harry takes one step outside. He

stiffens, clearly not eager for morning chatter, but still turns
around to face Louis, brows frowning a little when he sees him
lift his finger for a second before running behind the reception
desk. Louis starts rummaging through the mess behind the
counter, clicking his tongue impatiently when he doesn’t find
what he’s looking for. Finally, after a few seconds of moving
rubbish around, Louis remembers he put it in one of the drawers
and he successfully retrieves the key to the B&B. “Here,” he
says, handing it to Harry once he’s no longer behind the
counter. “It’s a key to the front door, just in case I’m not in at

46
some point. That way you can come and go as you please, not
that there’s much to do here,” Louis jokes. Harry’s face remains
stony, not a muscle twitching and betraying amusement. “I
uh…” Louis clears his throat. “I forgot to give it to you
yesterday, I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh,” Harry says, emotionless but not unfriendly, his fingers

careful against Louis’ hand as he grabs the key from him. He
still isn’t really looking at Louis’ face, his eyes fixed on the
small object instead. “Cheers,” he mumbles, finally looking up.

“Electricity should be back on any minute now, if you want a

shower after your walk. And there’s a couple of breakfast
options too,” he adds, “if you’re hungry.”

Harry smiles politely, clearly eager to leave but not wanting to

be impolite. “Thank you,” he says with a nod. “I mostly eat fruit
for breakfast so don’t worry about going through the trouble of
making something complicated for me, please.”

Louis smiles as he starts to take off his jacket, revealing a grey

jumper underneath. “It wouldn’t be trouble at all, but I’m a
cereal man meself in the morning, so I understand.”

Harry nods, standing awkwardly in the doorway for a few

seconds in silence before putting the key in his pocket. He’s
wearing the same blue jeans from the day before, a clue as to
the fact he’s probably not going to be jogging this morning as
Louis did, and once the key is nestled safely into its back
pocket, Harry nods again, vaguely in Louis’ direction. Then he
turns around, gesturing towards the reception.

“Alright,” he says half-heartedly, waving Louis off. “Thanks.”

47
“See ya later!” Louis calls, but Harry’s already closed the door
behind him. He hums pensively once Harry has left, looking
towards Clifford. “Strange fella, uh?” he asks the dog.

Unsurprisingly, Clifford doesn’t bark in response, just stares at

Louis with big dark eyes.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Louis agrees, “too early to tell.” Then, he

walks back to his bedroom to take a shower.

Louis is at reception buried in some admin when Harry comes

back two hours later. He gives no indication as to where he’s
been, whether he went down the cliffside and walked along the
beach, or if he took some time to visit the village, or even to
walk further up north towards the opposite tip of the island.
Instead, he silently walks in like he’d rather not be seen, like
having a physical body that can be looked at causes him pain,
head bowed down awkwardly and lingering close to the walls.
He barely responds to Louis’ polite greeting, offering him a
tiny nod as he goes straight for the stairs and vanishes from
view.

Sternly, Louis reminds himself that there’s no point in

speculating. He can’t help the way his curiosity is fully piqued
though, can’t help but wonder what on Earth happened for a
young man like Harry to need to escape so badly that he’d run
away to the very end of their island and beyond to hide there.
It’s none of Louis’ business of course, but he wonders.

Twenty minutes later, when Harry comes back down with wet
hair, Louis is still wondering. He’s wearing black sweatpants
and a black jumper with colorful planets going down from his

48
left shoulder to his right hip in a line across his chest. He’s also
carrying a thick brown leather notebook, tied closed with a thin
piece of rope and with what looks like a fancy pen hanging
from it. There seem to be doodles on the notebook, scribbles
and what not, but Louis doesn’t get a very good look before
Harry switches the hand he’s holding it with, hiding it fully
from Louis’ view.

When he passes in front of the reception desk, he gives Louis a

proper look, their eyes meeting as he smiles politely with no
warmth. Harry gestures towards the corridor leading to the
tower. “I’m going to…” he says, hovering in front of the desk
for a second, seemingly waiting for Louis’ permission.

“Cool,” Louis says, as friendly as possible, before looking back

to his paperwork. There’s no point in making Harry more
uncomfortable than he already is.

If it’s solitude he came to Fair Isle to look for, Louis can

definitely let him have that.

Instead of worrying about how his guest is getting on in the

lantern room, Louis loses himself in his work for a couple of
hours, tidying up both his paperwork and his actual workspace,
trying to make the reception area a bit more presentable. It’s a
routine he goes through every couple of weeks, each time
promising himself that it’s the last time he lets the desk get so
filthy and filled with rubbish, only to start all over again when
it inevitably gets messy after a short while. He’s not an untidy
person per se, it’s just that he has to maintain all the shared
spaces of the B&B so immaculate that whatever area is
only his , such as behind reception and his bedroom, tends to
get left behind during the cleaning process. He stops once the

49
reception desk is spotless and he’s watered his plant, only then
noticing the rumblings of his stomach.

A quick look at his phone tells him it’s past noon already and
Louis goes straight to the kitchen, ready to feed himself after
getting all that work done. He makes two ham and cheese
sandwiches quickly, eating his in three easy bites while he
waits for the water to boil. When the water is ready, he grabs
an old touristy mug decorated with a drawing of Nessie and
Scotland written in retro yellow letters underneath. He drops a
tea bag in the mug and pours water over it, then he hesitates for
a second while staring at the fridge. Finally, he shrugs and
opens it, getting milk out to pour a few drops in Harry’s tea.
Considering it’s tea he didn’t have to make for himself, Louis
assumes Harry won’t complain about it.

Then, he grabs the sandwich plate and the mug, making his way
to the tower. Once he’s at the bottom of the staircase, Louis
carefully starts climbing, slow to make sure he’s not going to
drop either item in his hands, regretting his life choices about
halfway up when he stumbles a little and doesn’t have a free
hand to grab the railing. Luckily, he manages to regain his
balance and not spill anything, taking the last few steps even
slower now.

When he finally reaches the lantern room, Louis is surprised to

find it empty. He stops at the top of the stairs and frowns, his
eyes going straight to the chest, to where Harry’s journal lays
open, forgotten, with the fancy pen nestled between the pages.
A second later, Louis looks up and startles when he notices a
tall figure on the gallery outside. He sighs in relief, shaking his
head a little at his own silliness for assuming Harry had
magically vanished. He allows himself a second to observe him
in silence, to watch the way he’s leaning against the railing, his
posture more relaxed than Louis has seen so far.

50
Harry’s back is not fully facing Louis, his body angled slightly
in a way that gives Louis a good look at the way he’s pushed
the sleeves of his jumper up his forearms, his naked skin
directly against the railing as he nervously plays with his own
fingers. He’s pinching the skin for a few seconds before starting
to massage his hands a little. Every once in a while, he stops
entirely to reach for the rubber band on his wrist, twisting it
between his fingers almost absently. Once, Louis is sure he sees
him snapping it sharply against the delicate skin of his wrist,
but soon enough he’s back to massaging his hands. Harry
seems deep in thoughts, unbothered by the way the wind is
messing up his curls, eyes fixed on the seemingly never-ending
horizon, the sea that goes on and on and on.

Louis looks away, feeling like he’s intruding on a private

moment and in an effort to stop creeping around, he walks fully
into the room to put Harry’s lunch aside. As he leans down to
set both the plate and the mug on the chest, Louis’ eyes stray
away from the fruit of his labor and lands onto the pages of his
guest’s journal, catching words like gotta get
better and crowded rooms with empty souls before he realizes
what he’s doing and his eyes widen automatically in shame.

The curiosity to read on is stronger than Louis would have

thought, considering the importance he’s always placed on
privacy as the eldest of seven siblings, and he physically has to
move away from the journal to stop himself from snooping.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles to himself, chastising,

before walking towards the door leading to the gallery.

51
Yet, he still hesitates in front of the door, not wanting to pry
more than he already has. It’s not like the sandwich Louis made
could get cold. If he left it there and went back to work silently,
Harry could still enjoy it whenever he’s ready to eat. And the
tea doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, Louis
could just drink it and make Harry a new cuppa later. Or Harry
can make himself a cuppa whenever he wants because he
knows where the kitchen is and he’s not a child.

This is ridiculous, Louis thinks, shaking his head before

knocking on the glass, hoping he’ll be less intrusive if he warns
Harry of his presence this way.

It backfires immediately, Harry startling and turning around

with a panicked look on his face.

Louis grimaces, raising both hands in what he hopes is a

placating gesture and he smiles a little when he sees Harry sigh
in relief, one hand going up to his hair, trying to fix the mess
on top of his head with rosy cheeks. He opens the door, walking
into the lantern room with a hesitant look on his face as Louis
walks two steps backwards to let him in.

52
“Can I help you?” Harry asks politely, eyes curious when they
meet Louis’, and he can’t help but smile in response.

“I think it’s me who can help you mate,” Louis replies. He

points at the chest with his thumb over his shoulder without
looking back. “Thought you might be hungry so I’ve made you
something.”

“Oh,” Harry exhales, eyes going beyond Louis’ shoulder to

where he's pointing and there’s a hint of worry on his face, his
gaze focused on a specific spot ahead.

When Louis looks back without fully turning around, the first
thing he sees from the corner of his eyes is the open journal. He
gulps, trying to swallow back his discomfort, to stop himself
from doing something extremely stupid. He opens his mouth,
about to confess everything, to admit he’s read a few lines
accidentally. Then, thinking better of it, he says: “Made you a
cuppa too,” instead.

What’s the point after all? It’s not like Louis really read
anything of importance. It’s not like he knows what any of it
means. He barely caught a glimpse between doodles, half
scribbled lines and redacted sentences. He would never read
anyone’s diary. Especially not after the now infamous incident
where he mocked his sister Lottie for something she’d written
in the pink Barbie journal her bff had given her for her ninth
birthday. The journal came with a tiny gold padlock that she
had forgotten to lock one evening and it had laid forgotten on
the kitchen table amidst everyone’s homework, too tempting
for Louis’ inquisitive nature to resist. The punishment from his
mother had been painful, but it was Lottie’s betrayed face, and
the weeks she spent no longer trusting her big brother, that left
the biggest impact on him. If growing up in a full household

53
taught him one thing, it’s to respect people’s boundaries fully
and without question.

Today’s wandering eyes were a mistake, a half second

accident, so small and unimportant it’s not worth mentioning.

“I didn’t know how you take it so I put a dash of milk,” Louis

continues when Harry doesn’t reply. “Hope that’s okay.”

Finally, Harry’s eyes soften. He gives Louis a tiny nod, lips

barely turning up in the hint of a smile. “That sounds perfect
actually.”

“You’ll probably need it after spending time out without a

jacket,” Louis teases. “Wind gets quite cold, even on the nicest
of days.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m okay,” he replies, wrapping his arms around

himself, one on top of the other, and starts stroking his jumper
with his thumb right above his elbow. “Tea sounds good
though. And food.” He pauses, both of them standing
awkwardly in front of each other. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Louis shrugs. “Part of the all-inclusive package,” he teases

easily, waiting a second for Harry to react. When it becomes
obvious that he won’t, Louis nods to himself, drumming his
fingers against his thighs. “Alright, well I’ll leave you to it
then.”

“Alright,” Harry replies.

They stand silently for a beat.

54
“Okay, bye,” Louis says, turning around and sprinting down
the stairs.

He’s halfway down when he realizes he’s forgotten to ask

Harry something and he’s back in the lantern room just in time
to see him close his journal firmly with a determined look on
his face.

“Me again!” he calls awkwardly from the stairs. “Forgot to ask,

is half past six okay for dinner? I can have that ready for you in
the dining room if you want?”

Harry nods. “Sounds good.”

“Any specific requests?” Louis asks. “I can bring a menu up if

you want? Or just tell you the options I guess?”

Harry shakes his head. He sits down, grabbing his plate and
balancing it delicately on his thighs. “I’m not a picky eater and
I’m not allergic to anything, so…” He shrugs. “Surprise me?”

A few hours later, a frantic Louis is pacing the length of his

kitchen, heart beating dramatically in his chest as he ponders
the meaning of “surprise me”.

Is Harry expecting something amazing? Innovative?

Revolutionary? Unexpected? Weird? What did he even mean
by the phrase?

Louis is far from a bad cook, he knows that, but he’s not a chef
either, preferring to focus his energy on homely and comforting
recipes to warm up the hearts of his guests and to give them a

55
family establishment feel from his place, even though he
definitely runs it by himself. He’s a family man though, no
matter how far away from them he lives and Louis thinks his
Bed & Breakfast should reflect that. More to the point, he
doesn’t cook to impress, he cooks to nourish. Both stomachs
and souls. If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that Harry’s soul
seems to be in need of a lot of nourishment. And he wants to be
surprised on top of it all?

It’s an awful lot of pressure for one meal.

Louis looks one more time into his fridge, biting into his lower
lip as he mentally riffles through his favourite recipes,
matching them to what’s actually in his kitchen. He’s certainly
not lacking options or ingredients. Yet, he still can’t make up
his mind.

It’s absurd is what it is. Harry Twist is going to be staying at

the South Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast for almost four
months. He’ll probably get to try each and every recipe in
Louis’ repertoire three times over during that time unless
someone starts diversifying the menu real quick. It shouldn’t
be an issue at all. Even if Louis manages to impress him – or,
more specifically, surprise him – tonight, soon enough he’ll see
beyond the mirage and get to experience Louis’ true and
authentic cooking a.k.a. the boring, yet beloved recipes he
always relies on.

As soon as the thought enters his mind, Louis sighs, shoulders

dropping. Seems silly to make such a fuss, considering.

“Who fucking cares?” he tells the open fridge, closing the door
with flourish before grabbing a pan, twirling on his way to the
sink. He fills it with water before setting it on the stove to boil.

56
At half past six sharp, Louis enters the dining room with a
fuming plate of his fancy variation on a classic mac & cheese.
Though fancy is probably a bit of a strong word considering it
only has some bacon and cauliflower to distinguish it, but still,
Louis’ never had any complaint for taking liberties with the
word.

He smiles when he sees that Harry is already seated, pleased to

find him so punctual. He’s at a table near one of the big
windows, nose buried in a novel opened flat on the white
tablecloth, spine already so broken Harry barely has to hold it.
Louis hums to himself, hardly seeing the point in picking that
particular spot considering the sun set a few hours before, the
effects of setting the clock back already making themselves
known even though it’s only been a few days. Of course, things
are only going to get worse as autumn transforms into winter
and soon enough, they’ll barely have a few hours of bright
afternoon before the sun disappears again into what always
feels like a never-ending night. Louis bitterly remembers his
first year on the island, remembers the shock to his system
when they started losing daylight at three o’clock in the
afternoon, remembers how hard it was for him to adjust at first.
He wonders how Harry is going to find the place when he
realizes how bad December and January get. He wonders if
maybe he’ll regret picking Fair Isle for his… break when he
could have picked a tropical holiday destination somewhere
rather than their cold and desolate island. He wonders if it’s
going to be a harsh surprise for him the way it was for Louis
when he first moved. Or if maybe he came prepared for the
dreariness of winter, armed with the knowledge of what he is
about to endure. Considering the confused – and a tad alarmed
– look on his face when Louis mentioned the lack of electricity
on the island at night, he suspects Harry hasn’t done the
necessary research. He’s certainly not going to be the one to

57
warn him off. The money is too good to be true for Louis to
start chasing away his only customer.

And no matter how silent and elusive Harry has been, the
company is kind of nice too.

“Good book?” Louis asks when he’s reached the table, biting
down a smirk when Harry jumps a little, startled at the
interruption. “Sorry,” he apologizes politely because it’s the
customer service thing to do. “Mmm, I see you’ve made a
friend,” he adds when he notices Clifford sleeping under the
table at Harry’s feet.

He’d wondered where the cheeky bugger had run off to.

Harry looks up at Louis for a second, still looking startled,

before glancing down at his book, then at Clifford.

“Your dog doesn’t really strike me as the type to struggle to

make friends,” Harry chooses to say, raising a delicate eyebrow
to emphasizes his point. “I don’t know how flattered I should
feel by his display of affection.”

It actually takes a second for Louis to realise Harry is joking.

“Oi!” he warns, putting the hand not holding Harry’s plate on

his hip in an attempt to look offended. “Are you saying my dog
has no standards?”

Harry shrugs innocently enough. “I’m just saying, I don’t know

that I should feel special. We barely know each other and he’s
been all over me ever since I’ve left the tower. Seems like it
doesn’t take much to win his favour.”

58
Louis widens his eyes. “I’ll have you know…” he begins with
emphasis, “that you are absolutely correct. That boy loves a
cuddle more than I do and I am a huge cuddle bug. I wish I
could tell you winning Cliff’s affection reveals something
really profound about your character because he only picks the
elite to befriend but that would be a big fat lie.”

To Louis’ surprise, Harry actually laughs. “I suspected,” he

jokes back.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel flattered or lucky because

he’s a star. Truly the best boy in the world. Regardless of how
low his standards might be.”

Harry nods, looking serious all of a sudden. “I’ll keep that in

mind,” he tells Louis, a little conspiratorially. “ And yeah,” he
agrees, though Louis doesn’t know to what.

He frowns, opening his mouth to ask what Harry is talking

about when he adds: “the book isn’t bad.”

“Oh,” Louis says, shaking his head. He’s the one who asked,
he supposes that should have been obvious. Subtly, he tries to
stretch his neck to catch a glimpse of the cover but Harry still
has the book wide open, completely flat against the table. Even
a glimpse of the text to help him guess is hard to achieve. After
a few awkward seconds of contortion, Harry seems to take pity
on him and he moves the book in Louis’ direction, allowing
him to have a proper look.

Louis smiles, silently thanking Harry as he reads the familiar

title.

59
“Found it in the lantern room,” Harry explains, not even a hint
of embarrassment on his face at being caught reading one of
the quite large collections of smutty romance novels Louis likes
to keep around for guests. It’s one of – if not the – best genre
for holiday readings, after all.

Louis likes that kind of confidence in a man.

He hums, interested. “Not a bad choice,” he says confidently,

finally putting the bowl down on the table, not quite between
Harry’s utensils since the book is still in the way. “I’m not one
to get titillated by straight sex, but I gotta admit those steamy
scenes are well written.”

Harry shrugs, bit of a smirk on his face. “Haven’t gotten that

far actually. The Duke is being swoon-worthy but she hasn’t
quite succumbed to his advances yet. I’ll have to get back to
you though.”

“I expect a full book report by next week,” Louis jokes, leaning

his hip on the table and folding his arms across his chest. “With
APA citations, of course.”

“Don’t expect too much, I barely finished secondary school,”

Harry half mumbles, half-jokes, before widening his eyes
dramatically, looking straight at Louis with pure panic flashing
across his face. Like he’s said too much already, has revealed
something deeply secret he wasn’t meant to share. Like Louis
would maybe make fun of him for something like that. “No, I
mean. I… It’s – ” Harry fumbles through, clearly trying to
salvage something.

“Please,” Louis interrupts, uncrossing his arms and putting

what he hopes is a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t

60
worry. I… I struggled with academia myself. I wouldn’t
judge…” Louis trails off awkwardly. The silence stretches
uncomfortably between them and after a beat too long, Louis
takes his hand off Harry’s body and steps away from the table.
“Just a top ten scenes would do just fine, you know?” he adds
jokingly, trying to ease the tension.

It seems to work, if only a little. Harry’s shoulders drop in what

Louis hopes is relief. He’s still tensed, but then, Louis doesn’t
think he’s ever seen him not be since he arrived at the B&B the
day before, body wound up in so many different ways Louis
doesn’t know what to think of it. But he’s not at his most tensed
now, which he’ll have to take as a win, no matter how small it
is.

“Right,” Harry says, looking down at his meal. “That works,”

he agrees, putting his book completely aside and giving the
pasta dish a good sniff. “What’s this then?”

“My famous mac & cheese.”

“Famous?” Harry asks, grabbing his fork to dig in.

“Oh yes. Renowned on the island really. Folks from the village
come and dine here when it’s on the menu. To be fair, it’s
probably because they get lazy and don’t want to cook and
there’s technically not a proper restaurant on Fair Isle. Unless
you count the bakery/coffee shop... Which, I guess we have to?
Otherwise, we have to admit that there’s no restaurant on the
island and that… is depressing as hell. But still. I like to think
it’s for the intricacies of the meal that they come running to me.
And not just the depressing lack of options.”

61
Harry frowns. “Well… What do you do if you fancy a proper
takeaway?” he asks, putting his fork down and looking actually
concerned. “Like… say you get a craving? You want a curry at
2 am?"

“I wait until the next day,” Louis admits. “Then I cook it for
myself. Then I pretend I didn’t so the psychological effect is
the same.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis laughs.

“But… You don’t even have a chippy?”

Louis slowly shakes his head, smile turned into an involuntary

frown. He does miss chippies.

“That’s rough,” Harry acknowledges.

“Yeah, you should see me when I get to the mainland. I just…

straight up gorge myself. It’s really undignified. Last time I
visited my family in Donny, I took my sister on a junk food
tour. New restaurant every meal. The whole family had been
waiting weeks for me to cook some stuff for them and all I
wanted was Nandos and KFC.”

Louis laughs as he remembers the horror on Lottie’s face when

she’d realised what he’d been planning. In his defence, it had
been the longest he had spent on Fair Isle without a break, too
busy with the B&B to take a holiday, preferring to invite the
whole family for short visits whenever he had some room than
make the trip himself.

62
“I get that,” Harry agrees. “I get super snacky when I’m
abroad,” he reveals, suggesting again that he’s well-travelled.
“Just start craving all the British snacks. At least when I’m in
LA, I have a favourite British snack store, but not every country
has that.”

At least five questions come to mind straight away, followed

by a dozen more, but Louis swallows them back down, not
wanting to come across as invasive.

“Well, I don’t know how you do it,” Louis replies instead of

asking why and how Harry has travelled so much.

Maybe he’s one of those rich heirs who has had everything paid
for him by big shot CEO parents, private-jetted around the
globe since he was in nappies and now reaching a middle-life
crisis early because he’s never had to work for anything a day
of his life and he feels worthless….

Louis mentally shakes his head at himself. The last thing he

should be doing is speculating wildly – and most likely
inaccurately – about his guest.

“Thank God for Mr. Dunn’s grocers and the snacks he sells
because I couldn’t deal without all my snacks. I mean, I
basically live off caramel wafers at this point.” Louis tilts his
head. “Not something I’d thought I’d admit to a stranger,” he
adds, partly to himself, “but here we are.”

“Yeah, I saw the wrappers behind reception,” Harry says,

which is a bit embarrassing. Then, he takes a huge bite off his
plate, tongue first. He hums happily, praising Louis with his
mouth half full. “S’good.”

63
“Glad you like it,” Louis says, reaching for the wine list from
Harry’s table. “Listen, I’ll leave you to it, wouldn’t want to
bother you while you eat, but do you want anything to drink
before I disappear?” he offers, gesticulating with the card. “I’m
out of a few things, to be honest, but I’ve still got quite a nice
wine and beer selection, so if you’d like to order anything feel
free. No extra charge obviously,” Louis adds, putting the card
next to Harry’s plate.

Louis isn’t sure how but suddenly it’s like the temperature
dropped, a cold chill enveloping the room as Harry tenses
sharply, none of the warmth of their previous banter remaining.
In a flash, he’s completely closed off, face expressionless, eyes
guarded and it occurs to Louis that Harry is probably used to
protecting himself this way when things turn sour. Though
Louis isn’t sure what he did to trigger it.

The tip of his finger brushes against the wine list, hesitant,
uncomfortable, before he firmly pushes it away from him.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Everything from the tone of his voice to his decisive posture,

to the blank look on his face, tells Louis he shouldn’t push it.
That he shouldn’t ask.

“Are you sure?” It’s out of his mouth before Louis can fully
realise what he’s said, the urge to know too strong to help
himself. And he had been so good so far, chatting aimlessly
about a variety of inconsequential topic to put Harry at ease and
make him feel welcome. “It wouldn’t be a bother at all to get
you something?” Louis insists, figuring out he might as well go
all the way now that he’s started.

64
“Yes,” Harry says tensely. “I’m sure.” He inhales deeply. Then
exhales. “I’m really sure,” he insists, somehow even firmer this
time. “Sorry, I… uh. I actually don’t drink,” he admits. “At all.”
He pauses for the longest time. “Anymore.”

Oh , Louis thinks, knowing better than to insist now. He flushes

a little in embarrassment at his previous rudeness, grabbing the
wine list so quickly he sends it flying across the room, making
him close his eyes and purse his lips as he tries to let go of the
feeling of total mortification.

“Of course,” he says, eyes still closed. “No problem at all,” he

adds kindly, opening his eyes again and smiling awkwardly. “I
can get you a juice…?” he offers clumsily. “A mock...tail?” he
adds, firmly aware that he doesn’t really have ingredients, or
recipes for that, basic as he is in his alcoholic and nonalcoholic
consumption.

“Water would be great actually.” Harry, bless him, takes him

out of his misery with a closed off face, his body language
screaming how much he’d rather be anywhere else than having
this conversation with Louis.

He grabs his fork again, digging into his plate without looking
back at Louis who is just hovering near his table like a bloody
idiot .

“Yep. Yep. Of course. Coming right up,” Louis babbles as he

walks away, bending down to grab the discarded wine list
before he exits the room.

A few hours later, after he’s done the dishes and some meal
prep for the next few days, and when he’s one hundred percent
certain that Harry has gone to bed, Louis silently goes back to

65
the dining room, carefully grabbing every wine list from every
table, putting them away for later. He knows he’s made a
mistake by pushing Harry’s boundaries and that this couldn’t
possibly erase what he did, but from now on, his guest is going
to be fully comfortable. As much as possible.

As he closes the door behind himself and starts walking back

to his bedroom, Louis can’t help but think there’s clearly a story
there, not so well hidden in the way Harry shut himself down,
in the coldness of his body language, in the way he seemed
ashamed at his admission…

October vanishes into November, days blending into each other

as Louis and his new guest settle into a quiet routine. Every
morning, Louis goes on a run with Clifford, coming back to the
lighthouse just in time to watch Harry disappear god knows
where, out on long walks while Louis takes care of various
maintenance stuff around the B&B. When he comes back,
Harry disappears in the living room or in the lantern room with
sometimes a book, sometimes his journal until Louis bothers
him for a bit to bring him his lunch. Then, at half past six every
day, Louis serves dinner before retreating to the kitchen, eating
his own meal by himself on the tiny table in there while leaving
Harry to dine alone in the big empty dining room. They don’t
really say anything to each other. After what happened on the
second night, Harry, in particular, is exceptionally silent. He’ll
hum politely when Louis tries to tell a joke, always quietly
thanking him for the food, but never wanting to take the
conversation further, never really responding. In the morning,
Harry will always nod at him if their paths accidentally cross,
but every single attempt Louis has made to banter has been
falling horribly flat ever since what Louis has now dubbed the
“dining room incident”. He can’t help but feel like he pushed

66
too far too fast and now lost his chance to truly connect with
Harry. Whatever glimpse Louis might have briefly caught of
the person beneath the facade is long gone, protected again
under a wall of silence.

It’s alright though. Louis isn’t in the business to make lifelong

friends and despite the fact that the weight of Harry’s loneliness
is so heavy even Louis can feel it sometimes, it isn’t actually
any of his business. Harry said he needed a break and needed
to be far away. The South Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast seem to
be offering that to him. Louis considers his work to be done.

Except it’s been over a week now since Harry first rented the
room and he looks… He looks like a ghost, like he’s haunting
himself, unable to shake the cloud hanging over his head and it
really really isn’t any of his business, Louis knows that, but it
breaks his heart a little, to witness that every day. He may have
ruined his chance at friendship with Harry by being too
inquisitive too quickly, but that doesn’t mean he has to watch
him suffer without helping at least a little.

Hence, a half-assed plan is born, somewhere between sleep and

wakefulness, at half five when Louis’ brain doesn’t have a filter
yet.

He comes back from his run with Clifford that day with the idea
mostly formed and he spends his ten minutes shower fleshing
it out, fully ready to execute it once Harry stumbles down the
stairs half asleep in a big lavender jumper that Louis knows was
in the chest in the lantern room.

If anything, Harry is starting to feel at home at the B&B at least,

borrowing books and clothes without asking permission.

67
“Hey,” Louis greets, just as he has every morning since Harry
arrived.

As predicted, Harry nods, polite, but looking shy, going straight

for the front door.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Louis begins, nervously hoping to sound

as authentic as possible. He’s usually a good enough liar if he
needs, not that he makes a habit of it, but it feels like the stakes
are higher today, worried as he is to offend Harry even more
than he already has.

Harry, to his credit, turns to face him, hands clasped tightly

together. “Yes?” he asks, slow and cautious.

“I’ve been really busy with lots of paperwork this morning and
haven’t been able to walk Clifford yet,” he lies as smoothly as
possible, trying to look sheepish. “I’m pretty much the worst
dog father ever today, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind
taking him along on your walk?”

He waits a little, observing the way Harry’s eyes widen at the

request.

“Oh.”

“I know it’s an imposition,” Louis adds, now realising maybe

Harry doesn’t really just wander aimlessly when he leaves the
B&B, that maybe he goes into the village without Louis
knowing and that dragging along a pet that’s not his own might
not be his idea of a fun time. “I know that it is. And obviously
you’re not here to work for me or help out or anything like that,
but I thought I’d ask. You really wouldn’t have much to do, I
promise. He’s a good dog. He’ll keep close to you, you don’t

68
even need to put his leash on, technically. I mean, he’s trained
to listen to you if you hold it… Very well behaved, I promise!
And everyone in the village knows him so if you’re going to
get breakfast at the bakery, it really won’t be a problem. I just
don’t want him to be stuck in with me for another few hours,
you know?”

It would make a lot of sense for Harry to ask why Louis doesn’t
simply take a small break to walk his own dog, considering it’s
the most logical solution to this made up problem, but Louis
hopes that his rambling will convince Harry without him
thinking too much about it.

“Sure,” Harry finally replies after a beat of tense silence.

“Clifford can come.”

“Oh thank you, Harry. I truly owe you one!” Louis replies
exaggeratedly, stepping from behind the reception desk,
running to the living room to grab Clifford’s leash. When he
comes back with it, the dog shows clear signs of interest, nosing
at Louis’ shins, pushing at him a little.

They’ve literally just come back from their usual run and he
has no reason to act like such an excitable puppy when he
hasn’t been one in years, but Louis sends a silent thank you to
the universe for Clifford’s willingness to participate in the
deception.

If Louis can’t become Harry’s friend then maybe his dog can.
Everyone needs companionship, after all, Louis thinks as he
watches them both walk away from the lighthouse through the
window. Harry’s shoulders permanently hunched forward,
both hands buried into the deep pockets of his oversized jacket.
Clifford is trotting along happily, bumping his head into

69
Harry’s legs once in a while and eventually, just as they’re
about to disappear down the cliffs, Harry caves and bends down
to pet him. Clifford jumps on him in response, front paws
reaching up Harry’s torso.

Something deep within Louis loosens in relief when it clearly

makes Harry laugh. Soon enough, they’ve both vanished,
making their way down to the beach, unaware of the man
looking at them with interest.

For the first twenty minutes after they’re gone, Louis keeps
glancing out of the window, hoping he’ll miraculously be able
to see through the cliffs and onto the beach, but soon enough,
actual work demands his attention and he forgets all about his
plan in favour of being productive.

It’s not until a couple of hours later, when Harry and Clifford
walk back into the living room where Louis is sprawled on the
floor surrounded by receipts, that he remembers he was
concerned in the first place.

Harry clearly startles when he walks in, having not expected

the sight of Louis in sweatpants and a t-shirt resting on his belly
on the rug and tapping a pen against his chin.

“Oh,” he says, grabbing Clifford by the collar to stop him from

running through Louis’ piles of receipts. “Sorry,” he adds,
kneeling and wrapping an arm around Cliff’s torso when the
dog strongly insists on saying hi to his master. “Didn’t realise
you’d be in here.”

70
“Thanks for holding him back,” Louis replies. “Took a while
to organize these, not gonna lie. And he’d blow through them
in a second.”

“That’s alright,” Harry replies. His cheeks are red, a healthy

flush on his face, and he doesn’t look as upset as this morning.

Louis wouldn’t claim that it’s Clifford’s presence that makes

him look a little less troubled, but hopefully, the dog’s energy
and joie de vivre brought a bit of sunshine to the start of Harry’s
day.

“I was just gonna…” Harry gestures with the leash in his hand
and Louis smiles.

“Yeah, you can just leave it there,” he replies, pointing at the

floor. It’s not like he’s kept the room tidy. “I can take care of it
later.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees, dropping it right where Louis pointed.

“I’ll close the door behind me,” he adds, getting up and leading
Clifford towards the exit.

“He was alright, yeah? Didn’t bother you too much?” Louis
can’t help but ask, just as Harry is about to leave.

“He’s a good dog,” Harry simply says, but there’s a hint of a

smile on his face that’s enough for now.

Louis grins. “Thanks for taking care of him, I owe you one.”

Harry shakes his head, smiling politely at him before leaving

with Clifford in tow.

71
*

The next morning, when Harry exits the B&B with sleepy eyes,
Louis is ready for him. He seems dressed for a run this time
around, with grey shorts and sporty leggings underneath as well
as proper sneakers on. Though he’s still wearing a bulky cream
cable-knit top, so who is Louis to assume anything. Still, it’s an
interesting change from what he usually wears on his way out.
One Louis can’t help but notice.

“Mornin’,” Louis calls, dropping the sponge he was using to

wash windows into a red bucket, soapy water splashing over a
little and falling onto his vans. “Shit,” Louis says with a laugh,
wiggling his foot a little to get the foam off his shoe.

“Hey,” Harry calls back with a small nod in Louis’ direction.

Louis reaches down for Clifford’s leash he’d left next to the
bucket, holding it out towards Harry sheepishly. “Would you
mind?” he asks with an awkwardly wide smile.

Right on cue, Clifford starts wagging his tail excitedly at the

thought of a walk along the beach.

Louis has the best, most manipulative dog on the planet.

Harry seems surprised to be asked again. He pauses in his

tracks, giving Louis a calculating look.

“Hum,” he starts, passing a hand into his hair, ruffling it

nervously. Louis wishes he could say he looks a mess, but
there’s something about the easy way Harry does it that makes
it seem like he knows exactly how casually tousled it’s making

72
him look and that it works for him. “I… suppose it would be
okay… ?” he continues, phrasing it almost like a question.

Louis might have a cunning plan, but the last thing he wants is
to actually impose.

“Only if you’re sure it’s okay,” he insists. “He can wait a couple
more hours if necessary. We can always go after lunch. He’s
getting some fresh air anyway,” Louis finishes with a
dismissive hand gesture towards where Clifford is sniffing the
grass.

“No, it’s okay,” Harry replies, walking closer to Louis to grab

the leash. “S’not like he’s a big imposition.”

Louis laughs at the comment, rolling his eyes a little before

protesting. “You say that now, but wait until you want to chill
on the sofa and he decides it’s cuddle time. He might look slim
enough but that beast is heavy.”

Harry smiles, polite as ever, maybe a little less closed off, but
still without true warmth behind it.

“I’ll remember,” he replies, waving goodbye at Louis with the

hand holding the leash before whistling at Clifford in an easily
authoritative way.

Louis’ dog goes along with him straight away, the two of them
disappearing beyond the cliffs.

Soon enough, it’s become a new habit, a daily ritual they’ve

silently agreed on. Harry walks Clifford in the morning,

73
grabbing the leash without being asked to anymore and
disappearing for a couple of hours God knows where with
Louis’ dog, coming back with his shoulders a little less tense
and whispering sweet nothings into Clifford’s ears before
hiding somewhere deep within the B&B with one of his
precious notebooks. At night, Louis is the one to take over dog
walking duties, going down to the beach for a little thirty
minutes of letting Cliffy roam free in the sand while he asks
him rhetorical questions about their guest. Clifford never
replies, preferring to run into the freezing water like he’s still a
puppy, splashing around and drenching Louis more often than
he’d be willing to admit. Even so, if Clifford was about to spill
details about Harry, Louis wouldn’t want to know. Not unless
it came from the man himself.

So they settle into it, time moving as slowly as ever on the

island, Louis’ progress on the B&B’s repairs advancing even
slower as he carefully ensures every job is done to perfection.
He takes great pride in his establishment after all, cares for it
like it’s actually his and he isn’t just responsible for looking
after it. He pours as much love into the repairs as he can,
secretly hoping it’ll seep through the walls and every guest will
be able to feel it.

One day, a little over a week after Harry’s first walk with
Clifford, Louis is coming out of the grocers’ with some
supplies when he almost bumps into Mr. Drummond. Quite
literally.

“Oh,” Louis gasps, taking a step back to avoid their bodies

colliding into one another. “Sorry about that,” he adds with a
smile, adjusting the paper bag he’s holding onto his left hip
before fiddling with the Waterstones tote bag on his right
shoulder.

74
Mr. Drummond smiles back at him from under his battered
tartan flat cap. In all the years since Louis first moved on Fair
Isle, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the older man without it.
Not even once. He’s wearing a variation of the same outfit he
wears every day, a three-piece tweed suit that makes him look
dashing and important. This time it’s olive green, the exact
same colour of his sharp eyes. It matches Harry’s too, Louis’
brain uselessly supplies when their gazes meet.

He shakes his head as soon as the thought enters his brain,

trying to get rid of it.

“Louis!” Mr. Drummond exclaims, an appreciated distraction.

“How are ya’, lad?”

It’s a secret he’ll take to the grave, because sharing it now

would cause unnecessary drama if it spread all over the island,
but Mr. Drummond has always been Louis’ favourite resident.
Ever since that first time he visited the island with his family
as a teenager, Louis has had a soft spot for the man who looks
after the bird observatory. He’s in his early sixties now, his salt
and pepper beard and his bouncy enthusiasm making him look
almost a decade younger than he actually is. He’s always too
dressed up for the work he’s doing, but would never want to
show up at his place of business without the proper attire,
resulting in him in various stages of dishevelment as he gives
long talks on the ornithological life on the island for visitors.
He always has a fun fact on hand, something about the natural
world Louis would have never thought to ask about, but ends
up loving to know.

Lovable and charming to a fault, Louis strongly suspects most

of the tourists who come back do so because they want more of
him. And who can blame them? Louis himself always laments

75
the fact that they’re both too busy to hang out more frequently,
as both men in charge of vital touristic establishments on the
island.

“I’m good,” Louis replies. “Good, great. Busy, you know?

Been trying to fit as much maintenance work as possible before
winter hits, you know the drill,” he adds with a small laugh,
aware that Mr. Drummond, more than anyone, understands the
pressure Louis is under. He’s been deep into some serious
repairs on the observatory roof these past few days after all, if
village gossip is to be trusted. “How are you? How’s the roof?”

Mr. Drummond nods. “Well, very well. Busy too. I’m up there
every day,” he laughs, pointing upwards. “Been meaning to talk
to you about that, actually,” he adds, taking Louis by surprise.

“Oh, really? Do you need a hand?” Louis assumes, trying to

mentally shuffle through his to-do list to see when he’s got an
opening to drop by. “Today and tomorrow are a bit difficult,
but –”

He’s interrupted by Mr. Drummond laughing, shaking his hand

in front of Louis’ face to stop him babbling. “Nah, nah. It’s
nothing like that my boy, nothing like that at all. I’m quite
alright. Thanks though, the thought’s appreciated.” He pauses
for a second, fiddling with his flat cap before looking at Louis
straight in the eyes. “I was wondering how your guest is
doing?”

At that, Louis blinks in confusion.

“My guest?” he repeats, not answering the question. What on

Earth could Mr. Drummond want with Harry?

76
“Yes,” Mr. Drummond says slowly, patiently. “That Harry lad?
Tall, silent, but very polite?” He puts his hand up to indicate
how tall he means, grossly exaggerating Harry’s stature.

Louis hums, fiddling with the tote bag filled with groceries
where it’s digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah. He’s good?
He… he seems to like the island. I… I don’t know, he’s doing
his own thing.”

“Aye,” Mr. Drummond agrees. “Wasn’t sure about him at first,

Louis. I’ll be honest.”

Louis’ heart jumps to his throat. “What do you mean?” he asks,

more tense, more accusatory than he means to. “What did he
do?”

Mr. Drummond makes a sound of denial low in his throat.

“Nothin’, nothin’. Was always lurking, though? Wasn’t he?
Never really introduced himself to anyone...”

“Oh,” Louis replies, looking down. Harry is obviously a very

private person, that’s been made quite clear from the first time
Louis ever talked to him. He’s not sure why he’s so offended
on his behalf to hear Mr. Drummond judge him for it. “I don’t
know,” he says awkwardly after a long pause. He wouldn’t
have described Harry as lurking, but clearly Mr. Drummond
has a different opinion. And it’s not like Louis has ever seen
Harry around the village himself to contradict him.

“He’s always going to the phone box,” Mr. Drummond says in

a reproachful tone, pointing to the red box that stands just at the
edge of the main street, right where the road widens a little to
go down the cliffs. If Louis follows that road he’ll reach the

77
small muddy path that leads to his own establishment. “Same
time every morning. Just going there to make phone calls.”

Louis looks at the phone box like he’s seeing it for the first
time, and he might as well be considering he always forgets that
it’s there.

“The phone box?” he asks, frowning a little. “What do you

mean?”

“Big red thing,” Mr. Drummond teases, wiggling his fingers

towards it.

Louis chuckles, then shakes his head. “Yes, I know where the
only phone box in town is. Didn’t know the thing worked
though,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. Truly he had forgotten
the damned thing was there and he’s not certain why Mr.
Drummond is making such a big fuss over it.

“Aye, it does. It works fine.”

“Is the fact that Harry is making phone calls important?” Louis
asks, a hint hesitantly. He truly has no idea why Mr. Drummond
would ever bring this up, is the thing.

“No, no. We were just wondering. He doesn’t talk much and

you hadn’t said a word about him either.”

It’s the use of the we that finally annoys Louis. It’s not that he
hasn’t been wondering about what the rest of the village thinks
about their offseason guest. Because he most definitely has. But
none of them have mentioned it to him, none of them tried to
ask questions, so he naively figured maybe they didn’t care, or
maybe Harry was more forthcoming with them than he has

78
been with Louis. Honestly, everyone has been so
uncharacteristically silent about Harry that Louis had started to
wonder if maybe they just hadn’t noticed.

He should have known they would all have strong opinions

about him whether they shared them or not.

“Well, whoever he’s calling every day, I think that’s his

business, right? Not like mobile service is particularly great
over here. And he might have some important stuff to keep
track off. I mean, every company claims to give us coverage,
but we all know that’s not true at all, right?” Louis says it all
quickly, insistently, hoping Mr. Drummond is going to drop the
whole thing, that he’s going to report back to the others that
Harry should be left alone and that he’s not someone to worry
about.

Mr. Drummond groans in agreement, as used as Louis is to the

annoyed tourists yelling that their mobile provider promised
they’d be okay on Fair Isle, angrily brandishing useless phones
with zero bar of service in locals’ faces like they could do
something about it. Even so, Louis hadn’t realised the phone
box was operational and he can’t help but wonder who it is that
Harry needs to call every day that he doesn’t want Louis to
know about. He could use the phone in his room, surely. Does
he think Louis would check on him?

“Anyways,” Mr. Drummond finally says, shaking his head. “I

was just going to say that I’ve changed my mind about him now
that I’ve met him. He came to the observatory with Clifford a
few days ago, even stayed on to help with some of the things I
was getting ready for the roof repairs. Helped me moved some
furniture around.”

79
Louis smiles. “Did he?” he asks, surprised again. “He never
mentioned it,” he adds, though it’s not like Harry mentions
much to him.

“Aye, aye. He was lovely. Seemed shy, but lovely. So yeah, I

was hoping you could pass on my thanks and best wishes to
him, and apologise, for me. I misjudged him. He’s a good lad.
And I’ve told everyone else too,” he insists. “They won’t be
bothering him.”

Louis’s heart skips a beat.

“Wait, what? They’ve been bothering him?” he asks, a bit

frantic.

“Nah, nah. Dinnae worry. No one would chase away your only
customer of the offseason. You know us better than that, lad.
They were just a bit tense, you know how it is? No one wanted
to tell you about it, of course. You’ve been lucky to have a new
guest so late in the season. We dinnae want to ruin it with our
silly worries. But it’s all sorted now. I’ve had a nice chat with
him and I can tell he’s a lovely chap.”

Louis sighs in relief. “Well, I’m glad you think so. And I’ll give
him your greetings.”

“Cheers Louis,” Mr. Drummond says as he walks away,

waving him off.

When he walks past the phone box on his way home, Louis
can’t help but give it an inquisitive look.

80
That night, when Louis gives him Mr. Drummond’s message
while serving him dinner, Harry smiles, genuinely, the
heaviness in his eyes lifting for a second.

The next morning, Louis is working outside wrapped in an

oversized black hoodie that’s seen better days, tiny splatters of
paint he never managed to completely wash off scattered all
over the piece, and his oldest pair of jeans, trying his best to
ignore the cold where his knees are exposed with how frayed
the fabric is. He’s so focused on the window frame he’s
repainting that he doesn’t even realise Harry is almost back
from his habitual morning walk until Clifford barks
enthusiastically at him.

Louis turns around, paintbrush in hand, frowning a little when

he sees the way Harry is walking with even more nervous
energy in his step than usual, looking over his shoulder every
few seconds like he’s scared someone has been following. He’s
looked haunted since Louis first caught a glimpse of him, but
this… this is something different.

“You alright?” Louis asks as soon as Harry is within earshot,

trying not to sound too concerned.

Harry shakes his head. His cheeks are red, like maybe he’s
embarrassed, though Louis suspects it could be from the cold.
It’s been relatively sunny the past week, miraculously, so
they’ve been blessed with warmer weather than expected, but
the wind is biting as ever, especially on top of the cliffs.

Clifford starts circling around Harry when he reaches the door,

tail wagging when he stops to pet him.

81
“Listen, I know it’s none of my business,” Louis begins kindly,
taking a step towards him, “but if you want to talk about it, I’m
happy to –”

Harry shakes his head firmly, eyes fixed on Louis’ dog. “It’s
really truly nothing.”

Louis hates to insist. “Are you sure?” he still asks, unable to

resist when Harry looks over his shoulder again for a second
before finally looking into Louis’ eyes. There is a deep frown
on his face, wrinkling his forehead almost beyond recognition.
He’s clearly troubled.

“Yes!” Harry whispers insistently, snappish, irritated. Then, he

winces. “Sorry, it’s…” He grimaces. “It’s stupid.”

“That’s allowed,” Louis jokes, feeling a smidge of satisfaction

when the corner of Harry’s mouth turns up a little. He’s still
frowning deeply like he’s in an Oscar-nominated drama about
the monarchy, but maybe Louis can actually help.

“I had an… unpleasant encounter this morning, but it’s fine.”

And that… that has Louis truly thrown off. On an island

populated by sixty people he knows very well, there aren’t
many options as to who could be at fault and he can’t imagine
any of them not on their best behaviour in front of a tourist.

“Oh,” Louis replies, putting down the paintbrush into the can.
“I’m sorry about that. Everyone here is usually very
welcoming. Whatever it was, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.
I could talk to them if you want?” he offers, putting both of his
hands in the pocket of his hoodie, then he shrugs.

82
“That’s… not going to be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to. Honestly, I’m sure it was a simple
–”

“It was a puffin,” Harry finally reveals, interrupting Louis with

a curt tone, the red of his cheeks deepening at the admission.

Embarrassment then.

“I’m sorry?” Louis asks, fighting hard to keep himself from

laughing.

“It was a puffin, okay? A tiny puffin.” Harry’s eyes darken. “A

tiny evil puffin,” he adds in a whisper.

Louis bites his lower lip as he nods and hums, a mantra of do

not laugh do not laugh do not laugh echoing in his brain.
“Puffins… aren’t usually on the island in November?” he says,
voice a bit high pitched as he refrains from laughing. “They’re
mostly around in the spring and the summer,” he reveals, tone
turning teasing on the last word. “Is it possible you saw another
type of bird?”

“I know what a puffin looks like!” Harry argues. “It was a

puffin and it just… It was very aggressive and… judgmental.”

“Judgmental?”

“Yes!!” Harry insists. “It was like… It was like it could see into
my soul and it didn’t like it,” he says with a shudder, actually
looking shaken by the encounter.

83
And that… that just makes Louis chuckle, no matter how hard
he’s been trying to hold back. “So, let me get this straight,” he
says, taking a step forward towards Harry. “You went to the
beach where a magical puffin looked into your soul and
declared it dark?”

“I never said the puffin was magical.”

“You said it looked into your soul?”

“Because it did!”

“Did it try to attack you or… ?”

Harry shakes his head. “No! It just… It just started to follow

me around. It was creepy.”

“Maybe it just ‘liked’ you?” Louis offers, raising an eyebrow.

That makes Harry pause. Then, after a beat: “Either way, I

thought it’d be safer to come back.”

“Right, of course. Wouldn’t want you to die by puffin glare.

That’d be an embarrassing obituary.”

Harry’s body relaxes at the joke. He tilts his head down for a
second, before offering Louis a sheepish look. “So, I might
have overreacted.”

Louis squints at him in response. “Maybe a little.”

Harry raises his shoulders, stroking his hands together for

warmth. “I’m gonna… go inside now and drink a gallon of tea

84
to forget all of this,” he mumbles as he walks past Louis to get
back inside.

“Smart,” Louis calls to his retreating back. “Deal with the

trauma the British way.”

Once Harry has fully disappeared, he bends down to grab his

paintbrush again, unable to shake the smile off his face.

85
Chapter 3

Late one afternoon, a few days later, Louis shows up at the top
of the lighthouse just as the sky starts to darken. Harry is sitting
on the floor with his back pressed against the bench, one of his
long legs stretched out in front of him, the other bent, the
notebook Louis almost never sees him without resting on his
thigh as he hums to himself and writes down whatever it is he’s
always scribbling away. He’s wearing pale jeans again, the
bottom rolled up, and his feet are protected by grey wool socks
with a thin red band at the ankle. There’s a hole on one of his
knees, the only indication these are not the same pair as before,
the material frayed somehow endearingly. It looks like proper
use as well, not one of those fashionable pairs that have been
pre-frayed for aesthetic purposes, like Harry wore them over
and over and won’t stop even now that they’re falling apart.
He’s wearing one of Louis’ favourite jumpers too, one he
clearly took from the living room chest where Louis left it after
the last laundry load he did. It’s always a hit with guests, dark
blue with a quirky frog pattern, five rows of large green
amphibians decorating it on both sides. Louis’ mum bought it
for the lighthouse back in his hometown a few years ago, found
it in her favourite charity shop and mailed it to him the next
day, too amused to wait until they saw each other in person to
give it to him. Louis had laughed when he’d opened the
package, unable to resist putting it on immediately. It’s always
been a bit big on Louis’ slightly slimmer frame, but it fits
Harry’s perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders impeccably.

86
After a second of silent observation, it becomes quite clear that
Harry never heard him walk in, so lost deep in thought that
Louis’ arrival didn’t even register for him. Feeling a bit creepy
just standing there in silence, Louis clears his throat before says
a quiet “hey” to greet him.

Harry looks up at the sound, giving Louis a simple nod in reply

before burying himself back into his journal.

“Is it okay if I…” Louis trails off when Harry looks up again,
showing him the Scottish short stories anthology he’s been
reading and pointing at the other side of the bench instead of
explaining himself.

Harry nods again, offering Louis a small shrug before tuning

out the entire room again the second his eyes are back on the
page. He clearly doesn’t seem too bothered by Louis’ presence,
which is a relief considering they’re going to have to coexist
for a few months and Louis certainly isn’t ready to give up his
favourite view in the world entirely for a guest. Even one who
paid for such a long stay.

Louis makes his way to the only lamp in the room, turning it
on and sitting close to it on the bench, on the opposite side from
Harry’s little corner. He has quite a good view of his serious
profile, on all the microexpressions flashing on his face as he
rereads what he just wrote, drumming his pen against the pages
of his journal, the small tap tap tap still heard underneath the
storm outside, mixing in with the sound of rain splattering
against the windows.

87
He keeps watching for a few seconds, unable to look away,
before he realizes what he’s doing and self-consciously clears
his throat, taking the receipt he’s been using as a bookmark out
of the anthology and reading on.

Still, he can’t seem to focus somehow, between the rain and the
tapping and the humming and….

Louis shakes his head, closing the book. He’s sitting crossed
legs on the bench and he drops it on his lower shins and ankles,
the green cover and gold lettering staring at him, warning him
against opening his big dumb mouth. Without permission, his
eyes turn to Harry’s face again.

He’s in his own world, the pen now resting between the pages
of his journal, his fingers fiddling with the rubber band around
his wrist, eyes moving quickly over the page as he reads.

88
Louis looks away, back down at his book. He shouldn’t bother
his guest.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he still says after a beat,

against his best judgement. He has no excuse for the fact that
he was unable to contain it.

Harry visibly stiffens straight away. He’s still hunched over his
notebook, doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even reply. His
shoulders tense in anticipation though, bracing himself even
though he never gives Louis permission to go on, like he’s just
waiting for it, like it’ll be a blow no matter what Louis ask and
Louis… he just…

“Nevermind,” he mumbles, quick, embarrassed, looking away

like the sight of Harry’s discomfort burned him. He feels his
cheeks redden, shame rising at the back of his throat. Why can’t
he just leave things alone? he mentally scolds himself. It’s none
of my business , a familiar vicious voice in the back of his mind
admonishes.

“It’s fine.” Harry’s voice sounds tired, like it’s anything but and
he still forced himself to say it. “Ask away,” he adds, sounding
like every word pained him to say, but when Louis looks up at
him again, their eyes meet and Harry’s are clear with sincerity.
He means it, wants Louis to ask. “I might not answer,” he warns
and Louis truly can’t fault him for that.

“Fair enough,” he says with a small huff, something halfway

between a sigh and a laugh. He raises an eyebrow towards
Harry before talking again. “It’s not a very deeply personal
question anyway, you might be surprised.”

“I highly doubt that. I’ve been asked everything.”

89
“Everything?” Louis replies, doubtful.

“Trust me,” Harry sighs. “I’ve been asked everything. Go on,

what is it? I live in your house now, the least I can do is hear
your questions.”

“Question,” Louis corrects, raising one index. “Just the one.”

“Are you trying to build suspense or are just bored with this
book? Because if it’s the latter, please find something to do,
I’m busy here,” Harry says, gesturing towards the notebook.

Louis would be offended, would feel guilty, except there’s a

small smile on Harry’s face, almost a twinkle in his eyes. Louis
suspects he’s just joking, though he doesn’t want to chance it
and decides to ask his question straight away.

“Are you a writer?”

There’s a long pause where Harry looks down at the journal on

his thigh. “That’s your question?”

Louis shrugs. “Heard it before?”

“Not quite this exact phrasing, but variations, sure.”

Louis laughs. “Alright, I ask boring predictable questions, I

guess. It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without it,”
he explains, gesturing vaguely towards notebook. “And you
said you travel a lot… I don’t know. I got curious. Figured both
might be for work, right?”

“I see.”

90
“So,” Louis insists after Harry doesn’t expand and lets the
moment sit still between them a beat too long. “Are you?”

Harry looks at him, straight in the eyes, his focused and intense,
before half shaking his head like maybe he’s not so sure. “Not
really,” he finally says, and it doesn’t sound like a lie – Harry
certainly means it – but it doesn’t sound like the full truth either.

This would be where Louis kindly pushes, teases, coaxes the

truth out of him, where Louis uses both charm and wit to make
his guest at ease and unravel the whole thing from him expertly.
He’s done it before, after all, has a bit of a knack for holding
people’s secrets safe, for making them trust him. But there’s
something about Harry, about the skittish way he’s holding
himself, about the shadows pinching the corners of his smiles,
something that tells Louis ‘not yet’.

Not yet.

Suddenly, without Louis noticing, over an hour has passed. He

blinks down at his phone, surprised to see the time before
putting it back into the pocket of his sweats. He fell into the
short stories more easily than he expected once his curiosity
was partly satisfied and he needs to get a move on if he wants
to have dinner ready on time. He leaves the book on the bench
for later, getting up silently then stretching his arms over his
head. He rolls his shoulders, feeling a little stiff from staying in
the same position for so long. When he turns to warn Harry he’s
leaving, Louis finds a pair of inquisitive green eyes focused on
him already.

91
He smiles, then points at the stairs. “Gonna go get some food
started,” he explains before walking away.

He’s about to go down when Harry interrupts him with a small

“can I help?” that takes Louis by surprise.

Louis stops in his tracks, turning around with a disbelieving

frown on his face. “Help?” he repeats.

Harry shrugs. “I love to cook,” he admits before biting his

lower lip.

“You paid good money for the whole thing, I wouldn’t really
be comfortable letting you do the hard work. Like… you paid
for the food.”

“Yeah and I’m going to be getting the food either way, but I’d
be more comfortable if we shared labor,” Harry argues before
getting up and putting his pen in the back pocket of his jeans.
He’s gripping the journal tightly. “I really would be more
comfortable,” he insists when Louis only stares blankly at him.
“And I truly love to cook. I’m good at it, I swear. I won’t be in
the way or anything. I can take instructions well.”

Louis swallows back a dirty joke automatically, looking away

from Harry’s attractive frame. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed
that Harry is more gorgeous than anyone he’s ever met in real
life before. He has. He just figured there was no point thinking
about it really.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks, not wanting to take advantage.

Unlike Harry, this is his job. He can’t very well abuse his
guest’s kindness without making sure.

92
“Yessss!” Harry exclaims, tilting his head backwards in
annoyance. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.
Feels… wrong not to have any normal shit to do. It’s…. I don’t
know, dehumanizing.”

Louis blinks, unsure how to reply to such a comment.

“Are we going?” Harry insists, walking past Louis and down

the stairs without giving him a chance to reply.

Soon enough, they’re both in the kitchen, hard at work

chopping vegetables in silence, Louis mentally stopping
himself every few seconds when the urge to boss Harry around
like he would anyone else to ensure they’re doing
things his way arises.

After the fifth time Louis opens his mouth to comment and then
closes it straight away, going back to the onions he’s taking
care of with a clenched jaw to stop his eyes from welling up,
Harry chuckles loudly.

“Ok, what is it?” he asks, putting his knife on the cutting board
and angling his body towards Louis with a hand on his hip, the
other leaning on the counter.

“What?” Louis says, pretending he has no idea what Harry is

talking about, still cutting the onions with focus.

Except Harry isn’t easily fooled and when Louis risks a glance
sideways, he sees him narrowing his eyes, fingers drumming
against his own hip.

93
“It’s your kitchen,” Harry finally says after Louis stays silent a
second too long, “if I’m doing something wrong, you should
tell me.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Louis replies

automatically. He’s not is the thing. “You’re being very…
helpful.”

“How painful was that for you to say then?” Harry says, not
missing a beat.

“So much,” Louis replies automatically, turning around to face

him. “But you are helpful, it’s just…”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you slicing the carrots?”

“Aren’t I?” Harry asks, looking at the carrot pieces he’s already
cut.

“Yes, you’re roll-cutting them!” Louis whines. “Now we’ve

got big slices of carrots while everything else is thin like
matchsticks. How are we supposed to have a beautiful…
homogenous stir-fry with big chunks like this? Why would you
make that decision?”

Harry snorts, looking down as he starts laughing fully. “Oh,

you’re serious,” he says when he looks back up and catches
Louis’ frown. “Hum… I cut them like this so we’d have a
variety of shapes in the plate? Just… creates a nice little party
in your mouth, you know? Besides, they’re still very thin,
just… round slices instead of matchsticks. ”

94
Louis, ignoring Harry’s explanation completely, declares: “we
have broccoli and mangetout for variety of shapes” with a
serious look on his face. He wishes he wasn’t like this, but now
that they’ve opened this can of worms, now that Harry’s
insisted for his opinion, he can’t stop himself.

“So you’re a bit of a control freak in the kitchen, aren’t you?”

Harry asks, tone teasing as he returns to his board and starts to
cut the carrots in the exact same way as before. Like Louis
didn’t say anything at all. “Is that why you didn’t want me to
help?”

Louis huffs, focusing his attention to the onions again. Control

freak seems a tad exaggerated, as far as Louis is concerned. It’s
not his fault that he’s been cooking by himself for years now
and has strict habits when it comes to the kitchen. Thing is,
even with an army of siblings at home to take care of, Louis
had always been the worst one in terms of culinary skills. He
had tried and tried, with his mother and sisters’
encouragements, but nothing seemed to work for him. When he
got approved for the B&B, he knew he would never be able to
afford a proper cook, so he worked twice as hard as he ever had
to transform his disasters into edible, and even enjoyable, food.
He even took a few classes at a community center on the
Mainland, investing time and money into developing his
abilities. He worked hard, but it paid off for sure, transforming
Louis into a confident cook, someone who actually knows what
they’re doing. It turned out better than he, and every member
of his family, ever expected. And he’s proud of that. But that
means Louis has a comfort zone, that he does thing orderly to
make sure it goes well. He sticks to what he knows and it works.
Harry though… Harry is bringing truly chaotic energy to his
kitchen.

95
Sneaking a quick look to his right and spotting Harry’s teasing
grin, Louis can’t help but feel like he doesn’t fully hate it
though.

“I didn’t not want you to help,” Louis says diplomatically, still

looking at Harry. “I wanted to be professional and offer you the
service you actually paid for.”

“I think you really just didn’t want me to disturb your stuff,

actually,” Harry argues and this is new … There have been
hints of it before, hints of Harry teasing and joking, but always
shying away right after, looking like he just remembered he’s
supposed to be miserable every single time. Or maybe like he
remembered he is sad and no amount of joking is going to erase
it.

Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest, a hint of fear, a tremor of

anxiety, climbing up his throat at the thought of Harry doing it
again, at the thought of his smile fading, of his shining
personality retreating back into its shell. Louis doesn’t want
him to, doesn’t want his smile to go away, so he plays along in
the hope it’ll be enough to nourish this new flame.

“I am neither willing to confirm nor deny that this affected my

initial reaction to your proposal,” Louis huffs, tilting his nose
up in pretend offence, face shaping into a crinkly smile when it
makes Harry laugh.

“Sorry I ruined your stir fry,” Harry chuckles, putting the

carrots aside and reaching for celery.

“Our stir fry,” Louis corrects, swapping the finished onions for
the broccoli he previously mentioned. He shakes his head as he

96
cuts the broccoli head in half. “It’s fine, what’s life without a
little change, right?"

“Right,” Harry agrees.

They keep cutting in silence for a bit, not as tense as before.

They’ve settled into something comfortable now that Louis has
stopped looking over his shoulder at what Harry’s doing,
stopped trying to micromanage him rudely, and they’re much
more efficient for it. Still, it takes Louis by surprise when Harry
breaks the quiet tranquility of the moment.

“So, is that where you eat then?” he asks, using the hand
holding the knife to point at the small table pushed against the
window.

Louis nods. “Yeah, mostly. I mean… I’ll have a meal with

guests in the dining room once in a while if they ask, but I
usually like to stay out of the way. It’s a lot less awkward for
them without me there. I usually just eat after everyone is done.
Even when the place is empty during winter, I don’t like eating
in the dining room.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, eyebrows furrowed and a small

confused pout on his face.

“I don’t know,” Louis says, shrugging a little. “It’s just a big

empty room, right? Seems weird to have it all to myself. Like…
lonelier somehow.”

“Tell me about,” Harry mumbles under his breath, head down

as he keeps cutting.

Oh , Louis thinks, heart, tightening in his chest.

97
He’s been so concerned with staying out of Harry’s way and
making sure he’s got everything he needs that he didn’t even
think to ask if he ever wanted company.

“You don’t like it either?” Louis risks asking, not wanting to

look at Harry’s face.

“It’s alright,” he replies automatically and even without seeing

his face, Louis can tell that Harry is lying. “S’like you said, just
a bit weird. Isolated. But that’s why I came here, right? To feel
like I’m the only person in the world.”

“Right,” Louis agrees gently, risking a small look at him.

“Sorry if I ruin the illusion,” he jokes, smiling when Harry
looks up with a bit of a crooked grin.

“It’s fine.”

“Well, this tiny uncomfortable table sits two so, you know, if
you find the dining room unbearable you’re always welcome.
Me and Clifford are in here most nights.”

“Really?” Harry asks, sounding surprised.

Louis frowns. “Yeah, I’ve just said. I almost always eat here. I
mean, sometimes I’ll eat in my room or in the lantern room if
it’s a sandwich or something, but you know.”

“No, no. I mean… You’re sure it wouldn’t bother you? If I ate

with you here?”

It’s the way he asks that makes Louis so sad, the way his voice
gets smaller and he sounds unsure even though Louis just said
it was fine.

98
“Yeah, yeah. Of course not. You wouldn’t bother me. I mean…
We barely know each other so it’d be really nice to dine with
you. You’re always welcome.”

“So… I could tonight?” Harry asks like he needs reassurance

again, like he’s really afraid he’s disturbing some big incredible
solo plan Louis has somehow.

Louis smiles kindly. “You could every night if you want. As I

said, it’s fine. I’d love the company.”

Harry bites his lower lip, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Okay,”
he whispers back, focusing on his veggies.

“Okay,” Louis agrees.

It’s surprisingly not quite awkward, the two of them eating face
to face when they know practically nothing about each other.
It’s awkward that it’s not more awkward if Louis’ honest with
himself, the silence between them interrupted only by their
cutlery clinking and the wind outside. It should feel heavy,
should feel uncomfortable, but just like the time they spent
together on top of the tower this afternoon, it’s easy for them to
exist in the same place. Maybe they’re made of the same cloth,
Louis ponders as he chews on a bit of stir fry, looking up at
Harry, secretly enjoying the way he ridiculously eats with his
tongue out first. Maybe they’re both the kind of lonely that
doesn’t fully hurt, the kind of lonely that’s comforting
sometimes. Both of them tucked away against the window,
alone but together, in a place the rest of the world has
forgotten…

99
“Can I ask you a question?”

When Harry finally breaks the silence, it’s with timidity. He

doesn’t shy away from Louis’ gaze though, his eyes
mesmerizing as he waits for the verdict, waits for permission.

Louis purses his lips in response, a little amused by the request.

“I think it would be quite hypocritical of me to say no, right?”

he replies before taking a sip of water.

Harry’s face remains serious but he looks down at the red and
white tablecloth Louis picked out especially when he realised
he wouldn’t dine alone, fingers stroking the fabric nervously.
He shrugs, a small movement that Louis probably wouldn’t
have noticed if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“You really don’t have to say yes,” Harry says sincerely. He

won’t meet Louis’ eyes again though and it feels like whilst
he’d, of course, respect Louis’ right to refuse, maybe he would
feel a bit betrayed by it.

Luckily, Louis doesn’t mind. “Of course you can ask me a

question Harry, don’t be silly.”

At that, Harry straightens his shoulders, looking taller in his

chair now that he’s not hunched over himself. He grabs his fork
again, digging into his plate and moving veggies around before
taking a small dainty bite. It’s the way he eats it carefully that
clues Louis into the fact that he’s just trying to waste a bit of
time before asking what he wants to ask. He chews carefully,
then swallows, before actually speaking. “I suppose I wonder
what led you here is all,” he finally comments, making eye
contact with Louis again.

100
That’s not really a question, but it is a story that Louis loves to
tell. It’s his story, the most important story he has to tell, as silly
as it might seem.

“Ah,” Louis exclaims, widening his eyes. “Right. The famous

‘what led you to self-imposed exile in Scotland?’ query.” He
hums and nods theatrically. He’s used to that one. “You’re not
the first one to wonder.”

Harry looks sheepish. “I guess it’s a bit unusual,” he offers

carefully, obviously afraid he might offend. “You’re…” he
falters for a second, eyes roaming over Louis’ face and his
upper body, before blushing and shaking his head. “You’re
young and clearly don’t sound Scottish… And this village is
90% populated by retirees.”

At that, Louis can’t help but laugh. He loves his neighbours, he

really does, but Harry’s not wrong. “Yeah, I suppose I am the
odd one here, aren’t I?”

Harry shrugs again. “That’s not what I was trying to imply.”

“No, no, I know. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I mean… My

entire family thought it was weird when I first moved on the
island. They’re supportive now because they see how happy I
am, but most of my extended family still thinks there’s
something seriously wrong with me. I mean, a lot of them are
homophobic anyways so they’d probably think there was
something wrong with me even if I’d stayed put but… you
know…”

He says it matter-of-factly, used to the fact that his life choices

will always be scrutinized no matter what they are, knows that
who he is won’t always be fully accepted. Tolerated? Sure.

101
Loved? Always. But fully accepted by his family? Outside of
his mother and siblings? It’s unlikely and Louis made peace
with that a long time ago.

Harry, on the other hand, seems upset by Louis’ admission, his

pretty mouth turned down with displeasure, an ugly frown
deepening quickly on his face. There’s thunder in his eyes and,
for a second, Louis fears he might lose it. But the anger passes
in a flash, Harry controlling his facial expression into
something more neutral. Nothing can erase the way Harry
looked deeply offended by what Louis said though.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally says, words dripping with

compassion and trembling with residual anger. “That’s…” he
shakes his head, clearly still frustrated. “That’s not right.
There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing wrong with any of
it.”

Louis bites down his laugh, restraining himself only because

there’s something about the way Harry is holding himself that
hints at this being a bit of a personal topic for him too. It’s in
the tense line of his shoulders, the tightening of his fists, the
very controlled outrage in his voice.

“Thanks,” Louis replies instead. “It’s fine, to be honest. Their

fucking problem, am I right?”

Harry chuckles, a bit of tension thankfully melting from his

body. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then he nods, mostly to himself.
“Yeah, of course.” He pauses for a long time, eyes fixed on his
plate like he’s considering his options before speaking again.
“Some of my extended family would be the same if they knew
about my sexuality,” he finally admits and oh, Louis thinks,
somehow taken aback without being fully surprised. He smiles

102
sadly, feeling a stab of sympathy for the way Harry gulps
shakily, the other man clearly a little frazzled by what he just
revealed. “I can’t really tell them right now,” Harry continues
quickly, tripping all over his words. “It’s…. It’s
complicated…” He hesitates, glancing up and giving Louis a
long calculating look that he can’t decipher no matter how hard
he tries. “It’d be really risky… I mean, not that I don’t trust
them but if they said –” He stops himself at that, looking
mortified.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Louis says, trying

to sound reassuring, hating the way Harry seems embarrassed
by his closet. “Fuck them,” he adds. “Honestly, fuck them,” he
repeats even more forcefully. “They don’t deserve to know you
if they’re gonna be shitty about it. Besides, it should be on your
terms, right?”

Harry laughs instead of agreeing, a laugh poisoned with

bitterness that holds no joy at all. A tiny little chuckle, the
angriest sound Louis has probably ever heard. “Yeah,” he says
through gritted teeth, drumming his fingers against the table.
Something haunted flickers on his face and Louis feels like he
truly said the worst possible thing he could have, but then, just
as it appeared suddenly, it vanishes again. Harry’s face
becomes a blank mask, emotionless. “I want them to know I’m
gay,” he declares, “but the timing is not good, not right now.
It’d be really risky for them to know.”

There’s that word again, risky. Louis isn’t sure what it means,
but he knows it definitely sounds rehearsed, like words that
Harry’s been force-fed and he’s trying to make fit into his
mouth even though he doesn’t want them there.

103
For a second, Louis wonders if maybe Harry has a partner
somewhere who wants to keep their relationship secret, a man
who for one reason or the other, can’t handle Harry’s whole
family knowing about them. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t sound
fully like his line, Louis thinks vaguely before remembering
it’s none of his business.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, bringing Louis back to the present

and out of his head.

“What?”

“We were talking about you moving here and I just… hijacked
the conversation. S’bit rude. Please, tell me all about choosing
this place, if you still want to. I’d really like to know. I didn’t
ask just to make conversation, I’m actually curious.”

Louis shakes his head. “You… you really don’t have to

apologise. You’re not hijacking anything.” He stops, inhaling
deeply before starting again. “We’re just talking, it’s fine. You
can tell me stuff.”

Harry stiffens at that and how is it possible that by trying to be

helpful and supportive, Louis has managed to say the wrong
thing every single time during this whole conversation? Before
Harry gets a chance to talk again, Louis quickly makes the
decision to stir the discussion into an easier territory.

“But if you really want to know the fascinating story of how I

ended up here, I’m happy to tell it.”

“Please,” Harry nods. “You said it was like coming home,” he

says, clearly remembering his first day at the B&B.

104
It makes Louis grin despite the lingering strain of the previous
topic. “Yeah, it was exactly like that,” he agrees before
grabbing a big bite. He chews and swallows too quickly, eager
to get to tell the tale. “First time I visited Fair Isle, I was
eighteen years old. It was a family trip, though why our mother
picked this place I will never understand. I mean, there was five
of us kids at the time and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but
there’s fuck all to do here. Especially for the young ones. I
mean, bird watching and the beach. That’s it.”

“You have four siblings?” Harry asks, latching onto this part of
the explanation, eyes wide with excitement.

“Well, six now, me mom’s popped a new set of twins since

then.” Louis raises his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. He
still doesn’t understand how she’s done it, superhuman that she
is. “I’m the eldest: five younger sisters and a brother. Though
it was only my four sisters and me at the time.”

“Wow.”

“Yep, you can imagine how busy the house got.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorts a little unattractively. It’s kind of cute in

an ugly way and Louis has to look away, has to focus on his
storytelling instead of the fact that Harry is cute and gay.

“Not a second of quiet there, that’s for sure,” Louis continues,

trying to distract himself. “Maybe that’s why I fell in love with
the stillness here so much,” he ponders out loud. He never
could fully explain it to himself, the way he fell hard and fast,
deeper than he’d ever fallen, the first time he saw this place.
“It’s just… we showed up here and I was eighteen, right?
Pissed as hell that I was being dragged away from me mates for

105
the summer, thinking a trip to Scotland was a waste of my time.
God, I can’t tell you how much I didn’t want to go. I love my
siblings, but it pretty much sounded like a death sentence when
me mum first told me. I argued with her so much, trying to
convince her to let me stay home. I tried to tell her it’d be less
expensive if I didn't come… The whole thing. But she said she
needed help taking care of the girls and it’s not like I could say
no. So I was dragged along… Changed my life too, uh?” Louis
shakes his head, smiling fondly. “I’ll never forget the first view
I got of this place from the ferry.”

“Yeah?” Harry encourages, pushing his finished plate aside and

resting his face against his hand, elbow on the table.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, knowing his face is morphing into a

dreamy, dopey look and not even caring one bit. “It was like
magic. It was like… I knew, straight away, that I belonged here.
My first walk along the cliffs, I just… I just recognised myself
here, you know?”

“Love at first sight,” Harry agrees with a soft, sad, look on his
face.

“Yeah,” Louis laughs softly. “I’ve always been a romantic, but

I didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff, you know? I
probably still don’t when it comes to people… You need time
to fall in love with people, but places? You can definitely fall
in love at first sight with a place.”

“So what happened? Did you move straight away?” Harry asks,
looking enthralled in the story.

Louis bursts out into laughter at the question. If only it had been
that easy.

106
“I take it that means no,” Harry says.

“No, definitely not,” Louis shakes his head. “I think I

mentioned before that the island is owned by the National Trust
of Scotland?” he asks, waiting for Harry to nod in agreement
before continuing. “Basically, you have to wait until a property
becomes available to rent to be able to move. And even then,
it’s a whole process to be vetted, especially for something like
the B&B where it’s a business, you know? I was a kid, there
was no way I would have had the money to move straight
away.”

“Did you know you wanted to straight away though?”

“Yeah mate, from the first second. I knew I had to come back,
I knew I had to live here at some point. Even if it took years.”

“The call was too strong,” Harry says.

“Yeah. Exactly. I’d just finished my A Levels so I applied for

uni and did a business degree. It wasn’t really a passion or
anything like that, but I figured it’d be useful you know? And
that maybe if I had a concrete business idea I could go to the
National Trust and apply for a property for that. I’d been saving
all along so I thought that’d give me some leverage… But life
kinda worked out in a really weird way because literally a
couple of weeks before graduation, the Bed and Breakfast
became available. I really didn’t think I was gonna get it,
considering my age and inexperience, but I was really
passionate. And the previous owners, well, renters, liked me
when we met. They never said anything, but I think they put in
a good word for me.”

Harry smiles. “And here you are.”

107
“Here I am,” Louis confirms. “Been here ever since. Got
Clifford right before moving ‘cause my mum was scared I’d
get lonely and we’ve been living in bliss for a few years now.”

“And are you lonely?”

Louis’ eyes widen at the question. Somehow, he wasn’t

expecting that one.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… You’re here by yourself with a dog for sole

company… You clearly love your family very much, you must
miss them. What about your friends? Everyone else?” Harry
pauses. “I mean, don’t you get lonely?”

“Not in a way that makes me question my choices,” Louis

replies firmly.

He’s surrounded by people most of the time, the B&B filled

with enthusiastic guests who want to know everything about
living on the island. He’s rarely truly alone.

“That’s not a no,” Harry points out, observant, attentive.

He’s rarely truly alone, and yet.

“No, it’s not.”

They stare at each other in silence for a beat, understanding

passing between them without having to be acknowledged.

“What about you?” Louis asks.

108
“Am I lonely?” Harry echoes and Louis shakes his head.

That’s not what he wants to ask. He doesn’t need to ask if

Harry’s lonely, it’s been written on his face since the first
second he arrived on the island, since the first moment Louis
set eyes on him. He’s a lonely soul, Louis could always tell, but
that’s not the source of the sadness hovering over him, casting
its shadow over his entire body. At least, Louis doesn’t think.

“No, no. I mean… What led you here? Of all places?”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “That’s… Maybe too long of a story

to tell,” he says diplomatically.

Louis can hear the dismissal badly hidden underneath, the I

don’t want to talk about this vibes Harry can barely conceal.

“Fair enough,” he agrees easily, ready to switch topics. “Can I

ask where you’re from though? Your accent is a bit puzzling.”

“It’s ‘cause I travel loads,” Harry explains with an eye roll.

“My mum always says my accent gets really thick when I’ve
spent a significant amount of time at home. I’m from Cheshire,
originally. Not too far from Manchester? My accent kinda…
mellows a little if I’ve spent some time in the US though.”

“Ah! A northerner too, I should have known.” Louis is tempted

to ask about his job, about why he travels so much, but he
knows that, just like his previous question, it’s not going to be
well received. Instead, Louis focuses on the tidbit of
information Harry just offered him. “So you’re close to your
mum then?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, she’s… She’s the best person I know.”

109
“Same,” Louis agrees. “Siblings?”

“One,” Harry replies. “Gemma. She’s older than me and much

cleverer.”

“Oh I see, you’re the youngest,” Louis hums. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the right and squinting at
Louis.

“Oh yeah, that reveals a lot about you without you even
realising. I’m a big brother, I would know.”

“Know what? What is it revealing?” Harry asks and he looks

more amused than worried, so Louis happily continues to wind
him up.

“That you’re spoiled.”

Just as Louis hoped, Harry’s eyes widen and his mouth open in
shock, amusement still written all over his face.

“Oi!” he exclaims. “I don’t think we know each other well

enough for you to make claims like that!” he protests with a
laugh, clearly enjoying being teased.

“It’s just a fact of life, Harold, backed with a lot of scientific

data. The baby of the family is unbearably spoiled. Most likely
a brat too. A spoiled brat. The sooner you accept it, the sooner
you can work to become a better person.” Louis barely gets the
last word out before his serious expression falls and he starts
giggling.

110
Harry scoffs. “Fuck off,” he tells Louis with a huge smile on
his face.

“How was it, growing up in Cheshire?” Louis asks while Harry

is still smiling.

“It was alright. Bit boring to be honest. I’m from a small

village. Not much to do.”

“Like here?” Louis jokes.

“No, not that bad.” Harry’s eyes widen as soon as it’s out of his
mouth. “I mean,” he tries to backtrack straight away, “I meant
it’s bigger than here, you know? Not that here is boring or
anything like that. I mean, I wouldn’t be staying here so long if
I thought it was boring.”

“You know I’m not the actual island, right? I don’t work for
the National Trust either. I’m not gonna get offended if you
slag it off,” Louis says with a laugh, kind of endeared by
Harry’s behaviour.

“But you are in love with it,” Harry points out softly. “I can
easily see you defending its honor.”

Louis smiles, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, she’s the only lady

I ever had romantic feelings for, that’s true. She’s pretty
special. But I’m not offended. This place isn’t for people thrill-
seeking or anything like that.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t trying to say anything offensive anyway.

Just that I come from a small place where there wasn’t much to
do as a teenager.”

111
“Yeah, I got that, don’t worry. How did you waste your time,
then? If there was nothing to do?” Louis asks, curious because
if there’s one thing he knows is that bored teenagers will do the
absolute craziest shit. He bets Harry has some stories.

“Honestly?” Harry asks, looking a bit nervous. “Mostly

music,” he admits. “Used to sing in a band, tried to learn the
guitar and everything.” He looks a bit sheepish as he says so,
awkward at the admission like maybe it’s a hobby he should be
embarrassed about.

“Tried?” Louis smirks.

“Yeah,” Harry snorts. “My mate was a terrible teacher so it

didn’t really work out at the time. God, he used to ramble about
the most useless shit. Like… just show me some chords!!”

Harry passes a hand through his hair in frustration, making

Louis laugh.

“So did you fancy yourself becoming a big rockstar then?

Selling out stadiums in America and everything?” Louis teases
and he’s surprised by the way Harry’s smile fall.

“Something like that,” he replies in a soft voice. “Pretty stupid

dream,” he adds viciously like his teenage self somehow
deserves that kind of harshness.

Uh, Louis thinks.

112
“Thanks for helping out with the dishes,” Louis says, fiddling
with a tea towel once they’re done cleaning up. “You really
didn’t have to.”

“Of course I had to,” Harry scoffs. “We cooked and ate
together, it’s only fair.”

“Well, you’re the guest so there really was no obligation,

obviously.”

Harry sighs, grabbing his own dish towel from the counter and
he uses it to softly hit Louis’ side, no force behind the gesture.

“Oi!” Louis exclaims, moving backwards, away from his

attacker. “What was that for?”

“Stop with that guest nonsense!” Harry says firmly, raising the
dishtowel again in warning. “We cook together, we clean
together. Those are the new rules. You can’t argue about it
every time I help out, otherwise, I might go insane.”

“Fine!” Louis replies, raising his hands in surrender. “Bloody

hell, calm down. I didn’t know you had that in you… Feisty
little thing, are ya?” he adds in a mumble, mostly to himself.

Harry lifts his chin up and jokingly flips his short curls over his
shoulder. “Yes, so beware.”

“I said it was fine!” Louis laughs, shaking his head before

dropping his towel on the counter. “Thanks. Either way, I
appreciate the help.”

113
“You’re welcome,” Harry replies calmly, carefully folding his
towel in a tiny square before putting it away next to Louis’
clumped one.

They stare at each other in silence for a second and Louis can
tell that’s something’s shifted between them and they can both
sense it. It’s a bit early to call Harry his friend, especially
considering how little he knows about the man, but he can no
longer call him a stranger.

“Listen –” Louis starts just as Harry opens his mouth and says
“So –”.

They both grin at each other, Harry gesturing for Louis to go

ahead.

“Hum, I was just gonna say… I’m off to walk Clifford for half
an hour if you want to join us? We’re just going down the path
to the beach, he likes a bit of running in the sand before bed.”

Harry looks down, sliding both of his hands in the pocket of his
jeans, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“You don’t have to,” Louis adds, not wanting him to feel
forced. “You’ve already wasted most of your evening with me,
so I get it.”

Harry looks back up at him. “I’d love to, actually.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

114
“Yeah.”

“Aren't you scared you’re gonna fall into the water?” Harry
asks once they’re walking along the cliffs towards the path
heading down to the beach. “I mean, shouldn’t we have like…
a torch or something?”

Louis smiles, fonder than he has any right to be and glad for the
darkness and the fact that he’s walking a little ahead. There’s
no one to see him be so enchanted, thankfully.

“How close to the edge do you think we are mate?” Louis

teases. “Besides, just follow Cliff, he knows what he’s doing.
He won’t lead us into the abyss.”

Harry huffs behind him and Louis’ grin grows at the sound.

“I would if I could see the bloody dog, but I don’t know if

you’ve noticed, he’s entirely black and it’s entirely black
outside right now.”

Louis bites his lower lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Actually, Clifford has a lot of white on his tummy, I’ll have
you know.” He stops when they’ve reached the path, reaching
behind himself to grab at Harry. “Careful, Harry,” he says,
serious this time.

“What?” Harry asks, continuing to advance towards Louis.

“Careful,” Louis repeats, grabbing onto the wool of Harry’s

jumper and stopping him. “We’ve reached the path, we’re
gonna go down. But we gotta go slow.”

115
“Oh,” Harry says, his body heavy against Louis’ back. “Okay.”

“You alright?” Louis asks, letting go of his jumper.

“Yeah, s’just…” Harry pauses and Louis listens to him

breathing in the dark. “I hate this bit. I’m really clumsy and I
hate going down. It’s fine every time, but I always get
nervous.”

Louis laughs as he starts to make his way down very slowly.

“You know you don’t actually have to include the beach in your
daily walk, right? No one is forcing you, you’re the master of
your own destiny, etc etc.”

Harry sighs and Louis can hear him follow him down,
mumbling to himself “if only,” which…

“Hey,” Louis says kindly, “you can hold on to me, if you need
help.”

“I’m fine,” Harry replies just before he almost slips. “Fuck,” he

whispers with a little laugh and Louis stops, waiting to see if
he’s alright. “Okay, yeah, maybe I’ll take you up on that,”
Harry adds and Louis feels hands grabbing tentatively at his
shoulders.

“Alright?” Louis asks, reaching up to pat Harry’s hand on his

left shoulder. “You holding on?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Louis says, starting the slow process of

getting down again. He’s more careful this time, knowing
Harry depends on him for balance. Clifford is already running

116
around on the beach, Louis can vaguely see his shape ahead,
can hear him moving around.

“No offence, but s’really stupid to do this without a torch okay.

S’really really stupid,” Harry insists, his grip tight enough to
bruise on Louis’ shoulders.

“Actually, I never have a problem and I do it every night. Also,

I have my phone on me if you really want a torch.”

Harry hums but doesn’t ask for the light so they keep going
until they finally reach the end of the slope.

“Why do you always come down if you hate it?” Louis asks,
turning around to face Harry in the dark.

Clifford comes running to meet them, barking excitedly

between their bodies to attract their attention. Louis suspects
he’s maybe two minutes away from running into the freezing
water and regretting all of his life choices.

Harry shrugs and Louis can’t tell in the dark, but he suspects
he’s probably blushing. He reaches down to pet Clifford,
making small kissing noises towards him.

“It’d be stupid to waste this view because I’m not brave

enough,” he finally replies after a bit, eyes focused on Louis’
dog.

“Not much to see at night though,” Louis argues, and he’s not
sure why he’s pushing this considering he’s the one who invited
Harry on a walk and who pressured him down.

117
“No,” Harry agrees, “but the company is worth it. Besides, it’s
lovely at night. It’s even quieter, which I didn’t think was
possible for this place.”

“Right?” Louis says, turning to face the dark water. The waves
aren’t too strong tonight, the wind having somehow calmed
down in the past few hours. The noises they make are almost
soothing, a soft melody that accompanies them as they start
walking along the small beach, Clifford running ahead of them.

“What’s your favourite thing about the island?” Harry asks, the
two of them walking step in step in the dark. “I know you said
you just fell in love with it, but if you had to pick one thing.”

Louis inhales deeply, looking straight ahead, then he exhales

slowly. “That’s… that’s hard to say.”

“Try,” Harry insists.

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

“I’m just curious,” Harry replies, though the tone of his voice
hints that it’s clearly more than that.

“Are you?” Louis insists instead of letting it go.

Harry sighs and when Louis looks at him, he’s got both of his
hands deeply buried in the pockets of his jacket. “I guess I just
wonder what it feels like, to know what your home is so easily.”

And that… that just hurts in a way Louis wasn’t expecting.

Because there’s true pain in what Harry is saying, a wanderer’s
sorrow who can’t find the warmth of home no matter where he
goes.

118
“Don’t you have that?” Louis asks, instead of answering
because he can’t fathom that feeling, the not knowing where he
belongs so firmly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“A home?” Harry whispers under the sound of the waves

crashing against the rocks. “I don’t think so.”

“I…” Louis shakes his head, unable to find anything to say to

that.

“I have a place where I’m from and a place where I live. I have
a house… More than one actually,” Harry admits sadly. “I have
places I’ve visited. But nowhere where I’ve felt this is it, this
is my place. I… I can’t even imagine what that feels like.”

“Harry, I’m…”

“It’s okay,” Harry says quickly. “You don’t have to feel sorry
for me. Loads of people feel this way, you know. They just live
somewhere and it’s fine.” He pauses. “It’s fine,” he repeats
sadly. “I was just curious as to how it felt, that’s all. You gave
up everything to be here, your friends, your family… I just
wanted to know how it felt, I wanted to know what it is about
this place that makes it the special place for you, you know?
But it’s alright if you don’t know. Or if you don’t want to tell
me. It doesn’t matter.”

He says it all very quickly, dismissively, which makes Louis

believe that it does matter. It probably matters a whole lot and
he wishes he had an answer for him, but the truth is… It’s
something Louis has struggled to articulate for years, it’s a
feeling that’s so overpowering there are no words strong
enough to describe it.

119
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I promise. I just don’t
have a rational answer. I’ve been trying to explain it to myself
for years and I just… I just can’t. It was one of those impulses
that are undeniable. Just…” Louis stops walking and he turns
to face Harry, eyes serious, sincere. “Just undeniable. I needed
to be here more than I needed to be back home. And as soon as
I was here, it became home. There’s a little voice inside of me
that feels… settled here, that feels at home. And I couldn’t get
it to shut up, no matter how hard I tried. Do you know what I
mean?”

To Louis’ surprise, Harry nods, very slowly, eyes wide.

“Yeah. There’s… there’s one thing in my life that was like that.
An impulse to pursue something that I couldn’t have tamed
even if I wanted to.”

“Undeniable?” Louis says, nodding along to what Harry’s

saying.

“Yeah.”

Louis gulps, feeling a bit naked, exposed as he opens his mouth

to try and explain the unexplainable.

“Well, that’s my favourite thing about the island. The way my

head, my heart, feels at peace here. I mean, I like the view of
course, and I like the quiet. I like the fact that I can walk the
entirety of the island easily whenever I want because it’s so
small. I like the fact that I’m not bothered by people, that I get
to live in peace and alone. I like the rain. I like the wind, even
though it’s always too strong and I have to fight against it. I like
the cliffs and how gorgeous they are. How they stand tall and
proud, unmovable. I like the darkness of the sea, the strength

120
of the waves. I like the sound they make, muted through the
lantern room windows, late at night when I’m reading. I like
the people who live here even though they’re a bit old
fashioned. I like all of that, and so much more. But I love the
way I feel when I’m here, like I’m the truest version of myself.”

Louis pants a little when he’s done, feels like he’s just run a
marathon from the way he just… bared his truth like that, with
barely any probing from Harry. He looks away, feeling the
prickle of Harry’s unmoving stare all over his skin. He’s being
watched, maybe judged, certainly observed carefully. It’s not
fully unpleasant, but he can’t help but feel like maybe he’s
revealed too much. That he’s revealed things no one could ever
understand.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity, Harry clears his
throat, then whispers a small “thank you.”

They don’t talk about it again.

The next evening, Louis can’t help but startle a little when
Harry walks into the kitchen just as he was about to start
cooking. He strolls in lazily, waving at Louis instead of
greeting him properly and heading straight to the sink to wash
his hands.

“Anything I can do to help?” Harry asks as he dries his hands,

leaning against the counter, his black sweatpants low on his
waist and the sleeves of his plain white tee rolled up against his
biceps.

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They didn’t plan this and, even though Harry mentioned how
awkward it is not having any cooking to do, Louis didn’t expect
him to actually act up on it. Truthfully, he had assumed last
night was a one-time thing, something Harry felt forced to do
to alleviate his guilt at being pampered and that it wouldn’t
happen again. Yet here he is once more, prepared to help,
putting his money where his mouth is and actually offering his
time and labor. Louis shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

Still, he pretends like he isn’t and smiles, handing Harry a bag

of potatoes. “Feel up to peeling these?” Louis says, more an
affirmation than a question as he proceeds to give Harry a knife
and a chopping board.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says, hating the way his voice sounds

relieved for a second there. He risks a glance towards Harry,
displeased to see the puzzled look on his face. Clearly, the relief
hasn’t gone as unnoticed as Louis would have liked. “I hate
peeling potatoes,” he admits with an eye roll. “It’s the worst,”
he says in a whisper, putting emphasis on the last word.

“What?” Harry laughs, grabbing a medium sized one and

getting to work straight away with an ease Louis can’t help but
envy. “Why? It’s not like it’s particularly hard work. I mean,
there are way worse veggies to deal with. Have you met
onions? They make everything taste delicious, but at what
cost.”

“Nope,” Louis says, shaking his head vehemently. “Hard

disagree,” he adds, giving Harry an incredulous look before
burying himself into the fridge, taking some cheese out for his

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potato bake as well as some chicken. “I’d pick cutting a
hundred onions over peeling one potato any day.”

“That is literally insane,” Harry laughs. He’s done with the first
one, to Louis’ great annoyance.

He shakes his head, reaching for a pot and filling it with water
before offering it to Harry so he can put the potatoes in.

“You really need to explain yourself to me on this one,” Harry

insists, cutting it in two before dropping it in.

Louis frowns, then points at the pot. “I just can’t do that ,” he

whispers.

Harry’s face drops and he glances down into the pot with
suspicious eyes. “What the hell does that mean?” he asks,
tilting his head with a disbelieving smile growing on his face.

“You peeled it all... thin and easy!” Louis exclaims, pointing at

the discarded peels. “Whenever I try the potato literally reduces
half in size because I can’t seem to do it without taking out
massive chunks of the thing. S’annoying.”

Harry bites his lower lip, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Mmmhmm,” he says, clearly struggling not to make fun of
Louis.

“You can laugh.” Louis gives him permission while wrinkling

his nose in distaste and Harry snorts immediately.

“Sorry,” he says through the laugh. “Sorry. It’s just…” He

shakes his head, grabbing another potato. “I can teach you, if
you want?” he offers kindly, moving closer to Louis. “It’s

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really easy, you just have to be careful and –” he stops when he
notices the dark look Louis is throwing his way. “Or maybe
not,” he mumbles, moving back to stand in front of his cutting
board.

“Do you know how many people have tried to teach me this
particular skill?” Louis asks through gritted teeth, years of
failure fresh in his memory. “It’s a lot. A lot of people Harold.
A lot of people a lot of times. Yes, some of them tried more
than once. And can I peel a potato without wasting half of it?”
Louis waits with an impatient look on his face he can’t seem to
tame no matter how much he wants to.

It’s one of those little things he finds endlessly frustrating and

no matter how hard he tries, he never manages to be successful.
It’s gotten to the point where he only buys big potatoes so he
doesn’t feel like a complete and utter failure. The tiny ones he
basically wastes more than half of and it’s such a humiliating
process that Louis can’t bear it. He’s generally good at things.
And if not good, then at least good enough. This, though, he
never mastered and he hates it.

“With that murderous look in your eyes, I’m going to guess no,
you can’t?” Harry says, laughing when Louis rolls his eyes
angrily and starts cutting the chicken breasts in strips. “So you
can’t peel a potato…” Harry shrugs. “No big deal. It’s kind of
funny. And sweet.” He pauses. “Even with a peeler?”

Louis gives him such a glare that Harry’s eyes widen and he
mouths “okay” to himself before changing the conversation
topic without a smooth transition.

“I finished the romance novel,” he says, lacking subtlety, his

eyes focused on his work.

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Louis really hates the way he’s making it so easy. Louis can’t
even do it with a peeler.

How unfair.

“You did?” Louis engages in the new conversation, forcing

himself to think about something else and to appreciate the
olive branch Harry is offering him.

“Yep,” Harry confirms, grabbing a new potato. “How many of

these do we need?”

Louis looks down into the pot, pursing his lips as he evaluates.
“Two or three more I’d say? It’d be nice to have leftovers for
later.”

“Alright,” Harry nods, carrying on.

Louis waits for a few seconds before speaking again. “So?”

“So… what?”

“I’m waiting for that book report, Mister.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims. “Right, I did say I’d do that, uh.”

“You did and I am eager to listen to your verdict.”

Harry hums. “Overall? Not bad. I mean, it’s definitely not the
best I’ve read in the genre if I’m completely honest.”

Louis hums in agreement, nodding his head as he grabs a frying

pan for his chicken. “Of course, of course. And you are a great

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connoisseur of the romance novel, aren’t you?” he asks,
expecting Harry to deny it.

“You’d be surprised what one does to distract oneself on the

road,” Harry says, then he stiffens for a second before gulping
and starting to speak again, quicker this time. “Anyways, I have
thoughts about the book.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Louis says.

“So, at first I thought the Duke was swoon-worthy? But now

that I’m done, I’m kind of disappointed. If I’m reading a
romance novel, I better want to bang the hero by the end of it
otherwise what a waste. Straight people fantasies are so
boring,” Harry huffs, dropping two halves of a potato in the pot.
“Like… okay, he’s hot and she says so literally every other
paragraph, but he’s so dull. I don’t think they had one
interesting conversation in the whole novel. At first, I thought
he was really smooth. There’s this one scene where he recites
poetry to her?”

Louis smirks. “I remember.”

“Yeah, and I was like: oh okay, they’ve gone for an intellectual

protagonist. Brainy, not brawny. You know the type? But no.
He was just stupid the whole time and maybe had memorized
three lines of poetry once.”

“I mean, she could do worse than pretty but dumb. It’s a lot of
people’s fantasy. Especially in men.”

Harry laughs, a loud squeaky thing that doesn’t sound like it

should come out of his mouth but is somehow quite endearing.
“Yeah,” he agrees, still giggling. “I guess guys who think they

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are too clever can be unbearable. God knows I’ve dated a few
of those.”

Louis clicks his tongue. “Haven’t we all?” he replies, raising

his eyebrows. “Our heroine got the better end of the bargain.
She’s the brain of the relationship and he worships her.”

“Sure, sure,” Harry agrees before starting to gesticulate,

arguing his point with large hand gestures. “But romance
novels are meant to be wish fulfilment, right? Just give her the
whole package! A man she can fantasize about and love
fucking, who respects her and isn’t boring. Someone she can
hold a conversation with!”

“Fair enough,” Louis replies. Harry’s got a point after all.

“You’ve thought about this a lot more than I expected you to,
to be honest,” he jokes, reaching down in one of the cupboards
to grab his grater.

“Well, you asked for a book report so… You know… I took
my homework seriously.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure we just agreed on a top ten scenes,

but I’m glad you thought about it in depth!”

“Oh!” Harry gasps. He wrinkles his nose adorably. “I actually

forgot about that.” He pauses, grimacing. “I don’t think I liked
ten scenes enough for a top ten…”

“And you say you thought the book ‘wasn’t bad,’” Louis teases,
making quotations marks with his fingers.

“It wasn’t! I can…” he frowns, looking pensive for a second.

“I can probably do a top three?”

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“Top three best scenes?”

Harry nods.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Number three has to be their first meeting. It was hilarious.

The way he accidentally offended her and she just… straight
up left without saying anything? That was funny,” Harry nods
to himself like he’s approving of his own choice. “Number
two… Probably the poetry scene actually. I had high hopes it
was gonna be a thing by then and I was a bit… into him at that
point.”

“So poetry is the way to your heart, that’s interesting,” Louis

comments absently before realising how easily misinterpreted
that statement could be. He feels himself flush and he swallows
hard, mentally trying to find a way to make it sound like
anything else than him wanting to know how to seduce Harry.

Harry thankfully either doesn’t notice or chooses not to tease

Louis about it.

“I love words, especially when they’re used skillfully,” he

replies absently before moving on like he hasn’t revealed
something fascinating. “Now, the number one absolute best
scene in the novel has to be when he gives her head in the
mysterious ‘alcove’ during the ball.”

“Harry!” Louis snorts, somehow surprised by the choice.

“Really? Straight sex? That’s your number one choice.” Louis
tuts disapprovingly. “I’m disappointed mate.”

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Harry shrugs easily, not at all shamed by his choice. “It was
unexpected. And kind of dangerous. They could have been
discovered at any time. Him underneath her dress? Scandalous.
So fucking raunchy.”

There’s something about the tone of his voice that has Louis
suspicious and he narrows his eyes as he grabs the pot filled
with potatoes from him, finally putting them on the stove to
boil.

“Are you kidding?” Louis asks, suddenly doubtful.

“The entire book was terrible, of course, I’m kidding,” Harry

replies, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. Most of my guests love my smutty
romance novel selections.”

“Listen, I’m a rom-com expert,” Harry argues, voice going up

as he becomes more passionate. “I pride myself on my
excellent taste when it comes to romance and that? That was
not up to my standards.”

Louis looks down at the counter, fiddling with the cheese and
the grater, trying to stop himself from smiling. He’s failing, he
knows he is and it should be worrying, but he can’t help
himself. There’s something unbearably endearing about the
fact that Harry, silent and broody Harry, loves romance so
much he gets offended when it’s not swoon-worthy enough.

They keep talking about romcoms for the rest of the evening,
well into the night, and by the time they’re walking Clifford on
the beach in the dark, they’re still going at it. Harry wasn’t lying
when he said he had standards and Louis finds himself nodding

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along and agreeing to even his most colorful and silly
arguments. It’s a new side to his guest that he wasn’t expecting
and he finds himself surprised that, even after hours of aimless
chatter about an idle topic, he still doesn’t feel bored.

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Chapter 4

Harry, staying true to his word, helps Louis cook every night
for the next three weeks. He shows up between five o’clock and
half-past, every single night, ready to help and be bossed
around. He’s skilled in the kitchen too, Louis realizes pretty
quickly, wasn’t lying about loving to cook and not minding
pitching in. Soon enough, he starts offering suggestions to
improve some of Louis’ recipes, even gives him some tips and
tricks to make things easier for him. From anyone else, Louis
would find it intrusive and rude, but there’s something
charming about Harry’s eagerness, about the way he so
genuinely wants to help and wants Louis to improve. He often
argues his points with big hand gestures, supplementing his
argument with quick google searches on Louis’ phone, waving
the mobile in Louis’ face with a triumphant look in his eyes,
ridiculously happy that allrecipes.co.uk seem to agree with his
technique to cut mushrooms.

Slowly, they get to know each other.

Harry, for the most part, remains an enigma Louis can’t quite
crack. He never reveals anything truly personal about himself
and even though they’ve spent hours together every day, Louis
still doesn’t know where he actually lives, what he does for
work, or even what led him to a short exile on Fair Isle. It’s
alright though, Louis figures. He gets to know different things
about Harry, little things he doesn’t seem to find important
enough to hide, but that Louis is getting addicted to. Like the
fact that he wasn’t kidding when he said his sister was the

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smartest sibling, that she’s an investigative journalist of all
things and that Harry is so ridiculously proud of her he looks
like he’s going to burst from it when he talks about her, green
eyes sparkling. Like the fact that he genuinely does love
romance novels, devours them when he’s not busy writing in
that little notebook of his before roasting them mercilessly to
Louis’ delight. One night, he reenacts one of the smuttiest sex
scenes in the book to the best of his memory, critiquing every
single thing like he’s doing his own stand up on it, and he
makes Louis laugh so hard that he accidentally cuts his finger.
He’s so apologetic about inadvertently hurting his host that he
bakes Louis vegan banana muffins the next day. Like the fact
that he loves music and he takes it extremely seriously, taking
control of Louis’ Spotify every night to curate the mood of their
cooking according to his whims. His taste is eclectic and when
he’s not singing along to whatever he picked with a surprisingly
gorgeous deep voice, he’s rambling and giving Louis facts
about the artist and production of the songs easily. He’s deeply
knowledgeable, admiring not only the artistry of music, but the
hard work and the process beneath it. It’s a way of listening
Louis never experienced before and he finds himself hanging
on every word without realising.

In return, Louis tells Harry stories about his past guests, even
though it’s unprofessional to do so and he probably shouldn’t.
But Harry is slowly becoming his friend, the line between guest
and acquaintance blurring more and more with every day that
passes. So Louis forgets he’s not in the offseason with a mate
hanging around and he tells him about the weird, the unusual,
the sweet…. He tells him about the fights and the proposals;
all of his favourite memories from the people that have crossed
his threshold. And Harry listens with rapt attention, revealing
more about himself than he probably realizes just by the way
he’s so attentive, so captivated by stories filled with strangers.

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Because as much as Louis has noticed that Harry loves being
alone, it’s obvious he loves people too. Genuinely.

All in all, Harry is animated when spending time with Louis in

the kitchen in a way he never expected him to be, not when he
was so taciturn, so sad, when he first arrived. Now that they’ve
formed a tentative camaraderie, Louis can recognise a lot of it
was probably timidity, though the cloud of sorrow hanging over
Harry’s head that Louis first spotted definitely hasn’t vanished.

Once in a while, Harry will show up to the kitchen in a sour

mood, dark circles under his eyes and carrying himself like his
bones are too heavy. He’s still helpful, listening to Louis’
instructions and never shying away from his duties, but he’s
barely there at all. He cuts vegetables and grates cheese and
cooks meat and washes dishes without saying a single word, a
shadow of himself which upsets Louis a lot more now than he
actually knows what Harry is normally like. On those nights,
he’ll only open his mouth to agree to one of Louis’ requests,
the usual banter between them completely absent. Worst of all,
he never comments on the music Louis puts on, never makes
grabby hands towards the phone to take control, doesn’t make
specific song requests. Sometimes, he’ll even politely ask
Louis to turn the music off, a sign that things are truly dire.

Louis never pushes.

He obeys and turns the music off, trying to mask his concern,
his empathy, under a blank face, looking sad only briefly and
when Harry isn’t looking.

He does wonder though. He wonders what happens on those

mornings that Harry wakes up all out of sorts, the weight of
living so visible in the tense lines of his face, in his nervous

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fiddling. He wonders if there’s anything he could say to make
it better, wonders if he could share the heavy load somehow.
He wonders if there’s anything anyone could say that would
make it better.

But Harry has established clear boundaries and Louis would

never cross them. So on those nights, Louis doesn’t say
anything. He doesn’t try. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t probe.
Following Harry’s lead, he keeps quiet, letting him retire early
and going down to the beach by himself to walk Clifford, hating
the silence that accompanies him intensely even though he and
Harry don’t usually chat by that point of the evening when they
walk it together.

That specific night, Harry walks into the kitchen with red eyes,
his body language very clearly spelling do not bother me, so
Louis puts him to work straight away without asking if he’s had
a nice day. Instead, he lets him prepare a quick tomato sauce
while Louis boils water for pasta. He was originally planning
something a little more elaborate, something that would take
them at least an hour to prepare, but considering how utterly
miserable Harry looks, Louis doesn’t want to impose his
company on him a second longer than necessary.

He’ll probably want to go back to his moping straight away,

Louis thinks sadly as he watches Harry stir the sauce carefully.
Louis sighs, joining him in front of the stove to put the pasta
into the boiling water, both of them shoulder to shoulder, the
silence heavy in a way it usually isn’t.

After a while, to Louis’ surprise, Harry speaks without being

prompted.

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“Do you think…” he starts saying, frowning at the pot, before
he stops himself, shaking his head.

“I try to avoid it actually,” Louis jokes unimaginatively to

break the tension. “I avoid having unnecessary worries that
way.”

It’s a testament to Harry’s relatively easy-going personality

that, even in clear distress, he doesn’t chide Louis for his stupid,
unfiltered, babble.

He doesn’t smile though, the frown on his face still going

strong, stronger even. He keeps stirring the sauce slowly,
watching as it starts bubbling a little too intensely for a second
before reducing the heat.

He clears his throat, then tries again. “Do you think you
could… just… distract me? Please?”

When Louis turns his head to look at him – at the straight line
of his nose, the curve of his lips, the blush on his cheeks – Harry
clenches his jaw visibly.

“Sure,” Louis replies before starting to tell an elaborate story

about his youngest siblings.

And he doesn’t stop.

They finish cooking and Louis talks. They sit down to eat and
Louis talks. They finish the meal and Louis talks. He just
babbles on and on, one hundred percent certain that Harry isn’t
listening to a single word he’s saying. He talks about Lottie and
her career as a makeup artist. He talks about both sets of twins
and the various troubles they gave him when they were little.

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He talks about nappies, bath time, story time. He talks about his
first job, his second job, his third job. He talks about getting
fired over and over before becoming his own boss. He talks
until their plates are empty and his voice is hoarse.

Harry remains eerily silent.

When they’re done eating, Harry hovers near the door, playing
with the rubber band around his wrist, snapping it a few times
against the thin skin there and it reddens immediately.

To Louis’ surprises, he speaks again, not before clearing his

throat deeply though.

“Is it… Would it be alright if I let you take care of the dishes
tonight?” he asks, looking a bit embarrassed at the request.

“Of course,” Louis replies kindly, feeling like Harry might start
crying the way relief spreads over his face.

In a second, he’s vanished from the kitchen and into the depths
of the cottage.

Every hope that Louis entertained about Harry’s mood

improving overnight gets crushed when he makes his way
down the main staircase the next morning looking like he hasn’t
slept at all. His hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking in
every direction like maybe he’s been running his fingers
angrily through it all night and the dark circles under his eyes
have only gotten worse. He’s wearing an old white Rolling
Stones tee that’s so old it’s basically threadbare, with a hole so
big on the chest that Louis is pretty sure he can see a nipple.

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He’s got his faithful green jacket on and what looks like a too
large beige cardigan underneath.

“Hey,” Louis calls from reception, smiling at him.

Harry nods back, eyes barely flicking to Louis’ face before he

looks away. He whistles and Clifford comes running down the
corridor, obeying him straight away and sniffing down the
pockets of Harry’s Adidas sweatpants in search of treats now
that he’s started carrying them around as Louis does.

They’re about to leave the cottage without a word in Louis’

direction when he stops them with a strangled “wait!”

Harry turns around in the door, giving Louis a puzzled frown,

but he’s already running down the corridor and into the living
room, not caring that he looks a bit insane right now. He grabs
a thick blue scarf off the coat peg and runs back to the entrance.
Once there, he awkwardly wraps it around Harry’s neck
without meeting his eyes.

“It’s quite chilly today,” he explains quickly as he secures the

scarf. “Temperature’s really dropped and the wind is pretty
bad, especially near the water. You’ll need it, trust me.”

He looks up at Harry’s face as he says the last part, not quite

able to read the emotion that flickers on his face.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, hiding his face under the wool

scarf.

“No problem,” Louis replies as Harry turns around and opens

the door. “Have a good walk,” he calls to Harry’s back.

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It still hurts when he doesn’t get a reply, even though he wasn’t
expecting one.

He’s hoovering one of the empty rooms, big laundry baskets

with fresh linens and towels left in the corridor when Harry
makes a reappearance. To Louis’ surprise, he doesn’t walk past
the commotion to head straight to his bedroom. Instead, he
steps over the baskets and hangs in the doorway, leaning
against it with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his
cardigan. Louis tries not to let the hawklike way Harry is
staring at him distract him from the task at hand.

He can’t concentrate though, the beats of his heart somehow

louder than the hoover in his ears as he nervously tries to
remember how to behave like a normal person when he’s being
scrutinized like this.

Finally, after what he feels like an eternity of Louis leaning

awkwardly to hoover under the bed while Harry just… stares,
he turns the machine off and faces his guest with an amused
smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” Louis asks one hand on his hips, the other
still holding the top of the hoover.

Harry blinks.

“Did you need anything?” Louis insists, not unkindly.

“No, no… I just…” Harry looks around, shifting his weight to

lean ever so slightly against the doorway. He looks over his
shoulder, back into the corridor at the laundry baskets. “Why
are you changing the sheets in all the rooms if there’s no one

138
but me here?” he asks and it’s clearly not why he’s been
standing here staring at Louis, but he’ll take it.

“Well, I’m still open, aren’t I?” he says, turning the hoover on
again. “Can’t exactly do nothing all day, can I? What if
someone shows up looking for a room this afternoon? Drop-ins
do happen, I mean… You’re proof of that.”

“Right,” Harry chuckles, small and not really amused. It sounds

more like a habit than anything else and Louis really hates
when he does that. He would rather weather the storm of
Harry’s honesty than face this diluted, amicable, fake version
of him.

Louis takes a second to look at him. Properly.

He looks better than the night before at least, certainly better

than this morning. He might not be laughing with the sincerity
Louis has gotten used to, but he no longer looks utterly
miserable. The dark circles under his eyes haven’t miraculously
vanished and his hair is still messy, but it looks windswept now,
organic rather than caused by nervous energy. He seems calmer
too, more settled, and there’s a healthy flushed to his cheeks.
The wind’s work, no doubt, but it makes him look a little better.
He looks good, really, if a little tired. No longer like he’s two
seconds away from crying at least, which Louis will always
consider an improvement.

“Can I help?” Harry asks, gesturing towards the room.

Louis frowns. “You don’t have to,” he replies automatically,

mentally hating himself for the fact that this is truly becoming
his new catchphrase.

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On cue, Harry’s lips turn up slightly and it’s not a laugh, not
even a full smile, but that one’s honest, Louis can tell. And that
makes it so much better.

Harry bites his lower lip, before nodding. “I know.”

“Really though,” Louis insists, loud over the sound of the

hoover. He finally covers the last corner of the room as he
explains: “if this is… some sort of penance for last night’s
dishes, you really really really don’t have to.” Done talking,
Louis turns the hoover off and goes to unplug it, clicking the
plug off too.

At that, Harry does smile, a bit timidly. “I know,” he repeats,

insistent this time. “It’s not, trust me. Just… Just want to keep
busy. And help.”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to that, am I?” Louis says as he

walks past Harry, gently nudging his bicep. He grabs one of the
laundry baskets filled with towels and hands it over to Harry
while grabbing one full of linens for himself. “Think you can
fold these towels properly? I’ll take care of the bed.”

Harry nods, following Louis into the room and sitting down in
the armchair tucked away in one of the corners. He spreads his
legs and places the basket on the floor between them. “You
know,” he starts conversationally, looking down at the flowery
pattern of the armchair, “I have a suit with that exact pattern.”

Louis stops his movement to grab one of the pillowcase and

stares. “Really?” he asks, more curiosity than judgement in his
voice as he looks down at what has been dubbed by most of his
friends and family the “granny sofa”. It’s nothing truly wild,
just a pale turquoise background and patterns of flowers in

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various shades of pink. A bold choice for fashion though, he
can’t deny that.

Harry nods. “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

“Would not have taken you for a wild pattern kind of boy Twist,
but interesting,” Louis jokes. “I guess that explains why you
always end up wearing my craziest jumpers.”

Harry blushes, looking down at the basket as he grabs a towel

and starts folding it perfectly. Louis shouldn’t be impressed,
it’s just folding after all, but he’s had help from careless, messy
people before and he can’t help but appreciate the neat
perfectionism of Harry’s gestures.

“I do love a bold pattern,” Harry admits without shame.

Louis nods, tucking one of the pillows in a pillowcase. “Good

for you,” he replies. “You’re good at that,” he comments.

Harry snorts, putting the now perfectly folded towel on one of

the chair’s arms. “It’s folding laundry,” he says with distaste,
“it’s not like it’s rocket science. Any idiot can do it.”

At that, Louis laughs. “Oh honey, you would be surprised. Me

mate’s Stan? I thought I could trust him with towel duties once.
Big mistake. Huge. To be fair, his girlfriend does all of his
laundry for him and I’m pretty sure he’s never folded anything
in his life, which… is extremely embarrassing and pathetic of
him. But I suppose I’m the one to blame, thinking I could trust
him with such a basic task.”

Warmth spreads in Louis’ chest when it gets a sincere laugh out

of Harry. Feels like days since he’s heard it and he’s not sure

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he wants to examine too closely why he feels so much relief
now that he has again.

“That is embarrassing for him,” Harry agrees.

“Yep. But still, don’t undermine your work. Not everyone is as

precise. Even people with experience,” Louis jokes.

Harry shrugs, putting another perfectly folded towel aside. “I

spent a lot of time in hotels,” he reveals, “must have learned
something, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. It shouldn’t feel like new information,

considering Harry’s mentioned travelling a lot before, but
Louis can’t help the zing of thrill coursing through his body at
the revelation.

They keep working in silence for a while, Louis only struggling

a little with the fitted sheet. Harry’s humming under his breath,
a sad ballad Louis could swear he’s heard before, but can’t
name.

“ Why are we always fucking running from… the

bullets…” Harry sings and Louis risks a glance his way.

“Sorry,” Harry blushes, clearing his throat.

“S’alright,” Louis says, efficiently fitting the duvet into its

cover. “You have a lovely voice. I don’t mind.”

Harry looks a bit caught, a bit embarrassed, by the compliment,

like he’d rather do anything in the world but be having this
conversation. He keeps very still, looking at Louis straight in
the eyes and he seems to be waiting for Louis to tell him he’s

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joking or something. It's like he’s waiting for Louis to say
something devastating and he’s bracing himself for it.

“I mean it,” Louis insists, “you don’t have to look at me like

that, all…keyed up. I’m not gonna turn around and tease you.”

Harry’s shoulders sag in relief at that and he passes a shaky

hand through his hair.

“It’s a shame your band didn’t work out,” Louis says kindly,
finding that he actually means it. “You’ve certainly got the
voice for a record deal.”

Somehow, Harry looks even more relieved at that. “That

wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “That was nothing,” he says,
playing it cool. “That wasn’t me singing properly or anything.
It’s nothing. I… Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, surprised at his insistence. “I

didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“No, you didn’t, it’s not… I just.. Don’t wanna talk about… my
old band and stupid dreams and stuff.”

Louis nods. “Of course.”

“There’s uh… There’s actually something I’ve been meaning

to tell you. It’s why I came up here, actually.”

“Oh, alright. Go for it.”

“I just wanted to apologise.”

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Louis frowns, stopping his fussing over the bed. “What on
Earth for?”

Harry looks deadly serious. “Louis,” he says, voice firm.

Louis sighs at the sound, stopping his work and sitting down
on the bed, facing Harry. “You don’t have anything to
apologise for.”

“I really do,” Harry insists, voice trembling. “I’m sorry about

last night. I uh… Yesterday morning, I had a… an emotional…
I mean, a difficult phone call with my sponsor. I had a lot on
my mind. Kind of fucked me up a bit, just… Put me in this…
really introspective mood. And I just… become a bit of a non-
verbal asshole when I’m like that. So yeah, I’m sorry. I know
I’m not the easiest guest to have around and you’ve been
incredibly welcoming. I do appreciate that. It’s just… I don’t
know, it’s hard sometimes. And the things he said to me, I
found them very confronting and I just…”

Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest. “You don’t have to tell me,”
he interrupts, not wanting Harry to regret revealing those things
to him. “You don’t owe me anything, right?”

“I know,” Harry nods, eyes wet. “I know that. I just… I’ve been
a dick sometimes. And I’m sorry. And I’m even sorrier that it
might happen again.”

Louis smiles. “You really weren’t a dick, you know that,

right?” He knows he sounds insistent, but Harry literally looks
like he’s killed Louis’ dog or something, rather than just
withdrawn into himself a little while he was dealing with
something hugely personal. And Louis really needs him to
understand the difference. “You were just… a bit sad? a bit

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quiet? You weren’t rude or anything. So truly, no biggie. It
happens. You certainly don’t have to apologise for that.”

Harry’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down, carefully folding

the towel in his hands, taking his time. “Thanks,” he finally
replies after a while.

Louis gets up from the bed and rearranges the pillows until he’s
satisfied. When he’s done with the bed, he walks back to the
corridor, grabbing another laundry basket of towels and setting
it next to Harry’s on the floor. Then he sits down on the floor
next to it and starts folding with him. He works in silence for a
while before the urge to say something becomes too urgent.

“Can I ask you a question?” Louis says, voice raspy. He

probably shouldn’t push so soon after Harry’s started opening
up, especially when he stopped him from revealing too much
earlier. But there’s a difference between Harry slipping up in
trying to apologise and Louis giving him the option to refuse
when he asks a direct question.

“You ask that a lot,” Harry comments, without actually

answering, making Louis laugh.

“Well I’m getting to know you and I’m a polite person, I was
raised well, so…”

Harry hums but when Louis looks up at him from the floor, he
doesn’t look upset by the request.

“You can ask me a question.”

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“Tell me to fuck off if I’m overstepping, but…” Louis only
hesitates for a second before continuing, “I was wondering how
long you’ve been sober.”

“Oh.” It escapes Harry’s mouth almost disappointingly like it

truly wasn’t what he was expecting Louis to ask. “Hum… Not
that long actually, just passed seven months.”

Louis whistles in appreciation. “That’s a long time actually,

congratulations.”

Harry’s face brightens, a large genuine smile taking over his

features, two deep dimples nestling in his cheeks. He looks
down at the towel resting on his knees and Louis takes a second
to observe the way he holds himself, curled like he doesn’t want
to take too much space.

When Harry looks back up, Louis feels caught, but he doesn’t
look away.

“Thank you,” Harry replies. He drums his fingers on the towel

for a few seconds before getting back to work. “It’s partly why
I’m here,” he says, almost absently like Louis hasn’t been
wondering for weeks now. “I just… I got out of rehab and I
really wasn’t ready to go… back, to my regular life… not
straight away.” He scrunches his nose, sniffing, and for one
second, Louis thinks he’s crying, but he carries on speaking like
normal. “My job is… it’s complicated. It’s really complicated.”

He says it mostly to himself, without really elaborating on what

he means. Louis doesn’t even know what he could possibly ask
to make this clearer, having no idea what the fuck Harry does
for a living. In between the pause Harry takes between two

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breaths, Louis makes a mental list of everything he knows
about Harry’s job.

1. Harry travels a lot.

2. Specifically, Harry goes to the US a lot.

3. Harry owns more than one house.

4. Harry clearly has money.

It’s not much to go on and Louis could list a dozen high-ranking

white collar jobs that could fit those four criteria. Harry’s a bit
young for most of them, of course, but he could easily be the
heir to some random fortune and Louis would never have any
idea. Though he supposes the small village upbringing might
not fit that picture.

He’s distracted away from his speculation when Harry starts

talking again and when their eyes met, Harry rolls his.

“So many fucking triggers,” he says with disgust. “I mean… I

started drinking too much because I couldn’t cope with it. It
was just a little, at first. Just a little every day… to get through
all the… all the bullshit, you know? Then it was more, just to
numb the anxiety. Even drugs sometimes,” he admits in a lower
voice. “Though not… It wasn’t my main vice, but still… And
the triggers are still there. The job hasn’t magically changed
because I was away. And I used to love it Louis, I used it to
love it so much. But I don’t know if I can ever love it again, not
after everything. Even if I’m sober now and I have an
understanding of what led me here… Even if I know how to
recognise the signs and how to ask for help… The triggers are
still there, lurking in the shadows… waiting to get me.” He

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seems to get out of a trance then, looking at Louis with wide
eyes. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, shaking his head. “Bloody hell,”
he swears, “you don’t care about that shit.” He laughs, a bit
manic. “You don’t even know me,” he adds, looking both
incredulous and relieved by that fact. “You don’t even know
me,” he repeats in a whisper.

“Harry,” Louis calls in a gasp, reaching for his wrist and

grasping it firmly, trying to squeeze all the nervous energy out
of him, trying to absorb it where their bare skin touch.
“Obviously I’d never force you to talk about this stuff, but don’t
say I don’t care. That’s not true.” Louis squeezes Harry’s wrist
again, forcing him to meet his gaze. “That’s not true at all.”

At that, Harry just… crumbles. “I just needed more time,” he

admits with a wet gasp, eyes shining.

“Of course you did,” Louis whispers, sliding a soothing hand

up Harry’s arm.

“My family’s really supportive. They really are. If I… If I

didn’t want to go back straight away, I could have gone home.
I really could have. But… I know they all want me to go back
to work. My family, my friends, my… Everyone wants me to
get back to work. How… How am I supposed to figure out if I
even still want to –”

“Oh love,” Louis whispers, pushing the baskets away and

folding Harry into an awkward hug, Harry still in the armchair
and him on his knees, their bodies not quite fitting together
considering the angle.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of figuring myself out with

everyone looking over my shoulders, not saying anything to me

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but having fucking deadlines in mind… I just wanted to be the
furthest away from it all as possible. I just wanted to run to the
edge of the universe.” He whispers it all in Louis’ shoulder,
small and vulnerable.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers right back, stroking the nape of

Harry’s neck. “You got here, you found us. Furthest place away
from everything possible, that’s us. That’s here.”

Louis smiles when he hears Harry laugh wetly in his ear.

“You found us,” he repeats, squeezing Harry’s body.

Eventually, they finish the rest of the rooms together, remaking

beds and placing towels in every ensuite. As they work, Harry
is quiet in a different way, looking a bit emotionally drained,
but not quite as devastated as before. Halfway through, Louis
offers his phone to him, Spotify app open, telling him “pick
something good, you have better taste than me” and Harry
makes a quick playlist for them. That’s a thing he’s been doing
recently, not just selecting playlists for them to listen to, but
actually doubling the number of playlists on Louis’ account,
creating random ones with quirky titles like ‘the feeling of
sunshine on your face when you tilt your head back with your
eyes closed’, ‘soft winter heart on a soft winter day’, or ‘songs
to dance to when you don’t know how to dance’. There’s one
titled ‘vintage heartbreak for a modern boy’ that Louis has
surprised himself by falling in love with it, filled with old sad
songs from the 50s, 60s and 70s in various languages. Harry’s
also been sneakily adding and deleting songs from Louis’
existing playlists, though Louis suspects he thinks he’s gotten

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away with it. Louis would be mad, but he’s made his usual
running mix a lot better so…

By the time they’re done with the morning cleaning, Louis is

starving so he goes to the kitchen by himself, barring Harry
from entering to help and promising him a nice lunch on top of
the tower if he can just be a little patient. He puts together two
quick salads using some chicken leftovers, balancing them
carefully in his hands as he makes his way up the spiral
staircase, with a poetry book tucked in the back pocket of his
jeans.

“I’ve got food,” he exclaims once he’s up there, laughing when

he sees Clifford curled up on Harry’s lap where he’s sitting
crossed legs on the rug, back against the bench. “Someone’s
comfy,” Louis comments, nodding towards where Clifford’s
head is nestled on Harry’s thigh before handing him his food
and sitting down next to him. Shoulders to shoulders.

Harry looks down and shrugs. “I was surprised he wanted to

climb along, to be honest, he rarely seems to want to be up
here.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, that staircase is a bit tricky for him. He’s
almost too big for it… Sometimes I have to carry him down
like a baby after he’s made his way up here. He makes it up and
then he’s like… oh no I actually don’t want to do this. He’s so
dumb,” Louis says affectionately towards his baby, reaching
across Harry’s body to scratch his ears. “Yes you are,” he
confirms before realising he’s leaning all over Harry’s lap.
“Oops,” he chuckles, leaning away.

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Harry, bless him, doesn’t seem bothered as he takes a huge bite
of salad. “This is good,” he comments once he’s swallowed.
“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Louis eats a few bites before speaking again.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to say something to you… Nothing
bad,” he adds when Harry’s head turns sharply towards him.
“S’just… Mr. Drummond mentioned you making calls every
day at the phone box and earlier, you said something about
calling your sponsor and I figured that’s probably what you’re
doing there. I obviously don’t want to pry but… you could call
him here if you need. I don’t make a habit of listening to my
guest’s phone calls and like… I could even leave the cottage if
that makes you feel better. You don’t have to go all the way to
the village to phone.”

Harry chews silently, body very still. He swallows after a while

and Louis can’t help but watch the way his throat moves.

“Mr. Drummond told you I was making phone calls?” he asks,

slow and careful, his face betraying nothing.

Louis thinks he might be upset.

“Yeah, he said something about people in the village noticing

and talking about it. I think they thought it was –”

“People in the village are talking about it?” Harry asks, voice
rising an octave.

“Not in like…” Louis gesticulates with his fork, trying to find

the right words. “They don’t know anything,” he says as
reassuring as possible. “It’s a small village, you grew up in one.
You know how people are when they’re bored. They don’t

151
mean anything by it. All I’m saying is… if you want more
privacy, you’re welcome to use the B&B’s line. There’s a
phone in your room. I know you don’t have one. Well, I mean
you’re… I assume you have a mobile, but not with you so you
know. I’ll give you privacy if that’s what you need. I can’t
imagine it’s fun to have a personal conversation where anyone
could watch...”

“I… that’s kind, but… I kind of like the routine I’ve established
here. It’s… important to me. And the walk back to the
lighthouse after… It gives me time to reflect and… I can just
go down to the beach and think . It gives me time to just…
settle into it, I suppose? I don’t know. It doesn’t make any
sense, I suppose, but I like that I’m… I’m having those phone
calls in a neutral environment. I don’t think I want to… I don’t
know, pollute my room with all of that. Not that all the calls are
difficult, but you know. It’s nice to have a separate space to…
put that.”

“Oh,” Louis exhales. “Of course, I didn't think of that.”

“It’s alright. Thank you for offering though.” Harry pauses. “I

do have a phone,” he adds almost absently. “It’s somewhere at
the bottom of my bag. I didn’t bring my charger so… S’not like
I’m in the headspace to use it right now.”

“You’ve gone completely off the grid,” Louis teases and he’s
surprised by the way Harry looks thoroughly amused.

“You have no idea, Louis,” Harry says before starting to eat

again. “I mean, I write to my mum every few days. And my
sister. I think she’d show up here, ready to rip my head off if I
didn’t give her some sort of updates. Bless the bakery/coffee
shop/only restaurant in town for its old computers, right?”

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Louis laughs. “I guess. God, they’re almost as old as the
monster at reception. Can you even Gmail on that?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s alright. S’just a few emails once in a while.”

“I meant it when I said you could use my laptop, you know?”

“I know.”

“But you like the routine,” Louis finishes for him, smiling
softly.

“I think I need the routine. They say that’s an important part of

like…” Harry gestures vaguely. “You know?”

Louis nods, though he doesn’t. Not really. He knows what folks

usually know: stuff from films and tv shows, from stories on
the news and a friend of a friend or a distant relative. He feels
a little out of his element talking about this, heart beating a little
faster than usual, palms a little sweaty, nervous he’s going to
say the wrong thing. Nervous he’s going to hurt Harry’s
feelings, or worse, fuck up his progress somehow. He’s gone
with his instincts so far, said what felt right in the moment and
hoped for the best, suppressing the fear that he’s supporting
Harry wrong. The more Harry opens up though, the less he’s
able to brush off the feeling that he’s really not equipped for
this. He’s armed with nothing but good intentions and a big
heart. It’s not failed him in the past, but he fears it might not be
enough this time.

“They say going back to your regular life and like…

maintaining a new healthy routine is important and since I’m
not going back to my normal life straight away, I really want to
nail the new routine thing.” Harry laughs a little self-

153
deprecatingly. “I have to admit, helping you cook wasn’t like…
entirely selfless on my part. Just felt like… like a good way to
implement some normalcy into my life here. Just one more
element added to the routine.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Louis deadpans. “I feel really cheated

now.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, it was horribly manipulative of me,” he

says, putting his empty salad bowl away and burying his fingers
into Clifford’s curly fur.

“How very dare you,” Louis continues to joke, voice

emotionless. “Helping me cook? And clean? For selfish
reasons? Ugh. Vile.”

“Thank you,” Harry says seriously, instead of continuing the

joke.

Louis smiles when their eyes meet. He frowns a little though,

shaking his head, silently questioning. He verbalizes his query
a few seconds later. “What for?”

“Not treating me weirdly? Letting me talk about this? Taking

away the wine lists that first night in the dining room without
even asking me… anything. I mean, take your pick.”

“That wasn’t… I could just tell you were uncomfortable and I

didn’t want you to be. It’s not… It’s nothing special. You don’t
have to thank me for that. You keep thanking me for doing
some really normal decent bloke shit and it makes me wonder
if you just hang out with wankers all the time, or what.”

154
At that, Harry bursts into laughter. “I mean…” he tilts his head,
before laughing again and it’s infectious.

“You need better friends, mate,” Louis warns once they’ve

calmed down a bit.

“Yeah… Probably,” Harry says, before bending down to give

Cliff a small kiss on the top of his head. “I mean, I have you
and Clifford now, so I guess that’s a good start,” he adds, shyly,
pointedly not looking back at Louis, eyes focused on the dog
as he very carefully pets him, from the top of his head down the
length of his body.

Something protective and fierce curls up in Louis’ chest, takes

root, settles.

“You definitely do.”

That night, after they’ve walked Clifford in companionable

silence and said goodnight near the reception desk, Louis curls
up in bed with his laptop resting on his chest, opening tabs after
tabs on addiction, on recovery, on how to best support someone
on that path. He reads on until his laptop battery dips below
thirty percent, slightly overwhelmed, but determined to get as
much knowledge as he can.

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Chapter 5

The end of November arrives almost unnoticed. Or it would, if

only for the tiny exception that the sun starts setting at half-
three in the afternoon, then at quarter past, then at three, the
daylight becoming this almost cryptid presence on the island,
barely glimpsed until it vanishes again. It’s hard to live without
the sun for so long sometimes, which is why Louis and Harry
spend so much of their days either on the beach or on top of the
tower, surrounded by windows. They soak up the light as much
as possible until the almost never-ending night covers them
again, day after day.

Louis isn’t surprised by it anymore which is why that specific

afternoon, he barely glances up from his novel when the sun
starts setting, simply moving along the bench towards the lamp
in the lantern room to turn it on easily. Harry doesn’t startle
either, keeps writing in his famous journal without paying
Louis, or the lamp, any attention. He seems to be struggling a
little today, writing pages and pages and then going back to
read them over and sighing at what he finds there. Still, the
sounds of whatever it is he’s creating have been accompanying
Louis for days now which is why he barely pays attention and
keeps reading the family drama he picked up the day before.

He’s fully immersed in the story when the light mysteriously

goes out a few hours after sunset. Louis has been known to sink
into a good book and forget the rest of the world before, but he
knows deep in his bones that it’s nowhere near eleven.

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He lets out a small sigh, putting his book aside and mumbling
a tiny “of course”, mostly to himself as he reaches inside his
pocket for his phone.

As he suspected, he’s already got quite a few texts from people

in the village confirming they’re without power as well, and
asking if he’s alright at the lighthouse.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, sounding puzzled, and maybe

even a little worried. “What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Louis says reassuringly, not looking up from his

device as he texts everyone back. “Just a power cut,” he adds,
finally looking at Harry and giving him a warm smile. “It’s the
whole island,” he explains, throwing his phone from one hand
to the other. “A few of the neighbours have texted, though we
could hardly call them neighbours considering how far away
they are.”

Louis clicks his tongue, then puts the phone back in his pocket,
getting up from the bench and walking towards the chest in the
middle of the room. He opens it and starts rummaging inside.

“It’s nothing to worry about, happens all the time,” Louis

continues to explain as he keeps looking through the mess.
“You’ve been quite lucky so far actually,” he comments as his
hand wraps around a torch. “Here we are.” He throws it at
Harry without really looking, satisfied when he doesn’t hear
any groan of pain.

“Aren’t you worried?” Harry asks and when Louis turns around
to look at him, he clicks his torch on, almost blinding Louis
with it. “Oh! Sorry,” he laughs, pointing it away from Louis’
face.

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“Why would I be worried? We literally live without power
every night, it’s not like we aren’t used to it.”

“You run a business, a restaurant!” Harry insists. “What about

your fridge? Your freezers?”

Louis shrugs, turning away to look into the chest again. “Night
generator should be strong enough for a few extra hours. It
comes on whenever the power cuts off and sustains the
essential amenities, whether the outage is planned or not. Cuts
are frequent, but rarely last long. Unless we’ve got a proper
storm brewing, but we would have had a warning if that was
the case. Should be fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Harry says, sounding one hundred

percent unconvinced.

“It might surprise you to find that this isn’t the first time this
has happened to me,” Louis jokes, finally finding a second
torch. “Ah ha!” he says triumphantly, checking the battery is
working before closing the chest. He makes his way back to the
bench, and his book. “So yeah, should be all good tomorrow
morning. Until then, we’ll have to use these early, sorry about
that,” he says, waving the torch in Harry’s direction, making
sure to keep the light beam away from his face.

Harry shrugs, face mostly hidden in the darkness. “It’s alright.

S’not your fault.”

“Still, not exactly a life of luxury, uh?” Louis jokes, picking up

his book and placing it on his thigh.

“That’s quite alright,” Harry says. “Actually, that’s great.”

When Louis tilts his head to look at him, he’s biting his lower

158
lip. “It’s… it’s weird actually,” Harry starts saying after a
moment, “it’s what? Five o’clock? But it feels like it’s the
middle of the night already.”

“That’s the joy of this place,” Louis says cheerfully, opening

his book back to the intense passage he was reading. “We’re
somewhere time’s forgotten,” he jokes softly.

“God, yeah,” Harry nods. He looks pensive for a second,

fiddling with his journal for a moment before closing it with a
thud. He puts it aside firmly. “You know… when you first
mentioned that the sun would be setting this early at some
point? I thought… this is going to be depressing as hell. But it’s
actually... really nice.”

“You think so?” Louis asks, surprised.

Very few people have expressed similar thoughts though Louis

has felt so for a long time now. Maybe it’s because he’s fully
in charge of his schedule during the winter, so he can organize
his tasks around enjoying the precious few hours of sunlight,
but he’s always liked the idea of the world darkening as nature
goes to sleep, winter taking over the world for a while. There’s
something mysterious and a bit romantic about the way Fair
Isle exists in the shadows for such a long time.

“Yeah, I… I don’t know, I guess I like this idea of being…”

Harry hesitates, fiddling with the torch in his hand, making the
ray of light move across the room and looking away from
Louis’ face. “Unseen, like that.”

It should maybe sound like a red flag for a man that Louis
barely knows and has welcomed into his home to talk like that,
but the more he gets to know Harry, the more Louis thinks he

159
understands. He might know next to nothing about his life
outside of the bubble they inhabit here on the island, but Louis
knows Harry has been deeply hurt by the world somehow. And
that’s why he needed to run away so badly. So here they are,
both of them clinging onto the edge of the world, bathed in
darkness, the only two living souls in the universe, it feels like.

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, secretly hoping he might get more.

He can’t be blamed for feeling curious.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“It’s like… I don’t know, comforting? I’m not sure I can
explain it.”

Louis presses his lips tightly together, stopping his smile from
spilling. “Don’t worry. I really get it.”

Harry chuckles, then risks a small look in Louis’ direction. He

observes him for a second and Louis can’t help but wonder
what it is that Harry sees when he looks at him like that. He
knows others’ versions of him have no bearing on who he is as
a person, but he can’t help always feeling curious. What does
Harry read into Louis’ messy, wild appearance? In his
isolation? In his contentment?

“Well, yeah,” Harry finally agrees after a long while. “I

suppose you would.”

They look at each other for what feels like too long,
conversation halted awkwardly, but neither of them looking
quite uncomfortable.

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“What are you reading?” Harry finally asks just as Louis thinks
one of them really needs to say something now. He slides a
little closer to him on the bench, still a fair amount of distance
between their bodies, and he stretches his neck to try and read
over Louis’ shoulder.

Automatically, Louis tries to hide the book from view, a

lifetime of little siblings annoying him when he’s trying to have
quiet time taking over his body without his consent.

“Aren’t you supposed to be writing… whatever it is you write

in that secret notebook of yours, right now?” he teases, looking
down at said abandoned notebook and raising one eyebrow.

“It’s not secret,” Harry mumbles, suddenly looking away.

“You just don’t want me to know what it is,” Louis elaborates,

“I know.” Quickly, to make sure Harry knows he’s not actually
bothered about it, Louis adds: “Which is fine and allowed.
Obviously. But I’m not going to distract you if you were gonna
be productive, Mr. Writer.”

As predicted, Harry chimes: “Not a writer!”

“Fine, fine, whatever it is, you’ve been trying really hard to do

it all afternoon. I’m not letting you give up.”

“None of it is working today though,” Harry says, looking

disgusted. With the writing or with himself, Louis can’t quite
tell. “Everything is just… bleh.” Harry says it with such vitriol,
wrinkling his nose in distaste and grimacing dramatically.

It takes quite a lot for Louis not to laugh at his antics, but Harry
looks sincerely upset, so he reigns the amusement in.

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“I simply can’t focus today. I need a distraction. Please tell me
about your book. I’m not above begging,” Harry says with a
pout and Louis gulps as a flash of heat courses through his
body.

It’s hard to forget, sometimes. Even in the midst of them

becoming friends and with the constant reminder that Harry is
one of Louis’ guests, and going through a difficult time at that,
Louis can’t help the attraction. It’s a never-ending thought in
the back of his head that he has to work hard to wipe from his
memories.

“Please,” Harry insists and Louis blinks, looking away, feeling

relieved that the darkness can hide the flush of his skin.

He clears his throat, passing a nervous hand through his hair.

“It’s a… It’s about this family in the 60s. They all love each
other, but they’re quite unhappy. And they’re going through a
tough time, one of the kid’s died… It’s super depressing,
actually.”

“Oh,” Harry says, scratching his left cheek and looking a bit
puzzled.

“It is good, actually,” Louis replies, knowing he sounds

confused about his verdict. “Not very cheery, but the characters
are quite compelling. I mean, they’re pretty much all horrible
to each other, but you’re still rooting for them? It’s weird. Well
written though, I suppose.”

He ends his speech with a small laugh, more a nervous thing

that slips out of him than anything else and when Harry says
“can you read me a bit?” with a soft voice, Louis laughs again.

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At himself mostly this time, because he already knows it’s
getting harder and harder to tell this man no.

It’s the way Harry makes his demand that gets to Louis, really.
Simple, not even embarrassed.

“Of the book?” Louis asks, looking down at where it’s open on
his lap.

“Would you mind?” Harry says, this time sounding a little

sheepish.

Louis flounders at that. “I mean… No? Of course not.” He’s

not sure why Harry is asking at all, but it’s not like he minds
doing it. It’s a bit of an unusual request, for sure, but that’s
alright. Louis can deal with unusual. Louis likes unusual. “I’ll
start from the beginning though, that way you’ll be able to
follow properly.”

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that,” Harry protests, eyes

widening. “I don’t want it to be a bother, you can keep going
wherever you are right now. I just want to get a sense of the
vibe…”

“It’s no bother,” Louis says, folding the corner of his page.

“It’ll just be confusing for you if I carry on. You won’t know
who anyone is. You need to experience the thing properly.”

So Louis starts at the beginning, voice a little raspy, rhythm a

little off, but eventually, he gets into in properly, starts doing
the voices as he goes through the second chapter, then the third,
the fourth. Soon enough, it’s way past their usual dinner time
and Louis’ voice is quite hoarse, but Harry hasn’t moved in

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ages, eyes wide open as he listens to Louis telling him a story
like this.

Finally, when Louis gets to a good stopping point, he clears his

throat. “Maybe we should go get some food? It’s almost eight
o’clock,” he says, voice cracking.

“Hmm?” Harry says, still looking a little dazed. “Yeah, yeah.

Of course. Sorry,” he exclaims, wincing a little. “I didn’t realise
it had been this long… I swear I only meant for you to read me
the opening paragraph.”

“Yeah me too,” Louis laughs. “But I quite like it. I can continue
the book later,” he offers, before realising it might be a bit
weird. “I mean… if you want.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, looking a bit uncertain. “Maybe. I mean,

if you want.”

“I don’t mind,” Louis insists. “Might have to wait a bit though,

I’m gonna need to rest my voice a little,” he jokes as they both
get up to make their way downstairs, armed with their torches.

With most amenities out of commission with the power outage,

Louis makes them a quick salad that they eat almost in silence,
Harry pensive and Louis simply tired from reading for so long.
They take care of the dishes quickly and once they’re done,
Louis gets ready to take Clifford out on a walk.

“Interested?” he asks towards Harry as he puts his coat on and

Harry nods, following along obediently.

Once they’re on the beach, Clifford starts sniffing around,

leaving them behind as he runs off and enjoys himself. Harry’s

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doing the same, bending over every few minutes to grab some
rocks and pebbles, observing them carefully in the darkness
before throwing them back into the ocean.

“You sure your food is gonna be okay?” Harry asks at some

point, eyes fixed on a piece of sea glass he’s found.

Louis can’t tell the colour in the dark like that and he flashes
his torch in Harry’s direction to try and catch a glimpse.

Blue, he thinks. Then, he frowns. No, green.

“I’m pretty sure,” Louis says, still holding the torch towards
Harry’s body.

His posture is terrible, all curled over himself as he looks at the

treasure he’s found and Louis feels a wave of inexplicable
fondness wash over him. He expects Harry to throw the sea
glass back into the water as he’s been doing with everything
else so far, but he rolls it between his fingers for ages before
finally putting it into the pocket of his jacket.

“But like… how sure?” Harry asks, finally looking at him. “All
of your food is in there. Shouldn’t you put some of it outside
just in case?”

Louis snorts. “It’s not that cold outside,” he says, gesturing

vaguely at the air around them, the duh at the end of his
sentence implied.

It’s not warm, for sure, but it’s not cold enough to keep Louis’
food cool. Especially not when he’s got a working generator
taking care of it. Harry’s concern is cute though, Louis
supposes.

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“Colder than an unplugged fridge,” Harry argues, bending
down to pet Clifford when he comes up to him happily.

“Except I’ve got a generator.”

“What if the power cut lasts for a few days?” Harry says. “Is
your generator strong enough for that? I feel like maybe we
should prepare for every eventuality.”

“Are you always this defeatist?”

“I’m not defeatist,” Harry replies, sounding a little offended.

Louis hums his doubts and when Harry gasps in indignation, he

starts laughing.

“I’m realistic. I’m trying to prevent a catastrophe. I mean, it’s

your stock and your money, you can do whatever you like,” he
says, pouting and folding his arms across his chest.

“It is my stock,” Louis agrees, “and I bet you a fiver the power
is going to be back in the morning.”

“A fiver?” Harry wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t sound like you’re

that convinced you’ll win.”

“Alright, I bet you deep cleaning all the toilets in the B&B,
which is my big task for the week, that the power is going to be
back on tomorrow. If I win, you have to help. If I don’t…
you’re off the hook.”

Harry smirks. “I’m a guest, I’m off the hook anyway. You were
gonna do them by yourself regardless.”

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Louis sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine then, what do
you want to bet?”

“If you win, I help you with the toilets,” Harry offers, “but if
the power isn’t back tomorrow, you have to finish reading me
the book.”

Louis laughs. “I’m gonna do that anyway.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, and I’m gonna help you with cleaning
anyway, what’s your point?”

Then, he grins and Louis can’t really say no, even if it is all a
bit ridiculous and meaningless.

They shake on it like it’s a proper bet that has any meaning and
once that’s properly sorted, they start making their way back to
the lighthouse.

The next morning, Louis is fiddling with customer files on the

computer, waiting for Harry to come back from his daily walk
with Clifford, with a smug look on his face. Half past seven has
come and gone and the power came back on, as usual, no
weirdness, no delays.

It feels good to win even if he had the tactical advantage of

living on Fair Isle for years now. Still, he’s a bit giddy as he
tries to keep himself distracted until Harry comes back. He
keeps glancing at the time on the computer, tapping his foot
against his stool in a display of nervous energy.

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Finally, after what feels like forever, the door creaks open and
Harry and Clifford walk in.

“Oh, well, hello strangers!” Louis says in a posh accent,

making big gestures to invite them. “Welcome to my beautiful
inn, we possess all modern luxuries you might find yourself
needing such as running water and electricity,” he finishes
pointedly.

Harry wiggles his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, simply

clenches his jaw as he starts unzipping his coat.

“No please, come forward,” Louis insists when Harry starts

walking towards the living room, “let me demonstrate how well
our electricity is working, don’t be shy. You can ask
questions.”

Harry scoffs. “Alright, I get it. I panicked for nothing.”

“No, no, come,” Louis says, still in a posh voice, unwilling to

break character.

Harry takes a few steps forward towards the reception desk

before leaning on it with both forearms. Then, and only then,
he gives Louis the biggest eye roll.

“You want to show me something?”

Louis grins, a little more delighted than is healthy as he

struggles a little to shift his heavy computer monitor so Harry
can catch a glimpse of the screen.

“Need help with that?” Harry asks. “Looks heavy?”

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“I’m fine,” Louis grunts a little, letting out a small noise of
victory when he manages to shift it so Harry has a good view.
“Look at this, how wonderfully modern.”

Harry gives the computer a side-glance. “I wouldn’t call this

‘modern’, mate,” he says using two fingers to make air quotes.

“But it is, we have power and you have to wash the toilets with
me,” Louis says, a hint too smug as he grabs the mouse to shift
tabs on the computer, promptly making the screen go fully
black.

Harry, with all the kindness and dignity in the world, bursts into
laughter. “You were saying?”

“It’s an old computer!” Louis argues as the black screen fills

with rebooting messages. “It does this all the time, it has
nothing to do with the power.”

“Mmmhmm,” Harry says, unconvinced as he leans away from

the counter. “Sure looks to be working great,” he adds, walking
into the corridor. “I’m gonna go get breakfast, but you keep
using your wonderful electricity Louis, it looks mighty fine.”

“You’re doing the toilets with me!” Louis calls at his retreating
form before looking down at his antiquity. “Traitor,” he
whispers to the machine.

A week later, Louis walks into the living room in search of a

specific book that he thinks Harry would enjoy. They finished
the family drama in only a few days, swiftly moving on to some
short stories that they went through pretty quickly as well.

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Louis is pretty sure neither of them meant for it to become
a thing , but it most definitely has. It mostly happens in the
evenings, after they’ve eaten and after they’ve walked Clifford
together. They’ll go up to the lantern room armed with mugs of
tea and Louis will read out loud. It’s surprising how soothing
and wholesome of an experience it is, how much it’s made him
feel closer to Harry. Louis had always considered reading a
solitary activity and he’s astounded at how much he enjoys
sharing this with a friend.

When he walks inside the living room/library, Louis is slightly

confused to find Harry there. He thought for sure he’d
disappeared in his room after lunch, in one of his morose moods
since his morning phone call. But here he is, fast asleep on the
sofa, on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, with
Louis’ big stupid dog sprawled all over his legs and torso.

Louis stops in the doorway and sighs as he stares for a bit. It

feels a bit creepy to do so, but he can’t help himself. There’s
something peaceful about Harry in sleep, a lack of self-
awareness, of calculated precision, that Louis can’t help but
find fascinating. Whatever it is that Harry wants to hide from,
it doesn’t taunt him in sleep. His face is smooth, lax as he
breathes deeply, snoring a little. He’s still holding himself close
like maybe he’s trying to make himself smaller still, but he
doesn’t look agitated. Clifford is pretty much the same, head
pillowed on Harry’s belly, living like a king, earning all the
cuddles in the world. Louis knows the comfortable weight of
him quite well, is familiar with the reassurance Clifford can
bring without trying, the silent support… No wonder Harry
looks so at ease.

Louis shifts his weight a little and the floor creaks, making
Harry’s face twitch slightly. Louis swears under his breath and
contemplates just leaving the room, pretending he was never

170
there at all, but when Harry moves again, he makes the quick
decision to walk in. Louis goes straight for one of the
bookcases, leaning forward and tilting his head to read the
titles, acting like he’s been doing so for a while now, unaware
of Harry’s presence.

Louis is trying to read the same title for the third time, unable
to focus, when Harry groans a little and he finally bites the
bullet and turns around.

He’s greeted by a yawn and sleepy eyes, Harry’s hair tousled

on top of his head.

“Hey,” Louis whispers when Harry waves half-heartedly at

him. “I didn’t wake you up, right? I’m just looking for a book.”

Harry yawns again, reaching down to pet Cliff’s head. “No, it’s
fine,” he says, voice hoarse. “Was I asleep long?”

Louis shrugs. “No idea, mate. I thought you were still upstairs.”

“I was for a bit,” Harry says, frowning. “I think I just got

annoyed at myself and needed a change of decor. Must have
been really tired to fall asleep like that.”

“It’s the heavy dog effect,” Louis comments, pointing at

Clifford. “The second he cuddles you, you’re done for. There’s
a nap coming and you can’t stop it.”

Harry smiles and looks down at the still sleeping dog. “Yeah, I
suppose that helps.” He clears his throat, then coughs, before
speaking again. “What book are you looking for?”

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“Just this novel,” Louis says unhelpfully, turning his attention
back to the bookcase. “It’s a contemporary romance but it’s
like… really funny. I think you’d like it and I could have fun
doing the voices, but I can’t seem to find it.” Louis tuts before
moving to the next bookcase. “Maybe someone’s swapped it.”

“You’re looking for a new book to read to me?” Harry says,

sounding a little surprised.

Louis stops, one finger on the spine of a book. He turns around.

“Unless you don’t want me to? It’s just… we’ve finished the
short stories now, so.”

“No,” Harry says, trying to sit up without bothering Clifford.

“No, I definitely want you to.” He pets along the side of
Clifford’s body, trying to get him to settle down after he’s
moved. “Hush, rest now. We’re not moving yet,” he whispers
in a soothing voice.

“Cool!” Louis replies, focusing back on the books. Focusing all

of his attention. Finally, after a couple more minutes of
squinting, Louis exclaims “Ah-ha!” triumphantly and plucks
out a book with a vibrant pink cover. “Found it,” he says,
brandishing it for Harry to see.

“Hard to imagine you struggled to find that one considering,”

Harry jokes, raising a perfect eyebrow.

Louis laughs. “Yeah, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?”

“Just a little.”

Louis nods, flipping through the pages. “Anyway, we can start

it tonight, if you want.”

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“We can start it now?” Harry offers a bit shyly, looking all too
adorable still cuddling with Louis’ dog. “Unless you have
things to do today, obviously.”

“No, I… It’s fine. We can start now, for sure. I’ll just go and
grab myself a glass of water and I’ll be right back.”

Once Louis is back with water both for Harry and himself, he
settles on a big cushion on the floor, crossed legged, back
pressed against the middle of the sofa. Harry is lying down
again, petting Clifford who keeps nosing at Louis’ hair and the
back of his neck with affection and curiosity.

Louis clears his throat, then opens the book.

It’s only ten days before Christmas that Louis realizes he never
actually got around to telling his mother that he isn’t coming to
the family party this year.

Which, Louis is now realising as she babbles to him on the

phone about plans for his birthday, is a bit of an oversight.

In Louis’ defence, they haven’t actually talked in ages.

Okay, so maybe it’s not that great of a defence, whatever. Louis

isn’t perfect, he’s been busy!

Normally, the lighthouse is fully empty this time of year, but

with Harry there, his whole routine is altered, empty evenings
he’d normally spend phoning home filled with chats about
anything and everything with Harry. He texts his mum, of
course, asks how everyone is doing and keeps himself updated,

173
but they haven’t had a proper chat on the phone in… longer
than Louis is comfortable admitting.

“Yeah, hum… Mum, about that,” Louis finally interrupts her

rant about the twins’ presents with sweaty palms. She’s not
going to be pleased about this. “I’m sorry, I should have said
before, but I can’t come this year. I’m gonna be working.”

It feels wrong calling Harry work , but Louis isn’t quite sure
how else he’s meant to explain it.

To Louis’ horror, Jay sounds genuinely shocked by this.

“What do you mean, you can’t come?” she asks him and he can
hear it in her voice, the utter disappointment.

“Mum, I…” Louis clears his throat, starting to pace in the

kitchen. “You know I have a guest right now, I can’t exactly
close up the B&B and come over. I’m so sorry, I should have
said earlier… I just… It completely slipped my mind.”

Jay sighs. “No,” she tells him softly, “it’s my fault. I should
have known. I mean, you told me the guest was staying until
March. I just didn’t think.”

“No, mum. No, it’s my fault. I was a twat not to call to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t approve of that language, but I don’t disagree,”

she jokes and Louis laughs, relieved that she’s not actually
furious at him. “I get it though, it’s not like you can really leave
a stranger in your home by himself for a week.”

“What?” Louis exclaims. “No, it’s –.” He stops himself, not

really sure how he’s supposed to explain that he

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doesn’t want to leave Harry for the holidays, neither does he
want to send him away. Not if he doesn’t want to go, not if he
needs to be away from his family right now.

No one should spend Christmas by themselves.

Especially not Harry.

“Anyways, I should have said earlier. I was so busy, it

completely slipped my mind.”

There’s a creak and when Louis turns around, Harry is slipping

into the kitchen, giving him a little friendly wave before
heading straight for the kettle.

Louis mouths a little ‘hey’ back at him, before focusing on his

phone call again.

“I understand baby, it’s alright. I know the girls are gonna be

disappointed, but they’ll understand too. As long as you ship
their presents on time!”

Louis smirks as he watches Harry fill the kettle. “You know

that’s already done,” he replies because he ordered his last gift
only the day before and it’s being delivered straight to his
mum’s doorstep on the twenty-third. “Also I resent the
implication that Ernie isn’t going to be disappointed that I’m
not there,” he teases and he laughs when his mum groans.

Calling his siblings “the girls” is a habit she still struggles to

break herself out of, to Louis’ neverending amusement.

“You know what I meant!” Jay argues, clicking her tongue in

annoyance at him.

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“Yeah, that my little brother doesn’t love me.”

“How did I create such an annoying child, honestly,” she

comments, mostly to herself.

Louis shrugs, even though she can’t see him. “Dunno, but you
raised me so you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“I suppose I do,” she mumbles before speaking up again. “What

are you going to do for your birthday?”

Louis hums. “Probably nothing,” he declares. It’s not like he

particularly cares.

“You can’t do nothing, Louis. You need to celebrate. Gosh, I

really need to get started on shipping all your presents to make
sure they arrive on time and –”

“Mum,” Louis says, trying not to sound too exasperated. The

last thing he wants is for her to worry about him and his gifts
when she’s got such a big family to think about. She’s hosting,
she’s always hosting, and his birthday should be the last thing
on her mind. “You really don’t have to worry about that, okay.
I know how busy you get at Christmas what with cooking for
everyone and stuff. Please, it’s alright. Don’t think about me.”

There are a few tense seconds of silence between them on the

line and Louis knows she’s annoyed at him.

“I don’t want you to spend your birthday alone without gifts,”

she finally says after a bit. “I know you’re concerned about me
having too much to do, but you’re my eldest and I’m going to
be thinking about you and doing things for your birthday
whether you like it or not.”

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She says it all very matter-of-factly and, through his twenty-six
years of life, Louis has learned there’s not much he can do when
she’s being stubborn like that. They’re very alike though, so he
won’t go down without fighting.

“Mum,” he sighs. “I’m not going to be alone, I have a guest

remember,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards where Harry is
unplugging the kettle now that it’s stopped whistling. In his
enthusiasm to argue with her, he’s forgotten again that they’re
not on Facetime. “Besides, I’m a grown man, I don’t have to
do anything special for my birthday. Please don’t worry about
it, just have a nice Christmas with the family and I’ll visit later.
You can give me my gift then, it’s no trouble.”

“Well, I just think that –”

“Mum!” Louis insists. “Please, it’s fine. I’m not gonna die if I
spend my birthday alone. And also, I’m not alone. I’m with
Clifford and Harry.”

“I suppose,” his mum says, unconvinced.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” Louis says, unwilling to let the

conversation carry on now that she’s almost accepted defeat,
“but I’ll call you back soon, alright?”

She sighs loudly. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

Louis smiles, then rolls his eyes. “I know. I’ll get cake at least,
alright?”

“Good.”

“Listen,” he finally adds, “I’m sorry again about Christmas.”

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“It’s alright baby,” Jay says before wishing him a good day and
hanging up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” Louis says awkwardly before putting the

phone in the back pocket of his jeans. He looks at Harry and
gives him a polite smile.

Harry frowns, then shakes his head as he hands Louis a

steaming mug. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, grabbing the tea Harry made for him. He
takes a sip, happy to find it made to perfection.

Harry turns around straight away to make his own and Louis
can’t really see what he’s doing but he assumes he’s putting an
unhealthy amount of sugar in his, the only difference between
their milky cuppas. Once he’s done, Harry turns back to face
Louis, smiling when he sees he hasn’t moved from his corner
of the room. He leans on the counter, crossing one long leg over
the other before looking down at his mug. He softly blows on
it before speaking.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Harry says in a small voice.
“I am sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Louis asks with a

confused laugh. “Making me perfect tea even when I didn’t ask
you to?” he adds, lifting his mug a little towards Harry.

Louis’ smile drops slightly when it doesn’t make Harry laugh.

“You’re going to be stuck here for Christmas because of me.”

“Ah,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows. “That.”

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“I really am sorry,” Harry says, looking up to Louis. “I…” he
hesitates and a pensive, troubled, look shadows his face for a
second. “You know, Cheshire really isn’t that far,” he declares,
even though it kind of is. “It’s not that long of a trip to my
mum’s. I could go there for the Holidays, if… if you’d like to
spend some time with your family. I’d get it. I mean… I know
I paid for the whole thing and whatnot but really… We should
have discussed this a lot earlier. If you need time off, I won’t
be upset.”

He speeds through the whole thing, says it all so casually, like

he couldn’t be bothered, and Louis knows, straight away, that
seeing his family this Christmas is the last thing Harry wants.
The way he’s holding himself, too careful, too still, says it all.
He’s almost silently begging Louis to tell him it’s no bother,
that he doesn’t have to face any of them this year.

“Do you want to go home?” Louis asks.

“What?”

“The Holidays. Do you want to spend them with your family

this year? Do you feel ready?” Louis insists. “Because you
really don’t look thrilled at the thought. And I’m not going to
send you off before you’re ready to go just to have a big meal
with my family. I can do that anytime, you know?”

Harry gulps visibly, looking down at the floor again. If Louis

were to guess, he’d say there’s relief in his eyes right now.
Though of course, he can’t see them.

“What about your birthday?” Harry says. “Your mum said it

was soon, no?”

179
“It’s on Christmas Eve and trust me when I say, it really doesn’t
matter.”

Harry looks up at that, eyes wide. “But… Your birthday’s on

Christmas?”

“Eve, yes. And again, as I told my mum only five minutes ago,
I’m a grown man. I can deal without a birthday celebration.”

“I…”

“Honestly Harry, you don’t have to apologise. Or feel bad. If I

didn’t want the B&B to be open for Christmas this year, I
would have told you when you booked. I’m not bothered. I feel
bad because I forgot to tell my mum in advance, sure, but I’m
not gonna cry myself to sleep because I’m not with my family.
It happens. I live far away. I own a business. Besides, spending
time with you is hardly work, we’ll do something fun. Cook a
big ass meal or something.”

“And a cake,” Harry comments. “For your birthday.”

Louis smirks. “I’m a terrible baker. Just so you know.”

“It’s alright, I worked in a bakery in a previous life.”

Louis laughs. “Did you?”

Harry shrugs. “I was a cashier actually, but you know… Surely

some stuff rubbed off on me?”

Louis snorts. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

180
Chapter 6

On Christmas Eve, Louis allows himself a bit of a lie in, staying

warmly cocooned in bed for an extra forty minutes before he
finally gets up and dressed. When he gets to the cottage, he’s
surprised to find Harry waiting for him by the front door with
Clifford. He’s wearing comfy sweats and trainers, the dog’s
leash already in his hand. It’s a lot earlier than his usual walk
time, despite Louis’ lazy morning, and he can’t help but wonder
what dragged him up so prematurely.

Louis doesn’t have to wait very long for an answer because as

soon as Harry sees him, his face brightens and he crosses the
distance between them in two quick strides, reaching for Louis
and wrapping him in a big hug.

“Happy birthday,” he says, voice warm and rumbling in Louis’

ears.

It’s a good hug, Louis thinks a bit distantly as he settles into it.
Harry’s rubbing his back slowly, not letting go of him even
when they’ve been at it far longer than a simple birthday wish
requires. He's a soft presence against Louis' body and he closes
his eyes, enjoying it for a second longer before he lets go, still
blushing a little when he steps away.

With the exception of that one time Harry fell apart in his arms,
the angle of their embrace all wrong, they're nerve really
touched. Not like this. Not properly.

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Louis isn’t sure he wants to think about why he liked it so
much.

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” he admits in a mumble,

chasing thoughts of Harry’s body solid and warm against his.
“Please tell me you didn’t wake up early for me, I couldn’t bear
it.”

Harry laughs. “Should I lie?” he asks with a small shrug.

Louis groans in response, tilting his head back. “All I wanted

for Christmas this year is for people not to make a fuss. All I
wanted.”

Harry is still laughing by the time Louis is done with his little
speech.

“You don’t have some terrible surprise prepared for me, do

you?” Louis asks, suspicious.

“I really don’t,” Harry replies. “Promise. But since it is

Christmas Eve, my sponsor’s with family and everything, so
I’m not calling today. I just thought maybe you’d like company
on your run? Seems silly for both of us to go on a run, or a walk,
a few hours apart. Especially on your birthday. Unless you want
to be by yourself.”

“Just company, right? No surprise?” Louis takes the time to

make sure, narrowing his eyes at Harry in a defiant way.

Harry doesn’t seem particularly threatened by Louis’ intensity.

In fact, he just laughs again. “I promise. I mean, what kind of
surprise could I even orchestrate on this island? There’s like…

182
nothing here. I’ll help you bake a cake and cook dinner if you
want? But that’s about as far as surprises go.”

Louis nods. “Good.” Then, he smiles. “Alright then, let’s go!”

he says, hitting Harry on the chest gently on his way out,
starting to jog straight away.

It doesn’t take very long for Harry to catch up with him, both
of them running at the same pace. There hasn’t been any snow
this year, not yet, but the grass is still frosty this early in the
morning, in a pale imitation of winter that doesn’t quite cut it.
Still, Louis can’t remember the last time he’s had a white winter
so it’s not like he’s feeling like he’s missing out much. Though
there is something satisfying about the way the grass crunches
beneath their feet as they jog their way along the cliffs. Usually,
Louis listens to music in the morning and misses it entirely.
Today though, in the darkness, he gets to enjoy every sound
and feeling this morning has to offer; the waves below, Harry
breathing beside him, Clifford’s paws hitting the ground, the
frozen patch of earth beneath their feet.

It’s strange to think it’s Christmas already. It seems it was only

yesterday that Louis first caught a glimpse of Harry in the
distance, yet he’s integrated himself to the lighthouse
seamlessly, the way no other guest has before. He’s been here
for months now, months Louis normally spends completely
alone, and yet, he still hasn’t found his presence irritating. It’s
weird, but Louis certainly won’t question it.

Soon enough, they get to the beach and take a small break from
running.

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“Can I ask how old that makes you?” Harry asks, reaching
inside the pocket of his jacket for a tennis ball and throwing it
on the other side of the beach for Clifford to fetch.

Louis gasps, putting a dainty hand on his chest in mock offence.

“How very dare you? It’s rude to ask a lady for her age!”

“A lady? Is that what you are?” Harry says sarcastically.

“Oi! I resent the implications.” Louis shakes his head before

passing a hand through his unruly hair. It’s a losing battle, what
with the wind, but he’s never going to stop fighting it. “I’m
twenty-seven.”

“ I’m turning twenty-five in February,” Harry reveals.

“I knew you were younger than me,” Louis jokes. “You’ve got
that glowing skin of a youngin’.”

“And acne, still!” Harry huffs, looking mortally offended.

“Whoever said that disappears after your teens deserve to be
shot.”

“Oh trust me, I know. Well, not personally,” Louis says with a
wink, a bit cheeky, glad the darkness is most likely hiding it,
“but my oldest sister’s way into make-up and skincare and she
has issues. I’ve heard the rant.”

“It’s just really unfair,” Harry says, motioning over his

shoulder like his flipping non-existent long hair. “We did our
time,” he adds just as Clifford comes running back to him,
wagging his tail and giving him the tennis ball. “You did such
a good job,” Harry whispers to him, grabbing the ball and

184
throwing it away again. “So…” he finally says, looking back at
Louis. “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Ugh,” Louis rolls his eyes. “I hate that question.”

Harry snorts. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m making conversation.”

“No, I know… It’s just… it feels exactly the same, doesn’t it?
You’re just you still, it’s just one more day. I mean, you’re
turning a quarter of a century in what… a month? Wait, when
is your birthday exactly?”

“February first?” Harry offers, sounding a little confused by

Louis’ rant.

“Right, so… in about a month! Quarter of a century!

Supposedly a big one… But it’s all gonna feel the same as
before.”

Harry smiles, a little sadly. “And here I was, expecting my

whole life would magically change.”

“Harry…”

“I’m joking,” he says. “I mean, there’s a lot about my life I’ve

changed and I’m still working towards changing. I’m not naive
enough to think some silly milestone is just going to do that for
me.” He looks pensive for a second, eyes fixed on the dark
horizon. Then, he says: “how great would that be though. To

185
suddenly reach an age and bam… you’ve got all the grown-up
answers.”

“Well,” Louis says, nudging his arm gently, “I’m turning thirty
relatively soon so fingers crossed, uh?”

Harry looks down, still carrying that sadness, that burden, that
exertion, he always does. “Yeah.”

They stay on the beach for a lot longer than Louis usually does,
ending up sitting down on the sand with Clifford sprawled
between them, giving him belly rubs and smiling shyly at each
other whenever their fingers bump into each other's on his skin.
They talk about past birthdays and Christmases, an unspoken
agreement to keep the memories happy and light passing
between them. Harry makes Louis laugh so hard with tales of
his twenty-first birthday and the wild LA party involved that he
thinks he might throw up. At some point, Louis shares the story
of when he decided to run away for his ninth birthday because
his littlest siblings were being too loud for his sensitive ears and
since he was the prince of Christmas, he didn’t have to tolerate
it.

“My mum had to pick me up from the train station!” Louis

reveals, laughing so hard he can hardly keep going.

“She did not!” Harry squeaks.

“I told her I was moving to the North Pole where they would
respect my reign as the supreme leader of the holiday season!”

“That’s fucking adorable.”

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“Well, of course, it’s me we’re talking about,” Louis jokes,
deflects, trying to suppress the warmth pooling low in his belly.

They watch the sunrise in silence and Louis is almost moved to

tears, not by the sight of the world awakening, but by Harry’s
reverence to it. He looks at the sunrise with wide eyes, body
fully still as he experiences it like a sacred moment. Like he
feels lucky he’s here at all to witness it, like he’s thankful for
the opportunity.

“It’s so beautiful,” Harry whispers, only breaking the silence

when the sun has finished rising.

Louis never thought he’d meet anyone who gets this place the
way he does.

Back at the lighthouse, they eat crepes for breakfast with a

mountain of fruits and homemade whipped cream, Louis
unable to stop laughing when Harry gets cream all over his face
in his enthusiasm to eat tongue first. When they’re done, Harry
insists on washing the dishes, giving Louis such a stern look
that he doesn’t have it in him to argue. Instead of helping, Louis
grabs his laptop from his bedroom and makes his way to the
top of the lighthouse. There’s meal prep to go through if they
want to eat a proper roast at some point for Christmas, but it’s
his birthday and it’s late enough that most of his siblings must
be awake by now. He doesn’t want to be fussed over, but that
doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see his family.

Almost all of his family are squished together to fit on the

screen when Louis skypes them and the knowledge that they
were probably just waiting next to their mum’s laptop for him

187
to get online almost brings tears to his eyes. It’s a chaotic call,
all Skype calls in his family are, the girls shouting over each
other to be heard, but Louis loves every second of it. They sing
happy birthday to him, telling him all about their holiday plans,
and soon enough they’ve calmed down a little, all of them
chatting in turns about what’s going on in their lives at the
moment.

By the time Harry joins him on top of the lighthouse with two
massive mugs, Daisy is telling a story about one of her exams.

“Oh,” Harry whispers, looking caught and uncomfortable.

He steps backwards, towards the stairs, and Louis widens his

eyes. “Careful!” he says, suddenly scared he’s going to fall and
the laptop becomes completely silent.

“Louis?” his mum calls from the speaker.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, looking back at the screen. “Sorry,

Harry just came in and I thought he was gonna fall down the
stairs for a second there. He’s a bit clumsy.” He says the last
part fondly, looking up from the laptop at Harry with a smile.

It falls as soon as he catches a glimpse of Harry’s face. He’s

holding his shoulders up like he’s trying to hide and doesn’t
know where to go, eyes wide with a deer caught in headlights
look on his face.

“Oh!” Jay exclaims, completely unaware of the discomfort in

the room. “Is that your guest? Can we say hi? Wish him a
Happy Christmas?”

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Harry, as impossible as it might seem, looks even more
uncomfortable at the suggestion. He gulps, colour completely
draining from his face. Then, he gives Louis a panicked look
and shakes his head.

Louis frowns but doesn’t question it. Instead, he smiles down

at his mum.

“He’s a bit shy actually and we kind of had plans to watch a

movie, so I’ll call you later, alright?”

“Oh, of course, darling, we’ll let you enjoy your birthday now.”

They say goodbye, lots of voices joining in to wish him a happy

birthday one last time before Louis turns Skype off.

“You didn’t have to hang up because of me,” Harry says,

remaining frozen in place.

“I didn’t. Conversation died down.” Louis doesn’t know why

he lies like this, but he can’t help the thrumming beneath his
skin, the overwhelming desire to protect Harry’s feelings.

“I’m sorry, I… I just…” Harry swallows hard, eyes blinking

fast like maybe he’s going to cry. His breathing is a bit too fast
for comfort and for a second, Louis thinks this might be the
beginning of a panic attack. “It’s just that I… I can’t…”

“Harry,” Louis says softly, getting up from the bench. He walks

towards the lost boy in the middle of the room, palms offered
in surrender so Harry knows they’re coming when Louis places
them gently on his shoulders. “You don’t have to explain.
They’re strangers. You don’t have to say hi to them if that’s
difficult for you.”

189
Harry nods. “Thanks,” he whispers and Louis wonders if
maybe he’s agoraphobic or something like that. If it’s anxiety
about people that drove him to drinking; if it’s hard to cope
without it now.

For what feels like the thousandth times, Louis reminds himself
it’s none of his business.

Harry sniffs. “I made you hot chocolate,” he says after a beat,

holding the mugs up. “For your birthday.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s shoulders once, then lets go of him.

“Thank you, Harry. That’s very kind.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not. Thank you,” Louis insists, grabbing one of the
mugs and giving the hot chocolate a sniff. “Looks delicious.”

“Alright,” Harry says awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it

then.”

“To what?”

Harry blinks. “Call your family back?”

“Oh no, I’m not gonna do that now. I love them, but they’re a
lot. I was gonna watch a movie, wanna join?” Louis tilts his
head towards the bench.

Harry purses his lips for a second. Then, he asks: “what

movie?”

190
“Well, since it’s Christmas, I usually watch Love Actually.
Which is very soft and cheesy of me, but you’re not allowed to
laugh!”

Harry doesn’t laugh. Instead, he smiles widely, dimples fully

out. “I love Love Actually. It’s one of my favourite movies.”

“Perfect,” Louis says, walking back to the bench, putting his

hot chocolate on the chest next to his laptop and grabbing a
blanket bunched up on the side. “Go on then,” he encourages
when he notices Harry hasn’t moved yet, fluffing the blanket
and tilting his head towards the bench.

Harry obediently moves across the room, sitting down in the

middle of the bench, right in front of the laptop. Then, he takes
a small sip of his hot chocolate. Louis waits until he’s done,
silently telling him to put his mug aside with his eyebrows
before throwing the blanket over Harry’s lap, making sure he’s
entirely covered. Then, he slides in next to him under the wool
throw and reaches for the laptop.

At some point during the film, Harry finally relaxes and Louis
feels it where their bodies are touching, the way he slackens bit
by bit until he’s fully comfortable. When Emma Thompson
opens her Christmas present, Harry starts crying a little, turning
to hide his face in Louis’ shoulder. Louis stiffens at first, heart
skipping a beat, a tad confused at what’s happening, but he
adapts quickly, wrapping an arm around Harry’s body and
rubbing his back comfortingly. It’s only when the movie ends
that they fully untangle themselves from each other.

They spend the afternoon baking a cake together that Harry

insists has to be pink, laughing in the kitchen as they listen to
Christmas music, making a proper mess of the whole place.

191
Harry accidentally spills some flour all over Clifford,
transforming Louis’ dog in a little winter elf, his dark fur now
white. Harry looks at least contrite and he’s the one who spends
forty minutes washing Clifford with a bucket outside while the
cake is in the oven.

With the mess they’ve made in the kitchen, they decide to focus
on cleaning up instead of creating more chaos, agreeing to
make their proper roast on Christmas Day even though Louis
initially wanted it for his birthday. It’s more traditional this way
though, and they eat a very simple meal instead to celebrate
Louis’ existence, leaving them with plenty of room to eat
almost an entire cake together.

They sit outside the lantern room in the cold of the night,
freezing their bums off where they’re crossed legged on the
gallery, bundled up in big jumpers and coats. Louis licks some
pink frosting off his fork, feeling like he might be vaguely sick
after three slices of cake and feeling rather delighted that he
actually feels this way. It’s reminiscent of Christmas Eve when
he was just a child, devouring anything sweet he could get his
hands on with the excuse that it was his one and only day and
no one would dare to stop him.

“So, bakery work really did rub off on you,” Louis teases once
he’s done, rubbing his belly through layers of clothing.

“Not bad, right? We did a good job,” Harry says with a big
smile, a blob of pink icing stuck in his dimple.

Louis laughs at the sight and Harry frowns, looking confused.

“What is it?”

192
“You have…” Louis points at it before shaking his head,
reaching for Harry’s face gently and wiping the frosting away.

“Oh,” Harry says when Louis rubs it away in his plate. “Well,
it’s not a proper celebration without a bit of a mess.”

“Oh, I think we got that covered when your clumsy arse

decided to dye my dog.”

“He was in the way!” Harry argues, shoulders straightening as

he starts gesticulating. “He.. he cut me off!” he explains,
illustrating his point with one sweeping movement. “It was
entirely his fault. He’s very disruptive.”

Louis bites his lower lip, forcing himself not to laugh.

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Your back was turned, you didn’t see it. You don’t know what
happened. I’m telling you, it was his fault.”

“How very easy to blame the creature who can’t argue back,”
Louis jokes, settling a little more comfortably against the
tower, tilting his head up to look at the stars.

Fuck, the sky is gorgeous here, Louis thinks.

To his surprise, Harry doesn’t argue back again and when Louis
chances a glance his way, not even bothering to turn his head,
Harry is staring at him silently.

Louis looks away, looks back at the stars and waits. Finally,
after a few seconds, he glances Harry’s way again. “What?” he
finally says.

193
“You know what else is necessary for a birthday celebration?”
Harry asks matter-of-factly. “A gift.”

“Nope,” Louis protests automatically. He didn’t even get Harry

a Christmas present, there’s no way he’s accepting a birthday
gift.

“So, obviously I knew about this very last minute and we are…
rather limited here so I struggled a lot… thinking about what I
could give you.”

“Easy,” Louis singsongs. “Nothing!” He raises his eyebrows on

the word, a bit cheeky, a bit flirty.

“Close,” Harry says, playing along with the same manic

energy, “but not quite.”

He reaches inside his back pocket, wiggling around a little to

fit his hand into it without having to get up, and Louis watches
him making a complete fool of himself with amusement.

“Ah!” Harry finally says triumphantly, raising his closed fist

above his head.

Despite not wanting anything, Louis can’t help but growing

curiosity taking over his mind. Especially when Harry turns
around to face him, suddenly looking really shy.

“So, obviously, I couldn’t really buy you anything and get it

shipped in time, but I thought… I picked this up the other day
just because… And, well. I thought you might like it.” Harry
opens his hand and inside it is a piece of sea glass, dark blue or
green or both, the one he picked up a while ago, or an older
one, Louis can’t tell. “It’s really… silly, actually, but you

194
know…” Harry shrugs. “You love Fair Isle a lot and this… I
picked it up because it reminded me of you,” he admits with
honest eyes, wide and as green as the sea glass and how could
it remind Harry of Louis when looking into it is like looking
into Harry’s gaze.

“I…”

“It reminded me of the colour of the sea here… ” Harry

explains, looking down and putting the stone into Louis’ hand.
“It reminded me of…” he stops himself, looking back up,
straight into Louis’ eyes. “I picked it up because I thought I’d
need a reminder of what it’s like here when I have to go back
to my normal life.”

His voice cracks on the word ‘normal’.

“You should keep it then,” Louis says softly, trying to hand it

back, but Harry moves away, shaking his head.

“It’s a gift.”

Louis isn’t sure he fully understands the gesture, but he nods

anyway, closing his hand into a fist, keeping it safe. “Thank
you.”

The week between Christmas and New Years Eve passes both
quickly and slowly at the same time. They barely leave the
lighthouse as the temperature drops and drops, a true winter
chill taking over the world. In the mornings, they argue over
who is going to walk Clifford and they spend most of their
afternoons wrapped in blankets in the tower, Louis reading and

195
Harry writing. And of course, sometimes, Louis reading out
loud for them both.

There’s a new frantic energy to Harry when he jots things

down, like maybe something Louis could never understand has
unlocked in him and he’s in a hurry. He’s gotten back to
melancholia too, has lost whatever holiday cheer he had,
various shadows and ghosts passing on his face as he scribbles
and scribbles. Louis puts his book down sometimes and just
stares, looks at him working and wonders. He wonders how
long he can get away with watching Harry without getting
caught. He wonders what sorts of demons he might be
exorcising without Louis knowing. He wonders if one day he'll
be lucky enough – trusted enough – to know. Sometimes, Harry
hums under his breath and it isn’t until the night of December
twenty-nine that Louis starts thinking anything of it.

Louis is still cleaning up the kitchen by himself, lost in

thoughts, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he hears soft music
coming from the dining room. He pauses, dishrag in hand
hovering over the counter, as he takes in the sad ballad. He
doesn’t know the song, but it feels so achingly familiar at first
that he assumes Harry’s put some music on after dinner. He
spends a few seconds trying to piece where he’s heard it before,
gulping at the slow melancholy of the melody, when – suddenly
– a voice. Deep. And raw. And soothing. A voice he’s come to
know so intimately over the past few months that he almost
can’t believe it at first. Yet somehow, it’s like a missing piece
of the puzzle suddenly slotting into place. Harry’s singing,
whispering the words really, with such intensity that Louis
drops the dishrag and takes a step back, physically shocked by
what he’s hearing.

He can’t believe he didn’t know Harry could do this. He can’t

believe he didn’t know Harry could do this with such warmth

196
and emotion, all the loneliness of the world suddenly put into
song like maybe it can be made sense of. And Louis just knows,
in one instant, without being able to explain it to himself, that
the only reason the song feels familiar is that Harry wrote it.
That it’s new and precious.

Louis tiptoes from the kitchen to the corridor, going all the way
up to the door, but not managing to gather the courage to walk
in, not wanting to disturb, not wanting to interrupt. The moment
feels so personal, so tender, as Harry says it all, leaving no stone
unturned. He probably has no right to witness it, no right to
eavesdrop, but he can’t walk away. Louis feels stuck in place,
unable to breathe or move, and if he has to deeply take root
somewhere, to tangle himself to a place and a moment with no
chance of escape, then he’s happy it’s here, in his favourite
place on Earth, listening to the beautiful soul of a man he cares
about.

So Louis closes his eyes, pressed against the doorway, listening

to Harry’s song, stomach in knots at the pain, at the beauty,
even though he knows Harry at least has a healthy way to
express everything he needs to.

The music stops, song fading into silence and Louis rubs under
his eyes, the tip of his fingers wet with tears just as the lights
turn off, plunging them into darkness.

Half past eleven. Just like every other night, they go back in
time, modern comforts forgotten until morning.

In the dark, Harry’s voice seems even deeper than usual.

“You can come in, you know,” he declares, a bit shaky, but not
embarrassed. “I know you were listening.” He sounds caught,

197
but a bit defiant, like Louis would ever say something negative
about such a beautiful expression of Harry’s soul.

Louis doesn’t hesitate for a second before walking in, closing

the door behind him, making his way to the piano as his eyes
adjust to the darkness, avoiding the inky shapes of tables and
chairs until he reaches where Harry sits in front of the piano.

“You wrote this song,” Louis says, still a few steps away. It’s
not a question.

Harry nods. Louis can barely see him in the dark, but it feels
like he doesn’t need to, feels like a moment transcending their
physical bodies, like maybe they’re meeting for the first time,
heart to heart, soul to soul. Even without light, even without
being able to see his face, Louis can tell his nod is a bit shy.

“It’s what I do,” Harry confesses, playing a few notes from a

song Louis knows is on a couple of playlists Lottie made for
him. “Songwriting,” he adds unnecessarily. “Performing.” He
pauses. Voice trembling a little, he adds: “selling myself.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, waiting in case there’s more Harry

needs to say tonight.

“My name isn’t Harry Twist,” he admits, breath catching, as

Louis’ heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

“I suspected,” Louis admits – reassures – hoping Harry isn’t

about to beat himself up about it. “You didn’t seem to wear it
very comfortably that first day,” he teases.

Harry huffs, half a laugh, half a sigh, and at least he doesn’t

sound like he’s going to start crying anymore.

198
“It’s my stepdad’s last name,” he confesses. “I used to use it to
go incognito in hotels and stuff but then my fanbase started
knowing every single thing about me and I couldn’t anymore.
Had to start getting even more ridiculously false name and
complicated decoys to avoid a mob.”

It’s a lot more than Louis expected. A lot more than he could
have imagined. Yet, somehow, it makes all the sense in the
world. Of course, this is who Harry is. Harry who, even on the
darkest of days, when his spirit is subdued, shines like a beacon
in the night, like the lighthouse they live in, attracting fans like
moths. Of course, the whole world saw and wanted a piece.

“I probably shouldn’t have lied at all when I came here,” Harry

continues, sounding frustrated. “I mean, you obviously didn’t
recognise me so I don’t know what pushed me to –” He shakes
his head. “I guess I was afraid. I needed to be away for a long
time. I wanted to be away for a long time. And historically
speaking, people who know my real name haven’t always used
it with the best of intentions. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about it
when we became friends though.”

Louis sighs, taking one step forward, hand reaching for the
back of Harry’s neck before he stops himself. “I’m the one
who’s sorry. That sounds really stressful to deal with.”

At that, Harry laughs. Ugly. Bitter. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches between them, one Louis isn’t willing to

break.

“My real last name is –”

199
“You don’t have to tell me,” Louis interrupts, needing Harry to
understand how inconsequential this all is for him.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks and now that his eyes are fully
adjusted, he can see the way Harry’s back muscles are tensed.
“I’m really famous. How are you going to google my net worth
or all the pap walks I did when I was completely shitfaced if
you don’t know my last name.”

He says it all with so much anger, spews it all out like bullets,
and Louis knows none of it is aimed at him, but every single
word still hits and he has to tighten his hands into fists to stop
himself from expressing outrage at Harry’s expectations. At the
way he’s clearly been hurt.

“I don’t want to google you,” Louis says through gritted teeth.

“I know everything that I need to know about you, Harry. And
that’s what you told me.”

“You know more than most,” Harry replies in a small voice.

Vulnerable.

“And I know how lucky that makes me. I wouldn’t jeopardize

that.” Louis waits for a second, heart in his throat, before
opening his mouth again. He wishes he didn’t have to say it,
but he feels like he should. “You know you’re safe here, right?”
Louis closes his eyes at the hesitation in his voice. He needs
Harry to trust him. He needs Harry to know Louis would
never… would never sacrifice him for his own gain. “I’m not
going to tell anyone.”

At that, Harry turns around slightly, one leg on each side of the
long rectangle bench, hands pressed against the wood, head
tilted towards Louis.

200
“Of course,” he replies, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t be telling you
this if I didn’t think so.”

Louis nods, relieved. “Good,” he says, more emotional than he

expected. “Good.” He tilts his head down, hiding his face
despite the darkness before joining Harry on the bench,
mirroring his position. “I’m listening.”

Harry gulps. Their eyes meet.

“I don’t… After everything that happened, I didn’t know if I

could do it anymore. I came here feeling so... overwhelmed. I
was sober for the first time in a long time and that was scary.
Trying to find out if I had anything left to say that mattered
enough for me to put myself back out there, back into triggering
situations, with triggering people.”

There’s a hint of panic in Harry’s voice, but he inhales deeply.

“But I really think I do,” he admits. “Ever since getting out of

rehab, ever since being here, I haven’t stopped writing. It’s
like… it’s like… It’s like I’m me again and I have so much I
want to say.”

“You think? ” Louis teases, thinking back to the hauntingly

beautiful song. “Harry… that song…” Louis shakes his head,
tentatively reaching for Harry’s wrist, wrapping his fingers
around it and squeezing. “It’s so beautiful.”

Harry closes his eyes, face peaceful as he seems to savor the

compliment. Then, his expression crumbles.

“I think it’s too sad,” he confesses.

201
Louis frowns, not understanding. “What does that matter? If
that’s how you feel. It’s not too sad, Harry. It’s a part of you
and if that’s what’s inside you that needs to be said then I’d say
it’s just fucking sad enough, yeah?”

Harry laughs, reaching up to wipe away tears Louis hadn’t even

noticed falling.

“I mean for my label… For my fanbase. It’s not exactly my

brand. They worked so hard to keep my… fuck ups out of the
media and I’m gonna what? Make an album about it? They’re
never gonna let me.”

Louis sighs. “Does it matter? What the label thinks?” He lets

his thumb rub against the skin of Harry’s inner wrist.

Harry shrugs. “I’m under contract so it really should. But I’m

not sure anymore.”

Louis sighs, deep and devastated, wishing he had anything of

substance to say, any useful advice, but this is beyond him, it’s
beyond the world he knows. So he just shrugs a bit helplessly,
leaning forward as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest,
pressing a small kiss - feather soft - against Harry’s temple,
whispering the words into his skin. “Then I say don’t worry
about it for now, yeah? You don’t have to know.”

And it’s sad, it’s heartbreaking, but with the way Harry’s
shoulders slump forward and shake, the way he leans into
Louis, burying his head in his neck, a sob caught in his chest,
Louis thinks maybe no one told him it was okay not to know,
to take his time, to think things through, in a really long time.
Maybe ever.

202
Something like fury swirls deep within Louis' chest and wraps
his arms around Harry’s shoulders, holding him close as the
weight of so many people’s expectations pours out of him in
grief.

They spend the last couple of days of the year tiptoeing around
each other.

Or rather, Harry tiptoes around the lighthouse, a bit skittish now

that he’s shed his skin. There’s a mixture of relief and worry
threaded into everything he does and all Louis wants is to prove
he’s worthy of the trust that’s been placed in him. So he doesn’t
really mention the fame thing, doesn’t ask the hundreds of
questions burning the tip of his tongue. Instead, he doesn’t say
a single thing, keeps quiet and lets Harry lead, follows along as
they keep to their routine and talk about anything but Harry’s
revelation.

It’s blowing Louis’ mind a little though. Not in a way that

changes how he perceives Harry, of course not, but in the way
it makes everything else click together like puzzle pieces. Like
how Harry seems to resent his normal life and fears returning
to it. Click. Like how much money he seems to have, all the
travelling he’s mentioned. Click. Like the way he panicked at
the thought of a gaggle of young teens saying hi to him on
Skype. Click.

Louis can’t help but feel like, even though he could probably
never fully understand, he’s got a better idea now, of what is
weighing Harry down.

203
On New Year’s Eve, they eat in the dining room for once,
heating up the leftovers from their Christmas dinner and even
Clifford gets some scraps. It’s the last night of the year, after
all, Louis figures, might as well. Once they’re done eating and
cleaning up, Louis suggests moving up to the lighthouse tower,
as they usually do, but Harry gives him a contemplative look
before suggesting they have a party.

“A party?” Louis says with a laugh, looking at the empty

kitchen around them. “What kind of party are you expecting?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s New Year’s Eve, we have to dance a little.

Don’t you think?”

And dance they do. They go back to the dining room, pushing
tables and chairs out of the way to create some space in the
middle of the room. It’s a bit ridiculous that they’re going
through so much trouble just to dance the year off, but once the
idea has planted in his mind, Louis can’t help but find it
appealing. He hasn’t been dancing in months, maybe even a
year, and he’s quite excited about the whole thing. He dims
most of the lights while Harry selects a playlist, or makes a new
one most likely, and soon enough they’re off, letting loose like
no one is watching.

Neither of them is a particularly good dancer, it turns out. Harry

is half dorky dad dance moves, half stripper while Louis
focuses on a select few funny moves he’s been perfecting over
the years. At some point, as the evening progresses, they start
simply flailing and jumping around in each other’s vicinity,
both of them sweaty and laughing.

At half past eleven, the lights turn off.

204
At a quarter to, Harry changes the music to a slow playlist and
they start swaying together, having a half-whispered
conversation before the year begins.

“Any resolutions?” Louis asks at five minutes before midnight.

Harry’s hands are somewhere on his back and the way he’s
specifically not touching Louis’ waist would feel very platonic
except his touch burns through Louis’ clothes where he keeps
rubbing up and down his spine.

“Don’t fuck up your sobriety,” Harry says with a scoff and

Louis really should have guessed that one.

“Anything else?”

He’s not sure why he’s insisting, but somehow he needs to

know. Harry’s face is obscured, merely a shape in the dark, and
Louis can’t tell what’s passing through his eyes the way he
normally can. It’s a surprisingly upsetting realisation.

“To be… braver, I think,” Harry finally admits in a small voice.

“But you’re already so brave,” Louis says, taking a tiny step

closer, whispering it against Harry’s jaw.

“I don’t always feel it, but thanks. I still think I could be braver
still.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to wish you then,” Louis says,
voice a bit hoarse, raspy. “A lot of bravery for your new life,
for your new album, for your new… everything.”

205
“What about you?” Harry asks him and Louis doesn’t know,
doesn’t really subscribe to this idea of renewing oneself
because the calendar said so, not when he’s so proud of where
and who he is.

“Control,” Louis says seriously, then he smiles. “‘Cause I’m

thinking about decreasing my sweets intake and that’s gonna
be rough.”

Harry laughs, right on schedule. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a tough

one. Tougher than mine.”

“I’m not that bad,” Louis says even though he woke up with
two caramel wafer wrappers underneath his pillows a few days
ago. “Seriously though, I just… want to keep being me, want
to keep living here and keep meeting… the incredible people
who pass through, whether they stay a day or… months.”

Louis feels it when Harry takes a step forward as he spins them

around, their bodies flushed together.

“It’s inspiring, you know?” Harry says, almost

conversationally. “The way you’re so settled. Makes me think
it’s possible to feel that way, that… that this agitation of mine
isn’t forever.”

Louis hums, then looks up at Harry’s face, what he can see of

it in the starlight. “Troubled seas never are,” he says sincerely.
He should know, he watches it change and move every single
day, observes its most disturbed moments and the way it always
smooths eventually.

They’re looking at each other silently when the alarm on Louis’

phone beeps, taking them both out of the moment.

206
“Midnight,” Harry whispers against his face.

Louis doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss someone so

desperately in his entire life. He leans in, inhales shakily, with
nerves, anticipation, then tilts his head away.

Harry trusts him. In a world where everyone expects something

from him, he trusts Louis .

And Louis… Louis never wants to be one of those people who

take from him, who want, and ask, and demand, never wants to
lose that trust he doesn’t feel he’s earned. He’s not going to be
a vulture. He refuses.

So, he tilts his head away.

“Happy New Year Harry,” he says, clenching his jaw.

“Happy New Year Louis,” Harry replies before wrapping him

into a fierce hug.

This is fine too, Louis thinks, burrowing his head in Harry’s

shoulder. It’s probably better.

Harry’s guitar arrives in the middle of the second week of

January.

He never mentioned he was expecting it, but one morning,

Louis is busy repainting a bed frame upstairs when he hears the
front door creak open and loud, heavy footsteps walking in. He
frowns, a little confused. He’s pretty sure Harry is still writing

207
in the tower. He’s been hiding up there since coming back from
his daily walk with Cliffy, Louis would have definitely heard
him leave. Besides, Harry is a lot quieter, moves around the
world in murmurs, like a ghost. He’s trying to escape the
inquisitive glances of strangers, Louis has now come to
understand. There’s no way that heavy-footed stranger is him.

Louis’ suspicions are confirmed when a loud Scottish voice

says “Knock knock!” while banging on something – the
reception desk? Louis guesses. He smiles when he recognizes
the voice though, should have known as soon as he heard
someone walking in, and he puts his paintbrush aside before
getting up and stretching his back a little.

“I’m up here MacLean!” Louis calls, exiting the room and

walking towards the stairs. “Just coming down now!” he adds,
probably unnecessarily.

The first thing he sees when he’s back on the ground floor is
the postman leaning against the reception desk casually, broad-
shouldered as ever and towering in the entryway. He’s got his
faithful red Royal Mail bag on one shoulder and is holding a
beige guitar case in his hands.

“Delivery for your guest,” MacLean says when he catches

Louis’ eyes.

A man in his early forties, MacLean and his wife moved to Fair
Isle long before Louis ever first set foot on it, thinking it would
be the dream lifestyle for them. They fell in love with the island
almost as fast as they fell out of love with each other and they
adored the place so much neither of them wanted to move away
in the separation process. Which apparently led to some
awkward first months of divorce, if the rest of the village is to

208
be trusted. But now they live apart and are quite good friends.
Louis doesn’t know a lot of people who would be comfortable
living in the same tiny community as their ex and he’s always
admired MacLean for his easygoing attitude towards it all.

MacLean puts the guitar on the floor and reaches into his bag,
fiddling with the contents until he finds the paperwork he needs
and puts it on the counter.

“That’s great,” Louis says, taking a few steps forward, leaning

down to grab the guitar case.

MacLean tuts at him disapprovingly and Louis freezes, fingers

a few inches from the guitar.

“What?”

“Need a signature, don’t I?” the postie replies, shaking his

head. “A…” he looks down on the paperwork, “Mr. Twist?”

“I can sign for it,” Louis says, getting back up and reaching for
the papers.

MacLean hisses and swats Louis’ hand away like he’s a fly. He
shakes his head. “Sorry pal, can’t do that.”

“Since when are you such a stickler for rules?” Louis laughs,
putting one hand on his hip.

“Since someone paid a lot of money for this to be delivered

securely.”

209
Louis gasps. “So what, you don’t trust me?” he asks, punching
MacLean in the shoulder jokingly, without real force behind
the gesture.

“Don’t be such a bother Tomlinson and go get your guest so I

can get back to my sheep. Mail delivery isn’t my only job, you
know, and this is my last package of the day.”

“I did know that actually, I’ve lived here a long time,” Louis
replies, just to wind him up.

MacLean isn’t someone Louis would necessarily call a close

friend, but they get on.

The postman sighs, shaking his head again. He’s been doing
that a lot. “Do I need to go hunt for Mr. Twist myself?”

“If you let me sign for it…” Louis starts before laughing loudly.
“He’s in the tower,” he finally says seriously. “I’ll go and get
him.”

When Louis walks up the stairs and into the lantern room,
Harry’s notebook is open on the chest and he’s fiddling with
the recording app on Louis’ phone.

“So that’s where my mobile is,” Louis comments instead of

saying hello.

Harry doesn’t bother to look up. “You forgot it up here earlier

and I had an idea for a melody,” he says, switching apps. “I’m
just emailing it to my manager. He doesn’t write songs
obviously, but it’ll give him an idea of what I’m working on.
Thanks for letting me use it.”

210
“Actually, you’re using it without permission,” Louis reminds
him, though it’s not like he needed it this morning, or like he
actually minds.

“You don’t mind,” Harry says flippantly.

“Was giving him my phone password a mistake?” Louis asks

to an invisible audience, looking up dramatically and sighing.

“I don’t think so!” Harry pipes up and when Louis looks back
at him, he’s finally looked away from the phone and is
grinning.

“Yeah, well you’re not exactly an unbiased party, are you?”

Louis says, taking a step forward and poking Harry in the
cheek. “There’s a delivery for you downstairs by the way.
Postie won’t let me sign for it, so you’ll have to come down.”

Harry’s eyes widen and start sparkling. He clearly knows

what’s waiting for him.

“A delivery?”

“Yes,” Louis says, stretching the s sound, “and you seem to

know exactly what it is, so don’t keep him waiting.”

At that, Harry drops the phone and scrambles to get up, almost
falling down in his attempt, steadying himself on Louis’
shoulder to prevent it.

“Alright?” Louis asks, reaching carefully for Harry’s waist to

help him stay upright.

211
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees and suddenly he’s gone, running
down the stairs.

By the time Louis has made it back to reception, MacLean is

already leaving and Harry is looking at his guitar case with a
look of wonder on his face, partly childish, but mostly devoted.

It takes him a few seconds to even realise that Louis is there.

When he does, he looks away from the case and gives Louis a
soft smile.

“I called my manager a while back, asked him to send me this.

I figured… If I’m getting back into, might as well do it
properly, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. It’s a bit weird to think about, Harry

leaving. Harry going back to this faraway universe of
celebrities and screaming fans. Even though it’s clearly where
he belongs. “Would you play it for me?” he can’t stop himself
from asking.

“Play what?” Harry asks.

“The melody,” Louis says. “The one from before.”

“Oh,” Harry blushes. “It’s… it’s nothing. Yet. It’s just… noise.
I woke up with it stuck in my head, haven’t been able to shake
it.”

“But it’ll be something someday?”

Harry shrugs. “Hopefully?”

212
“Then you should play it for me. So I can tell how much it’s
evolved once it’s finished.”

Harry laughs. “Why would you want to be able to tell that?”

“Dunno,” Louis replies honestly. He takes a step forward,

grabbing Harry’s elbow and leading him towards the living
room. “S’just a way to get to know you better, I guess.”

After that, Harry very kindly obliges him.

“It’s Styles by the way,” Harry says randomly on a Monday

night, while they’re eating homemade fish and chips.

“Pardon?” Louis replies, mouth half full. He swallows, then

chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, grabbing a napkin to wipe the
grease off his fingers.

“My last name,” Harry explains, popping a chip into his mouth.

Louis blinks at him, wearing his best unimpressed look.

“Pardon?” he says again.

Harry smirks. “You heard me.”

“So… Harry Styles,” Louis tries it on, nodding a little. “Is that
like… a stage name or?”

It sounds a bit too perfect, a bit too gimmicky to be real, as far

as Louis is concerned.

213
“Nope,” Harry insists, grabbing another chip. “S’my dad’s last
name.”

“Your dad’s last name isn’t Styles,” Louis says confidently.

There’s no way there’s a man out there who was born with a
name like Harry Styles. That’s so ridiculous. If Louis was asked
to create a pop star name for Harry right here and now, he
wouldn’t even suggest that because of how outlandish it
sounds.

“Oh, but it is,” Harry insists. “You can google it.”

The comment throws Louis off a little and he sighs, torn up

between annoyed and surprised.

“What is it with your obsession over me googling you?” he

asks, unable to resist. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned it now.”
He pauses, as an idea quickly forms in his brain. “Are you
testing me?”

“What?” Harry says, looking more startled than caught, though

Louis wouldn’t dismiss his theory yet. “No. I mean… Not on
purpose. I just…” Harry shrugs, looking a little helpless. “I
don’t know, I know you said it didn’t matter to you, but it felt
weird for you to not actually know my name, alright? I just
wanted to tell you. I wouldn't have offered for you to google it
if you’d just believed me when I said it’s Styles, to be honest.”

A long pause settles between them, stretches and stretches,

until Louis decides to speak again.

“Fair enough. I still think it’s absolutely ridiculous that you’re

actually named Harry Styles. Were your parents planning on
you becoming famous or what?”

214
Harry laughs. “No. Really not. They’ve always supported my
singing, and my mum was the one who first signed me up for
the X-Factor, but it wasn’t like they were planning for it or
anything. They’re not that kind of pushy parents.”

It’s the first time Harry’s given him any hints as to how and
why he became famous so young and Louis wants to press in
and dig a little deeper, wants more information and feels a bit
dizzy with it. Quickly, he calms himself down, reminds himself
he’s going at Harry’s pace, not his own frantic and inquisitive
one.

“You were just fated to make it,” Louis teases, instead of asking
more questions.

It’s worth not getting his answers for the way Harry smiles back
at him, part amusement, part relief.

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “I think most of it is probably luck,

rather than fate,” he says, before starting to eat again. “But who
knows,” he adds as he swallows a big bite. He frowns, a little
thing directed at his plate. Louis is about to ask him what’s
wrong with the food when Harry speaks again. “Maybe it’s the
opposite of luck,” he says darkly. “Whatever that is.”

“Karma?” Louis jokes and it really makes Harry laugh, snorting

inelegantly before he puts a hand over his mouth and nose to
muffle the sound.

“If I said something like that in public, I’d probably be

lynched,” Harry manages to say through the laughter. “I mean,
who am I to complain? S’not like I don’t live a privileged life.”

Louis hums. “For sure.”

215
It dampens the mood a little, all this talk of bad karma and luck,
and the intangible place where they intertwine uncomfortably,
interpreted in vastly different ways depending which way a
head tilts.

“It’s alright, you know,” Louis finally says after a while.

“What?”

“If you were testing me. It’d be alright. I wouldn’t mind.” He

says it slowly, careful as he measures his words, wanting the
message to come across as plainly as possible. “I’d get it,” he
adds, offhandedly. He means it too, truly. It’s impossible to
take it as an attack on his own character when he can only guess
how vicious people have been to Harry in the past. “It’s not like
you can trust just anyone.

Harry pauses, putting a small piece of fish back into his plate
without eating it. “Yeah,” he agrees and his face really says it
all, the way he closes himself off, eyes troubled and avoiding
Louis’ direct gaze.

He’s been betrayed before. Louis isn’t stupid enough not to

have guessed that already.

“Obviously, I’m not going to like…” Louis clears his throat,

suddenly a little uncomfortable. He fiddles with his plate, biting
his lower lip and trying to find a non-dramatic way of saying
what he wants to say. When it becomes obvious he can’t think
of anything, Louis simply says: “betray you, or whatever.
Anything like that .” It comes out a little more clumsily than
Louis intended and he starts talking again to try and divert
attention from that fact. “I know that,” he declares sternly. “I
know that for a fact. But you don’t.” He adds the last part softly.

216
“I do know,” Harry argues, interrupts, looking a bit offended
on Louis’ behalf. “I told you before, I wouldn’t have shared so
much stuff with you if I didn’t think you could be trusted.”

“I know that, and I’m very touched.” Louis pauses, taking a

deep breath. “All I’m saying is that it’s okay if there’s a part of
you that doesn’t know. If there’s a part of you that thinks I need
to be tested, or whatever. I’m not bothered. I’m not offended.
But Harry, no matter how many times you instruct me to do it,
I’m not going to suddenly be tempted to google you. Or screw
you over. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about ‘Harry
Styles’™.”

Louis says the last part jokingly, winking at Harry, thinking it’s
going to make him smile at least, but he doesn’t say anything
for a while.

“Harry?” Louis finally asks after a moment, voice dripping

with uncertainty.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

Louis snorts. When he speaks again, he has to look away, a bit

scared he’s going to look too fond, too eager. “You don’t have
to say anything.”

“OH MY GOD!”

The screaming comes from upstairs and Louis freezes, both

hands in the sink as he drops his mug of tea half washed. He
turns off the hot water tap with a frown, heartbeat increasing,
listening for more.

217
“OH MY GOD LOUIS !” Harry screams again, starting to run
down the stairs, and Louis’ heart squeezes painfully in his
chest, fear bubbling as his mind races between various
apocalyptic scenarios that could have Harry shouting across the
cottage like this.

He runs out of the kitchen with his hands still soapy and slams
into Harry’s body in the corridor. He grabs onto his shoulders,
steadying them both and making sure they don’t fall over.

“Are you alright? Is everything okay?” Louis asks, eyes

roaming Harry’s face, Harry’s body, trying to see if he’s
injured. “Is it Clifford?”

“Oh my god, you have to come!” Harry says, excitedly, eyes

wide and sparkling, turning around and leading the way.

“What?” Louis says, shaking his head, confused by the

whiplash.

“Come!” Harry says, looking back and reaching for one of

Louis’ wet hands, tangling their fingers together and dragging
him forward. “It’s incredible!!! You have to come and see!!”

“See what?” Louis replies, still confused as Harry drags him

through the corridor and pushes the front door open, leading
them both into the darkness.

“Look!” Harry exhales, stopping a few meters away from the

lighthouse, not close enough to the cliffs for it to be dangerous.
“Look at the sky!” he exclaims, tightening his grip on Louis’
hand.

218
And of course Louis is looking, Louis is looking at the
illuminated sky, ribbons of colours shifting, swirling over the
stars like beams of lights dancing with the universe, making
them seem so small, so unimportant. Greens that move and
suddenly seem blue, purples transcending into pinks, like
they’re twirling under the blow of the Scottish winds.

“Oh my god!” Harry keeps whispering. “Oh my god!”

Louis looks away from the sky for a second, takes a step
forward, looks at Harry’s face. He’s enthralled, breathing
labored from sheer excitement and Louis can see it, can see the
smoke coming out of his mouth and he’d forgotten it was cold
for a second there. He’d forgotten he ran out of the house
without a jacket on at night, in the winter. With Harry’s hand
in his and the abstract painting created for them by the laws of
nature, Louis can’t find it in himself to care.

“This is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen!”

Harry says, eyes never leaving the sky.

Louis feels his face soften into a small smile. “Have you never
seen northern lights before?”

Harry shakes his head. “No! I… I didn’t know they were so…”
He laughs. “Are they very common?” he finally asks after a
beat.

Louis hums. “Winter’s a really good time for them. And we’ve
got a pretty good location, of course.”

“I can’t believe it,” Harry says, overjoyed, overwhelmed.

“Photos don’t do them justice at all! It’s...” He falters, unable
to find words.

219
Louis chuckles on an exhale, finally looking away from Harry’s
profile and back at the sky. “No,” he agrees, “I suppose they
don’t.”

They stand there holding hands, silently watching for who

knows how long, and Louis doesn’t feel the cold, doesn’t feel
the wind. He doesn’t feel anything except the warmth of
Harry’s body against his, the weight of his hand in Louis’, the
contagion of his joy. They watch until the lights vanish and
when they do, Louis closes his eyes, still holding Harry’s hand,
silently wishing he could stretch this moment just a little
longer.

220
Chapter 7

Harry kisses him for the first time on his birthday.

February brings the uncomfortable knowledge that Harry’s

time on the island is almost over; a painful and constant thought
in the back of Louis’ mind that he’s tried hard to suppress so
far, but can no longer ignore. It hurts sharply to be reminded
that Harry is someone Louis is destined to lose, but he does is
best to ignore the bittersweetness of it, choosing instead to
focus on making the day as special as possible for the birthday
boy. Harry is only going to turn twenty-five once and despite
his insistence that he doesn’t want anything, no fuss for Mr.
Popstar please, Louis isn’t going to leave such a milestone pass
unnoticed. He might know that it’s a meaningless one, but that
doesn’t mean he’ll let his boy not be celebrated properly.

In the morning, Louis forgoes cooking breakfast – and his jog

– dragging Harry to Mrs. Clark’s bakery for coffee instead,
both of them gorging themselves on her breakfast rolls and
fancy pastries, taking their time chatting and eating with
Clifford sitting between their feet under the table. Louis smiles,
fond as he watches Harry animatedly tell a funny story from
one of his tours, something about a technical mishap that left
him awkwardly standing on stage in front of 20 000 people
while his tech people buzzed around him like flies. Louis
forgets sometimes, in the quiet way Harry behaves, that he’s a
big fucking deal.

221
Louis laughs in all the right places, teasing Harry the way he
knows he loves to be teased, loving when his cheeks redden
under the attention, cheeks dimpling and eyes sparkling.
Despite it all, despite the jokes and the laughter, there’s a hint
of sadness underneath Harry’s storytelling that Louis thinks
might always be there, a dark undercurrent associated
with fame that Harry will probably never fully shake off, a
melancholia Louis can easily sense in the way the corner of
Harry’s mouth moves, the way his head tilts. Still, the morning
passes pleasantly, Louis feeding Harry more and more pastries
while he, in turn, shares stories about his adolescent antics.
Finally, a little past what would be considered an acceptable
lunchtime, Harry declares himself way too full to eat anything
else and Louis pays their bill, taking the opportunity to grab the
birthday cake he ordered especially the week before when
Harry exits the bakery first with Clifford, letting him stretch his
legs happily in front of the store. It’s chocolate, decadent, way
too big for only two people who have been stuffing their face
off all day, but what the hell, it’s a special occasion. There are
fancy gold letters spelling Happy Birthday Harry on the icing,
the rest of the cake simple and void of decoration. It’s perfect.

When Louis finally joins Harry outside, he smirks at his eyes

widening at the size of the box.

“If that’s cake, I truly cannot,” Harry declares dramatically,

Clifford leash wrapped around one of his hands, the other
rubbing against his belly.

“It’s your birthday,” Louis says firmly, leading them out of

town towards the road that goes back the Lighthouse, Clifford
running ahead, happy to be outside and without a restraining
leash. “You’re eating cake.”

222
They walk back in comfortable silence, their arms grazing
against each other through their clothing. Every time their
fingers accidentally brush together, they break apart, putting
some distance between their bodies only to end up back at the
start, Louis with his heart in his throat and his fingers itching
to grab Harry’s hand.

When they get in sight of the lighthouse, Louis leads them

down the cliffs towards the beach. The sun is shining through
the clouds, a surprisingly clear and crisp winter day he would
hate to waste inside. Quickly enough, they’re both sprawled on
the sand together, the day beautiful despite the cold and Louis
gets Harry to eat at least a small part of his birthday cake,
humming happy birthday to him under his breath while Harry
laughs and brushes crumbs off his face.

Clifford is sleeping on Harry’s lap, sighing into his creamy

white jumper every few minutes while Harry licks the last few
crumbs off his fingers.

“The afternoon is yours,” Louis declares from Harry’s right

once he’s done eating. He hasn’t planned anything beyond
breakfast, wanting to do whatever Harry wished for, wanting to
truly make it his day.

“Let’s stay here,” Harry says quietly, closing the cake box and
putting it aside for later, the Har of his name now gone, shared
between the two of them.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Harry shakes his head, hair going crazy in every direction

because of the wind, that strong Scottish breeze they can never
escape, especially not near the water like this. Of course, he’s

223
got a lapful of warm dog to keep him comfy while Louis is
freezing under his jacket but he’d never say a word. Not today,
not ever.

“Alright,” Louis whispers, mostly to himself, agreeing without

second thoughts and it’s still so scary that he feels this way.
“We’ll stay right here.”

So they do, silent and peaceful, watching the waves.

“I love the ocean,” Harry admits after a while. “I always went

to the water whenever it got to be too much back in LA.”

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, looking away from the sea and into
Harry’s face.

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he confirms, an absent look on his face.

Briefly, Louis wonders if he’s mentally back on some warmer,
trendier beach right now. But his eyes refocus on Louis’,
hesitant as he speaks again. “Sometimes all those eyes on
me…” he begins before shaking his head. “All the lies they saw
when they looked at me? All the truths…” He lowers his head.
“I felt dirty,” he says, a small admission. “But the water? The
water is cleansing. The waves keep coming no matter what, no
matter who you are, making you feel brand new. You can lose
yourself in the water, turn invisible. The entire world
disappearing except for you. “S’why I missed England so
much, I think. Not enough rain in California.”

Louis agrees, familiar with the feeling. “Sometimes you just

need a good rainy day to clean yourself of the bad ones.” He’s
always loved the way the earth smells fresh after a rainy day,
like maybe there’s hope to make things right this time, the
whole world damp but purified.

224
Harry smiles, uselessly pushing a curl behind his ears, fighting
the wind. “Exactly.”

“Well, it’s certainly not rain we’re lacking here in Scotland,”

Louis says teasingly. Softly.

“It’s why I love this island so much.” Harry looks to his lap,
refusing to meet Louis’ eyes, slowly petting down the length of
Clifford’s body. “No one for miles and miles and plenty of
water for me to be reborn.”

Louis gulps, heart tightening when Harry talks like that. Most
people Louis knows would argue there’s no poetry in pop
music, that it’s all manufactured nonsense lacking depth, but
the way Harry expresses his feelings so plainly yet so
beautifully… It’s like every word falling from his lips is a pearl,
a poem waiting to happen. Just looking for the right ears to
appreciate it.

“And me,” Louis can’t help but add. There’s no one for miles
and miles and plenty of water and there’s Louis.

He can see the hint of a dimpled smile behind a curtain of curls,

Harry still looking down at who Louis can’t help but think of
as their dog now. How did this happen so fast? What has he
gotten himself into…

“And you,” Harry agrees in a whisper. “You don’t count

though,” he says after a beat and a more insecure person would
read rejection into it, but Louis has slowly watched them tiptoe
around each other, softening around each other, for months
now. He knows exactly what it means, the feelings hidden
underneath.

225
You don’t count as people.

Those vultures who take and take and take. The people, with
their never-closing eyes, demanding more and more and more.
Demanding things Harry doesn’t know how to give.
Demanding until Harry was empty right down to the foundation
of himself.

But Louis, with the pit of want in his lower belly, can’t agree
or take the compliment.

“I do though,” Louis replies. Bitter. Sad. “I’m just like

everyone else. I…” He sighs, passing a frustrated hand through
his fringe, barely noticing the way his fingers shake from the
cold. “I want...,” he says, meeting Harry's eyes with a desperate
gaze, “I want so much from you.”

The admission stings on his tongue with something akin to

shame and regrets that he was weak enough to let it slip. He
wishes he could read Harry’s face the way he’s gotten so used
to, but he’s met with a completely blank expression and wide
green eyes.

Then, surprisingly, or maybe not, Harry shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he replies with a tender voice, leaning towards Louis,
one of his hands tangling into the hoodie under his jacket as he
presses their lips together. It lasts a second, less than maybe,
still a moment in the way it reshapes Louis’ existence.

“No?” Louis asks, whispers, against Harry’s lips, ignoring the

offended huff Clifford makes between them, unhappy his
cushion moved.

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“No,” Harry repeats. “Not like everyone else. Not like everyone
else at all. You make everything else quiet. Everything else
disappears when I look at you.”

“I…” Louis doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if it’s a

good or a bad thing, doesn’t know if it should scare him a bit.
So he closes his mouth, stays silent, looking into Harry’s eyes
and… He just kisses Harry again and again on that cold beach,
delighting in the little sighs falling from his lips, burying his
fingers in the tangles of Harry’s hair, laughing against each
other’s mouths when a particularly strong gust of wind erupts
around them or when Cliff starts to wiggle between their
bodies, tired of feeling ignored.

He chooses to waste the afternoon with the taste of Harry on

his tongue and not say a thing.

Later, much later, after they’ve had dinner and after Louis
serenaded Harry with a particularly horrendous rendition of
‘happy birthday’ that ended with him falling from the top of the
piano into Harry’s waiting arms, they’re washing the dishes
shoulders pressed together.

“Thank you,” Harry says, nudging their shoulders together as

he dries the B&B’s fancy wine glasses they used to drink
Schloer, playing fancy for his birthday without putting Harry’s
sobriety at risk. “That was the best birthday I’ve had in years.”

Louis smiles, crinkly-eyed and knowing. “And I haven’t even

given you your gift yet.” He resists the urge to wiggle his
eyebrows suggestively.

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Harry hums. “You’ve given me plenty,” he replies, putting the
dry glasses on the counter.

“Good, because I didn’t know what to give to a rich pop star

who can buy himself the world, so don’t expect anything
brilliant,” Louis jokes, hating the hint of insecurity hidden
underneath his teasing that he knows Harry will probably be
able to pick up easily.

Harry smiles, his red mouth fond as the corners of it turn up,
before pushing Louis softly against the kitchen counter,
pressing their bodies together with his hands firm against
Louis’ waist as he bridges the distance between them and kisses
him. It’s a big movie star kiss, an overwhelming connection of
their two bodies, something that has no place in a lighthouse in
the middle of nowhere, something that’s too big for Louis’
small life. He moans, letting Harry deepen the kiss, choosing
not to worry and let himself enjoy the way his fingers slide into
Harry’s curls, choosing to cherish this moment for exactly what
it is. An anomaly. An outlier. Almost already a fond and
unbelievable memory Louis goes back to when the loneliness
of his chosen existence creeps in. Harry sweeps him off his feet
without even trying and Louis… Louis wants this too much to
worry about the consequences.

They kiss soft and they kiss deep, letting time slow down just
for them, until Harry finally separates their mouths, looking
into Louis’ eyes with almost unbearable intensity. He’s panting
a little, one of his hands holding the nape of Louis’ neck, the
other still holding onto his waist. Every touch of his skin is an
anchor, stopping Louis from floating away from this moment.

“I’ll treasure anything you give me,” Harry says sincerely,

pressing their foreheads together, “just because it’s from you.”

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When he opens the present later that night, Harry cries.

Louis wasn’t lying. It’s truly nothing special, or expensive, just

a framed picture of the three of them cuddled up on the beach
that Mrs. Dunn had the kindness to take, stopping her walk to
her tiny dog’s annoyance, just to help them out. It’s not a
perfect photo, Clifford a happy blur at their feet, but the sea is
a stormy dark blue, the waves beautiful and majestic behind
them. More importantly, Harry looks happy: his head is slightly
bowed down as his laugh at one of Louis’ jokes is recorded for
prosperity, two massive crescent dimpling his cheeks. And
Louis… Louis is exposed and vulnerable, not looking at the
camera at all, not wanting to miss a second of Harry’s reaction,
his eyes crinkling with a fondness he’d normally not want to
advertise. But Harry is going away soon and this… this is the
version of himself Louis wants him to remember.

On the back of the frame, Louis’ loopy and uneven handwriting

labels the piece: “Harry, Louis & Clifford – Scotland, 2019”.

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“It’s so you don’t forget us,” Louis admits, hating the way his
voice wavers a little. He clears his throat. “When you go back
to record those songs you’ve been writing,” he adds. He’s not
looking for confirmation or denial. He knows Harry’s leaving,
knows someone like him could never belong to just one person
or one place, knows he’d be wrong to expect it. Knows he’d be
wrong – selfish – to want him to.

Harry nods and he’s not denying he’s leaving. He never would.
Still, there are tears in his eyes, an emotion Louis can’t read on
his face. Something like awe and disbelief. “So I don’t forget
myself again,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, fingers shaky as
he traces the inscription before looking at the photo again. All
that water. And Louis.

Later that night, they climb the stairs to the lantern room in
silence, Louis awkwardly holding a torch from behind Harry’s
body to light their way. Once they get to the top, peering
through the windows into the darkness, it feels like the world
stops, like they’re right at the edge with nothing but the void
ahead, the void around. Louis knows the ocean surrounds them
though, can hear the waves through the windows; the angry
wind a reminder of how small they are. Somehow, the darkness
feels embracing rather than scary, a warm blanket that’s
familiar and comforting.

Just like Louis, Harry is lost in thought, frozen at the top of the
stairs with seemingly no intentions to move towards the bench
at all. Louis gives him a few seconds to find his bearing in the
dark, but after a hint too long without movement, he presses a
careful hand onto Harry’s lower back, reminding him of his
presence without pushing him forward. He scratches a little

230
against the wool of the tacky jumper Harry is wearing – a red,
yellow and orange lozenge patterned atrocity Louis let him
borrow earlier after he spilt hot chocolate on his. It’s barely
illuminated by Louis’ torch but still, the pattern gives him a
headache.

“Okay?” Louis whispers against Harry’s neck, tempted to let

his hand wander, tempted to wrap his arm around Harry’s
waist, to touch beyond what he’s been allowed so far, to
continue the tame exploration he started when they kissed
earlier on the beach. The want thrums beneath his skin, making
his fingers itchy.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a tiny step back when he hears Harry’s raspy

voice confirms he’s alright. Louis breaking the silence broke
the spell though and Harry finally steps forward until he
reaches the bench, sitting down and curling himself under a
blanket straight away. He looks cozy – he looks soft – under
the feeble light of Louis’ torch, his curls messy where Louis’
fingers spent most of the afternoon buried. He blinks up slowly
at Louis before reaching for a discarded book on the wooden
chest and holding it out towards him.

There’s nothing particularly sexy about the way he’s sprawled

against the cushion, most of his body hidden under the wool
blanket except for one arm and one sock-covered foot. And yet,
Louis feels something tighten low in his belly, a desire he’s
become quite good at suppressing these past few months as he
got to know Harry. There’s something heady about the
knowledge he might not have to talk himself off that ledge
anymore, that he might get to curl up against him

231
and touch now. He might get to touch all the places where
Harry is soft and authentic.

It’s intoxicating.

“Read to me?” Harry asks, his low voice sending chills down
Louis’ spine. Normally, Louis would tease him at least a little
for being so needy, for making diva demands like the popstar
that he is, but it’s his birthday and Louis is far too gone to resist
him.

So he clears his throat, passing a shaky hand through his hair,

trying to steady himself. “Of course,” he finally replies after a
few seconds of charged silence, grabbing the book out of
Harry’s hand, their fingers grazing against each other for an
instant before Louis settles down on the bench next to Harry,
their shoulders touching.

He smiles when he realizes it’s a book Harry has been fiddling

with for a while now, a collection of Edna St. Vincent Millay
poems he’s been thumbing through for weeks, folding the
corners of his favourites and underlining passages when he
thinks Louis isn’t looking.

“Any specific requests?” Louis teases as he tries to find a

comfortable way to hold both the book and the torch, squirming
against the cushions until Harry reaches for the torch and snatch
it from Louis’ hand. He cuddles up against Louis, putting his
head on his shoulder and pointing at the book with the torch.

Then, Harry looks up to Louis expectedly. “Just read,” he says.

“Please. I love your voice.”

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It’s not the first time he’s said so, but Louis’ heart still skips a
beat like it is. “Okay,” he agrees, wrapping his free arm around
Harry’s shoulder and starting to read in a low voice. Barely
above a whisper. Even with the sound of the wind whistling
through the windows, there’s no need for more than that for the
two of them.

They’ve been at it for a while when Louis stumbles upon a

poem that makes his throat constrict painfully, his voice shaky
as he says words he knows Harry feels, the small line of black
ink underneath the passage unnecessary for Louis to recognise
it as such.

“Searching my heart for its true sorrow, this is the thing I find
to be: that I am weary of words and people, sick of the city,
wanting the sea;”

Harry sneaks the hand not holding the torch behind Louis’
neck, gripping the skin there. Tight.

“Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness, of the strong wind and

shattered spray; wanting the loud sound and the soft sound, of
the big surf that breaks all day,” Louis continues to recite, his
breath hitching when Harry presses a kiss to the exposed skin
of his neck.

“Harry…” Louis whispers, lowering the book against his knee

and turning his head to look at him, at his expressive face partly
illuminated by the torch, his lips parted in a silent question and
his eyes wide. Hungry.

They stare at each other in silence and, for a moment, Louis

thinks this is torture , to want so much and so deeply, to be so
close, and still be denied. But he’ll never take that first step, not

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when Harry’s been pushed and pushed and pushed in the past.
He’ll wait all night with fire burning in his veins and his heart
in his throat if he has to.

Harry doesn’t seem to be questioning everything in the same

way and suddenly, he lets the torch fall to the floor, rolling
away from the bench and plunging them into darkness as it now
illuminates only a small corner of the room far away from them.
Then, he fumbles for the book in the dark, his fingers cold
against Louis’ for a second as he grabs the poem collection and
lets it drop to the floor with a small thud before climbing on top
of Louis’ lap to kiss him. Louis moans as their lips meet, as
Harry’s hands grab onto his neck, his thumbs rubbing soft
circles against Louis’ jaw.

He can’t believe they waited until today to do this. Not when

they’re so good at it, when their bodies click in a way Louis
isn’t sure he wants to ponder too long.

Slow, heated – Harry takes what he wants and Louis is happy

to let him lead, straightening up to follow Harry’s mouth and
grabbing at his waist gently. After a while, Louis sneaks his
hands under Harry’s jumper to touch bare skin, a hint of
smugness rising through him at the way he shivers in response.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss; Louis’ fingers digging into the
muscles of Harry’s lower back, sliding under the waistband of
his jeans, teasing at the curve of his backside… Until Harry
tenses at Louis’ forwardness, stopping the kiss abruptly with
the palm of his hands pressed against Louis’ chest.

Louis lets go of Harry’s body immediately, his arms falling

open on the bench, heart in his throat at the thought he’s
overstepped a boundary he didn’t even know was there.

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Harry is wide-eyed, looking a little shocked, a little remorseful
at what he’s just done – though Louis can’t tell if it’s the kiss
or pushing Louis away that he regrets. He’s panting from his
perch on Louis’ thighs and, suddenly, Louis worries it might be
a panic attack. Without meaning to, he lifts his right hand in
concern, automatically reaching for Harry’s shoulder to soothe
him with his touch before he remembers himself, remembers
the way he was just pushed away, and he stops, hand hovering
awkwardly for a moment.

Before Louis has a chance to move away though, Harry reaches

for that hand, tangling their fingers together. Tight. Crushing.
A little painful. There’s something about the way he’s holding
onto Louis, something in the desperation and fear of that
grasp... Like maybe he thinks Louis would ever leave him
hanging, would ever let him go, in a time of need. Louis grips
him right back as tightly, a reassuring pulse that makes Harry
take a deep breath. He brings both of their hands to rest on his
thigh, not loosening his grip at all, eyes fixed on the way their
fingers intertwine together.

Louis follows his gaze, admiring the way his slightly smaller
hand fits in Harry’s, taking in the feeling of Harry’s guitar
calluses against his skin. “Hey,” he whispers as reassuring as
he can, something in him coming loose with relief when he
feels Harry’s body relax slightly at the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” Harry whispers back, using his free hand to brush

Louis’ hair off his forehead, his touch hesitant but gentle. He’s
not looking into Louis’ eyes, gazed still locked onto their
hands. “Hey,” he says again, a bit more determined this time,
green eyes flicking up as he leans down towards Louis again.

235
Louis closes his eyes when Harry lets their lips brush against
each other, soft, featherlike. When he opens them again, Harry
is looking straight ahead, beyond Louis, through the glass and
into the dark stormy night.

“You okay?” Louis can’t help but ask uselessly when the
answer is evidently no.

Harry shakes his head with a small huff and his lips curling into
a tiny grimace, barely visible in the corner of his mouth, like
maybe he’s embarrassed.

“It’s just… I...” He stops himself and Louis automatically

tighten his hold on Harry’s hand in response. “I haven’t… not
since…” Harry trails off, eyes still fixed somewhere on the
horizon.

There’s not much to see, not in the middle of the winter night
like this, but Louis wonders if there’s something about the void
and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs around
them that Harry finds reassuring too. He wouldn’t be the first
troubled soul to find kinship in the perpetual storm that brews
on the island. Louis, who has made a home out of it, would
know.

Louis hums, rubbing his free hand slowly up and down Harry’s
thigh where he’s perched on Louis’ lap, his touch purposefully
slow and soothing. There’s nothing sexual about it anymore, no
heat or impatience. Just solace.

After a few beats, Harry tries again.

“I haven’t…. I haven’t done this sober in a really… really long

time,” he finally admits. Then he chuckles, a half-hearted thing,

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as he keeps looking through the glass of the lighthouse tower.
He sounds embarrassed and even in the darkness, Louis can see
a blush spreading on the top of his cheeks. “I don’t know why
that seems like such a big deal suddenly,” he whispers, still
unable to meet Louis’ eyes. “It’s stupid,” he adds a bit angrily,
his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to hide.

There’s always been a vulnerability to the way Harry holds

himself, from the first second Louis saw him waiting at the
door, and it’s never been more evident than now. He’s like the
most beautiful flower Louis has ever seen, seconds away from
blooming and still he’s holding back, curling into himself
shyly. Sometimes, Louis hates the world that made him feel
that way so sharply that it hurts, twisting his insides with a
mixture of the ugliest of feelings.

“It’s not stupid,” he whispers back firmly, pressing the words

against Harry’s jaw. “It’s okay,” he insists, his thumb still
softly rubbing at Harry’s thigh. The monster of want at the pit
of his stomach can be tamed easily when Harry looks fragile
like this. “Whatever you want. Or don’t want babe,” he
continues into Harry’s ear, his beard rubbing against the
tentative stubble on Harry’s cheek, the endearment falling from
his lips easily.

Louis loosens his grip on Harry’s thigh and lets go of his hand,
already moving his body away from him, putting some distance
between them. He barely has time to move when Harry’s hands
catch his wrists. Louis looks up, meeting Harry’s eyes for the
first time in a while and he feels his stomach clench at the
burning determination painted on Harry’s face, the desire
flickering in his eyes like a guiding flame. Their eyes never
leave each other as Harry slowly moves Louis’ hands, guiding
them towards his body, letting them slide under the wool of his
jumper, Louis’ fingers trembling as they touch the naked skin

237
of Harry’s lower belly for the first time. As Harry guides him
lower.

“Touch me,” Harry whispers, leaning into Louis, pressing the

words against his lips. “Please.”

Louis smiles against Harry’s mouth, then nods.

He can do that.

It’s still completely dark when Louis wakes on the floor of the
lantern room a few hours later. He shivers, half of his naked
body exposed to the cold room, the blanket covering him
tangled below his waist and doing nothing to keep his torso
warm. Automatically, he snuggles forward, his body curling
even closer into Harry’s, his nose burying itself in the curls at
the nape of his neck. His right arm tightens its hold onto
Harry’s waist from under the jumper he had the wisdom to put
back on, his fingers trying to steal some of the warmth of
Harry’s body as their naked legs tangle further together. He has
no idea what time it is, no idea how long they’ve been sleeping
there on the rug, but he’s tempted to let himself drift off again,
despite the discomfort. Harry’s body is pliant and soft; an
inviting abode Louis wants to sink into forever. But Harry starts
shivering in his sleep despite the fact he’s more dressed than
Louis is and he can’t, in good conscience, leave him to sleep so
uncomfortable.

The torch batteries have long given out, but still, Louis takes a
second to peer at Harry in the darkness. The hint of his lean
legs under the blanket. The slope of his nose. The curves of his
eyelashes. His big heart that feels too much, the one he had to

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rip from his sleeve on the road to fame but that Louis can’t help
but still see through every careful word coming out of Harry’s
mouth, every gesture, every breath.

It’s... a lot, Louis thinks, closing his eyes for a second and
gulping. His fingers are still pressed against Harry’s belly and
he slides his hand up until it rests against his waist, gripping
him a hint tighter.

“Harry?” he whispers gently, right into his ears, before pressing

a kiss against his temple. “Love?”

Harry hums, tilting his head slightly. He’s still shivering.

“Come on darling,” Louis whispers encouragingly, sitting up

and using the hand not on Harry’s waist to brush his hair off his
face. Louis repeats the movement when Harry hums
contentedly and leans into the touch, indulging him for a
second before trying to wake him again. “Come on, wake up
babe,” he continues, louder this time, thumb digging into
Harry’s love handle with a bit more force. “It’s late, we gotta
get you to bed, yeah?”

Harry’s eyelashes flutter and he groans, a small protest before

he tries to curl further into himself to keep warm. “‘M cold,”
he mumbles, pressing a freezing foot against Louis’ calf.

Louis chuckles. “I know, that’s why we gotta get you to a

proper bed. With a duvet and everything.”

“No,” Harry says, a hint petulant, reaching for Louis’ hand on

his waist, trying to get him to wrap his arm around him
properly. “Big spoon me,” he demands.

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Louis can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes his lips. He’s
fully awake now and he knows there’s no way he can let Harry
sleep on the floor of the tower in February, especially not half
naked. Still, again, he indulges him by wrapping his arm around
Harry’s body, rubbing his hand against the wool of his jumper
to create heat.

“Who knew post-coital Harry would be such a brat uh,” Louis

teases before pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “How about if I
promise to big spoon you ,” he says in a poor imitation of
Harry’s low drawl, “once we get to bed? And if I promise you
won’t have to go too far?” Harry doesn’t reply, doesn’t even
move, and Louis suspects he might be falling asleep again so
he jostles him a little. Gently, but firmly. “Come on love, just a
few stairs and then we can share my bed, yeah?”

“Mmmm.”

“Mmmm?” Louis repeats, still teasing.

“Mmmkay,” Harry mumbles.

“Don’t fall back asleep,” Louis warns, untangling himself from

Harry completely and swearing under his breath as he tries to
grab his clothes scattered around the room quickly in the dark.

Finally, after a bit of stumbling and stubbing his toe against the
chest in the middle of the room, Louis grabs Harry’s pants,
jeans and socks, and gets back to the little nest they made for
each other.

“You asleep again?” Louis asks, fonder than he would let

himself be if he knew Harry was awake. “Yeah, ‘course you
are.” He shakes his head with a sigh, a treacherous smile in the

240
corner of his mouth. He drops the clothes next to Harry’s body,
leaning over him to kiss his forehead. “Hey sleepy head,” he
says, booping Harry’s nose with his index. “We had a deal.”

“M’wake”.

“Uh uh.”

“ ‘M.”

To demonstrate the veracity of his claim, Harry wiggles his toes

under the blanket. Louis smiles, despite himself, grabbing one
of Harry’s feet from over the blanket and squeezing once before
freeing it from the material. Harry hisses at the cold, shoulders
raising as he curls even further into himself, and Louis wastes
no time putting his first sock on. He repeats the process with
the other foot, kissing his wool covered ankle once he’s done.
Then, he pushes the blanket further up Harry’s body,
uncovering his calves, the stupidly endearing back of his knees
and just a hint of his thighs before stopping. Louis’s hands are
soft as he caresses the back of Harry’s leg, a feather-like touch
that has nothing to do with convincing Harry to get to bed, a
touch that’s just for Louis because he’s allowed now, he’s
privileged beyond words.

Harry shivers again, this time not from the cold, and he finally
turns onto his back, his legs falling open on the rug, the blanket
bunched up on his lap in a semblance of modesty. His eyes meet
Louis’, sleepy but captivating, and Louis doesn’t know where
to look between the intensity of Harry’s gaze and the milky
white of his inner thighs. He might never get enough of this
sight; Harry’s face is lax with sleep, no masks in place to
protect himself from scrutiny yet, one of his hands tangled in
his hair, the other under his jumper on his lower belly…

241
Slowly, purposefully, Louis grabs the blanket and slides it off
to uncover Harry’s body, arousal thrumming through his veins.
Then, unable to stop himself, Louis leans down to kiss Harry’s
inner thigh, his thumb digging into the tiger tattooed on his leg.
He makes his way, lips soft but greedy, up, up, up… until he
feels Harry’s hand grabbing the back of his head. Looking up,
their eyes meeting, Louis feels lips turning up into a satisfied
smirk when Harry nods and guides his mouth where he most
wants it, fingers tight in Louis’ hair.

After, Louis kisses Harry’s hip bone, his hands rubbing the
outside of Harry’s thighs for a few seconds before he kneels
again, reaching for the forgotten pants and sliding them up
Harry’s legs. Then, he crawls up his body to press a small kiss
on Harry’s mouth, still open in a pant. Before Harry gets a
chance to deepen the kiss, a chance to distract him, Louis leans
away, tucking a sweaty curl off Harry’s face.

“Bed, yeah?” he whispers, a smile spreading over his face when

Harry nods sleepily.

“Dunno if I can walk,” Harry admits. Boneless. Red-cheeked.

Sated.

Louis chuckles, pride blooming in his chest and he looks down

for a second before getting up, trying to hide his self-satisfied
smirk. Then, he leans back down, grabbing Harry’s forearm
gently to help him up. When he stumbles a little, Louis wraps
an arm around Harry’s waist, pressing their bodies together and
holding him in place.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

Harry yawns, then he nods.

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“Want to put your jeans back on?” Louis asks, laughing when
Harry wrinkles his nose with distaste.

He curls a little into Louis' body, trying to hide his face into
Louis' neck, mumbling something like " 'm cold" into Louis'
skin.

"That's why you should put clothes on baby," Louis teases

before untangling Harry from his body, making sure he's
holding himself properly. Then, he bends down to grab the
discarded wool blanket. It’s soft and it’s warm, should do the
trick as they walk back to Louis’ bedroom, so he wraps it
around Harry’s shoulder like a cape, securing the corners of it
into the collar of Harry’s jumper, certain he wouldn’t want to
bother with holding it up. He kisses the tip of Harry’s nose as
the finishing touch, loving the way Harry smiles in response.

Silently, carefully, they make their way down the stairs in the
dark, Louis' hand on Harry's hipbone as he walks behind him
and makes sure he's not tripping all over himself. He refuses to
waste time regretting not looking for a working torch, focusing
instead on making sure they both make it down the spiral
staircase intact. But as they stumble awkwardly pressed
together, Louis can’t help but think he’s made a mistake. Still,
they successfully reach the bottom of the stairs, then Louis’
bedroom, the door partly open already. They’re both so
exhausted Louis only has a passing thought for the fact that
maybe his cabin like room is embarrassing, that maybe he
should feel ashamed of its size, of what it reveals about the state
of his lonely existence to Harry for the very first time. But
Harry simply yawns as he walks in, clearly too tired to pass any
kind of judgement on Louis’ living quarters. The creaking
noises of the door wake up Clifford who was sleeping on the
floor beneath Louis’ bed in their absence from the ground floor

243
and he gets up with a small bark, nosing at Harry’s feet with
curiosity.

"Hey Cliffy, you beauty," Harry says in a soft fond voice

despite the fatigue, extending an arm towards Clifford's face
and letting his hand be licked. He yawns again, using his other
hand to rub at his eyes and Louis walks around his body to get
to the dog.

"Okay, enough boy," Louis warns kindly, pushing him away

with gentle but forceful hands.

Clifford obeys immediately, good boy that he is, curling back

up in his spot straight away, big body dropping to the floor with
a thud as he lets out a loud sigh. Louis smiles, turning to face
Harry again. "Just a few steps left and you can sleep," he
announces, head tilting towards the ladder leading up to his
single bed. "Might be a bit tight," he says apologetically, still
trying not to feel embarrassed.

Louis isn't a lonely person exactly. And even when he is, he

mostly finds it okay, his reclusive soul comfortable with days
filled with only his own company. Yet, the fear of being judged
for choosing this existence, this existence where he only needs
a tiny cramped bed for himself and no guests almost ever, never
fully goes away. Especially in front of someone like Harry,
someone he wants so desperately to cling to, someone he wants
so desperately to keep. Even though he knows he can't.

Still, Harry just smiles, sleepy eyes half closed. "Good," he

replies, starting his ascent, "you'll keep me warm."

Louis inhales deeply, then closes the door fully behind them to
avoid the draft, silently hoping Clifford will be able to stay put

244
until they wake up naturally. He makes his way up the ladder,
smiling to himself when he sees Harry has already curled
himself under Louis' duvet, facing the wall and offering his
back to Louis, the wool blanket still tightly wrapped around his
shoulder. Louis molds himself to Harry's body, ankles to
ankles, knees to knees, his arm tightly locked around Harry's
waist, his hand flat against Harry's chest, feeling the soothing
beats of his heart.

It barely takes a few minutes for him to be lulled to sleep.

Louis wakes slowly, goes from a half-slumber still dreamy state

to fully alert with steady breaths, his hands searching for
Harry’s warmth before he opens his eyes to an empty space in
front of him. He blinks twice before sitting up and looking
around his room with confusion. The curtains on his window
are open and the sunlight is spilling into his room, concrete
proof that he’s slept a lot longer than he normally would. With
his internal clock all messed up, Louis untangles himself from
the blankets, stretching his legs for a second, before starting to
look under his pillow for his phone, eager to know what time it
is. His hand comes up empty and, in a flash, he remembers
leaving it in the lantern room the night before. He sighs,
shaking his head at himself. He’s not sure he can be bothered
to pick it up before talking to Harry, before finding out where
he’s run off to.

Louis gets out of bed, skipping the last few steps of the ladder
in favour of jumping, hissing in discomfort when his naked feet
hit the floor. He eyes the bathroom door for a second, his
shower’s siren call tempting after the previous night’s
activities. Except Harry wasn’t in bed with him when he woke

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up, is nowhere to be found so far, and Louis doesn’t think he
can wait to make sure he’s okay, that he doesn’t regret what
happened. He turns towards his dresser, taking his top off and
throwing it blindly towards the dirty laundry pile in the corner
of his room. He sends a spare prayer to the universe that Harry,
somehow, didn’t notice the mess when he woke up, before
grabbing a fresh jumper and throwing it on. He’s too sleepy to
dress to impress so he grabs a clean pair of pants and some grey
sweats, satisfied that his dark blue jumper at least matches his
eyes. Besides, Harry has seen him in much more relaxed outfits
before and he kissed him anyway. If Louis gets his way, he’ll
spend most of the day with his mouth attached to Harry’s again.
Ideally. If Harry’s willing. If he’s still here.

Louis shakes his head, dismissing the ridiculously anxious

thought. Of course, Harry is still here. Where else would he be?
Fair Isle is less than 5 km long, realistically, there are not many
other places he could be. And he’s paid to stay until mid-
March. There’s absolutely no reason to read into the fact that
Harry’s left him to wake up alone.

Finally dressed, Louis goes to the bathroom for a piss, washing

his hands, his face, then cleaning his teeth before leaving his
bedroom to walk back to the B&B section.

His nerves settle down when he starts hearing noises coming

from the kitchen, Harry’s voice performing what sounds like a
made-up song about breakfast. There’s not much lyrics to the
song, just a few “scrambled eggs!”, “pain au chocolat!”,
“orange juice!” and “croissant!” with some deep “lalalalas” in
between, but Louis physically has to stop in the corridor and
take a few slow breaths with his hand pressed to his heart.

How fucking cute.

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When Louis finally feels calm enough to walk into the kitchen,
his face back to neutral and not fond beyond words can express,
Harry looks caught red-handed, one of the previous B&B
owners’ aprons tied around his waist on top of a stretched white
tee. He’s holding a pan with one hand, wearing what seems to
be a pair of Louis’ sweats if the way they cut off just above his
ankles is to be trusted.

A vintage attack on the senses, the apron is made of white cloth

with red and pink flowers, thrown around Harry’s neck and tied
to his waist with a bright red ribbon, two deep red pockets on
each side of the skirt. The whole look is completed with a
sweetheart neckline embellished with white lace, the colours a
bit faded from use. Louis suspects the previous owners’ wife
wore it a lot and must have missed it when she realised she’d
forgotten it on the island. Despite never using it himself, Louis
never threw it away after the first time his sisters visited and
they all had fun playing dress up with it. On Harry, it looks both
ridiculous and endearing. It suits him and his silly breakfast
song.

“You’re awake,” Harry frowns, putting the pan back on the

stove.

“Sorry to disappoint...?” Louis says, tone a bit questioning.

“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” Harry declares,

pointing at his outfit, like that somehow explains it. “Duh.”

“Ah,” Louis nods, taking a step forward. He leans down to say

good morning to Clifford, scratching him under his ears. “Hey
babe,” he whispers to the dog.

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“I fed him and took him out,” Harry says and when Louis looks
back to him, he smiles a little shyly. “Figured you deserved a
lie in.”

Louis scrunches his nose and smiles apologetically. “Sorry to

ruin your plans ?”

“S’okay,” Harry shrugs and they stand there awkwardly,

neither of them quite knowing what to do or what to say.
Finally, after a few seconds, Harry turns back towards the
stove, mumbling something about the food being almost ready,
his shoulders hunched forward.

Louis rolls his eyes and huffs a small sigh, disappointed in his
own self, before walking next to Harry and reaching into one
of the pockets of his apron, dragging him closer with one sharp
movement and pressing a loud kiss to his cheek.

“Hey babe,” he repeats, a satisfied and sharp feeling of pride in

his chest when Harry smiles deeply in response.

“Heyyy,” Harry replies.

“Thanks for making food,” Louis continues, kissing his cheek

again. “You look cute,” he adds without thinking, blushing
when he realizes when he’s just said. “I mean, not that all your
appeal lies in your physical appearance obviously,” he babbles,
fiercely aware the way Harry’s image has been sold over and
over again, a literal price tag attached to his face and body.
“What is physical beauty anyway?” he poses the question with
a vague hand gesture. “Truly meaningless in the grand scheme
of things.”

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There’s a small beat of silence before Harry squeaks a high
pitched laughter. He slaps a hand over his mouth in
embarrassment, before shaking his head. “You done?” he asks,
eyebrows raised and a look on his face like he
knows exactly what Louis was thinking and he finds him both
adorable and ridiculous at the same time.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Louis mumbles.

“I’m not,” Harry denies, turning the stove off. “I appreciate that
you have a frilly apron fetish and that you don’t just want to
shag me for my physical appearance.

“I don’t have a frilly apron fetish!” Louis replies, pinching the

skin of Harry’s waist, laughing so much he can barely talk.

“No, really,” Harry squeaks, leaning away from Louis’ fingers,

“I can work with this. Trust me, I’ve seen more niche. It’s much
better than what I was imagining either way.”

“What do you mean work with this?” Louis asks automatically

before his brain catches up with what Harry said next. “Wait,
what were you imagining?” he asks, pushing Harry away a little
to look at his face.

“I like the fact that you were concerned about what I’m willing
to do in the apron first and foremost.” Harry wiggles his
eyebrows. “And nothing scandalous, don’t look like that. I just
figured you might have a secret wife stashed away somewhere.
Jane Eyre style.”

Louis’ mouth drops open. “A secret -” he shakes his head,

disbelieving. “You found an apron that literally looks 50 years
old in my kitchen cupboard and your first thought was that I

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have a secret wife? Harry, I’m obviously very gay and –” he
stops his rant when he sees the twinkle in Harry’s eyes. “Oh, I
see. Are you done making fun of me now?” Louis mumbles,
folding his arms across his chest.

Harry giggles, leaning down a little towards Louis to kiss the

petulant frown off his face. Louis would push him away just to
be difficult but… He hasn’t kissed Harry in a few hours now.
Basically a lifetime. And he hasn’t forgotten his goal for the
day. So he lets Harry kiss him and wraps his arms around
Harry’s neck to start playing with his curls. After a while, Harry
leans away.

“Food,” he says sternly, pushing Louis towards the table.

“Can I hel-”

“You can sit down and let me take care of everything,” Harry
orders, buzzing with energy as he grabs plates.

“By the way,” Louis starts as he sits down, smiling when

Clifford walks to him and drops his head on Louis’ thigh, “I do
think that beauty IS meaningless. And that it has no link so
someone’s actual value as a person. I have a lot of little sisters
okay, I meant that speech.”

Harry looks over his shoulder to smile at him. “I know,” he

replies. He turns back around, fiddling with some stuff on the
counter before coming back to put a glass of juice in front of
Louis. “Orange juice,” he declares and Louis smirks.

“Lalalala?” he sings softly, imitating Harry’s song from before,

laughing a little when he dimples and blushes.

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“Yep,” Harry replies before coming back with a plate of
pastries he clearly bought from the cafe and Louis’ stomach
tighten at the thought of Harry getting up early and walking all
the way to the village to get Louis pastries for breakfast.

“Thanks,” Louis says, fingers soft on Harry’s wrist. He grabs

the apron with his other hand, dragging Harry down to kiss him
again. “You didn’t have to go all the way to Mrs. Clark’s.”

Harry blinks, looking caught. “Had to walk Cliff anyway,

so…” He shrugs dismissively, like it isn’t a big deal, like it’s
nothing, but Louis can’t remember the last time someone
cooked for him properly, the last time someone took care of
him.

With his job, he’s the one always taking care of others and
while he likes it that way very much, there’s something
softening in him as he’s being fussed over for the first time in
a long time. God, he wishes he didn’t like Harry this much.

Next, Harry puts plates with scrambled eggs and sausages on

the table. He takes the apron off, putting it on the counter,
before fluffing his hair with delicate fingers. Then, he grabs the
empty chair in front of Louis, moving it so he can sit right next
to him, kindly pushing Clifford out of the way, replacing the
weight of Cliff’s head on Louis’ thigh with the feeling of
Harry’s pressed against it.

Louis would kill a man for his dog, but this… this is much
better, he can’t help but think when Harry timidly reaches for
Louis’ hand, tangling their fingers on his thigh as they eat
breakfast inconveniently one-handed.

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Chapter 8

Later that day, much later, after they’ve done the dishes in
tandem to the sounds of a soft jazz playlist that Harry carefully
selected on Louis phone, picked up from the top of the tower
when Louis was still sleeping, their shoulders pressed together
as they swayed, Louis washing while Harry dried, they go back
to the lantern room. They clean up their messes quickly, Harry
blushing a little at the devastation they’ve caused the night
before, cushions and blankets thrown haphazardly on the floor
and mugs of tea miraculously not cracked where they’ve fallen
off the chest. There’s even books on the floor, more than just
the poetry book from last night, not to mention the torch they
lost in the midst of passion. Louis didn’t remember it being that
messy when they left, but he had been somewhat preoccupied
at the time.

They’re almost done with the cleaning, Louis finishing

carefully putting the cushions back on the bench when he hears
the creaky sound of the door leading to the gallery. He turns
just in time to catch Harry sneaking outside the room, smiling
a little when he leans on the railing with nothing but his flimsy
white tee. There’s already goosebumps on the flesh of his arms,
Louis can tell, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, looking ahead
with the ever-present pensive look on his face that Louis has
come to like so much. His hair is getting long, Louis can’t help
but notice as the wind makes his curls dance against his cheeks.
He looks beautiful in the late afternoon light; ethereal, yet not
out of place even though maybe he should. The sun has started
to set, bathing him in golden pink light. He looks like he

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belongs, looks as beautiful as the scenery and it hits Louis in
the chest ferociously, like a bullet. Bang. This is really going to
hurt him.

Because Harry doesn’t belong, no matter how much he looks

like he might, no matter how much Louis might want him to.
He belongs in faraway cities, on a gigantic stage, in front of
seas of people… He might not be sure if he’s going to continue
his career right now, but Louis has a hard time imagining he’s
ever going to find his way back here. Not when he has so much
left to say, all those songs he’s been writing shyly that are going
to need an audience soon. He going to leave, as he should, and
it’s going to hurt.

If Louis were a stronger, wiser man, he might pick up the

courage to talk about this. He might sit Harry down, establish
some boundaries, discuss what the hell they think they’re doing
right now when he’s scheduled to leave in a little over a month.
But he’s not. He’s not a strong man, he’s a foolish one and he
wants this. He wants to kiss Harry again and again, every
second of every day until he leaves, wants to cherish the
opportunity while he has it, before Harry goes back to being
who he was born to be. Louis knows he’s nothing but an
interlude, hopefully, a memory Harry will dwell upon with
fondness once in a while, a little fling special enough to be
remembered… And he wants it all. He wants so much more.
Louis can’t even find it in himself to be upset, the thrill of
Harry’s touch still coursing through his veins, the euphoria of
what finally happened between them impossible to dampen.

Louis sighs as he looks at the sunset, looks at Harry looking at

the sunset, seeing the ribbon of pain still coursing through him,
but also seeing the strength of his character, seeing the way he’s
rebuilding himself and suddenly he has to blink back tears at
how fiercely proud he is of this man. This dumbass who always

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works so hard and had to learn not to wear his heart on his
sleeve in the cruelest of ways, but who never let it change the
kindness of his spirit. This absolute complete dumbass
shivering in nothing but a t-shirt outside on the gallery just to
watch the sunset properly, to watch the sea.

Louis shakes his head fondly before looking away, going

straight for the chest and grabbing an ugly purple cardigan that
came straight from hell in the 80s. Then, he joins Harry on the
gallery, closing the door behind him and smirking a little at the
fierceness of the wind. The whistling can almost always be
heard through the glass but it’s truly unavoidable once outside,
a powerful and overtaking sound. Louis doesn’t waste a second
before walking straight to Harry, carefully placing the cardigan
over his shoulders, just like he carefully placed the blanket over
him last night. Harry tenses for a second, less than an instant,
before relaxing into Louis’ body once he’s recognised that it’s
him. Louis lets his hands slide from Harry’s shoulders and now
his arms, making sure the fabric is secure over him before
wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind,
enfolding him, their bodies so close together there isn’t a sliver
of space between them. Louis scratches Harry’s belly for a
second while pressing a kiss on top of his right shoulder. Then,
he lets one of his palms rest soothingly on Harry’s lower belly,
the other up near his heart, feeling the slow rise and fall of his
deep breaths. Resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder, Louis takes
in the sight of the dramatic cliffs and the tumultuous sea beyond
them, the breathtaking sunset all around.

“Thanks,” Harry says, placing his right hand on Louis’ against

his stomach and tangling their fingers.

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“Thought you might be cold,” Louis whispers, right into his
ear.

“M’not anymore,” Harry replies and for a while they just stand
in silence, watching as the sky changes, reddens, darkens,
slowly.

After a while, Louis smiles almost absently. “That sky, uh,” he

says, mostly to himself, still overwhelmed by the sight of it all
those years later, still overwhelmed even though he gets to see
it every day. It’s a moving sight, the world around them so
majestic in ways they have no control over.

Harry hums in agreement, pensive and careful as usual. “I’ve

seen a lot of beautiful things in a lot of beautiful places,” he
finally says after a moment of reflection, “but this view…” He
pauses, takes a deep breath. Inhales. Exhales. “This place is so
special,” he finally tells Louis, turning his head to face him.

Louis tilts his head, their eyes meet, and Harry’s gaze softens.

“I understand why you fell in love with it,” he adds, an emotion

Louis isn’t quite sure he knows how to read stuck in his throat.
Then, he leans forward to kiss Louis, who decides not to worry
too much about it.

Surely this shouldn’t still feel like the first time, but Louis’
heart skips a beat with trepidation all the same, with
excitement, with disbelief. With a chorus of Harry is kissing
me! Harry is kissing me! Harry is kissing me! going round and
round in the back of his head. He really is such a fool.

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They keep kissing a for a few seconds until Harry tires of the
awkward angle, turning around so his back is pressing against
the railing, both of his hands on Louis’ neck as he deepens the
kiss, as he takes what he wants. It can’t be very comfortable,
but Louis has a hard time worrying about Harry’s back when
he bites into his lower lip like that. Louis groans into his mouth,
one hand grabbing onto the railing for balance as the other
holds onto Harry’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh, keeping
him in place. Suddenly, things start getting heated and Louis is
kissing his way along Harry’s jaw, sucking into his neck,
delighting in the little moans coming out of Harry’s mouth.
Teasingly, he presses their thighs together, a hint of where he
wants this to go, and Harry’s hips roll as he follows Louis’
movement.

“Oh shit,” Harry says and it takes Louis a second to realise he

sounds worried rather than turned on, detaching himself from
Harry’s neck and looking at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Louis asks, pushing Harry’s hair off his forehead and
rubbing a thumb between his eyebrows, their bodies still a bit
too tangled together. “What’s wrong?”

“Your cardigan fell,” Harry says with a pant and Louis looks
down at where the offensive garment now lies sadly on the roof
of the cottage.

“Who cares?” Louis shrugs, before leaning down to kiss

Harry’s jaw again. “She’s not mine. And she’s a monster
anyway,” he jokes against Harry’s skin, biting him teasingly
where his jaw meets his neck, a little nip of the skin that makes
him moan.

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“I like her though,” Harry gasps, reaching for Louis’ shoulders
and grabbing at them.

And that makes Louis pause, leaning away as he gives Harry a

calculating look.

“You like her?” He raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him for

emphasis.

“I love her,” Harry insists, eyes sparkling with mischief, body

relaxed against the railing, cheeks bright red and his curls
messy around his head. “I don’t want her to die an orphan.”

They probably shouldn’t be doing this up here anyway, Louis

figures, though he suspects many a customer has done the same
without him knowing. Still, it probably isn’t the safest spot for
a make-out session as the cardigan’s tragic fate confirms, but
Harry’s hard to resist like this. When he’s joking and teasing,
bright-eyed with just kissed lips.

“You don’t want her to die an orphan,” Louis deadpans,

managing to keep a straight face until the moment Harry shrugs
coyly, then grins, dimples, and leans in to try and kiss him
again.

Louis takes a step backwards, avoiding the kiss with a laugh,

and he keeps walking back until he’s pressed against the glass
of the lantern, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Well,” he says teasingly, crossing one leg over the other, “if
you don’t want her to die an orphan, I guess I’ll have to go and
rescue her. So you can officially adopt her, you know?” He
smirks when Harry’s face falls, the realisation he’s being
denied more kisses slowly taking over his face.

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“We don’t have to do that now,” Harry insists, taking a step
forward, reaching for Louis’ waist.

Louis is too fast though, agile and prepared, and he steps out of
the way just in time, reaching for the door to get back inside.

“Delaying the rescue mission? Harry, what are you thinking?”

he says as he opens it behind himself. “No, no, no, no, we can’t
possibly to that. She’s had quite the fall. Every second count.
This is a matter of great urgency.” He steps back into the lantern
room, giggling when Harry rolls his eyes at him, huffing a little
with a pouty smile.

“Come on,” Harry whines exaggeratedly, following Louis in

and then down the stairs. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he insists with
a small laugh.

Ten minutes later, Louis is standing on top of the roof, one hand
resting triumphantly on his hip while the other holds the
precious cardigan up for Harry to see. The sun is practically
fully set now, darkness enveloping them, but it’s more a
principle thing than anything else. Harry is holding the ladder
with two firm hands, Louis’ denim jacket cute and snug around
his shoulders, but there’s a slightly worried look on his face.
Louis can tell.

“Okay, you’ve proven your point,” Harry calls when Louis

jokingly curtsy and yells “you’re welcome!”

“She’s gonna make it H,” Louis shouts back instead of getting

down. “Don’t you worry.”

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“Can you come down now?” Harry asks, a tad impatient though
Louis suspects it’s hiding more worry than anything else. “It’s
dark now, you’ll fall off.”

“How you underestimate me,” Louis teases before dramatically

draping the cardigan over one of his shoulders and carefully
making his way to the edge.

Quickly enough, he’s back on the ground, presenting Harry

with his prize.

“Your ugly child,” Louis jokes, wrapping the cardigan around

Harry’s shoulder like a scarf, using it to drag Harry’s body
forward.

“My hero!” Harry jokingly swoons, easily following Louis’

lead until Louis’ back is pressed against the cottage wall. “How
could I ever repay you?” he teases, breathes, against Louis’
lips.

Then, without waiting for a second longer, he kisses him again.

This time, they made it to Harry’s bedroom and Louis bathes

in the luxury of a massive bed he never allows himself even
when the Bed & Breakfast is empty, feeling the softness of the
expensive sheets on his naked skin and smiling to himself as he
lays on his back, one of Harry’s legs wrapped over his where
he’s lying on his side next to him.

Louis keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling for a while, feeling
the weight of Harry’s gaze on his face but choosing not to say
anything. He’s still surprised at how tidy Harry’s kept the room,

259
no bags, or clothing in sight. He caught a glimpse of his guitar
and a pile of notebooks in one corner when they barged in a
couple of hours ago, but apart from that small hint of personal
belongings, everything that Harry owns seems neatly tucked
away. It fits him and his careful, calculated manner, Louis
supposes. The kind of man who takes a while to reveal himself
and keeps his inner feelings tucked away too. Louis smiles to
himself as soon as the thought enters his mind, remembering
all the times Harry has chosen to cautiously open to him, all the
ways he’s been honest perhaps against his first instinct.

“What?” Louis finally asks, sincere smile transforming into a

teasing smirk in the corner of his mouth, when Harry’s gaze
stubbornly refuses to move away. He means for it to come out
jokingly impatient, but his voice betrays softness not matter
what he intends when Harry is concerned. He’s always giving
so much away.

“Nothing,” Harry whispers, not moving an inch.

“You’re staring at me.” Louis states the obvious, eyes fixed on

the vintage industrial luminaire above. He had worried and
fretted so much over every little choice when he had first
started decorating the Bed & Breakfast and Louis particularly
remembers some vicious fighting in his family groupchat over
which lamps he needed to pick to give his establishment a
modern feel while honoring its history. The result is
impressive, Louis thinks when he allows himself a pause from
humility and it’s all just very him , every inch of the place
reeking of his influence.

There’s something deeply satisfying for him to think about

Harry making a temporary home of a place Louis curated so
carefully.

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“Yes,” Harry acknowledges without explaining himself, “I
am.”

Louis purses his lips, trying to fight off an overwhelming smile.

He knows he’s not succeeding very well, knows his eyes are
crinkling without permission, giving him away completely.
Still, he doesn’t feel self-conscious, never does under Harry’s
attention. There’s nothing about the way he’s being looked at
right now that makes him want to hide away. Which, for a man
who has made his life mission to spend as much time as
possible by himself, is no small feat. But there’s something
about the way Harry looks at him, there always has been. It’s
like he’s really paying attention, like every little tremor of
Louis’ face needs to be noted and catalogued, like maybe there
will be a test later and Harry needs to know it all. Like maybe
he’ll need to remember the specific way Louis giggles down at
Clifford when he runs out of the sea at full speed and shakes
himself dry, no one safe from him. Like maybe he’ll need to
remember the specific way Louis dances in the kitchen while
he does the dishes, all bum shaking and without particular
talent. Harry always looks at him like he wants every line of
Louis’ body tattooed unto his brain, wants to memorize every
rise and fall of Louis’ chest so he doesn’t forget. Louis wonders
if that’s part of what makes Harry so special, so beloved, if
maybe he makes everyone’s blood boil in their veins the way
he does Louis’, if he makes them all feel unique and important
somehow. Because Louis does feel special when Harry’s eyes
stubbornly refuse to move away from his face.

It’s a silly feeling, perhaps. Inconsequential, surely. And yet.

Louis licks his lower lip, trying to delay the inevitable, but soon
enough he’s unable to help himself and he turns on his side in
one movement to face Harry, trapping his leg between both of
his. He smiles when their eyes finally meet.

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“There,” Louis teases, “now you can look all you want.”

Harry doesn’t smile. Instead, he very slowly reaches up to

Louis’ cheek, caressing it with his thumb as he slides the rest
of his fingers in Louis’ hair.

“You probably shouldn’t indulge me as much as you do.” It

tumbles out of Harry’s mouth like a warning rather than a
reproach and Louis finds himself shaking his head before the
sentence is fully out.

“I’ll have you know, I think I indulge you just the right
amount,” Louis says seriously, before leaning in to kiss the tip
of Harry’s nose, delighting in the way he scrunches it.

The next morning, after waking up tangled in Harry’s bed,

Louis’ freezing fingertips chasing warmth on Harry’s belly,
they walk Clifford together. He hasn’t gone on a morning jog
since Harry’s birthday, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care
when he can join Harry in his daily ritual instead. It’s half past
seven when they first make their way outside, bundled up in
two layers of jumpers under their jackets. The wind is unkind
this early in the morning and Louis wrinkles his nose as they
start making their way to the village. The sun won’t rise for
almost another hour, but the darkness won’t tame Clifford’s
enthusiasm as he runs ahead of them on the frozen muddy path
that leads to the main road.

Harry is pensive, silent, the first time he’s been so since they
first kissed, and Louis isn’t sure if he should offer more comfort
now that they’ve started… whatever this is that they’re doing.
If maybe he shouldn’t just let him be as he usually does. When

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they first woke up, he assumed Harry was only half asleep, non-
communicative because he hadn’t had a chance to fully wake
yet, but as they get closer and closer to the village, it becomes
obvious he’s probably having one of those difficult moody days
he has sometimes, stuck in his head and his worries. So Louis
decides to do as he usually does, decides to walk alongside him
silently, ready to offer a hand or a shoulder, should Harry need
it.

When they get to the edge of the village, the red phone box a
shadowed figure in the darkness ahead of them, Harry stops
walking.

“I…” he clears his throat. “I know we said we’d get breakfast

together and I’d call after, but I think I need to do that first,” he
says, pointing towards the booth.

“Of course,” Louis nods, turning sideways to face him and

reaching for his bicep. “The bakery is open so I’ll just go have
a tea while I’m waiting.”

“Is that alright?” Harry asks, a people pleaser if there ever was
one, and Louis smiles, shaking his head.

“It’s perfectly alright,” he says, taking a step forward to kiss

Harry, sliding a hand through the hair at the back of his neck
while the other squeezes his bicep a little. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, ok,” Harry says, looking down at his feet, smiling a

little. Then, he walks over to the phone book and gets inside,
giving Louis a final look over his shoulder before grabbing the
receiver and digging into his pocket for change.

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“Come on doggo,” Louis calls to Clifford, walking past the
booth and straight to the bakery.

He watches the sky change through the bakery’s front window,

from complete darkness until it starts spilling oranges and reds
across the world as the sun rises slowly, drinking his tea with
Clifford resting at his feet. He’s tucked away in a corner of the
store, absently going through his family and friend’s
Instagrams, liking his sisters’ selfies and roasting his mates’
stupid captions.

At some point, he indulges himself and angles his mug towards

the window to grab a picture of it with the sunrise in the
background, shamelessly captioning it with lyrics from one of
Harry’s songs before posting it. At least, he’ll be the only one
to know how absolutely fucking cheesy and smitten he is, Louis
figures as he puts his phone back into his pocket before
reaching down to pet Clifford.

Mrs. Clark tops up his tea twice while he waits and he’s only
halfway through the third cuppa when Harry walks through the
door, a vision in Louis’ denim jacket and a white turtleneck.
Mrs. Clark beams when she sees him and he exchanges a tiny
look with Louis before going up to the counter to order
breakfast. Louis doesn’t mean to creepily stare, but he can’t
help the way his gaze sticks to Harry’s body, observing every
micro-shift in his body language to try and figure out if he’s
still upset. As it is, he seems much looser than before, his
cheeks dimpling honestly when he hands a tenner to Mrs. Clark
and refuses the change. Louis looks away when Harry turns
around, a couple of plates filled with pastries in his hand.

“No tea?” Louis teases when Harry joins him at the table.

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Harry shrugs, placing one of the plates filled with his favourites
in front of Louis’. “Figured you’d probably had some left to
share,” he says, sitting down and automatically reaching for
Louis’ half full mug.

“Thief,” Louis teases, grabbing an almond croissant and

starting to nibble straight away.

“You don’t mind,” Harry says confidently, taking another sip

and grimacing a little at the bitterness. “Besides it’s probably
your fourth or something, not very healthy. I’m just looking out
for you.”

Louis scoffs. “Third, actually,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Did you even eat anything?” Harry asks, shaking his head.

“Would you have bought me that many pastries if you thought

I had?” Louis replies knowingly with his mouth half full.

Harry licks his lower lip, grabbing a banana and pecan muffin
from his own plate. “Touch é, ” he replies before taking a huge
bite out of it, from top to bottom, eating a third of it in one go.

Louis lets him chew for a bit before asking the question burning
at the tip of his tongue.

“Good phone call?”

He can’t help himself. He has to comment on Harry’s obvious

mood shift. Before they parted, he assumed Harry would
remain quiet most of the day, might even request some alone
time, yet here he is, joking along, all smiles.

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“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He takes another sip of tea before giving
it back. “Definitely. I had a lot on my mind this morning. My
brain was all…” he wiggles his fingers to illustrate his point.
“Talking it out helped. I feel great.”

Louis takes two last large gulps of tea before handing it back.
“You keep the rest,” he says, “I’ve had enough already.”

“I’m not going to argue with that,” Harry laughs, taking the
mug again and placing it next to his plate.

“I’m glad your call helped,” Louis comments, fighting through

the awkwardness he’s feeling. “Not that I mind when you’re…”
Louis wiggles his fingers back at him in an echo of Harry’s own
gesture. Warmth spreads through his chest when Harry smiles
back at him, amused. “But, you know… It’s always nice to see
those two,” Louis continues softly, reaching across the table to
press his thumb right where Harry’s left dimple just appeared.

“The money-makers,” Harry says, self-deprecatingly.

Louis shakes his head when he rolls his eyes. “Nah,” he replies,
not saying any of the foolish things he’s thinking, like that
Harry’s dimples are two commas of happiness etched into his
skin, two small pauses of joy that illuminate his face. “Don’t
think of them like that.”

Louis surprises himself by how serious he sounds. His thumb

is still stroking Harry’s cheek and he should probably let go
now. He doesn’t know how Harry feels about PDA and while
the cafe might be empty, Mrs. Clark is still behind the counter
and she’ll be reporting to everyone else later if she sniffs
anything remotely romantic between them. Still, he can’t seem

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to be able to let go, Harry’s skin too soft to the touch, the
gesture somehow comforting to Louis .

“I’m just joking,” Harry says, voice a bit raspy.

Louis really wants to kiss him.

“Right,” he mumbles to himself, finally letting go of Harry’s

face, leaning back in his chair. “Of course.” He grabs another
pastry without looking, taking a huge bite. “These are really
good.”

Harry nods in agreement, finishing his muffin and laughing

when Clifford moves towards him to put his head on his thigh.
“Oh come on,” Harry giggles, “that was a muffin. You don’t
want a muffin, you goof.” He lets Clifford sniff at his empty
hands.

“He wants your attention,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. Not that
he can blame his dog. “He doesn’t care about the muffin. He’s
become codependent I think. He likes you more than me, you
know,” he adds pointedly, pretending to be offended.

Harry scoffs. “Well, that is blatantly untrue,” he says in with a

dog voice, soft and higher like he’s talking to a child, before
pressing a kiss on top of Clifford’s head. “You love your father,
don’t you?” he asks Clifford, grinning up at Louis when his dog
barks in response. “See.”

“I know he loves me, that was never in question.”

“Good. It shouldn’t be.” Harry lifts the mug, taking one, two,
three long gulps before putting it down on the table and sliding

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it away from him. “Nothing like a good cuppa not made to your
taste,” he jokes before winking at Louis.

He looks a little cocky but sweet, the combination an

unbearable turn on. Louis really has been powerless all along,
strung along for the ride, unable to stop the way his stomach
clenches and his heart swells whenever Harry does something
cute. But, instead of focusing on the silly butterflies in his belly,
Louis teases Harry right back.

“I mean, you’re the one who stole it, you knew exactly what
you were getting into. If you wanted something disgustingly
sweet you could have bought your own tea.”

Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh before tilting his head

slightly. “I suppose,” he agrees half-heartedly, before looking
sincere. “Thanks for sharing.”

Louis shrugs him off. “No problem. Thanks for buying me

pastries.”

Harry smirks. “No problem.”

They take their time eating the rest of their breakfast, going
through the absurd amount of pastries Harry purchased
relatively quickly. Soon enough, there’s nothing but crumbs
left in their respective plates and Louis almost can’t believe the
amount of food he just ate. They leave just as the bakery gets
busy, waving to almost half the village on their way out,
everyone enthusiastic to see them and eager to have a chat.
Louis dodges a few “how’s it going?” by nodding, smiling and
giving dorky thumbs up until they’re finally back on the streets.
Once they’ve got some privacy, Harry laughs a little.

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“Gotta love how everyone is in everyone’s business,” he
comments, obviously referring to the way people started
gossiping with each other as soon as someone new entered the
coffee shop, the noise level rising with each new arrival.

“Yes, it’s delightful,” Louis says, playing along sarcastically.

“Actually,” he amends as they walk past the phone box and out
of the village, “during the touristy season, the gossip is pretty
fantastic! I always end up knowing as soon as someone new
arrives on the island. Super useful when people show up
without reservations. Of course, all the different
accommodations on the island are rarely fully sold out so
random people showing up isn’t often an issue. But the
neighbours still keep track of that kind of stuff. It’s pretty
useful, you know?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Wait,” he says, no longer walking and it

takes Louis a few seconds to realise it, meaning he has to jog
back to where Harry is standing, whistling at Clifford not to
stray too far. “Does that mean you knew I was coming? That
day I was waiting for you at the B&B? Did the village gossip
machine warn you?”

At that, Louis frowns, his confusion reawakened by Harry

mentioning it. “Actually,” he says, one index in the air, “that
reminds me… No. No one fucking saw you coming in. No one
knew where you came from. That was my first clue something
weird was going on by the way, because literally I always know
when someone new sets foot on the island. Yet there you were,
tall weirdo pacing in front of my windows and not a single
warning text message on my phone.”

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Harry smiles, a bit embarrassed. “Did you really think I was a
weirdo?” he asks, reaching for the hand Louis still has up in the
air, bringing it down and tangling their fingers together.

They start walking again, hand in hand, a lot less distance

between their bodies now that they’re mostly out of sight.

“Of course not,” Louis replies honestly, risking a side glance,

catching the way Harry’s face looks pleased for a second. “But
I was very intrigued. And to be honest, I still am. How did you
manage it?”

“It’s nothing spectacular, honestly. Just a private boat hire?”

“But how did nobody see you?” Louis asks, pushing a little. “I
mean, I know the port isn’t usually extremely busy, unless
we’re expecting a delivery of goods, or people. Sometimes
both,” Louis explains, “but it’s rarely completely deserted.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he pouts. “No

one was there. I had instructions from google map on how to
get to the lighthouse so I just… walked there. The woman who
owned the boat left straight away. We were there less than ten
minutes, s’probably just a coincidence that everyone missed us.
Though it did work to my advantage,” Harry admits.

“You didn’t want to be seen,” Louis guesses.

Harry shrugs again, his fingers tightening around Louis’. “I

didn’t necessarily expect people here to recognise me, but… it
was always a risk. It wasn’t really a master plan to avoid them
on purpose, but I guess I did hope I was going to arrive
relatively unnoticed.”

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“Well, things sure worked out in your favour.”

“For sure,” Harry agrees. “I mean, hot hotelier who doesn’t

know who I am and has a cute dog? That’s the dream.”

Louis laughs for a second, before frowning, a little puzzled. “I

can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not, to be honest,” he
admits sheepishly, still buzzing at the way Harry called
him hot.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Harry replies. He leans down a little,

breath tickling Louis’ ear, sending shivers down his spine
before adding: “your dog is really cute.”

Louis bursts into laughter, shoving Harry away from him in

retaliation. “Oh, shut up!” he exclaims while Harry starts
cackling, that high squeaky laugh that comes out of his mouth
sometimes and Louis can never get enough of. It always sounds
like it shouldn’t come out of Harry’s body, like he’s surprised
by it when it tumbles out of him, and it’s a little ugly, a little
imperfect. Louis wants to swallow it.

There’s no one around so Louis completely defeats the purpose

of pushing Harry away by grabbing him forcefully. Their
bodies collide and Louis shifts a little to align their mouths, his
fingers tight on Harry’s shoulders as he finally kisses him.
Harry gasps a little, clearly surprised, before kissing back.

“Okay,” Harry whispers against Louis’ lips when they separate.

He pecks him once, twice, before speaking again. “Wanna keep
walking a bit?” he asks, gesturing towards the small path that
goes down to the beach.

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The lighthouse is in sight, finally, and Louis is tempted to just
drag him back inside, push him against the front door and
unwrap him like a present, taking off his turtleneck and leave a
mark on the unveiled skin, ravishing him right there, barely past
the threshold.

“Yeah, alright,” Louis says, “let’s keep walking.”

The day is young and they’ve got time. They’ve got a bit of
time. If Louis thinks it often enough, it might make it true.

When they reach the beach, Clifford runs straight for the water,
getting in and out in a second, barking in what Louis chooses
to interpret as displeasure at the temperature. Harry laughs,
grabbing a discarded piece of wood and throwing it powerfully
ahead. Clifford takes the bait and runs for it, tail wagging
excitedly, water-related upset long forgotten.

“How cold do you think it is?” Harry asks, eyes squinting at the
horizon, the way the sea stretches and stretches, the strength of
the waves.

“Pretty fucking cold,” Louis chuckles, remembering. “A few

years ago, when I couldn’t go back home for the holidays, some
of the folks decided we should do our own version of The
Loony Dook for Hogmanay and it was absolute torture.”

Harry’s face twists in confusion. “Sorry, the what?” he asks.

“Hogmanay’s New Years Eve in Scotland,” Louis explains.

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Harry rolls his eyes, bending down to grab the stick from
Clifford’s mouth. “Good boy,” he whispers before throwing it
again. “I know that!” he says for Louis’ benefit. “I mean the….
Loony thing?”

“Oh! It’s an event in Fife. On the first day of the year, people
throw themselves in the freezing waters. S’mostly for charity,
but also… you know… It’s like you were saying, water is
cleansing and it’s a new beginning and everything.”

Harry gives him a disbelieving look, his mouth wide open.

“And you didn’t think to tell me about it!” he squeaks. “We
could have done it this year!”

Louis grimaces, shivering at the mere memory of the freezing

water, the way it stabs like knives and takes over everything.

“Oh, I am never doing that again,” he scoffs. “It was…” He

shivers exaggeratedly. “I didn’t know human beings could be
that cold. It was like I was never going to be warm again. I
mean, it was fun too, obviously,” he adds, mouths turning up at
the memory.

Only half the village had stayed on Fair Isle for the holidays
that year, all of them piling into Louis’ big dining room on his
birthday to share dishes everyone had brought especially,
popping crackers and rallying around each other to make sure
it was a memorable season. Louis had gotten drunk on Mrs.
Reid’s punch and had played the piano until two in the morning
while everyone danced. For Hogmanay, Mr. Drummond had
made a huge bonfire on the beach and most of them had spent
the entire night outside celebrating, watching the sunrise still
drunk before running into the sea fully clothed under the first

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few rays of sunshine. Louis had been cold, for sure, but it had
felt good to feel part of something.

“I don’t think anyone did it this year though,” he adds, looking

pensively at the waves. “I mean, maybe Mr. Drummond. He
loves his Scottish traditions.”

When Louis turns to face Harry again, there’s a determined

look on his face.

“I’m gonna do it,” he declares, taking Louis’ denim jacket off

and handing it to him before he can protest. Suddenly, Louis
just has an armful of clothes and Harry is bending down to untie
his shoes.

“I’m sorry, you’re doing what now?”

“Hogmanay,” Harry says like that makes any sort of sense.

He’s putting both of his wool socks inside of his shoes, making
sure no sand gets into them. Then, he grabs the trainers and puts
them in Louis’ arms too, right on top of the denim jacket. “The
loony thing,” he adds, giving Louis a slightly manic grin. “I’m
doing it.”

Then, unbelievably, he starts walking towards the water.

“It’s not Hogmanay,” Louis shouts after him. “Come on, don’t
be stupid, it’s bloody freezing!”

Harry shakes his head. “New beginnings,” he calls back over

his shoulder, taking his white jumper off and throwing it
blindly in Louis’ direction. It falls in the wet sand and Louis
runs to grab it before it stains too badly. “I’m cleansing

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myself!” Harry yells, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and
his jeans, arms spread out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis says under his breath as

he watches Harry run into the water.

Clifford looks up at him at the whisper, dropping the branch at

his feet.

“This is… truly… the dumbest thing I’ve seen someone do in

a long time,” Louis says to his dog, scoffing when Clifford
suddenly takes off, running after Harry straight into the water.

Harry emerges from the surface with a shout, half triumphant,

half freaked out. “Bloody fucking hell!” he yells, breathing like
he’s about to give birth, one hand pushing his wet hair off his
face.

“I can’t believe I had sex with him,” Louis says to himself,

watching as Harry cheers again, then starts running out of the
water, various profanities stumbling out of his mouth.

He’s rubbing his naked arms as he runs towards Louis and it

takes him a moment to realise he’s not slowing down.

“Don’t you dare,” Louis calls warningly, taking a step back just
as Harry’s body forcefully collides with his in a clumsily hug,
both of them tumbling down onto the beach as Louis lets go of
Harry’s clothes.

“I’m cold,” Harry whines in Louis’ neck, trying to hide his icy,
wet face into Louis’ skin. The entire length of his soaked body
is pressing against Louis’, water seeping into his dry clothes.

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“Get off of me,” Louis squirms, trying to put distance between
their bodies, but he’s pinned down on the beach.

Harry whines again, trying to reach under Louis’ jumper,

making the muscles of his stomach tighten when his fingers
settle on it, chasing the warmth of his body.

“Fuck,” Louis hisses at the contact.

“I’m cold,” Harry repeats in a sad petulant voice and he’s

actually shivering.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Louis asks, biting, but he still

wraps his arms around Harry’s body and presses a kiss on his
temple.

“Warm me up,” Harry begs with a small laugh before shrieking

when Clifford joins them and starts shaking himself dry,
sending drops of water everywhere.

At that, Louis starts laughing. And can’t stop.

“It’s not funny,” Harry says, still squirming, though he’s clearly
laughing too.

“Oh it really is,” Louis says, voice high pitched as he tries to

control himself.

“Louiiiiiiis,” Harry whines, grabbing the skin of Louis’ hips

tightly and giving his neck a tiny bite, barely a nimble, to scold
him.

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It probably shouldn’t turn Louis on and he finds himself sliding
his hands into the wet back pockets of Harry’s jeans to stop him
from squirming against him. There are goosebumps all over
Harry’s naked arms, his wet hair tickling Louis’ face, under his
jaw, his neck, the weight of him solid and comforting over
Louis’ body.

Louis sighs, before whispering: “ Come on, get off me.” He

jostles Harry’s body a little when he refuses to move. “H, come
on. I don’t want you to catch your death or something…
Imagine the scandal,” he jokes. “Pop star’s body found on a
remote island, hot hotelier lead suspect…”

Harry snorts, but he finally gets up, wrapping his arms around
himself as soon as he’s standing. “I could have planned this
better,” he admits, teeth clattering.

“You think?” Louis says sarcastically, looking down at Harry’s

naked feet, at the sand and the pieces of seaweed sticking to
them. “Here,” he adds, touching the bottom of Harry’s tank top,
watching the way his muscles expand through the now
transparent cloth as he breathes deeply in and now, “take this
off.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna help,” Harry shivers. “But I like

your enthusiasm,” he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows.

Louis rolls his eyes, walking past Harry to grab the clothing
he’s discarded. He hands him the white turtleneck. “Putting this
on instead will help. Not much we can do about the bottom until
we get home, but that’ll keep you warm a little at least.”

“Oh,” Harry says, eyes widening. “Right,” he agrees, taking the

tank top off easily despite the way it clings to his skin.

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Louis barely lets himself be distracted by Harry’s skin, by its
pallor contrasted with the black of his tattoos, the way the
butterfly on his stomach seems to be moving every time Harry
breathes, the way drops of water are sliding down his
collarbones, over the gorgeous swallows inked there.

Harry hands him the drenched tank top and takes the jumper,
putting it on immediately. Then, Louis bends down to retrieve
his shoes, watching as Harry tries to get as much sand off his
toes before putting both the socks and the vans on. Finally,
Louis helps him put the denim jacket back on, holding it open
for Harry to slide inside, squeezing the back of his shoulders
once he’s done.

“Better?” Louis asks into Harry’s ear before kissing the delicate
skin underneath.

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice raspy. “A little.” He waits a second

before admitting: “Still kinda freezing, to be honest” with a
small sheepish laugh.

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when someone jumps into the
sea in the middle of winter,” Louis says, turning Harry around
so they’re facing each other, starting to button up the denim
jacket for him.

“No regrets,” Harry says sincerely and when Louis looks away
from the task at hand, his green eyes are sparkling with
something new and there’s a healthy flush on the skin of his
cheeks. He’s smiling widely despite still shaking from the cold.

“Wanna head back home?” Louis asks, only realising too late
the way he’s slipped up, the way he called the

278
lighthouse home , the way he implied it’s Harry’s too. His heart
jumps in his throat, a painful throb.

Harry doesn’t really react, doesn’t seem to think there’s

anything strange to what Louis just said. He just smiles and
nods, grabbing Louis’ hand as they walked back up the cliffs,
Clifford following closely behind.

Oh, how Louis wishes that were true, that it was that simple.
That Harry could call this place home like he does.

Harry is properly shivering by the time they walk through the

threshold.

“Okay, this isn’t fun anymore,” he says and it’s the lack of
whining and exaggerated sadness that clues Louis in that he’s
sincerely uncomfortable now.

Louis takes his coat off, throwing it on the counter carelessly

before turning around to face Harry. He wraps him into a big
hug, squeezing his body tight and comforting. “You’re a damn
fool, Harry Styles,” he says, gently mocking, before letting go.

Harry, not one to be upstaged easily, dimples and replies

devastatingly: “Fool for you.”

Louis rolls his eyes to hide the way it makes him blush, bending
down to take off his trainers. Harry does the same before taking
his jacket off and putting it next to Louis’ on the reception desk.

“I think I’ll go take shower now,” he declares, passing a hand

through his wet hair and grimacing.

279
Except Louis shakes his head, reaching over the reception desk
to grab the specific key he needs, putting it safely in his pocket.

“No, you won’t,” he says, reaching for Harry’s hand and

dragging him upstairs.

“But I’m cold,” Harry whines as he climbs the stairs behind

him. “I’m gonna be sick, Lou.”

“No, you won’t,” Louis repeats, rolling his eyes where Harry
can’t see him.

Once they reach the first floor, Louis walks past Harry’s
bedroom, ignoring the door entirely.

“But –” Harry says, sounding confused as he stops in front of

his bedroom.

“Come on,” Louis insists, unlocking one of the rooms on the

other side of the corridor, a small thing without a particularly
nice view.

The double bed stands proud in the middle of the room, the
duvet a rich scarlet that stands out. The cream wallpaper has a
subtle swirl textured pattern, muted, but elegant. There’s not
much space for furniture so the room is mostly empty apart for
a slim bedside table on the right. There’s a small closet that
doesn’t allow much space for clothes and a door that leads to
the ensuite, the only true selling point of this specific room.

It’s the only one in the entire Bed & Breakfast with a bath,
making it quite a popular choice amongst guests. Louis only
uses it when the B&B is empty of course but, once in a while,

280
he enjoys a nice soak, putting relaxing music or a podcast on as
he takes his time in the warm water.

Louis doesn’t look behind him as he walks into the bedroom

and goes straight for the bathroom, leaving the door wide open
for Harry to follow. He turns the hot water tap on, putting his
hand underneath as he waits for it to warm up. When he looks
up, Harry is leaning into the doorway.

“Oh,” he whispers. “I forgot this one has a bath.”

“It’ll be much nicer than a shower,” Louis replies, turning the

cold tap on only a little to make sure the water isn’t scalding.
Once he’s satisfied with the temperature, he puts the plug in.

When he gets back up, Harry is still standing frozen in the

doorway.

“Well, go on then,” Louis says, voice a bit stern as he moves

away from the tub and towards the window. He hastily closes
the curtains, leaving them in partial darkness, the only light
coming into the room from the door blocked by Harry’s
unmoving body.

When he pivots to face Harry again, Louis can’t help a soft

smile, seeing the way Harry still stands uncertain in the
doorway. He hasn’t moved at all since he arrived, one leg
crossed over the other with his hip leaning against the wall.

“You’re going to stand there looking at me all day?” he teases.

“I thought you were cold.” Louis says it as he walks towards
Harry, grabbing his arm and dragging fully into the bathroom.

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He starts walking backwards, with his fingers gripping Harry’s
jumper until they reach the edge of the tub. There’s nothing but
the sound of the water pouring and their breathing echoing in
the bathroom. Louis smiles, a bit teasing, a bit cocky, and he
takes one step forward, until they’re only a breath apart, sliding
his hands under Harry’s jumper, smile turning into a smirk
when he shivers at the touch. Louis licks his lower lip, his eyes
never leaving Harry’s as he pushes the fabric up, up, up. He
helps him take it off completely, throwing it carelessly over his
shoulder onto the black and white tiles. They stare at each other
for a few seconds, goosebumps erupting all over Harry’s flesh
and Louis looks down, the tip of his index caressing Harry’s
butterfly and down, down, down, the muscles of his stomach
tightening. When he reaches the button of his jeans, Louis
wastes no time unfastening it and pulling the zipper down.
Harry swears under his breath when Louis gets to his knees, but
all he does is help him out of the wet jeans, struggling a little
to get them down Harry’s thighs where they cling. Then, Louis
reaches for the waistband of Harry’s pants, finally undressing
him completely. Without even a glance to where Harry is
getting aroused, Louis gets up and turns back to the tub, turning
both taps off and putting a finger into water to test the
temperature one last time.

“There we are,” Louis says when he faces Harry again,

chuckling a little when he sees the way he’s biting his lower
lip, pupils dilated. “Well? Are you getting in?” he demands. “I
thought you were freezing."

Harry frowns, but nods, climbing over the tub and slowly
sinking in. “It’s not very nice, you know,” he says as he lowers
his shoulders into the water, his back resting against the
porcelain. “To work me up like that and leave me.”

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“Poor little pop star,” Louis whispers, leaning down over the
tub to kiss Harry a bit rougher than he should, thumb digging
into his jaw as he takes what he wants, biting Harry’s lower lip
for good measure at the end. “It must be hard not to get what
you want every second of every day.”

“That’s one word for it,” Harry says matter-of-factly, raising

one eyebrow with smugness and Louis wants wants wants so
much . “Come in,” he adds against Louis’ lips, not letting him
move away. “Please.”

“Nahh,” Louis replies. “Just have a good soak, alright? I’ll be

back later.” He kisses Harry’s nose, then leans away.

“Louuuuu!”

But Louis ignores his pleading in favour of looking under the

sink, rummaging through loo rolls, disinfectants and knick-
knacks until he finds a candle and some matches, buried deep
underneath it all. He smiles to himself, lighting the candle
before carefully placing it on top of the toilet. Then he grabs
his phone from his back pocket, thumbing through his Spotify
account for a playlist Harry made a few months ago titled
“songs that feel like silence”. The first time Louis read that title,
he mostly chuckled, not understanding what it could possibly
mean. But now that he knows Harry the way he does, Louis
knows Harry cherishes the quiet the way only someone who
doesn’t get enough of it does. That those songs are of great
comfort to him. That those songs are special.

“There you go,” Louis whispers, mostly to himself. “Now you

can relax,” he tells Harry, not waiting for a reply before leaving
the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

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He goes downstairs quickly, grabbing two of his fluffiest
towels and what he thinks is the script to a play before running
back up.

“Well, well, well,” Louis says teasingly when he walks back

into the room, eyes glued to where Harry is slowly touching
himself. “I was going to offer to read for you,” he says, showing
Harry the book, “but I guess you’re a bit busy.”

Harry blinks a bit sleepily at him, his skin flushed, lips parted.
“I got bored without you,” he says, voice even though he never
stops moving his hand.

“Should I leave you to it?” Louis jokes as he’s dropping both

towels on the floor, leaving the play next to the tub, not too far
out of reach.

He starts taking his sweatpants off, not giving Harry a chance

to reply, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement
carefully, like he’d rather die than miss a second of this. Next,
Louis takes both of his jumpers off at the same time, shivering
a little when the cold air hits his exposed skin. Harry makes a
noise of appreciation, low in his throat, something between a
hum and a moan, and Louis feels so powerful, so seen. In a
way, he never has before. It’s a rush that should feel scary
perhaps, but he can’t feel anything beyond the pounding of his
heart, beyond this moment now. He drops his boxer to the floor,
stepping out of them and into the tub straight away. Harry leans
up to meet his mouth when Louis lowers himself on his lap. He
shivers a little when a wet hand slides up his back to grab his
neck, Harry tilting his head a little as they kiss.

After, once they’ve washed and changed the bath water, Harry
leans back against Louis’ chest, listening to his dramatic

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reading of the play: some dark comedy about a group of
gangsters in Soho in the fifties that has Harry in stitches. Louis
does the voices, one elbow leaning against the tub as he holds
the book up, his other hand spread on Harry’s lower belly. He
can feel it in his entire body when he makes Harry laugh, a flash
of satisfaction throbbing in his chest every single time. They
waste most of the morning naked, staying in the bath long after
the water has gone lukewarm at best, laughing and kissing.
When the play turns serious, and then tragic, Harry gasps, so
enthralled, so in the moment, and Louis wants to bottle it. Louis
wants time to stop. If he had to pick a moment to stay in forever,
it’d be now. Just the two of them. No one’s expectations
hanging over Harry’s shoulders. Just Louis’ body wrapped
around him, shielding him as best he can. Just the two of them
being goofy, having fun.

But soon enough, the play ends, the bath water turns freezing,
and they get hungry.

Louis dries himself quickly, putting his sweatpants and only

one of his jumpers back on. Then, he helps Harry out of the
bath, wrapping him in a fluffy towel and letting him use the
other to make a towel turban around his hair, even though it’s
not long enough to require it. They separate in the corridor,
Harry heading into his room to get dressed, his wet clothes from
before bundled up in his arms while Louis goes downstairs to
feed Clifford with a guilty conscience. He gives his dog extra
treats for being so patient when Louis forgot about him, before
moving onto lunch for himself and Harry.

That afternoon, the weather turns sour in an instant. The sky

darkens dramatically before it starts raining the way it only can
in Scotland: heavy and apocalyptic. In the span between two
breaths, it suddenly feels like it will never be sunny again, wind
whooshing around them as they sit on the bench in the lantern

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room, faces pressed against the windows as they watch the
storm rise. They intertwine their fingers as the waves crash
against the cliffs, listening to the pitter-patter of rain against the
windows.

“God it makes you feel... I don’t know, powerless.

Unimportant.” Harry whispers against the glass at some point
and he sounds thankful for it.

Eventually, their attention shifts away from the storm and

Harry starts playing the guitar for Louis. Mostly covers of
songs he loves, but new melodies too, stuff he’s had stuck in
his head for days, stuff he’s still writing lyrics for, even fully
completed songs. Louis listens with a smile on his face and
sings along when Harry gets goofy like he’s on stage and starts
saying things like “you sing!!” while he points a non-existent
microphone at Louis.

They have fun.

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Chapter 9

A few days later, they’re cuddling in Harry’s big bed. The sun
just started setting and they’ve wasted almost all day watching
romcoms on Louis’ laptop, Harry cheering goofily in the most
unbearably romantic parts, even tearing up once or twice at
heartfelt speeches, trying to hide his blotchy face in Louis’
shoulder, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“What’s like… the most romantic thing anyone’s done for

you?” Harry asks randomly when the end credits to The
Notebook are almost over. His voice is still a bit wobbly, a
result of the amount of crying he’s been doing since Allie
started remembering.

He’s still staring right at the laptop when he asks the question,
his whole body resting on Louis’, the long lean weight of him
comfortable. They’re both leaning on the headboard, Louis
propped up with multiple pillows and Harry propped up on
Louis.

Louis, who was stroking down Harry’s arms comfortingly,

stops moving.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry says. “I was just curious.”

“I don’t know actually,” Louis replies honestly, trying to

remember. Truth be told, he’s been alone for a long time. It’s a
part of the lifestyle he chose after all, and beyond some one

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night stands once in a while when he’s on the mainland, Louis
has been pretty celibate since he moved to Fair Isle. His latest
boyfriend dates back to his university days and romantic
gestures weren’t exactly on Brian’s mind.

“Oh,” Harry says.

“I mean… Honestly? My lifestyle doesn’t exactly allow for a

lot of romance… As you can imagine,” he says with a laugh,
trying not to feel embarrassed. Louis is generally happy with
what he’s got, but he knows how most people feel about it.

“Right,” Harry agrees, reaching for Louis’ left hand. He starts

playing with his fingers, tracing them with his index softly, up
and down until he reaches the wrist then back again.

“My last boyfriend was back when I was at uni. We were

together for half of the first year and almost all of the second.
But I was definitely the romantic one out of the two of us.
Cooking awful meals because I wasn’t good at it yet and buying
flowers and all of that shit. Surprise gifts and everything. They
were more my things than Brian’s. On the flip side, I could
probably answer what’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever done
more easily…”

Harry stops stroking his fingers at that. “I’m sorry,” he says

softly.

He sounds genuinely contrite and Louis can’t help the small

giggle that escapes his mouth.

“What are you apologising for?” Louis asks against Harry’s

skin, kissing the place where his neck meets his shoulder,

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exposed by his stretched out tee. “S’no big deal. I’m not
suffering from it. I don’t feel like I’m missing out.”

Harry hums as he starts to caress Louis’ hand again. “You

deserve nice romantic gestures,” he declares.

Louis shivers, uncertain if it’s Harry’s words, or his touch,

that’s affecting him this way.

“Well, you cooked breakfast for me,” he says, a bit breathless.

“That was… that was nice. No one had ever done that for me
before.”

“No one?” Harry exclaims, tangling their fingers together.

“Really?”

“Well, my mum… sometimes my little siblings, but I don’t

think that counts in this context,” Louis jokes.

“Alright, I’m definitely cooking you breakfast again

tomorrow,” Harry declares with a huff, sounding really
offended. “Actually, I’m cooking you breakfast all week. You
can’t protest,” he adds just as Louis opens his mouth from
behind him. “Don’t even try.”

Louis feels himself flush a little. “You don’t have to,” he says
sheepishly, but Harry only huffs again.

He raises their tangled hands to his mouth, kissing the top of

Louis’, his breath against Louis’ skin warm, his lips soft.

“I want to,” Harry insists, snuggling a little more comfortably

against Louis.

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“How about you?”

“Mmmmh?”

Louis chuckles. “What’s the most romantic thing anyone's ever

done for you?”

Louis watches as Harry’ cheeks redden.

“Mmmm, I don’t know,” he lies blatantly.

“Oh, you do. Spill,” Louis insists, digging the fingers of his free
hand into Harry’s waist.

“I don’t!” Harry shrieks, trying to twist away.

“Come on,” Louis says, continuing relentlessly to tickle

Harry’s side. “Pretty famous boy like you? Someone must have
done something dead nice!”

“I guess,” Harry says between bursts of laughter, “I guess some

famous popstar might have written a song about me.”

“Ooooh,” Louis says, voice too high-pitched to be sincere. He’s

not jealous, he tries to convince himself immediately as he
starts feeling like a hand is grabbing his guts and twisting .
“Which one?”

“Nobody important,” Harry says. “I thought it was the most

romantic shit ever at the time, but the relationship ended really
badly not too long after and his song was number one for a
really long time. Felt a bit manipulative afterwards, you know?

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One of the few times I was actually glad I wasn’t out, so no one
could officially connect it to me, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Louis says, jealousy switching to anger in an instant.

“I’m sorry. I was gonna say having a song written about you
must be nice but that’s… that sounds awful.”

Louis is pretty sure that’s not the gesture that had Harry
blushing so prettily, but it’s alright. He can keep his secret.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. I still think writing a song for

someone is probably the most romantic thing I could ever do,
but… I don’t know that I want songs written about me
anymore. One of my beards wrote a lot of them too, so it’s
like… I don’t know. Big gestures, public gestures… they’ve
lost meanings for me. I don’t want someone to romance me that
way.”

“I understand,” Louis replies. He thinks he does at least. It all

sounds awful, to be honest, and it makes him so angry, so so so
angry, to think that Harry had to go through all of that. Has to
go through all that.

“I like small things,” Harry whispers. He pauses, squeezing

Louis’ hand. “You reading to me is nice,” he admits, the red of
his cheeks deepening.

Oh, Louis thinks. “I can do that right now, if you want,” he

offers, low in Harry’s ear, loving the way it makes him shiver.
“I love doing that for you,” he says, feeling vulnerable at the
admission.

But Harry shakes his head. “No,” he says, closing his eyes.
“I’m too comfy, don’t want to move.”

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“Alright,” Louis agrees, kissing his temple. “We won’t.”

Harry ambushes Louis after his morning jog three days later
when he’s trying to sneak back into the cottage unseen, hoping
to hop into the shower before he’s attacked by more breakfast.
Harry, true to his word, has been cooking for him every
morning since they’ve discussed romantic gestures, a mixture
of his stubbornness and sweetness infused in every item
included in the meals.

Louis is busy very slowly closing the front door to make sure it
doesn’t creak and alert Harry in the kitchen when he almost has
a heart attack.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry calls from behind

him and Louis gasps, startling as he turns around to face the
empty reception desk.

“What the hell!” Louis says, a hand pressed to his chest. His
heart is beating twice as fast as normal and Harry is still
nowhere in sight.

“You were trying to run off, weren’t you?” Harry says,

emerging from behind the counter, head appearing first, then
his torso.

Louis frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. Clifford is looking

silently between them, clearly not having understood yet that
they’ve stopped playing the quiet game.

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“Were you sitting on the floor?” Louis asks, passing a hand
through his hair. It’s a bit wet with sweat and fringe sticking up
in the front where he’s tousled it.

“Yes,” Harry replies like it’s a completely normal thing to say,

folding his arms across his chest in what Louis suspects is an
attempt to appear authoritative and in charge. He’s still wearing
what he wore to bed though; a vintage Fleetwood Mac tee that’s
more holes than fabric at his point and a pair of Louis’
sweatpants that’s just a tiny bit too short on him, exposing his
tattooed ankles. He’s hiding behind the counter so Louis can’t
see the ankles, but he knows they’re there. Hard to look very
intimidating in that kind of adorable outfit, what with his hair
tangled and messy too.

Louis shakes his head, a bit disbelieving. “Of course,” he

mumbles to himself, unzipping his yellow raincoat.
Thankfully, the grey skies decided to spare him during his run,
but he didn’t feel like going in unprepared that morning. “Of
course, you were sitting on the floor waiting for me,” he adds,
taking the jacket off and putting it on the counter. “May I ask
why?” Louis says, both hands pressed on the counter on each
side of his jacket. It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes.
Or smile. He knows why, of course, and it’s ridiculous.

“Breakfast?” Harry offers instead of answering, putting a plate

of waffles and assorted fruits right next to Louis’ hand on the
reception desk.

Louis shakes his head, taking a step back into the corridor.
“I’ve told you,” he laughs, as he starts to walk away from
reception and towards the annex, “you really don’t have to
make me breakfast every day. I didn’t expect you to actually do
it.”

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“Well,” Harry grins, walking around the counter to follow after
him, “that was your mistake. You gotta deal with homemade
breakfast now.”

“Those are frozen waffles,” Louis deadpans, pointing at the

plate still sitting on the reception desk. He’s walking backwards
in the corridor, a flirty tilt to his steps, silently daring Harry to
come closer.

Harry takes the bait, of course, following him with a

determined frown on his face. “Yes,” he replies, reaching for
Louis’ waist, angling his body towards the wall and pushing
him against it. “I heated them with a lot of care. Not to mention
I cut up all those fruits just for you.”

“Wasn’t necessary though, was it? You made breakfast

yesterday. And the day before. I’d say that’s plenty. My
romantic gestures quota is all filled up now. You can rest Mr.
Suitor,” Louis teases.

“Excuse you, I made you a promise. Breakfast every day this

week. Not just the first two days and then I give up. It was
breakfast every day that I said. I’m sticking to it. Now go back
to reception and eat your frozen waffles,” Harry orders
jokingly, pointing towards the plate before leaning to kiss
Louis.

“No,” Louis says, moving his head out of the way. “I’m super
gross. I need a shower. I’m all… sweaty. Disgusting.”

Harry gasps in fake outrage. “Did you get sweaty on a run?!”

he asks dramatically, cupping Louis’ cheeks with both hands.
“Oh my god, I hadn’t noticed,” he says before kissing the laugh

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off Louis’ face. Once he’s satisfied, he lets go of Louis’ face
before smirking. “Come, eat your waffles.”

On Friday night, Harry shows up to join Louis on top of the

tower with a scrabble box tucked under his arm and two mugs
of tea.

“Where did you find that?” Louis asks from the bench, putting
his novel down to make wiggly fingers at Harry, desperate for
his cuppa.

Harry gives it to him straight away and Louis inhales a few

gulps before paying any attention to the conversation again.
When he emerges, Harry is setting his own mug on the chest
before putting the Scrabble box right next to it.

“Basement,” he replies and Louis sort of vaguely remembers a

few games at the bottom of a pile of rubbish tucked away in a
corner somewhere down there. “Wanna play?”

Louis hums. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of board

games.”

“What? Doesn’t fit with my popstar image?” Harry says

sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he settles down on the floor,
wiggling a little to find a comfortable position. He settles with
one leg stretched in front of him and the other bent so he can
drape his arm casually on it.

“Meh,” Louis squeaks with a shrug. “Want a cushion?” he

offers and when Harry shakes his head no, Louis keeps it for

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himself, getting down from the bench to sit in front of Harry
and the game.

“Plot twist, I’m actually a massive nerd,” Harry declares as he

opens the box and takes out a bag of letters.

Louis laughs. “I know that !”

“Well, why is it such a surprise then? I love words. This game

is awesome.”

Louis smirks. “Oh is it? Is it awesome ?” he teases, giving the

word a light American tilt, mimicking the way Harry’s accent
switched a little at the end there.

“Shut up!” Harry replies, making it extra British. He’s carefully

arranging the board on the table now, preparing the game with
careful attention.

“You know I never actually agreed to play with you, right?”

“You don’t want to?” Harry looks like a puppy who's been
kicked too many times, green eyes widening with sadness, his
bottom lip sticking out in a dramatic pout.

Louis laughs. “No,” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “I

definitely want to. I’m just saying I never technically agreed is
all.”

Harry shrugs. “You don’t have to,” he says, imitating Louis a

little. “You can keep reading your book, I’ll play against
myself. I don’t mind.”

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“You’re that desperate to play Scrabble that you’d play against
yourself?” Louis asks. He likes the game enough, but he can’t
imagine wanting to play that badly. He shakes his head, then he
reaches for the bag of letters, shaking it for a second before
plunging into it to grab his. “That’s so sad, sweetheart.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “I used to do it on the road!” he argues,

like that makes it make more sense.

“Oh my god,” Louis widens his eyes. “Just download Words

with Friends or some shit. Play against a computer-generated
adversary. Anything but that.”

“S’not the same,” Harry says with a pout, grabbing the bag
when Louis hands it to him. “I like placing the letters.”

Louis has to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from
grinning. Harry says it so seriously too, like he means every
word and Louis just wants to reach across the chest to kiss his
stupid face off. Or pinch his cheeks. Or both. He’s so cute. God,
no wonder people all around the world go crazy for him.

“You like placing the letters,” Louis repeats after him, trying to
sound judgmental, but he knows it comes across as a mixture
of fondly exasperated and straight up enamored.

“Yeah,” Harry insists with a casual shrug. “And I like posting

pictures of the games on Instagram afterwards. A screenshot
just isn’t the same. It’s not… It’s not as artistic as a proper
photo and –”

“I’m sorry,” Louis interrupts, “how many Instagram followers

do you have?”

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Harry looks caught, eyes wide and cheeks a bit red. “Hum. I
don’t know?” He reaches up to scratch his right cheek before
grimacing, a little embarrassed. “A few millions at least?”

Louis blinks a few times without saying anything.

“Lou?”

“There’s a few million people who love your music and follow
you on IG and the thing you recompense them with is pictures
of your scrabble boards on tour. Of the games you’ve played
with yourself.”

Harry is quick to defend himself.

“Well, they don’t know that ! And sometimes I get one of my

backing band members to play with me. And sometimes it’s
pictures of ping pong games and that’s dynamic and has a lot
more interesting composition options and –”

“It’s even worse than I feared,” Louis comments, mostly to

himself. “You really really are a nerd.”

At that, Harry laughs. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying!”

Slowly, his smile starts slipping. “Do you want to know the
truth?” he asks, a bit timidly, voice lower as he carefully
rearranges his letters in front of him without looking at Louis.

“Of course,” Louis says. “Always.”

Harry's lips turn up.

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“I mostly played when I was homesick on tour,” he admits,
looking up at Louis from under his eyelashes, like he’s some
sort of damsel in a period piece shyly admitting family secrets
to her paramour. The comparison is ridiculous and Louis knows
that, but he can’t help his brain, can’t help the way he wants to
reach across the table to touch Harry’s cheeks, to kiss his
eyelids softly.

Harry looks away again and the weird spell is broken.

“We used to play a lot as a family. Me, my mum and my sister.

It was kind of an after homework treat, you know? Not really a
tradition, but almost. It continued well into my teens. Up until
my sister left for uni, really. As you can imagine I was really
cool. We still do it when Gemma and I are both home. Playing
by myself wasn’t the same, but it helped calm me down on tour
when I was anxious. Which was pretty much all the time, to be
honest. It’s the focus it requires, I think? I just lost myself in
the letters and the words. It helped.”

“Are you homesick now?” Louis can’t help but ask. It’s selfish
but he’s only got a few weeks left with Harry. The thought of
him wanting to go before he’s meant to leaves a bitter aftertaste
in the back of Louis’ mouth, like it’s full of ash and he’s
choking on it.

Harry huffs. “Of course not,” he replies before giving Louis a

devastating smile. “Just wanted to share this with you.”

Louis purses his lips. He’s not going to be moved by Harry

wanting to play some stupid board game with him. There’s no
way. He refuses to feel special or like what he’s sharing with
Harry is precious over a torn up dusty game that smells of

299
humidity because it’s been left on the floor in the basement for
years without being touched. Absolutely not.

He still swallows a bit more tightly than normal.

“Well, let’s get started then.”

Harry nods, face suddenly turning serious, eyes becoming

focused. “I should warn you, I’m extremely competitive. I take
this very seriously.”

“Game on,” Louis replies, amused at the thought.

Fifty minutes later, Louis thinks he maybe should have taken

Harry to his word when he said he took Scrabble seriously.

“There’s no fucking way!” Harry is yelling, pointing at the

board, red-faced. “You’re not getting a single point for this. Not
a single point!” he repeats insistingly. “That’s fucking
cheating!”

Louis, on the other hand, is thoroughly amused. “It’s a triple

word!” he argues with a loud laugh, shaking his head in
disbelief.

Harry looks actually angry over this. Louis has been planning
this since they started the game and he saw his options, thinking
it was a funny little stunt that would make Harry laugh.

Clearly, he’s severely miscalculated.

“It is no such thing!” Harry says with an offended gasp, putting

a hand against his chest like he can’t bear it. He looks like Louis

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killed a member of his family or something, properly outraged
at the mere thought. “It’s not even a word !”

Louis snorts.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Harry says through gritted teeth as he

starts reaching towards the board to take off the letters Louis
just put down.

“Oi!” Louis interrupts, unable to stop laughing. “What the fuck

do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that.
Now that’s cheating.”

“How dare you,” Harry gasps, letting go of the letters. “I’m

cheating? I’m cheating?!” He shakes his head. “Unbelievable.
The nerve. The cheek. The audacity.”

Louis bites his lower lip as Harry lists the attitudes he thinks
Louis has displayed, counting them dramatically on his fingers.

“Are you done?” Louis asks when Harry pauses for a breath.

“No.”

Harry gets back to the board, continuing to take away the letters
to what Louis likes to think of as an ingenious move.

“We’re going to rectify the situation and you’ll play your turn
again. I’m merciful like that.”

“Oh, merciful,” Louis says with a nod. “That’s what you are,
isn’t it? You’re merciful.”

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“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you what you’re not…. Flexible.”

“You can’t just put whatever you want on here Louis!” Harry
exclaims, exasperated.

He’s actually seriously honestly genuinely worked up and this

might be the most fun Louis has had in months.

“Names are allowed in Scrabble,” Louis bluffs, looking down

at his nails with pouty lips.

“They are not! Have you never played Scrabble!” Harry shouts,
raising his arms in irritation. “That’s famously one of the core
rules!”

“Skywalker is a word,” Louis says calmly, just to irritate Harry

further. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s a word.”

“Point me to the dictionary it’s in then!” Harry spats out,

putting an accusative index in Louis’ face. “Hum?” he adds,
looking at Louis expectantly. “Open the Merriam-Webster app
on your and tell me where it says that Skywalker is a word!
Let’s have a look in the Oxford English Dictionary then! Prove
me wrong Tomlinson! I’m waiting!”

“It’s really not that serious darling,” Louis says slowly, voice
serene. It’ll rile Harry up even more if Louis doesn’t appear
bothered. “All I’m saying it’s that considering the placement of
that word ,” he puts emphasis on it with a teasing smile on his
face, “it counts as triple the point. Which, if I can still do simple
addition, puts me in the lead. But, I suppose if you’re such a
sore loser that you want me to play something else just because

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you want to win, then fine. Sure. Of course. I’ll play again. It’s
whatever,” he finishes with a small shrug.

“I am NOT a sore loser!” Harry gasps. “I am an experienced

player who knows the rules a little better than you! Slang?
Accepted. Borrowed words from other languages? Accepted as
long as they’re in the English dictionary. Names? Under no
circumstances. Especially not a fictional character. And that’s
final.”

“Characters,” Louis corrects, emphasizing the s . “It’s more

than one character’s name you know.”

“That doesn’t change anything! It still isn’t real people! And it

still doesn’t count! Laser swords don’t exist and neither does
the force and neither do any of the Skywalkers and it doesn’t
count.” Harry folds his arms tightly across his chest after his
little outbursts, looking everything like the petulant child who
didn’t get what he wanted and is now giving you the silent
treatment.

“Well, that’s a bit presumptuous,” Louis says, raising his

eyebrows.

“What?”

“Laser swords and the force might exist. We don’t know that –
”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts.

“Yes?”

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“Shut up. Stop trying to distract me. I’m not gonna give it to
you. Skywalker isn’t a word. You’re not going to win by
cheating like this! I won’t let you!”

“So when you said you took this seriously, you really weren’t
kidding,” Louis comments. “No wonder you had to play by
yourself on tour. Imagine playing Scrabble against your boss
and he goes insane over a tiny loose interpretation of the rules.”

“It’s not a loose interpretation of the rules, it’s you cheating.

It’s you explicitly going AGAINST the rules! Sorry, I don’t
condone cheating.” Harry says the last bit while rolling his eyes
dramatically, huffing and puffing.

Louis can practically see steam coming out of his ears.

“Do you condone dropping this game and making out instead?”
Louis offers, wiggling his eyebrows, jokingly seductive.

There’s something ridiculously attractive about Harry being so

bratty about this, actually angry and irritated. It might be the
red colouring his cheeks or the sparkles in his eyes, might be
the tense line of his shoulders or his haughty attitude. Louis
doesn’t know, but he wants to poke it.

“No!”

Louis pouts before leaning over the game, putting both of his
hands flat on the chest as he looms over Harry.

“You don’t want to make out with me?” he teases, batting his
eyelids.

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“No,” Harry repeats though he doesn’t sound so sure. He’s
frowning at Louis though. “I want to win,” he adds, a lot more
certain this time.

Louis smirks, leaning away, going back to his letters to grab

what he needs. Quickly, he puts down a new word on the board.
‘Sky’, it now reads simply, nowhere near the red ‘triple word’
tile.

“There you go,” Louis says cheekily, “you’ve won.” Then, he

pushes the entire board off the chest, letters falling into the fake
fur of the rug, some of them clattering on the cement.

Harry looks about to protest for half a second before he shrugs,

crawling around the chest to kiss Louis.

They make out for a bit, Louis’ neck bent at a weird angle to
meet Harry who is leaning down as much as possible from
where he’s standing on his knees. Louis takes one of his hands
off Harry’s waist, reaching up to grab at his hair, tilting his head
in a much more comfortable position, groaning in satisfaction
as he does so.

“Wait, wait!” Louis says between kisses. “Hang on.”

“Do you want to move somewhere?” Harry offers, clearly

uncomfortable too.

“No,” Louis replies. “I mean, yes, obviously. Let’s go to your

room. But also we should really clean up this mess before we
do.”

“What?” Harry asks, looking at the letters everywhere.

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“Clifford could swallow one of those.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Right.” He frowns. “I thought he rarely

comes up here because it’s a struggle.”

“I mean, he doesn’t, but I can’t really take the risk.”

At that, Harry softens. “No, of course. Of course not.”

“Sorry,” Louis laughs. “I was trying to be a bit sexy and

spontaneous, using all that Scrabble anger and passion…” he
says, reaching down to squeeze Harry’s bum. “That failed
spectacularly.”

“I’m the one who should apologise,” Harry says sheepishly.

“I’m not a yeller, but Scrabble really gets me going.”

“I noticed,” Louis snorts.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be all rude and everything.”

“Please believe me when I say that was the funniest shit I’ve
ever seen, never apologise for it.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Harry pouts and Louis leans up a smidge to

kiss him.

“You’re a massive fucking dork.”

“You tried to put a Star Wars name on the board, you’re the
dork.”

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“No,” Louis shakes his head. “You don’t get to flip this on me.
You’re a massive massive dork.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, not looking ashamed at all. “I’m a

massive dork.”

“Massive massive,” Louis insists, passing his fingers through

Harry’s curls.

“Yeah. That,” Harry agrees, pecking Louis’ lips again.

“Just so you know,” Louis says, a bit nervous, “I love that

you’re a massive massive dork.”

Harry smiles. “I love that you’re a dork too.” He pauses,

looking away for a second before meeting Louis’ gaze again.
“Shall we clean up your horny mess then?”

“It’s not a horny mess!” Louis squeaks even though it totally

is.

“It’s alright Louis, no judgement,” Harry says with a wink.

“But Clifford doesn’t deserve to choke on a Scrabble tile
because you desperately want us to fuck.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asks from his bed, voice deeper
than normal in his half-awakened state, sleepy and hoarse.

Louis turns away from the door, facing the grand fluffy bed and
the warm boy still in it.

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“Going for a run?” Louis replies slowly like it’s obvious,
putting both of his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s
assuming it was a rhetorical question; he runs almost every
morning.

As if on cue, the thunder roars loudly. There’s rain splattering

on the window, a constant yet calming rhythm that’s been
lulling them since the previous night.

Harry looks ruffled, hair all over the place, fanned over the
pillow, and he frowns at Louis, eyes confused for a second
before he looks away from Louis’ face and at the window, at
the terrible terrible storm outside.

Harry clears his throat. “In this weather?” he says, voice now
dripping with judgement.

Louis grins. The sky lights up briefly. “It’s Scotland,” he says,

shrugging. “Can’t exactly avoid a bit of rain, can I?”

The thunder booms again and Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow

at him.

“A bit of rain?”

Louis shrugs again. “Bit of rain, big scary storm… Same

difference, innit?”

Harry shivers a little before burrowing himself deeper into the

pile of blankets. Ever since Louis started sleeping in his room,
they’ve been adding new throws and wool blankets to the bed
every other night, the whole thing now resembling more a nest
than anything else. Every day, it gets harder and harder to leave
it. Every day, the voice in the back of Louis’ mind telling him

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to just drop everything and waste the day in bed with Harry gets
louder and louder. Every day, the voice in the back of Louis’
mind telling him his time with Harry is almost up gets a bit
more frantic. This morning, with Hell raining down on Fair
Isle, it’s a tempting sight, for sure. Louis knows how
comfortable and warm it is, with a body to hold that fits in his
arms perfectly in ways he can’t afford to ponder too long.

Indulging himself is dangerous though. There are a few weeks

left, less than a month, until Harry vanishes – until Harry goes
back where he belongs.

Not to mention, Louis has been skipping his training regiment

every other day since he started sleeping with Harry. He’s
slowly morphing into an undisciplined mess, unable to resist
the desire to sleep in cuddled up to Harry’s body and waste the
morning away rather than exercising as he usually does. But
today…. Today he’s going to resist goddamnit. Today, he’s
going to run.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees from under the covers. “Big scary

storm.” He shivers again, this time exaggeratedly for Louis’
benefit. He’s a good actor when he wants to be, just
manipulative enough for it to remain charming. “Come back to
bed,” he adds in a whisper, voice raspier than before, and
bloody hell, Louis almost drops everything right here and there.
“It’s cold without you,” Harry finally says, a blatant lie
considering how bundled up he is right now. How warm and
enticing he looks.

Louis smirks in response, but he still takes a few steps away

from the door, getting slightly closer to the bed.

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“You’re definitely not cold right now.”

“I am,” Harry says, fully grinning now. “I’m so cold, Louis.”

“You’re a liar is what you are,” Louis replies, taking two more
steps forward and one step sideways until he’s right at the edge
on Harry’s side. “And you should come with me on a run if you
want to spend time with me,” he challenges, cocking his hip as
he leans on the bed a little.

“Pfff.”

“Don’t pfff me!”

“I’m not going on a run in the rain! It’s winter, are you mad?”

“Says the man who ran into the freezing ocean at the beginning
of the month!” Louis argues back.

“That was tradition,” Harry points. “This… This is just

madness.”

The thunder booms again like it has a personal vendetta against

Louis and wants to take Harry’s side.

“Actually you were about a month too late for tradition so don’t
play that game with me, Mr. Pop Star.” Louis singsongs the
nickname in an annoying high-pitched voice and he smirks
when it makes Harry laugh.

“It was tradition.”

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“Okay,” Louis agrees, climbing on the bed and crawling over
Harry’s body until he reaches his face. “Well my morning run
is a tradition and someone has been making me skip it half the
time these past few weeks,” Louis says pointedly, “so I’m
going.”

Harry doesn’t even try to look sheepish. “Gee, I wonder who

could be responsible for that ,” he says before rising a little to
kiss Louis.

Louis meets him halfway, slides in his fingers in the hair at the
nape of Harry’s neck, burying them there as they kiss.

“Yeah, I wonder who that could be,” Louis teases between two
kisses.

Harry snickers, making kissing him kind of impossible so Louis

leans away, looking at his sparkly eyes as he laughs.

“Sounds like a smart man,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows

as he reaches down to grab a handful of Louis’ bum and
squeeze. “He knows not to let you run away from him.”

“You’re really just going to compliment your own self like that
uh,” Louis says, breaking their banter. “Okay, if that’s how it
is.” He starts getting up, but Harry drags him down again,
pressing the full length of Louis’ body against his, a ridiculous
amount of blankets separating them.

“Stay in bed,” Harry orders. “We’re comfy.”

“You’re comfy,” Louis says. “I’m stuck on about a million

blanket lumps right now. Besides, I’m off on a run in the storm.
It’s gonna be cold, it might even be unpleasant, but there’s

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something really fun about being out in that weather and I
really want to go.”

“You really, really want to go?” Harry asks like he still can’t
believe it.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. You should come with me.”

Harry seems to consider it for a second. “No.”

“Come on,” Louis whispers encouragingly, leaning down to

kiss Harry’s cheek. “Come on, come on!”

“No.”

“You’re so boring,” Louis teases. “Fine, stay cocooned my

butterfly,” he adds, crawling down the length of Harry’s body
and kissing the top of the blanket approximately where Harry’s
tattoo lies on his belly.

Harry laughs, reaching down to push Louis’ fringe off his face.
“How cold is it going to be?” he asks in a small voice and Louis
knows that he’s won.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t be that bad.”

Harry hums, still playing with Louis’ hair. “Water is

cleansing,” he says, mostly to himself.

“You did say that,” Louis agrees solemnly.

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“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go out in the rain a bit,” he says.
The thunder rumbles in agreement. “Not for long though,”
Harry adds, glancing at the window.

Louis shakes his head. “‘Course not,” he agrees, getting up to

his knees and shaking Harry a little. “Well! Come on then! Get
dressed!” He gets up from the bed and starts going through
Harry’s stuff, trying to find him comfortable clothes. Louis
throws a pair of sweatpants at him, quickly followed by one of
his own hoodies.

“Wait,” Harry says, grabbing Louis’ arm. “Can we take a bath

when we come back?” he asks, eyes pleading.

Louis smirks. “‘Course,” he says softly. “It’s tradition.”

Ten minutes later, after they’ve both bundled themselves in

massive raincoats – bright red for Harry and bright yellow for
Louis – and they’ve dug up the old wellies Louis keeps in the
basement, they’re finally ready to brave the outside world.

Louis opens the door and they both stare at the storm, still
hesitating a little. Clifford, bless him, takes one look at the rain,
tilts his head to the left, and runs outside.

“Well?” Louis asks, offering Harry his hand. “We shouldn’t let
the dog be the bravest out of all of us.”

“Right,” Harry agrees, tangling his fingers in Louis’ and taking

a step forward.

Once outside, it’s not actually that bad. They’re probably being
a bit reckless, going out while the weather is so intense, but
Louis can’t find it in himself to care. They stay close to the

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lighthouse, Clifford and Harry running around chasing each
other in the rain. At one point, Harry slides down and falls in
the grass and Louis goes to help him up but he’s laughing so
hard that his attempt to lift him up ends with both of them flat
on the ground, soaking wet and giggling. Harry tries to kiss him
but they’re both laughing too hard to do it with any kind of
efficiency.

Once they’ve gotten back up, Harry starts running with Clifford
again as if nothing happened and Louis watches them for a bit
with a fond smile on his face. He’s still the one not jogging, but
he can’t say that he particularly care about his failing. At some
point, he takes his hood off, tilting his head back and spreading
his arms wide, eyes closed and feeling the overwhelming power
of the rain.

“What are you doing?” he hears Harry shout over the storm and
Louis just smiles, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Cleansing myself,” Louis replies loudly too and he makes a

show of deeply inhaling and exhaling. After a few seconds, he
starts twirling on himself.

It reminds him of being a kid, of summer storms where he and

his little sisters would go out and stand in the middle of the
road, twirling and dancing until they were absolutely soaking
wet and their mum would call them from the house, yell at them
to stop standing in traffic like that.

He can hear Harry laugh and when he stops and opens his eyes,
a bit dizzy from it all, Louis sees he started doing the same.
Clifford is barking and jumping around him like he wants to
participate too and Louis can’t believe they’re doing this at five
in the morning, in complete darkness. The sun won’t rise for

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another couple of hours and it feels like the whole world is
asleep. It’s just the two of them, the two of them in the eye of
the storm, laughing and laughing. It’s cold and wet and
miserable.

Or at least it should be.

But they’re young and foolish and together.

“Bath?” Harry says as soon as they pass the cottage’s threshold

and he’s started shivering now that they’re inside and the
adrenalin has come down.

“Just gonna dry and feed Clifford first,” Louis explains, taking
the raincoat then the wellies off.

He waits until Harry’s taken his off too before grabbing them
and making his way down to the basement, dropping the
soaking items into the massive sink that’s inexplicably
downstairs. Louis suspects it was used for doing the laundry by
hand at some point, but he never really questioned it. Today,
it’s proving useful.

He grabs three towels before making his way back up, throwing
one to Harry before he starts wiping the floor with one where
Clifford started shaking himself dry. He uses the third one to
finish off drying his dog quickly, giving him kisses and praise
as he does so. When he looks up, Harry is still standing there
in the entry, leaning against the reception desk, hair wet and
messy where he tried to dry it with the towel, a fond smile on
his face that hits Louis right in the chest.

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“Regrets?” Louis asks when Harry rubs his arms to warm
himself up.

“Nah,” Harry says with an eye roll. “I’m gonna go back to bed
after we’ve had a bath though, just so you know. Don’t think I
haven’t noticed it’s not even bloody six in the morning. I’m
having a bath, then a nap and you can’t stop me.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Louis says with a laugh before making

his way to the kitchen.

“And I expect you to read me to sleep!” Harry calls behind him.

“Alright!” Louis replies with a laugh, not bothering to look

back.

“And play with my hair,” Harry adds once Louis has turned
into the kitchen.

Louis purses his lips and looks down at Clifford. “What are we
going to do about his boy?” he asks his dog rhetorically.

“Oh,” Louis whispers when he walks into the living room a few
days later, to find Harry sitting on the cushion on the
windowsill, guitar in hand as he strums an unfamiliar melody,
humming along with that soft low voice Louis is so fond of.

He’s looking at the cliffs and the sea through the splattered rain
on the window, not even turning around when Louis walks in,
or when he speaks. His faithful notebook open in front of him,
bits and pieces of songs scribbled inside, bits and pieces of
Harry’s soul that no one has had the chance to witness yet.

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Louis smiles, taking a few seconds to look at him, barely any
sun to shine on him through the cloudy, moody skies. Still,
Harry looks beautiful even in the cold grey light. He’s wearing
one of Louis’ hoodies – a yellow one that fits him perfect since
Louis likes to swim in them for comfort – and some black
watch tartan pajama trousers. His feet are naked, toes wiggling
once in a while as he keeps playing the same tune over and over
again. He’s clearly working through something, voice ending
in a little frustrated growl when it seems like he can’t resolve
the melody the way he wants to. The humidity has made is hair
curlier than usual and now that it’s almost at his shoulder, Louis
can see fully formed ringlets falling from behind his ear and on
his face.

He’s just about to leave, to let Harry create in peace, when he

finally acknowledges Louis’ presence.

“Don’t go,” Harry says, still strumming. “You’re not bothering

me, if you want to stay.” Then, he turns his gaze away from the
window, smiling softly at Louis. “This song might be the death
of me,” he confesses with a sheepish smile, stopping abruptly
and letting the guitar simply rest uselessly on his thigh.

“Well,” Louis begins, as he advances towards the window, “we

wouldn’t want that.” When he’s finally reached Harry, Louis
motions at him to make space. “Move your pretty bum
forward,” he adds when Harry isn’t quick enough.

“You think my bum is pretty,” Harry teases while Louis slides

behind him, leaning his back against the wall and fitting Harry
comfortably between his legs, his back on Louis’ chest.

“It’s a cute bum,” Louis agrees, reaching down to pinch it,

smirking into Harry’s shoulder when he squeals and squirms

317
against Louis. “I’m quite fond of it,” he says, his tone soft
enough to reveal it’s not just Harry’s bum Louis is fond of. He
wraps his arms around Harry’s slim waist, sneaking his hands
into the hoodie pocket. Once they’re comfortably settled, he
speaks again. “What’s wrong with the song?” he asks,
squeezing Harry’s lower tummy softly when he feels him sigh
against him.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, starting to play the melody again.

Louis simply listens for a few minutes, eyes lost in the distance,
staring through the rainy window at the cliffs.

“I think it sounds beautiful,” Louis whispers into Harry’s ear,

before kissing his neck.

Harry stops playing again, shivering a little against Louis’

body. “You would,” Harry sighs.

Louis snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have I got no

taste?”

“No!” Harry squeaks, turning around to frown at Louis.

“You’re just extremely supportive.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being supportive of your art
Harry. I’ll just tell you it’s rubbish instead, shall I?”

“Well, if that’s what you think, then yes. You should tell me
it’s rubbish.”

“I obviously don’t think it’s rubbish, Harry. I wouldn’t have

said it’s beautiful if I didn't mean it. What do you think is wrong
with it?” Louis asks again, persistent and a bit annoying on

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purpose. He pokes Harry in the tummy when the singer refuses
to reply.

“I don’t know,” Harry repeats, this time a bit whinier.

“I think you do and maybe you just don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s just not working. Nothing about it is working. Not the

lyrics, not the melody. Nothing.”

Louis snorts. “Someone’s in a bit of a mood,” he teases before

pressing a few kisses in quick succession against Harry’s jaw.

“Creating is the worst,” Harry whines and when Louis kisses

him again, he notices the way his mouth twitches up a little.
“Writing is the worst,” he adds, clearly angling for more kisses
and who is Louis to deny him? “I’m the worst,” he finally says
with a grin that blossoms fully into two cratered dimples.

“You’re a brat is what you are,” Louis whispers wetly against

his skin, but he obliges him. Always, he obliges him. “What is
the song supposed to be about?” he asks after a beat, smiling to
himself when Harry starts playing again instead of answering.

“I don’t…” Harry starts, stopping himself abruptly and Louis

wonders if he was about to say he doesn’t know again, if he
was about to lie and couldn’t bring himself to.

Louis waits for a second, letting the melody envelop him in its
softness. It feels tender, whatever it is about. Then, he says:
“you don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers. “I just… I guess I don’t fully know

yet, but it’s about the quiet,” he admits.

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You make everything else quiet , Harry’s voice whispers to him
from the previous week.

“The quiet?” It comes out strangled.

“Yes… About how much I need it now. How I’ve been reborn
in whispers after a lifetime of thunderous sounds.”

Louis gulps, closing his eyes and letting the words, the poetry,
wash over him. The song isn’t about him, it can’t be. He can’t
let himself hope that it is, can’t let this hurt him like that.

“Reborn in whispers?” Louis repeats, trying it out.

“Yeah,” Harry says, half-mumbles. “It’s one of the lyrics I’ve

been playing with.”

“It’s… evocative.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point.” He keeps on

strumming before starting to sing. “Like all the other sinners,
reborn in whispers…”

The lyrics transform into more humming, soft, sad, and Louis
closes his eyes, tightening his hold on Harry’s body while he
sings.

Then, just as abruptly as he began, he stops. “I don’t know.”

Louis hums as comfortingly as he can. “You’ll figure it out,”

he says, confident.

Harry huffs. “Yeah, I guess. Eventually.”

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“I’m not an expert on creativity,” Louis begins kindly in
Harry’s ear, “but you probably shouldn’t try to force it. It’ll
come.” Louis pauses, kissing Harry’s cheek, before adding
“eventually.”

321
Chapter 10

“Do you have to encourage my dog to go swimming every

single time we’re down here?” Louis asks, pretending to be
annoyed when Clifford runs in the water to grab the tennis ball
Harry just threw in there.

There’s not much that would stop his stupid pet from running
into the freezing water, but Louis often tries to limit the damage
so he doesn’t have a big lump of fur trailing water everywhere
in the cottage.

Harry definitely doesn’t look remorseful at all. He gives Louis

a massive grin before exclaiming excitedly when Clifford
comes running, tennis ball in his mouth.

“Look at you!” Harry yells, applauding, before grabbing the

ball. “You’re such a champion. A big swimming champion!”
he insists, before throwing the ball again.

“Clearly you do,” Louis deadpans, mostly to himself.

“Aww, come on. Don’t be grumpy, he loves it,” Harry says,

jogging a little to get to Louis’ side, wrapping an arm over his
shoulders.

“You’re cleaning up the mess he’s going to leave in the house

later,” Louis declares, resting his head against Harry’s arm.

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“Of course,” he agrees, kissing Louis’ forehead. “It’s worth
putting in the work for his happiness, right?” he says and Louis
really should stop feeling surprised whenever he says deep,
insightful things like they’re little nothings.

“I suppose,” Louis jokes, rolling his eyes.

“It’s like me following the program,” Harry adds, reaching

inside his jacket for a pair of sunglasses Louis had no idea he
owned. He puts them on and looks at the horizon. “It’s worth
all the work.”

“To gain happiness?”

“Well, to get closer to it, at least,” Harry laughs. “I don’t know

that people are ever fully truly happy. I mean, they are
obviously, I just mean… No one is happy all the time. People
aren’t built that way. And life would lack depth. But no one
should be unhappy the way I was, you know?”

Louis looks down at the sand, wrinkling his nose. He sniffs.

“Yeah, definitely not,” he says, trying to not let himself feel
emotional. “Though you’re cheating a lot on the program I have
to say. I mean, what part of this is your routine?” Louis teases.
“Not to mention you’re not even doing group therapy.”

“Oi!” Harry says with a laugh, tightening his arm around Louis’
shoulders. “Do you want all my AA secrets to be spilt in The
Sun or the Daily Mail because some random can’t keep his
mouth shut.”

“Isn’t like… the foundation of the whole thing anonymity,

like… wouldn’t that be breaking a sacred rule.”

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“Yeah, ‘cause people have never been known to break rules,”
Harry says and Louis can’t see his eyes, but he guesses he’s
probably rolling them.

“It’s just me,” Louis says softly as Clifford runs back towards
them. He grabs the ball and throws it again, on the sand this
time thank you very much. “You can say you’re too anxious to
risk it even though there’s probably groups you could go to
fine. I won’t judge.”

Harry’s shoulders drop a little and he nods. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Louis clears his throat, then, awkwardly says: “so what do you
want for tea then?”

It makes Harry laugh, at least. “Is that you trying to subtly

change the subject because you’ve made me morose now?”

Louis puffs his cheeks like a chipmunk, crossing his eyes,

before exhaling. “Yep!” he admits, tilting his head a little to
look at Harry. He smiles when he feels Harry’s arm around his
shoulders tighten even more, Harry holding him closer. “Is it
working?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Yeah, it’s working. And I want chips I

think.”

“Just chips?” Louis laughs.

Harry shrugs. “Chips are a meal.”

“Yeah. I think I’ve got some sausages left in the freezer, we

could have that too.”

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Harry nods. “Sorted,” he agrees before whistling, calling
Clifford over so they can make their way back.

“You’re too small to carry the weight of the world on your

shoulders like that, you know,” Louis says conversationally a
few days later, letting his right hand slide down Harry’s naked
torso to grip his waist, just above his sweatpants, wrapping him
in a half-hearted hug.

Louis has been thinking about this for a while now: the way
Harry worries, the way he puts pressure on himself, the way he
sees his fans, maybe the whole world, as something to
overcome, even though he’d never admit it.

Harry shivers, leaning into Louis’ body and tangling their legs,
not quite turning on his side. He’s looking away, looking down
at where Louis’ arm disappears under the covers, his eyelashes
casting shadows on his cheeks. There are goosebumps on his
arms and Louis is about to ask him if he’s cold, if he wants
more blankets or a jumper, when he hums, reaching down to
wrap his fingers around Louis’ wrist and squeeze.

Louis, who was leaning on his left arm, moves to rest his head
on the pillow they’re sharing before passing his fingers through
Harry’s curls. Harry leans into the touch subconsciously,
eyelids fluttering closed, sleepy despite it being only late
afternoon. The sun has set already though and the lamp in
Harry’s room cast a warm and soft glow around them. Harry
squeezes Louis’ right wrist again.

“I think,” Louis whispers against his temple, “that you might

need help, if you’re going to carry all that weight.”

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Who knows what possesses him to say such things out loud,
but now that he’s started, Louis doesn’t think he can stop.

Harry’s body stays relaxed against Louis’, but his eyes pop
open, finding Louis’ easily. “I don’t carry the weight of the
world on my shoulders,” he denies, maybe too firmly. “Just the
weight of my own worries and people’s expectations of me.”

Louis smiles, sadly. “Isn’t that the same thing? In the end?” he
asks. He pauses, scratching the back of Harry’s neck. “Doesn’t
it weigh the same?”

Harry shrugs. “S’not like there’s a lot of people I can trust with
that stuff. Everyone always wants something from me, in the
end. And it just gets heavier when people aren’t around
anymore to share the load. Might as well just weather the storm
myself. I’m not that small. And I’ve got steadier feet now that
I’m sober.”

You can trust me, Louis wants to say. I don’t want anything
from you. But he can’t because it’s not true. Louis is always
going to want more, want things Harry probably can’t give, so
he stays silent because if there’s one thing he never wants is for
Harry to think him a liar.

Louis sits on the piano bench the next afternoon with a grumpy
look on his face, frowning in Harry’s direction before putting
his hands on the keys.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re very cute,” Louis comments,

squinting at where Harry is leaning on top of the piano, face

326
resting on one of his hands and a dreamy look on his face. “I
don’t play seriously for just anyone, I hope you know that.”

“I do know that,” Harry says and why does he have to sound so

soft and gentle. How on Earth is Louis meant to resist?

“You’ve bullied me into this, I hope you’re proud.”

“I would hardly call it bullying,” Harry replies, rolling his eyes.

“But yep, I’m quite proud.”

“Bullying, I tell you!”

“Louis, you don’t have to play for me if you don’t want to,”
Harry says, seriously this time. “I don’t want to make you
uncomfortable.”

Louis sighs, taking his hands off the piano. “S’just a bit
awkward, isn’t it? I mean, I usually play during big parties
where no one is really listening, or everyone is singing on top
of everyone else so no one notices I’m doing it. And I’m pretty
drunk most of the time, to be quite honest,” Louis admits,
widening his eyes to make Harry laugh. “And you…” he
falters, looking down at the old instrument, not valuable
enough to be considered an antique but old enough that’s for
sure, battered too. “I mean, you’re a proper musician… I just
fuck around with the keys, innit? ‘S’embarrassing.”

“Hey,” Harry says insistently and Louis looks away from the
key and into Harry’s eyes. “First of all, I’m not a proper
anything.”

“You write songs for a living.”

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“Oi,” Harry says with a laugh, “shut it.”

Louis makes a zipper motion in front of his mouth but widens

his eyes in joking disbelief.

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I’m not a

proper anything. I’m the opposite of classically trained on the
piano. I just… what was it you said? Fuck around with the
keys? Yeah, I do that too, mostly. So just because there are
some American idiots somewhere dumb enough to pay me for
it doesn’t mean my playing is more valid than yours. I mean,
everyone knows they’re paying mostly for the face and not the
skills or the human being underneath.”

“Harry,” Louis says in a defeated exhale, suddenly feeling

incredibly sad.

But Harry waves him off. “It’s a disgusting industry and you
hate it and I have value, I know, I know. What matters here,”
Harry continues, “is that my playing isn’t more valid than yours
and you don’t have to be embarrassed. I would just really love
for you to play me a song because I love music and I think it’d
be really nice for us to share that. I share my music with you all
the time… But you don’t have to, obviously.”

Louis looks at the absolute and utter sincerity in Harry’s eyes

and swears under his breath.

“See?” he says, poking Harry in the chest. “Bullying!

Emotional manipulation! How am I supposed to say no now?”

Harry, shameless as he is, simply laughs. “You can still say

no!”

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“Of course, I can’t! Look at you! With your big sparkly eyes
and I want us to share that” Louis shakes his head and lets his
fingers dance on the keys a bit, not really playing anything, just
notes to warm up. “Honestly, like I stood a chance.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispers when Louis starts playing Elton

John’s ‘Your Song’. He leans down, kissing Louis and
distracting him, a few notes dropping here and there.

“This is like… the only song I properly know,” Louis explains

when Harry moves away. “Apart from happy birthday and
Christmas tunes. It’s my mum’s favourite.”

“It’s a great song,” Harry agrees, walking around the piano to

come and sit next to Louis on the bench.

Louis smirks at their proximity. “She always says it’s the only
great love song.”

Harry lets one of his hand rests on Louis’ thigh, pondering the
statement. “Bit rough on everyone else who's ever written a
love song,” he comments with a grimace, “but I can’t say I
disagree. Besides, if you’re gonna pick one song to be the
greatest love song ever, at least pick a gay one. Can’t argue
with that.”

Louis bursts into laughter, the music stopping abruptly as he

hides his face in Harry’s shoulder.

“What?” Harry says, chuckling a little. “It’s true. Gay love is

the only valid form of love, everyone knows that. Elton
certainly knows it.”

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“You call him Elton, do you?” Louis asks, lifting his head a
little, chin still resting on Harry’s shoulder, their face very close
together.

“Well that’s his name, so yeah.”

“You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” Louis asks seriously.

“Yeah, we… I’ve been emailing him a little since I got out of
rehab. Gotta love that internet cafe in town,” he jokes, looking
a bit uncomfortable. “We’re not friends or anything, but I’d met
him before and he… well, he gets it.”

“Wild,” Louis mumbles, mostly to himself. “It’s weird, I… I

always forget that you… Well, not really forget, obviously I
don’t forget that you’re ridiculously famous, but you’re just
so… so you… that it slips my mind. Even when we’ve just been
talking about it. I just forget. You’re too ordinary, I suppose.”

He says the last bit as a joke, meaning the absolute opposite,

knowing Harry is the most special person he’s ever met.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Harry whispers.

“It is,” Louis insists.

“What about Beyonce?”

Harry snorts from where he’s sprawled on the rug in the lantern
room. “No,” he says with a lot of emphasis, eyes widening. “I
have definitely not met Beyonce.”

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Louis pouts. He’s laying down on the bench on his side, his
head supported by one of his hands, the other buried deep in a
bag of Haribo as he munches on, trying to find the most famous
person Harry knows.

“What’s the point of you being famous if you haven’t met

Beyonce?” Louis rolls his eyes as he starts chewing on two
pieces of candy at once.

“I ask myself this question every single day darling,” Harry

says. “More candy please,” he demands politely before opening
his mouth, creating a target Louis has managed to miss half the
times so far.

“Alright,” Louis replies, reaching into the bag then leaning as

far as he can on the bench before throwing the candy into
Harry’s waiting mouth. “Yaaass!” he screams when it goes
straight in, smiling goofily down at Harry’s face, endeared by
the way he’s messily chewing on the gummy bear.

“You did it!” Harry laughs, mouth still a bit full. He chews for
a few seconds, then swallows. “I met Rihanna?” he offers and
okay, even Louis, who absolutely refuses to be impressed by
anything Pop Star Harry Styles related, has to admit that it’s
pretty cool.

“Fine,” Louis says, “I guess you get a point for that. That’s…
That’s pretty solid. Are you friends with her?” He can’t help
but be intrigued, leaning in for some sort of amazing gossip.
God, what if Harry hangs out with her all the time and here
Louis is, throwing Haribo’s into his mouth like a dumbass.

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“Well…” Harry smiles sheepishly. “I say met her… I sat
behind her at the VMAs once. We got some pictures taken
together.”

Louis snorts. “That’s it?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. I mean we said hi and everything. She

asked me where I got the orange,” he says mysteriously before
opening his mouth again and pointing at it.

Louis rolls his eyes with fondness, but obliges him straight
away, sending another candy straight into his mouth.

“What orange?”

Harry laughs. “Just an orange I found in the lift and ate during
the show. I think she thought it was weird.”

“H… It is weird.”

“Yeah, well those events are always so uncomfortable and

weird anyway… I got so pissed at the after-party,” he admits,
looking a little uneasy. “Just felt really… I don’t know, lonely
and alienated so I started drinking to feel more comfortable and
I didn’t stop until one of my bodyguards literally had to carry
me out of the building. I couldn’t even walk. It’s a miracle there
aren’t any pap pictures of that particular walk of shame…” He
wrinkles his nose in distaste, red dusting his cheeks.

He’s clearly embarrassed by the story and Louis feels a sharp

pang of regret at having ever brought up the topic of fame in
the first place. It’s always a gamble as far as conversation topics
go. Half the time, Harry will delight him with the wildest
stories associated with touring and recording, while the other,

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he grows taciturn and quiet, upset about the ways it affected his
life. Usually, Louis won’t bring it up, letting Harry decide when
he’s feeling comfortable enough to mention it. They talk about
the music often, of course, but that’s different. That’s part of
Harry in a way the fame isn’t, tattooed unto his core, an
undeniable part of himself.

Louis made the mistake of jokingly mentioning it tonight and

the guilt of bringing Harry sadness only swells as the seconds
pass and a shadow grows on Harry’s face. Louis lets go of his
bag of candy, clumsily climbing off the bench as fast as
possible to join Harry on the floor, laying down on top of him
with his head resting on Harry’s chest.

“Honey,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss under Harry’s jaw. “I

shouldn’t have brought that stuff up. I’m sorry, it’s my bad.”

Louis can’t tell if it’s the apology or the kiss, but a small shy
smile blossoms on Harry’s face.

“Don’t apologise,” he replies in a whisper too, stroking Louis’

lower back. “I… I don’t mind talking about this stuff with you,”
he admits and isn’t that a punch to the gut, the way it makes
Louis feel so fucking special. “It just makes me… I don’t know,
all fucked up sometimes. Sad. Angry.”

“Well, I don’t mind that it makes you sad and angry and fucked
up sometimes,” Louis replies, smiling kindly when Harry looks
down at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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Harry waits a few seconds before speaking again. “It wasn’t a
bad night, you know? There’s a lot I remember enjoying.
There’s a lot I don’t actually remember, which… is whatever.”
He clenches his jaw, looking angry for a second. At himself
most likely and Louis wishes there was a way he could help
Harry be kinder to himself. When he speaks again, Harry’s
voice is barely above a whisper. “And there is a lot that was
pretty bad, for sure. It’s just hard sometimes to not just
remember the bad and forget about the nice stuff. I’m working
on it though. Like… When I first got out of rehab, I wanted to
quit music forever. Like… just…” Harry clears his throat, eyes
wet. He blinks a few times, trying to stop the tears and Louis
reaches up to caress his cheek, silently supporting him. “Just
fucking disappear from the public eye forever. I was so angry
that my biggest dream was the one thing that ruined me, you
know? I was so angry. That’s partly why I came here. Because
I wanted to disappear. But… the further away I got from it, the
more I realised… It wasn’t the dream’s fault… Yeah, that
lifestyle didn’t help, but I’m the one who didn’t ask for help
when I was drowning. I’m the one who fucking self-medicated
with alcohol when anxiety got the best of me. It’s my own fault.
I made… so many mistakes and I dealt with everything in the
worst of ways. I pushed my family away, I pushed my friends
away… I pushed my manager away. Everyone who had my
best interest at heart, everyone who wanted me to succeed in a
healthy way… So yeah, I made mistakes and I made all the
wrong choices, but… I’m starting to realise that it doesn’t mean
that those years of my life are all wasted. It doesn’t mean that I
have to feel guilty about every second of it, you know? Part of
the process for me has been being able to acknowledge that I
can’t blame the circumstances entirely and that… it’s okay to
look back on the good memories, the good things in my career,
without guilt. I can tell the funny story of me eating an orange
at a massive award show like a weirdo to this guy I like and still
laugh about it and it… it doesn’t mean that I’m glorifying

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my…” Harry clears his throat. “... my alcoholism or
something.”

“Of course you’re not doing that,” Louis says.

“Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t know, it’s… it’s hard to

navigate sometimes.”

Louis hums. “I… Obviously, I’m not an expert or anything, but

I don’t think it’s abnormal to have mixed feelings about it all.
It hasn’t been that long at all and from what I know, addiction
is an ongoing battle. You’re doing fine, you know. You’re
doing great even. It’s normal to struggle to find a good way to
talk about something that was probably a massive fucking
trigger for you.”

Halfway through Louis’ speech, Harry starts crying.

“I’m scared,” he admits in a small voice before putting an arm

over his face, hiding himself from view. “Sorry,” he whispers
before sniffing and Louis literally wants to kill something with
how much he hates the shame and vulnerability in Harry’s
voice.

“Don’t apologise,” Louis whispers, stroking Harry’s chest

soothingly. “It’s okay, please don’t apologise,” he repeats,
voice cracking as he feels his own eyes fill with tears.

“Okay,” Harry agrees in a small voice, still hiding his face. He

inhales deeply, once, twice, before speaking again. “I spoke to
my manager yesterday,” he admits, still crying. “We’ve not
been in touch a lot, but he’s been… He’s been worried, I guess,
and I told him I’m coming back quite soon.”

335
Louis doesn’t stop his circle motions on Harry’s chest, enjoying
the softness of his cream cable knit. He hums softly,
encouraging Harry to go on.

“I told him I’ve been writing… I mean, I suppose he guessed

that already since he’s the one who sent me my guitar, but he
started talking about booking some studio time when I’m back
in LA and I… I want to record the songs, I really do. If there’s
one thing I’ve figured out being here is that I want to keep
making music, but I just… I just feel like it’s going so fast and
I’m scared. I’m so scared, Louis.”

“Oh, love,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss under Harry’s jaw.

“What if I’m not strong enough?” Harry says in a sob. “What

if I go back and… and... it’s exactly like before.”

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching up to grab Harry’s arm and move

it off his face, looking straight into Harry’s eyes. “You’re not
the same as you were before, right? And you’re the strongest
person I’ve ever met.”

“But –”

“I can’t promise you that you won’t ever fall again, that you
won’t ever make mistakes. I can’t promise you that it’ll be easy,
that you won’t be tempted… but you know one thing I know
for sure? You’re definitely armed with the knowledge and the
wisdom to deal with whatever happens, yeah?” Louis insists.
“Right there,” he adds, cheesy as fuck, but sincere, pointing
down at Harry’s chest. “And you’re not going to be alone in
this anymore. You’ll have people looking out for you too.
You’ll have help. I know you said you can’t trust most people,
but you know who the good ones are, right? It’s like I said

336
before, Mr. Pop Star, you can’t carry the whole world on your
shoulders, right? ”

Harry laughs, wetly, still crying. “Right,” he agrees reluctantly,

probably remembering his previous stubbornness.

“What is it that you said to me?” Louis asks, reaching to pass

his fingers through Harry’s tangled curls.

“What?” Harry replies, looking a little confused.

“What did you say?” Louis repeats, insistent.

Suddenly, realisation passes over Harry’s face. He closes his

eyes and breathes deeply. “I’m not that small,” he whispers to
himself, a solid mantra, his own words.

“You’re not small,” Louis echoes. “You’re not small at all.”

Louis isn’t sure how it happens, but suddenly they’re out of

days. It’s March fourteen and Harry is leaving tomorrow, back
to a life he equally loves and finds scary, back to do what he’s
best at, what he was born for. Louis is so happy for him, and
yet.

They wake up early and by some unspoken agreement, they

carry on as usual, respecting the routine they’ve established
months ago and they’ve mostly been sticking to. Both of them
get dressed in companionable silence, bundling themselves in
warm comfy clothes before they exit Harry’s bedroom, Clifford
following closely behind. Louis can’t help the overwhelming
fondness taking over his entire body at the sight. Cliffy is not

337
really allowed in guest bedrooms and Louis can definitely
remember closing the door behind them the night before, which
means Harry probably took pity of him in the middle of the
night and let him in, making space for him at their feet. It’s the
only explanation as to why he was cuddled up at Harry’s feet
when Louis first opened his eyes this morning. He should
maybe be annoyed at the indulgence, at the bad habits being
taught to his pet, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care.

Once downstairs, they grab their coats from the living room,
Harry picking up Louis’ denim jacket and handing him his own
green coat in exchange. Louis looks ridiculous in it, what with
the fact that it's already too big for Harry who is slightly broader
than him, but he can endure looking like a child in his father’s
clothes if that’s what Harry wants. Besides, there is something
weirdly comforting about wearing each other’s armor on a day
like this, like they’re lifting each other up, using each other’s
strengths.

The sky is dark, sunrise still a while away, but it’s not too cold
and it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. Not yet anyway. They
take off at a relatively leisurely pace, jogging along the cliffs in
tandem with Clifford a few paces ahead. Once the dog reaches
their usual pathway down, he sits down obediently next to it,
waiting for them with what Louis can only describe as an eager
look on his face. They get there merely a few seconds after him
and together, they make their way to the beach, careful and
slow. Louis grabs at Harry’s waist from behind as they go
down, keeping him steady with a soft, but firm hand.

“Y’alright?” Louis asks and Harry simply hums in agreement.

He’d feel stupid for doublechecking, but he’s seen Harry

almost slip too many times to risk it. There’s no way Louis is

338
sending him back to Los Angeles injured. Or wherever it is he’s
planning to record his next masterpiece.

Once on the beach, they start jogging again, laughing when

Clifford runs alongside them, paws in the water. They run the
length of the beach a few times, less than they normally would
before Harry stops. He doesn’t look particularly tired or out of
breath, but Louis follows his lead and stops running too.

“Everything okay?” Louis asks, looking for a sign of

discomfort, or sadness on Harry’s face.

Harry nods, looking at the beach with soft eyes in the darkness.
“Just want to enjoy this fully,” he explains, though he really
doesn’t need to. They both know what he’s doing.

“Of course,” Louis replies, blinking away. “Wanna sit down for
a bit?” he asks, pointing at a rock in the distance.

Harry nods, quietly reaching for Louis’ hand, tangling their

fingers together as they make their way there. They settle on
the rock in silence, listening to the sound of the waves.

“Hey,” Louis says after a few minutes.

Harry looks away from the horizon, staring right at Louis’ face.
“What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Harry blushes a little, looking away, looking down at his lap, at

their fingers still intertwined. “You don’t have to ask,” he
replies and Louis isn’t sure why he felt compelled to, why he

339
didn’t just reach like he already has so many times in the past
month.

There’s something about this moment that feels more fragile

somehow, special. Maybe it’s because he knows it’s a last and
has to be cherished, maybe it’s just because there’s softness, a
quiet, this morning that Louis couldn’t bear to disturb.

“I know,” Louis replies, almost a whisper. “But I wanted to.”

Harry smiles at him, curls dancing softly in the wind. “Then,

yes, of course. Of course, you can kiss me.”

“Good,” Louis says, not making a move yet.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, finally reaching for Harry, bridging the

gap between them.

They kiss and Louis knows it’s not going to be their last, knows
they’ve got hours still before Harry has to go, but he savors
every single second of it anyway. He savors the way Harry
touches him, what he tastes like, the two of them on this beach.
He savors the feeling of being young and feeling it for once.

When they’re done, Louis brushes Harry’s hair off his face,
staring at him.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, the closest either of

them has come to acknowledge what the day represents, how
precious every hour, every minute, every second, is.

340
“Just this,” Harry says, kissing Louis again. “Just this for now,”
he adds when they pause for breath.

Louis smiles. “We can definitely do that,” he says, smile

turning into a smirk without his permission. Then, he kisses
Harry again. “What else though?” he insists in between two
kisses.

“I want to stay here on the beach and watch the sunrise with
you.”

“Done,” Louis replies. Then, he pecks Harry’s lips, short and

sweet, moving backwards before they get a chance to get
carried away. “What else?”

“I want to suck you off in the shower when we go back to the

lighthouse.”

Louis laughs. “Definitely done,” he whispers, kissing Harry a

little more filthily afterwards. “What else?”

“I want to get breakfast at the bakery.”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Done.” He’s about to kiss Harry again

when he’s interrupted.

“And! I want to spend all day in the lantern room. Or out on the
gallery. I don’t know... I just… I just want to stare at this view
all day. Maybe write in my diary a bit. I’ll see how I feel.”

Louis chuckles, playing a little with Harry’s curls. “Alright,”

he says. “Also done.”

341
Harry smiles and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, eerily
reminiscent of the way he used to smile, void, empty, when he
first arrived on Fair Isle. Louis hated it then and he hates it now.
He doesn’t want Harry to have to fake even one more smile for
as long as he lives.

It passes quickly, but Louis stops Harry when he tries to kiss

him again.

“I…” He clears his throat, gaze fixed on Harry’s lips instead of

his eyes. “You can tell me to fuck off you know,” he finally
says, a bit awkwardly. “If you want to like… enjoy the island,
the lighthouse, on your own for a bit today. I… uh… I won’t
be offended.”

He’ll be hurt, Louis thinks distantly, but not offended.

Harry snorts and when Louis looks up at him, the haunted look
in his eyes is gone, replaced by genuine amusement, smile fully
sincere.

“Now, why would I ever want that?” Harry asks before kissing
Louis again.

Clifford barks somewhere in the distance, splashing about

nearby. Harry lets go of him and Louis can still taste him on his
tongue, can still feel him on his skin, and he wonders, absently,
how long it’s going to take for the memories to pale. How long
is it going to take before they start fading a little, until they’re
a remote, ancient blur in the back of his mind he takes refuge
in because they’re happy. Because they’re peaceful.

342
“Can you tell me a story?” Harry asks, another of part of their
routine, another of their little traditions. “While we wait for the
sunrise?” he adds.

Louis looks up at the still dark sky, at the hint of light barely
peeking through. Shouldn’t be too long now. He exhales on a
small laugh, shaking his head.

“I didn’t bring a book,” he comments, though surely Harry

knows this.

Unsurprisingly, Harry shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “You

don’t need books to tell interesting stories.”

“No,” Louis smirks. “I suppose I don’t.”

Harry smiles back at him before letting his head fall on Louis’
shoulder, cuddling up to him, eyes fixed on the sea, on the sky,
on the spot on the horizon where they seem to touch.

Once the sun has properly risen, the world a bit grey and the
skies covered, they stroll back to the lighthouse hand in hand.
Inside, they head to the kitchen first, Louis preparing Clifford’s
food while Harry sits on the floor waiting for him, letting the
dog drop over him like a lug and scratching his belly. The
distraction only lasts until Louis puts his bowl down and soon
enough, they’re both back in Harry’s bedroom. Harry heads
straight to the ensuite, washing the dog off his hands and when
Louis turns back to look at him, half of his clothes are off and
he’s standing bare-chested in the doorway.

“Coming?” Harry says, coquettish and fluttering his eyelids,

somehow managing to look sexy and a bit silly at the same
time. God, Louis never wants to not be touching this man.

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“Sure hope so,” Louis jokes half-heartedly, mostly to hide how
much he wants wants wants.

He can’t let it slip. He can’t let it show. He gives himself those

instructions firmly as he steps forward towards the ensuite until
he’s standing a breath away from Harry’s body.

“Pff,” Harry replies, hands going straight to Louis’ waist, past

the sweats and the pants underneath. “Is that the wittiest you’ve
got?” he asks before clicking his tongue, drawing attention to
his mouth.

Louis lets out a ridiculously exaggerated moan. “Sorry, what

was the question?” he says, joking again, and Harry’s grip on
him slackens a little as he laughs. Which, mission
accomplished, Louis thinks faintly before kissing him.

They make very good use of their shared shower, fulfilling

Harry’s wish, and then some.

Once they’re done, pink skinned and squeaky clean, they help
each other dry off, Louis assisting Harry with his hair softly,
tenderly. They exit the bathroom still naked, both of them
ignoring the forgotten clothes on the bathroom floor. Louis
grabs some clean stuff instead, snorting when Harry forgoes
clothing himself altogether in favour of face planting fully
naked on the bed. Louis lets Harry have his dramatic moment,
putting jeans and a red oversized jumper on, before giving him
his full attention.

He lets himself enjoy the view for a second; the long lean legs
Louis isn’t sure Harry fully knows how to use, the pale soft
thighs he’s kissed and bitten so many times by now, the place
where Harry’s waist narrows slightly, the curve of his spine,

344
the handful of his arse, his shoulders broad and strong from
carrying so much, his arms spread out on the bed, his hands, his
fingers…

Louis inhales sharply, then looks away.

He has to. He has to look away, the knowledge that tomorrow

this won’t be here anymore lodged uncomfortably in his throat:
a truth he’s not ready to face.

“Oi!” he exclaims loudly to compensate. “I thought we were

getting breakfast!” he tells the big pile of sleepy boy on the bed.
“I’m hungry, I want pastries.”

Harry groans, clearly awake, but makes no effort to move his

pretty naked bum.

“Unbelievable,” Louis says, mostly to himself. “It was your

request.”

Harry, to his credit, does look up at this, but only to give Louis
the most convincing puppy eyes he’s ever seen in his life. “I’m
tired,” he says with a big dramatic pout.

Luckily for Louis, he grew up with an army of little siblings

and also owns a dog. There’s not much in terms of cuteness that
he’s not impervious to. Harry comes very close though.

“Aww, are you? Are you tired?”

“Yeah, I am. I want the pastries, but they’re so far away.”

“They’re fifteen minutes away Harry,” Louis deadpans.

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“So far,” Harry repeats, obviously pretending he hasn’t heard
Louis’ response.

“I am not delivering pastries in bed to you Harold,” Louis says

firmly. He’s whipped, but he’s not that whipped. “That’s not
happening, so get up!” Maybe if he’s stern enough, he’ll
convince himself he won’t do it.

At this, Harry does turn around, fully comfortable in his nudity,

eyes sparkling a bit with mischief. “Actually, I was thinking
you could carry me there.”

Louis starts laughing. “In your dreams, pretty boy!”

He does end up giving Harry a piggyback ride to the bakery,

his arms tight around Louis’ neck as he sings Edge of
Seventeen at the top of his lungs, giving the Ooooh! Baby
ooooh! a lot of power. Louis tries not to laugh, just to make
sure he doesn’t drop Harry in the muddy grass on the way and
they finally make it, taking twice as long as they normally
would because Harry keeps moving too much and Louis almost
loses his grip on him a few times.

Still, they make it eventually and they gorge themselves on

Mrs. Clark’s pastries without shame, the two of them laughing
at Harry’s Mick Jagger impression. Once they’re done with
breakfast, they sit a while longer, refilling their cuppa and
enjoying a tea while holding hands in plain view of the other
customers. The coffee shop is pretty much empty, of course,
but it makes Louis equally nervous and excited that Harry is
comfortable enough here to do that. Maybe it’s a bit risky, and
a lot foolish, but as gossipy as everyone in the village is, it’s
only with each other. It would never get out to the outside
world, back to the mainland, Louis is certain of it. It’s not like

346
any of them know who Harry is anyway. Still, he’s delighted
and he enjoys the weight of Harry’s hand in his as they finish
their second tea.

Harry gives Mrs. Clark a long hug before they leave, the kind
of crushing, enveloping hug that makes you want to never let
go of him. He’s thanking her for her hospitality, rubbing his
hand on her back, when Louis has to leave, an emotion he
doesn’t want to name bubbling up his chest. He waits outside,
leaning against the building, watching the pure emptiness of
their village with knowing eyes. It’s just a few houses. Just one
shop. There isn’t even a crappy pub. It’s deserted, looks almost
dead or frozen in time if one squints the right way. Louis loves
it all so much, and, for one second, he has the horribly
devastating thought it might not be enough anymore once
Harry leaves.

Louis shakes his head, refusing himself the luxury of such

pining, of such distressing thoughts.

It’s a ridiculous fear is what it is. Louis certainly isn’t going to

give it power.

Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, Harry comes out
of the bakery. He’s holding a bag of pastries and Louis smiles
softly. He’d bet good money that Mrs. Clark gave them to him
for the journey home tomorrow.

“Alright?” Harry asks when he joins him outside, leaning

against the brick of the building too, his shoulders pressing
against Louis’.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

347
Harry’s smile drops a little, the corner of his mouth tilting down
slightly.

“I’m okay.” Harry bites his lower lip before reaching for Louis’
hand again. “I’ve been thinking. I should really stop by the
observatory on the way back. I need to say goodbye to Mr.
Drummond. I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

“Oh,” Louis says. It’s weird to hear it said so plainly out loud.

Harry’s saying goodbye.

Of course, Louis knew that. The whole point of today is for

Harry to enjoy his favourite Fair Isle things one last time. The
fact that they haven’t spelt it out plainly to each other doesn’t
make it any less true. Still, it’s a bit like a punch in the gut every
time he’s reminded.

“Is that alright?”

“What?” Louis asks, absently, distracted. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. He’s going to be mad if you leave
without seeing him and then he’ll be on my case for months.
He might seem like the sweetest, and he is, but this man can
definitely hold a grudge.”

Harry laughs. “Let’s go,” he says, leading Louis forward.

Louis gives Harry some privacy with Mr. Drummond, staying

outside and watching the birds while they talk. Finally, after
about twenty minutes. Harry gets out of the observatory with a
serious look on his face, reminding Louis he’s probably not
going to be the only missing Harry when he leaves.

348
“You okay?” Louis asks when Harry has been quiet a little too
long as they make their way back to the lighthouse.

Harry nods, absently kicking a rock. “Sure.”

Louis winces, then smiles as he gives Harry a little nudge with

his elbow. “Sounds convincing.”

At that, Harry does chuckle a little.

“I like Mr. Drummond,” he says. “He has a nice way of seeing

things. I’ve appreciated getting to know him. Even if I didn’t
spend a crazy amount of time with him.”

“He definitely is one of a kind,” Louis agrees.

Harry hums. “Most people here seem to be,” he finally says

after a long beat, giving Louis a tiny side glance before looking
forward again.

When they get back to the lighthouse, they head straight for the
lantern room, staying bundled up as Harry grabs his guitar from
the bench and they make their way outside on the gallery. They
side down next to each other, Harry strumming and humming,
while Louis closes his eyes and dozes off a little to the sound
of his voice. His wonderfully soothing voice.

They waste the afternoon talking about nothing and everything,

snuggled close on top of the lighthouse. Louis is in his favourite
place in the world with one of his favourite people. How
beautiful it is for him to have this. How tragic it is that it can’t
last.

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They cook dinner together while listening to music and they
slow dance to some soft instrumental French jazz while the
pasta cook, Harry dipping Louis just as the water starts boiling
a little too enthusiastically, overflowing from under the lid
while Louis shrieks at Harry to bring him back up, half yelling,
half laughing.

“We’re gonna burn the pasta!” Louis yells with a laugh, trying
to get back up while Harry laughs and laughs, almost dropping
him on the floor.

“You can’t burn pasta, at worst they’ll be overcooked,” Harry

manages to say between hiccups of laughter and his grip
slackens on the dip of Louis’ waist.

“You can definitely burn pasta and don’t you dare drop me,
Harry Styles!” Louis threatens, but he’s laughing too hard to be
taken seriously.

“So...Sorry,” Harry says and it’s too late now, they’re going
down, Harry kneeling on the floor as he tries to soften Louis’
fall.

“You oaf!” Louis says softly, wrapping his legs around Harry’s
waist, both of them tangled together on the floor.

“Oops,” Harry replies before kissing Louis.

Clifford ends up investigating what they’re doing on the floor

like that, his cold nose making Harry yelp when he presses it
against the back of his neck and Louis can’t stop laughing at
the look of utter betrayal on Harry’s face.

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They do burn the pasta, what was previously spaghetti
becoming a solid brick stuck to the bottom of Louis’ pan.

In his defence, Harry looks a bit sheepish.

“So we left it too long on high,” Harry declares, trying to

unstick the noodles with a fork.

“You think?” Louis says sarcastically.

“Should I make us a sandwich then?” Harry offers. “I’m pretty

sure there’s chicken leftover from that roast I made the other
night.”

“Works for me.”

So they eat sandwiches and once they’re done with the dishes
– destroyed pan non-included – they go back on top of the
lighthouse at Harry’s insistence.

Louis can’t blame him. He’s seen it happen with more than one
guest about to leave. They get a bit desperate, want to soak up
as much of the view, of the vibe, of the atmosphere, as possible
before they have to go back to their regular lives. Dull.
Predictable. Nothing like the sea here.

Though of course, Louis can’t imagine there’s anything dull or

predictable about the life Harry is going back to and maybe
that’s why he wants to enjoy this as much as possible. He gets
the same thing out of Fair Isle that Louis does after all. They’re
two peas in a pod, the rare few who actually understand this
place.

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Around half past eight, Harry lets out a long painful sigh and
Louis looks over his shoulder from where he’s cuddled up in
front of him to catch his face.

“I need to go pack at some point,” he explains when their eyes

meet. He doesn’t need to elaborate, doesn’t need to tell Louis
why he put it off until the very last second.

“Need help?” Louis offers, unwilling to let Harry out of his

sight for even one more second today.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry says dismissively, but the

way he’s holding on to Louis, the way he keeps his cheek
pressed against Louis’ stubble, tells a different story.

“I want to,” Louis whispers, stroking Harry’s hand on his

tummy, from the tips of his fingers to his wrist, over and over.

“I’ve gathered most of my stuff already,” Harry says and Louis

knows, he’s noticed. He’s noticed the way Harry stopped
leaving things here and there in every room the past few days.
He’s noticed the way he’s been picking up things he’s always
left around the building before, slowly deleting his presence
from the lighthouse.

Louis hates it.

He hums in response though. “Want us to do a last sweep of the

rooms just in case?”

“I don’t really want to move,” Harry admits. “But I probably

should do that. Like you said, just in case. I mean, most of my
things are in my room already, but you know. Better be
careful.”

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“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I mean, your guitar and your journal are
both up here and I’m assuming they’re quite important,” he
says, a bit cheeky. “Imagine what else you could leave behind
if you don’t double check.”

Harry shakes his head and Louis can feel him smile. “I’m
definitely not going to forget my guitar.”

Louis shrugs. “You never know.”

They stay silent for a bit, still cuddling instead of getting up,
and Louis presses his lips tight together, stopping himself from
smiling or crying, or both. Choosing to enjoy it for a few more
seconds.

Finally, after they’ve stretched it too long, Louis says: “ready?”

and they untangle themselves, getting up from the bench and
stretching a little. Harry picks up his guitar and his journal
while Louis carefully makes his way around the room,
thoroughly making sure none of Harry’s belongings is still up
here. There are a few discarded jumpers Harry has left around,
but all of them belong to the B&B already.

“I think we’re clear up here,” Louis declares after a bit and

Harry nods.

“Alright, let’s get back to the cottage,” he says, but he makes

no move to go down. Instead, he looks through the windows.

It’s dark outside already, of course, it is, but Louis lets him have
his moment. He walks around him, presses a small kiss on his
cheek, whispering “take your time” before going down the
stairs.

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Louis has the time to check both the basement for any forgotten
laundry and the kitchen before Harry joins him in the living
room. He’s been thorough and Louis hasn’t found a single item
belonging to him yet.

“Kitchen was alright,” Harry says softly when he walks in,

Louis’ nose buried in one of his bookcases.

“Basement too,” Louis replies without looking at him, finger

going over the titles. “You’ve done a good job,” he adds,
smirking when he finds what he wanted and takes two books
out of the bookcase.

“These definitely aren’t mine,” Harry says with a small smile

when Louis looks back at him.

They’re two cheesy romance novels, of course, they are, and

Louis shrugs. “You’ll need some reading material on the way
back. This one has quite a scandalous straight sex scene in a
Viscount’s gardens,” Louis says showing Harry the red cover.
“Should be to your taste,” he jokes and Harry rolls his eyes but
he doesn’t contradict Louis.

“Aren’t I supposed to leave a book if I want to take one?” Harry

comments as he starts looking around the living room, on the
windowsill and the chest.

“Let’s say we’ll make an exception for you,” Louis says even
though he’s not the first, and certainly won’t be the last to leave
with a book without an exchange.

“That’s generous.”

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“Well, that’s me to a T,” Louis jokes as he makes his way to
the sofa where a familiar ugly cardigan rests.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “It really is.” He pauses and it’s only
when Louis picks up the cardigan that he starts talking again.
“Oh, I can’t take that. That’s yours.”

“You adopted it, Harry,” Louis protests straight up, putting the
offending material over one of his shoulders. “You can’t leave
it behind. What kind of father are you? Just ‘cause your child’s
ugly doesn’t mean you get to walk out, you know.”

“It’s part of your collection,” Harry argues. “The cardigan

stays.”

“The cardigan definitely goes.”

“But –”

“I will smuggle it in your bag while you sleep if you keep

arguing with me, Harold.”

“Fine,” Harry replies and there’s a little something in his eyes,

a happiness Louis knows how to read. He won’t say so, but he’s
pleased he gets to keep his monstrosity, Louis knows it.

Once they’ve fully checked the living room and the dining
room, they have a quick look around reception, finding only a
couple of items in total, most noticeably socks bunched in one
corner of the dining room that Louis has no idea how they
ended up there. It’s not like they spend a lot of time in that
room. Still. Soon enough, they’re mostly done and they make
their way up to Harry’s room to pack it all up. Louis helps
Harry with rolling all of his clothes tight so they’ll all fit in his

355
bag. Harry keeps an outfit aside for the next day and they put
the books on top so he’ll have easy access to them during the
journey. Finally, Harry puts his guitar carefully back in its case.

They do it all in silence, tension in the air.

Louis tries to think of what to say at a time like this, but he feels
a little empty, like everything would come out bland and
colorless, when all that’s inside of him is exploding with
vibrancy, painful but joyful both at the same time, everything
Harry’s touched vibrating on a frequency of too much.

So they do it all in silence and once everything in the room

except Louis’ things has been packed and tucked away, they
stand in the middle of it, staring at each other, not knowing
what to do.

The light turns off without warning, half eleven, and they keep
looking at each other in the darkness, eyes adjusting to the
shadows.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, hand reaching out for him and they
meet in the middle, bodies colliding with more force than Louis
anticipated, more desperation.

They fumble in the dark, making their way to the bed blindly,
unwilling to stop touching, to stop kissing, to get to their goal
faster.

They tumble down in a tangle of limbs.

356
The next morning, Louis blinks awake to the sight of two wide
green eyes staring at him and a heaviness sitting on his chest.
He swallows down the heaviness, tries to chase it away, but it’s
settled firmly, clawed in deep beneath his breastbone. Harry is
leaving today.

“Hey,” Louis barely whispers, afraid to disturb the tranquility

of this moment. If the day truly begins, that makes it real. If
they get up from this bed, Harry really has to go.

“Hey,” Harry echoes, just as gently, eyes roaming Louis’ face,

an emotion Louis can’t name clouding them.

Louis reaches out for him absently, almost without noticing

until his fingers brush Harry’s jaw softly.

“Slept okay?” Louis asks, still caressing Harry’s face. He’s not
sure why he’s being so mundane when they both know what’s
happening in a couple of hours. It’s not like they can really
tiptoe around it. But Louis doesn’t want to be the first to
acknowledge it and he’s pretty sure Harry feels the same.

Harry shakes his head, tightening his fingers on Louis’ waist,

holding him steady. “No,” he admits. “I couldn’t sleep at all.”

It explains the dark circles under his eyes, the tired way he’s
holding himself.

Louis exhales a small sigh, moving a smidge closer to Harry’s

body. They’re pressed so tightly together already it seems
almost impossible, but Louis manages. “I’m sorry,” he says,
eyes closing for a second when one of Harry’s hands slides into
his hair, soft, soothing. He could almost fall asleep again, with
the warmth of Harry’s body against his. But the heaviness

357
keeps him wide awake, hyperaware. He has to say goodbye
today. He’s not sure how he’s meant to do that.

“S’alright,” Harry replies and when Louis opens his eyes again,
he looks almost reverent. “I used my time efficiently,” he adds,
mostly to himself, gaze never wavering.

Not for the first time, Louis feels like he’s being memorized. It
aches a lot more today of all days because it’s Harry’s last
chance to do it. And the way he stubbornly refuses to blink, the
way he’s holding on, eyes never moving away from Louis’
face; Harry knows it too. So Louis looks at Harry right back,
doing some memorizing of his own, tracing every single detail
of his face so it stays imprinted in his brain forever. So he’ll
never forget the sight of Harry in the cold winter light, eyes soft
green as he stares and stares. So he’ll never forget the specks
of gold in his eyes, the dark fuzz over his upper lip, the beauty
spot between his cheek and his chin, his small quirky ears.
Louis watches him like a hawk, silently promising himself to
never forget a thing, to remember this version of Harry, this
version of Harry no one but him got to see.

“Louis,” Harry says after they’ve been staring at each other far
longer than they should and he sounds a bit frazzled, frantic.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Louis reassures, thumb still stroking the skin
of Harry’s cheeks, the rest of his fingers buried deep in Harry’s
hair as he holds him in place. “I’m here.”

“Louis,” Harry says again, a bit more desperate this time,

before kissing him.

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One last time, Louis thinks distantly as Harry starts struggling
to take his top off between frantic kisses, rolling them over so
he’s lying on top of him. Better enjoy it.

“Hey,” Louis says between kissing, holding Harry off a little,

hands holding his shoulders so he can’t lean down again. “Slow
down, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Slow,” he agrees, even though they don’t have the
time for it.

It softens after that, passion replaced by unhurried worship as

they kiss, as they touch, as they gasp, as they tremble.

After, they’re reluctant to part, naked bodies fully pressed

together, not a sliver of space between them. Harry’s head is
buried in Louis’ neck, legs intertwined, torso touching
everywhere as they breathe against each other, as they breathe
each other in. As long as they’re not getting up, it’s not real yet.
Louis clings to the thought, just as he clings to the small of
Harry’s back, fingers digging into the dimples at the bottom of
his spine. Harry presses a kiss on Louis’ collarbone, soft, barely
there, a featherlike touch that burns still. It’s almost enough to
reignite them and Louis considers it, considers making Harry
come again, considers enjoying another last time, but Harry
moves from his collarbone to his neck, then to his jaw. He
presses soft kisses on Louis’ skin, almost absently, not trying
to rile him up or start anything, but just because he can, he still
can, he’s not gone yet. And Louis settles into the moment.

After a beat, Harry lifts his head and they look at each other.

“Louis, I’m –” Harry starts saying and Louis can’t, he just can’t
do this, so he kisses Harry quiet, kisses him thoroughly because

359
if any of their kisses this morning can be the last one, he’s going
to make sure they all make a lasting impression.

They have to get out of bed eventually and it doesn’t even hurt
as much as Louis anticipated. This weird mental barrier he
erected to protect himself and here he is, crossing it, and he’s
still in one piece. He hasn’t shattered. Weird how the world
works sometimes, Louis can’t help but ponder as he stands
naked in the middle of Harry’s room. They slowly make their
way to the ensuite to shower together, Harry jokingly claiming
he’s never travelled covered in bodily fluids and he’s not going
to start now, and Louis laughs because he’s pretty sure it’s a
lie. He laughs because turns out he’s really going to miss this
man. They wash each other’s hair carefully and Louis presses
small kisses behind Harry’s right ear once he’s sure his hair is
properly rinsed off.

Once they step out of the shower, they dry each other off
between kisses, leaving the towels on the floor for Louis to find
later. Louis puts on his jeans from the day before and without
thinking, grabs the discarded jumper Harry wore to bed. It’s
still skin warm and smells like him, enveloping Louis like
Harry’s hugs do. Harry, on the other hand, picks up the sweats
and hoodie he’d selected the night before for comfort and kept
aside, and puts them on in silence. Once he’s fully dressed,
socks and vans on, he reaches for his green jacket.

“Here,” Louis says, “I’ll help you.” He grabs Harry’s bag, the
one they so carefully packed together the night before and puts
it on his shoulder. Then, he grabs Harry’s guitar case, handing
it over to him.

“I…” Harry says when their fingers touch. “Thanks.”

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Louis reaches for his phone on his side of the bed, clicking it
open and swallowing hard when he sees they’re almost out of
time.

“Boat will be in real soon, you’ll have to hurry if you want to

make it to port in time,” he comments in a strangled voice.

It’s too soon. It’s too soon. He’s not done yet, he’s not ready.

“Right,” Harry says and he follows silently when Louis leaves

the room, leading them downstairs into the reception area.

Like he knows, Clifford is sitting next to the door and he gives

Harry a big sad look when they arrive downstairs.

“Cliff,” Harry calls, putting his guitar and his coat down,
getting to his knees in front of Louis’ dog, wrapping him into a
big hug. Clifford whines a little, either because Harry’s
hugging him too tight or because he’s sad, or both. Harry lets
go of him at the sound, choosing to kiss his face over and over
instead, laughing when Clifford gives him a big lick in
response. “You were the best walking companion,” Harry tells
him and Louis is so moved by the dedication, the sincerity, of
this farewell that he can’t even feel jealous. “And the best
cuddler,” Harry adds. “Just… the best company I could have
ever hoped for Cliff.”

Louis smiles with his lips pressed tight together, because if he

doesn’t he might cry.

“They do say dogs resemble their owners a lot,” Harry whispers

after a beat, going for the jugular every single time. He looks
up at Louis, offering him a devastating smile before saying: “I
guess it must be true.”

361
Louis inhales quietly before replying, forcing his voice to
remain steady. “Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.” He looks back down at Clifford, smiling

more sadly now when Louis’ dog just drops to the floor and
rolls on his back, begging for belly scratches. “Oh, I wish I had
time,” Harry tells him sadly, scratching his belly anyway. “I
wish…” he cuts himself off.

Louis looks down at the phone still in his hand, at the time that
keeps on ticking and ticking. Harry has to go now, he has to
leave or he’ll miss the boat. And if he misses the boat, who
knows when there’ll be a next one? They’ve got a storm due in
the next few days, planes and ferries are probably going to be
cancelled. Harry would be trapped a little longer. Louis tries
very hard not to think about how great that would be. Instead,
he clears his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’re gonna miss the boat if you don’t
leave now.”

It’s probably the hardest sentence he’s ever had to say, yet it
comes out perfectly fine, steady, without a hint of hesitation.

“Yeah,” Harry says, still focused on Clifford. He gives him one

last kiss, then gets up.

First, he reaches for his military green coat, sliding it on. He

reaches underneath to free his hood, putting it on and hiding
most of his face. Then, he holds his hand out to get his bag from
Louis.

“I can come with you!” Louis blurts out. “To the port, I mean.
Help you carry your things.”

362
But Harry shakes his head straight away, denying him a few
last minutes together. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. I don’t want to
trouble you with that.”

“It’s no trouble,” Louis says softly, sadly. “Harry, it’s –”

“It’s fine,” Harry insists kindly. “I’ve got it.”

So Louis doesn’t argue. He simply slides the bag off his

shoulder and watches as Harry picks it up. He looks down at
his guitar case for a second before bending to pick it up too.

“Well,” Louis says awkwardly, not sure what one is supposed

to say in those circumstances.

Every word seems useless, every sentiment too small.

“Well,” Harry repeats, bouncing on his feet a little. He’s

nervous. If his hands were free, Louis would bet he’d be
fiddling with his elastic band right now.

“It’s…” Louis starts saying before shaking his head and

chuckling. “It’s been a pleasure to have you, Mr. Pop Star,” is
what he finally settles on, extending his hand for Harry to
shake.

Harry frowns deeply at the sight. He looks down at Louis’

hand, huffs, then shakes his head, before putting his guitar
down again and slamming his body into Louis’, the force of the
hug making them both stumble backwards.

Louis can’t stay anything, has had the wind knocked out of him,
so he holds Harry back as best as he can, tries to pour

363
everything that he’s feeling into the hug, his arms wrapped
around Harry’s neck.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers in his ear, voice cracking, and

Louis closes his eyes. “Just… thank you. You have no idea…”
he stops himself and Louis can feel him shaking a little. “Thank
you, Louis.”

Suddenly, Louis finds himself blubbering, unable to keep quiet

anymore. “You… you don’t have to thank me,” he replies,
disbelieving. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.” He pauses,
squeezing Harry really tight. “I didn’t do anything,” he replies,
in a whisper, mostly to himself.

It makes Harry laugh, low and wet, like maybe he’s crying.
“You have no idea,” he whispers back. Then, just as abruptly
as he reached for Louis, he lets go.

He grabs his guitar, keeping his head down for as long as

possible and when he finally looks up to give Louis a forced
smile, his eyes look a bit red. “I’ll see you around,” he says
softly – a blatant lie and they both know it – before walking out
of the door, out of Louis’ life.

Clifford barks after him, scratching at the closed door. Then, he

whines.

Louis stays frozen for a second, heart pounding in his chest,

before he turns around and starts running, past the kitchen and
the door leading to the basement, through the annex and past
his bedroom, up and up and up the spiral staircase, out the door
in the lantern room and onto the gallery. He walks around until
he finds the perfect viewpoint, hair in the wind, hands gripping
the railing, as he watches Harry becoming smaller and smaller

364
and smaller, until he’s but a dot on the horizon, until Louis can’t
see him at all, until he’s finally truly left.

Then, only then, Louis lets himself sit down, back against the
tower, panting shakily.

365
Chapter 11

The first few days after Harry leaves, Louis can’t believe how
quiet the lighthouse is. It’s like he’s forgotten somehow, how
much time he’s spent in this building on his own in the past.
It’s like he’s forgotten how to have one-sided conversations
with his dog the way he used to, a stream of consciousness
leaving his mouth without shame with no expectation that
someone will reply. Now, he keeps expecting Harry to pipe up
with some clever, or not so clever, line. Every time he babbles
in Clifford’s direction, there’s a part of him waiting for Harry’s
comment, Harry’s laughter. Some terrible joke Louis would
laugh at only because Harry looks so cute telling it. But Harry’s
gone and there’s an empty space haunting the building where
he used to be, a loud absence that Louis tries his best to ignore,
tiptoeing around it like that will make things better.

Louis is fine though. He doesn’t cry himself to sleep every

night or anything like that. He doesn’t mope in bed, wasting the
days away because his suitor left him. Sure, maybe he’s taken
to sleeping in the room Harry rented, cuddled up against
Clifford’s body so he doesn’t feel too alone at night, but that
doesn’t mean he’s not fine. Sure, he might not have washed the
sheets yet, scared of getting rid of Harry’s fading smell, but that
doesn’t mean he’s not fine. He knew what to expect, after all,
knew all along it would come to this. Harry never made any
promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t leave Louis broken-
hearted and feeling used. They knew what they were doing all
along, knew how ephemeral the two of them were doomed to
be.

366
It’s fine.

So what if, five days after Harry’s departure, Louis has the
crushing thought that he’s probably in love with someone he
can never have?

It hits him while he’s washing the windows outside the lantern
room. He’s out on the gallery, the big sponge in his hands
squeaking against the glass as he makes big circular motions,
not thinking about anything specific when the overwhelming,
yet obvious, realisation that he’s in love with Harry and he can’t
do anything about it pops into his head. The overwhelming, yet
obvious, realisation that he’s already lost him to life and their
mismatched circumstances. That he’s never going to get the
chance to tell him.

He loves Harry. What a useless, elating feeling.

Louis drops the sponge as soon as he thinks it and it falls back

into the soapy bucket at his feet with a splash. He’s too dazed
to notice though, too focused on the way his heart expands in
his chest until it feels like it won’t fit anymore, too full of
feelings he can’t hold in. He presses his palms against the
windows he’s just cleaned, needing the support to hold himself
up. He exhales shakily as he presses his forehead on the glass,
waiting for the dizziness to pass. He inhales deeply. Then
exhales, slow, controlled. Then, he does it again. The wind
whistles around him. It’s probably loud, Louis thinks vaguely,
but it comes across as faint and distant. He blinks, eyes wet.
Louis blinks and he breathes. He waits, and waits, but the tears
don’t come, grief and love both stuck in his throat with no
outlet.

Maybe it’s not so fine after all.

367
Still, he tries not to let those newfound feelings affect him too
much. Harry left. There’s nothing Louis can do about that. All
he can do is try to keep himself as busy as possible so the place
in his soul where he’s aching doesn’t get to thrive too much. So
he putters around the B&B as normal, cleaning up all the rooms
except Harry’s and ordering supplies in bulk for the new
season. His next guests are coming in less than a month and
Louis’ establishment has a reputation to maintain.

He’s a bit mad at himself that he got through almost all of his
maintenance tasks though, leaving him in need of a lot of
creativity to keep himself occupied. He has to do quite a lot to
get the small voice in the back of his head that wants him to
curl up and indulge in his devastation to shut the fuck up. Still,
he buzzes in and out of the cottage, making sure everything is
okay, waking before five o’clock every single morning and
going to bed way past one every single night. He sleeps fitfully
and he knows he’s probably going to crash, but he’s running on
a high of denial and as long as there’s energy in his body, Louis
is going to use it.

It all comes to a halt ten days after Harry’s departure, five days
after Louis has realised he was in love with him all along.

He wakes up sad that morning, but he shakes it off, reminding

himself viciously in front of the mirror that he’s fine . His
reflection just blinks sleepily back at him, dark circles under
his eyes and he looks aged. With his beard untrimmed, he
finally looks like the hermit his extended family claims that he
is. It took years for him to get there, but he finally did. He
almost wants to send them a selfie so they can laugh at his
complete and utter misery.

368
He doesn’t, of course. He gets dressed in silence, then goes for
a run with Clifford, leaving his phone on his dresser, unable to
bear the thought of listening to music Harry carefully selected
for him. When he gets back to the lighthouse, he feeds Clifford
and gets to work.

By noon, Louis is forced to admit he’s got nothing left to do

except clean up Harry’s bedroom.

He goes through the motions, taking the sheets that smell like
him and Clifford by now more than they smell like Harry off
the bed with gritted teeth. It’s alright, Louis tells himself as he
bunches them up and throws them in a laundry basket. It
doesn’t matter, he thinks as he strips the pillows off their cases
and puts them on top of the sheets. He saves the duvet for last,
holding it to his chest and closing his eyes, inhaling deeply as
he searches for a trace, a hint, of the man he’s trying to learn
how to live without.

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis tells himself unkindly, taking the

cover off the duvet and throwing it in the basket too.

By the time he’s made it to the basement and has put everything
in the washing machine, there are tears streaming down his
cheeks.

He sits down, back to the wall, arms wrapped around his legs,
forehead pressed to his knees and waits. He listens to the loud
rumbling of his washing machine, breathing deeply in the dark.
It’ll pass, he knows it will. Like most sorrows, one day he’ll
wake up finding himself able to breathe again. Until then
though, he has to endure.

369
When the cycle is done, Louis hangs everything up to dry
automatically, trying his hardest to keep his mind blank as he
puts everything on the washing line that stretches in his
basement.

Once that’s done, Louis gets back upstairs and makes his way
through the corridor leading to the tower then goes straight to
his bedroom. He opens the closet, grabbing a black travel bag
and dropping it on the floor in the middle of his room. Then,
Louis starts randomly packing clothes, grabbing whatever is
nearest and clean, mostly sweatpants and comfy tees.

It’s impulsive, and probably a little stupid in his state, but he

can’t bear the sight of the lighthouse any longer. He doesn’t
have any reservations until mid-April and he’ll be damned if he
spends the next few weeks roaming the building aimlessly
while pretending to be busy, like a ghost trapped on Earth with
unfinished business. Every single corner of his home is full of
memories he’s a bit too fragile to confront straight away. He’ll
be fine – he is fine – he just needs a distraction. He needs
something to keep his mind occupied until the B&B starts
buzzing with excited tourists and their chatters. He needs a
break from the quiet, the quiet that used to be his salvation, that
Harry cherished so much. It’s filled with absence now rather
than comfort and Louis knows it won’t always be this way, but
for now, he needs some noise, needs cacophony, to keep his
brain away from what he’s missing.

There’s only one place on Earth that Louis knows of that can
provide exactly what he needs, so once he’s done packing his
bag, he grabs his phone and dials Roger’s number. Leaving Fair
Isle is always a bit of a gamble, between the temperamental
weather that makes them inaccessible for days on end and the
ferry and flights schedule being so sparse. Louis is determined
though and he knows The Good Shepherd IV is dropping some

370
goods tomorrow morning. Weather permitting, he’ll be on his
way to Shetland in less than twenty-four hours.

The next morning, Louis locks up the B&B, double-checking

every window is safely closed and locked, before walking to
the marina north of the island with Clifford in tow. They wait
patiently as Roger unpacks the boat and chats with locals,
before climbing the small ferry. He’s waved off by the few
friends who are awake and near the port, and Louis doesn’t
know why he thought his spontaneous vacation would go
unnoticed. Still, soon enough, him, Clifford and Roger are well
on their way to Lerwick. Louis can’t explain it, but the minute
he’s off the island it’s like his chest expands and he can finally
breathe, fresh salty air filling his lungs deeply as Fair Isle
becomes smaller and smaller. Thankfully, the weather is kind
enough and while still rocky, the journey isn’t too bad and they
make it to Shetland in good time. Louis is used to it of course,
not likely to get sick, but he’s glad to be back on the ground as
he hugs Roger goodbye. He’s only got an hour to kill before his
ferry to Aberdeen so he grabs a meal deal from Tesco and eats
it by the sea.

He calls his mother just before boarding, revealing to her that

he’s on his way, and while the connection is shite, the line
crackly between them, the shriek of joy that comes out of her
mouth seem to indicate she’s excited to see him. He’s staying
for at least a week, he reveals, putting some effort in faking joy,
not wanting her to worry, and she starts babbling about all the
fun things he’ll get to do with his younger siblings while he’s
there. He cuts her off when she starts planning menus for him,
laughing sincerely this time when he assures her that she
doesn’t need to go out of her way for him.

The ferry to Aberdeen takes around twelve hours, so he won’t

be on the mainland until past midnight. He’s hardly going to be

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in the mood for a night bus down to Yorkshire so he quickly
books himself a room in Aberdeen on his phone before buying
a ticket for the earliest train to Doncaster the next morning. He
could have planned this better, probably, but Louis doesn’t
care. He was too eager, too desperate, for anything else.

Louis reads the two novels he’s brought for his vacation on the
Ferry and by the time he’s in his hotel room that night, he tosses
and turns, unable to fall asleep. He must doze off at some point
because his alarm wakes him up at five am and he swears under
his breath, pushing Clifford’s body gently off his before
stumbling into the bathroom for a piss with eyes half closed.
They get to the train station with thirty minutes to spare,
grabbing a tea and pastry at Greggs before waiting for the
LNER on platform three.

His mum picks him up from the station with his youngest
siblings, eyeing him suspiciously when he stays kneeling on the
ground, both arms wrapped around the smallest twins for a beat
too long, moved beyond words at the way they’ve grown in the
months he’s been away. He’s seen pictures and he’s skyped,
but it’s different seeing them for real, the way they’ve changed
while he looked away. He blinks away tears of too much-ness
before wrapping his mother in her own hug, feeling some
restlessness in him settle when she squeezes hard. She can
probably tell there’s something wrong, after all, she always
could, but she distracts Ernest and Doris away from Clifford
and leads them all to the car without asking.

She gives him small subtle concerned glances on the drive

home, but she lets the twins babble about the various things
they’ve been up to and doesn’t say a thing. Louis learns all
about his brother’s piano lesson and his sister’s new best
friends as he nods and aws appropriately.

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It’s Monday and most of the rest of his siblings are still in
school when they get to the house, so they eat lunch just the
four of them, Louis already helping his mother make spaghetti
as soon as he drops his bag in what used to be his, then Lottie’s,
room and is now more of a guest bedroom than anything else.
Half of the family is missing, but the meal is loud and messy,
just like when he was a kid, just like he needed. Louis basks in
the comfort of it all, in the knowledge that Harry hasn’t crossed
his mind once since he saw his mum, his brain too distracted
by everything that’s happening. The twins try to feed Clifford
pieces of meat from the spaghetti sauce and their mother
reprimands them while Louis laughs until she starts
reprimanding him too for letting them get away with it.

Louis has missed this.

He’s pretty exhausted from an intense two days of travel, but

he does his best to stay awake. First, he helps his mum with the
dishes, before they all settle in front of a kids show he’s not
familiar with to fold laundry together. Back in the day, Louis
knew every single kid program on the telly because he spent so
much time babysitting his sisters. Now, he doesn’t even own a
television and he indulges in Netflix on his computer only very
rarely. It’s strange to think about the way his life has so
dramatically changed through the years. He loves it though,
despite the longing for a Harry-shaped body in his bed, he loves
his life.

By the time they get through the laundry, the girls have come
back from secondary school, shrieking in the entry as soon as
they spot Clifford running towards them.

Louis gives his mother a look and she shrugs.

373
“Didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” she admits as the girls spill
into the living, jumping on Louis and play fighting to figure
who gets to hug him first.

He distracts more than helps while his sisters do their

homework. When his stepfather gets back home, everyone
pitches in as they prepare dinner together. It’s even louder and
more chaotic than lunch.

It’s perfect.

After dinner, Louis can barely keep his eyes open and Daisy
keeps pointing it out and making fun of him as they do the
dishes, but he fights sleep as long as possible, wanting to enjoy
spending time with his siblings as much as possible. He puts
the younger twins to bed, reading them a story and doing all the
voices, heart twisting painfully in his chest as he remembers
doing the same for Harry time and time again. He sighs and
closes the book once Ernest and Doris are both asleep. It feels
like he’s missing something new about Harry every time he
turns around.

Louis is powerless to stop the feelings though, so he just goes

back downstairs, wrapping himself in a blanket with a mug of
tea as the rest of the family settles in to watch a documentary
about Scottish Wildcats. Clifford is comfortably sleeping at his
feet, happy to be petted by both Daisy and Phoebe who are
sitting on the floor on both sides of him. Fizzy is mostly texting
from her armchair, but once in a while, she’ll stretch her leg to
poke Louis’ shoulder in what he knows how to read as
affection. When the documentary finishes, Dan puts on another
one, but at the halfway mark, people start trickling out of the
living room to head to bed. Soon enough, it’s just him and his
mother yawning in front of the telly.

374
Which, of course, is exactly when she ambushes him, armed
with motherly concerns and good intentions.

“So,” she says, and any hope Louis had that this wasn’t going
to be a serious conversation vanishes at the tone of her voice.

“So,” Louis echoes, keeping his eyes fixed on the documentary.

Jay mutes the television pointedly, moving from the armchair

in the corner to Louis’ sofa, settling next to him.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing home?”

Jay was one of the first people in his life to fully support his
move to Fair Isle. She was the first person he told, back when
it was nothing more than an impulse, a burning desire bright in
his chest that he couldn’t extinguish no matter how much he
tried to talk himself out of it. She understood, somehow, when
he told her he felt like he belonged there. To his mother’s credit,
she never told him no, never said it was a bad idea. She never
shied away from telling him how hard it was going to be, but
his mother is not the kind of woman to discourage her children
from following their hearts. Whether it means loving someone
of the same sex, or fucking off to a remote island in Scotland.
In Louis’ case, both. She’s proud of him, he knows that. She
tells him any chance she gets, reminds him how much she
admires him for all that he’s accomplished.

And yet, she never stops calling Doncaster his home, never
stops seeing his returns to Yorkshire as homecomings, no
matter how many times he calls Fair Isle his true home in front
of her. She doesn’t quite get it, he thinks, even though she says
she does. Still, it’s a lifelong habit Louis has stopped trying to
break her out of a long time ago.

375
“Can’t I visit?” Louis asks with a shrug. “There doesn’t need
to be a special reason.”

Jay hums.

“It’s just for fun,” he lies, even though they both know he’s
going to spill at some point. “I don’t know if you remember,
but I didn’t come home for Christmas this year. S’been ages. I
can barely recognise the twins.”

“Which ones,” Jay jokes and he was talking about how much
Doris and Ernest have grown, but Daisy and Phoebe are
becoming little women too, leaving childhood behind way
quicker than Louis would have thought.

Still, he laughs.

“I do remember,” Jay continues seriously and when he looks

up at her, she doesn’t look particularly amused. “I miss you
when you’re away. Of course, I know you’ve missed Christmas
because of work. And I also remember you saying your winter
guest was leaving mid-March and here you are, right after he’s
gone, looking sad. So please, don’t try to bullshit me about
some last minute holiday before the season begins, honey. I
know you too well.”

Louis’ face falls and he closes his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says on
an exhale.

He hears his mother sighs. “You know,” she begins and he

opens his eyes just in time to watch her wipe away a solitary
tear, “all those years, you’ve lived all alone. So isolated… But
I was never worried. I was never worried even when everyone
told me I should be because you’ve always looked so happy

376
when you came home. You’ve always sounded happy on the
phone. When you called yesterday ? You didn’t sound happy.
At all. And when I picked you up this afternoon? You looked
even worse.”

“Okay,” Louis simply says. He sighs, a long, tired exhale that

comes from the depths of his body. “You’re right. I’m really
sad right now,” he admits, voice cracking on the admission.
“But I came here to distract myself and stop thinking about it.
I don’t want you to be worried, but I just… I really don’t want
to talk about it. Not right now. You get that, right?”

Jay reaches for him, wrapping him into a hug that has his back
cracking. “You’re my son. I love you. I’m never not going to
be upset that you’re sad. But if you don’t want to talk about it,
of course, I’ll respect that.”

“Thank you,” Louis says into her shoulders, squeezing her

tightly right back. “I promise you… It’s… it’s nothing that
won’t get better in time, alright?”

They separate, Jay looking deeply into his eyes, surely trying
to read his soul the way she’s always magically been able to.

“Are you sure?”

Louis isn’t. He doesn’t know that this love is something that’s

ever going to fade and go away, but he’s hoping, praying, that
it’ll fade a little, that one day it won’t be as tender when
pressed, that the bruise, while still present, won’t throb the way
it does now.

He has no guarantee, but he can hope, so he nods.

377
*

The one week he was planning on spending at his mum’s house

stretches into two, and by the time Louis is back on the ferry
towards Lerwick, bag filled with books his sisters and him
hunted for in charity shops all around Doncaster, he feels ready
to attack the new season with a smile on his face. He hurts, still,
can’t really imagine a time when he won’t, but he refuses to let
a heartache ruin his summer. His guests deserve an amazing
experience and if he has to fake smile his way to early
September, Louis will.

Roger is happy to see him, wrapping him into a big hug before
Louis climbs aboard the ferry back to Fair Isle, clapping his
shoulder a few times before letting him go. He even gives
Clifford a treat before they embark on the last two hours of their
journey back home.

Louis is pretty tired, but when the lighthouse finally appears in

the distance, he can’t help the lurch his heart gives at the sight.
It’s not fully unpleasant, partly pain and grief yes, but mostly
satisfaction that he’s back home, that he can do this. He can
recover.

The key jams a little in the lock and Louis ends up having to
push the door open with his hip, Clifford running inside as soon
it barges open and Louis stumbles inside, cursing his dog
affectionately.

“Idiot,” Louis is mumbling when he steps into a pile of mail

that’s been accumulating on the floor during his absence.

He leaves his bag near the reception desk, taking his jacket off
and leaving it on the counter before finally bending down to

378
grab what he assumes are various bills and political pamphlets.
Louis truly doesn’t understand why companies insist on
sending him paper copies of everything when he’s ticked the
‘email’ billing on every single one of his accounts multiple
times.

He starts walking down the corridor towards the living room as

he’s flipping through the envelopes, mumbling “boring, boring,
boring” under his breath with every new useless piece of junk
he’s received. He pushes the living room door open with his
hip, whistling for Clifford to join him as he walks towards the
sofa when his heart stops in his chest. He drops half the
envelopes on the floor, eyes wide as he stares at the postcard
he’s received.

His heart must have started beating again at some point because
it’s loud in his ears, the thump thump thump indicating that he’s
so alive is the only sound he can hear in this quiet universe.
Clifford patters into the room, nudging him behind the knees
and for a second Louis thinks he might fall down at the push,
unsteady on his feet as he stares at where the card
says Greetings from Cheshire.

His hands are shaking, Louis thinks distantly, staring at the way
they hold the postcard like they belong to a stranger. Were they
always so thin, the skin rough from manual labor? Has his skin
always been so tan? The card looks at him, sentient, mocking,
and Louis almost doesn’t want to flip it, fear like he’s never felt
before growing in his belly.

What if it’s not what he wants desperately?

Somehow, he makes it to the sofa, leaving a trail of bills on the

floor. He sits, overjoyed, terrified, and doesn’t read the card.

379
He stares and stares, until it goes straight past ridiculous, and
verging on pathetic.

“I’m going to read this postcard,” Louis tells Clifford, still not
turning it around.

Clifford barks, settling at his feet and lifting his face, big dark
eyes supportive.

“I am,” Louis insists and then he does, because he’s a grown-

up goddamn it, and being in love with Harry sure as hell won’t
incapacitate him.

When Louis flips it around, it reads as such:

380
 04/04/19
Dear Louis,
I’m celebrating one year of sobriety today. It both feels huge
and little at the same time. My mum and my sister baked me a
cake. We had dinner in the garden even though it wasn’t that
warm.
It was lovely though. I’m off to LA to meet my manager in a few
days. Mum’s worried and I don’t know how to make it better. I
think she’d want me to stay with her forever, just to make sure
I’m safe if she had her ways. I suppose I can’t blame her. I’m
gonna be honest, it felt weird that you weren’t there, eating
cake with me to celebrate that huge success…
Anyway, I hope you’re well.
xH

381
There are so many emotions swirling through him at a rapid
pace that Louis barely has the time to identify them. Joy, relief,
longing, disappointment, fondness, pride… they all mix into
one overwhelming bittersweet kind of warmth. This isn’t a love
letter, or a desperate expression of longing. Harry probably
hasn’t spent their weeks apart moping, like Louis keeps
denying he has. He’s too busy, too preoccupied, to worry about
a short fling, Louis supposes. It’s normal, he wasn’t expecting
anything else. Yet, Harry took the time to write this card. He
went to a shop and bought it, writing down a little update to
keep his friend in the loop. Maybe he knew Louis would worry.
Maybe he just missed him enough to want to keep in touch.
Either way, Louis’ eyes are wet with the joy that this card is in
his hands at all. He lays down on the sofa, postcard pressed
against his chest, against his heart, both of his hands covering
it fully, and he closes his eyes, refusing to cry.

He can’t believe they were only a few miles apart, that he could
have borrowed his mum’s car and driven the two hours that
separates their childhood homes, that he could have joined the
party like Harry seems to have wanted. Louis could have kissed
the place on his forehead that wrinkles with worry when he’s
overthinking things, could have tangled their fingers together
and kissed the paper-thin skin of Harry’s wrist. He could have
hugged Harry’s mum, could have thanked her for creating such
a masterpiece: the man he loves.

Louis inhales sharply.

He thinks about Harry, pictures him in his mum’s garden, belly

full of cake, his family celebrating this huge accomplishment
of his and something settles in his soul. He imagines Harry
telling them about his plans, about his new songs, maybe even
playing a few of them. He imagines Harry eating food until he
can’t anymore, snuggling with his mum in front of the telly

382
while she plays with his hair and tells him she’s proud. He
imagines Harry and his sister teasing each other and laughing.
He imagines Harry going up to his room, taking out a pen, and
writing this card for Louis, just to tell him that he’s okay, just
because he was thinking about Louis.

His heart grows, expands, until there’s no room in his chest for
it, for all the things he’s feelings, all the way he loves this man
who left.

Harry is going to be okay though. Harry is going to be brilliant.

And that, more than anything, soothes Louis’ soul.

April passes in a blur of getting the lighthouse ready, taking

care of all the final little touches that make his establishment
special. Louis feels a little twinge in his chest when he places
all the wine cards back in the dining room, but he’s so busy
with last minute perfectionism that he doesn’t dwell on it too
long. Soon enough, the first few guests arrive, elderly couples
on the island to watch birds and a few backpackers. They keep
Louis busier than he’s been in months, which is exactly what
he was hoping for. He barely has the time to miss Harry at all,
though he can’t help but always worry about him a little.
Whenever the feeling gets too overwhelming, Louis thinks of
him golden with sunshine on a beach somewhere in LA, water
sliding down his shoulders and the muscles of his back as he
looks at the ocean, arms spread out to take it all in. Louis thinks
of him baptized in the Pacific, back to his old life, but reborn.
The same, but different.

383
He’s probably fine, Louis thinks constantly to himself. He
probably doesn't think about Louis at all, too busy with popstar
things demanding his attention. He’s probably fine.

Just like Louis is fine, going back to sleep in his lighthouse

keeper cabin with barely a twinge of sadness and longing. Just
like Louis is fine even though he rereads the postcard Harry
sent him every night, fingers lovingly tracing the letters under
the torchlight.

He was angry at first, what with Harry not giving him even the
courtesy of a return address so Louis could pass along his
greetings. But as time goes by, as April morphs into early May,
the days long now, sun rising as early as five, Louis
understands. Harry is protecting his privacy and it’s not like
Louis could be furious about that. Not to mention, if the
postcard is to be trusted, he’s no longer at his mum’s, has been
in LA for quite a while now. It’d be a useless address anyway,
there’s no point for Louis to pine.

Besides, what could Louis possibly write? When the one thing
he wants to say is something he knows he probably shouldn’t.

Still, Louis rereads the letter and mentally writes his reply in
the privacy of his bedroom, sliding the postcard under his
pillow as he turns the torch off every night around midnight and
starts dictating to himself…

Dearest Harry – No, too telling.

Harry – No, too formal.

Popstar! – No, too flirty.

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Dear Harry – lacks originality, but Louis is running out of
options.

The lighthouse is filling up more and more each day, but

without you, it still feels empty. – No! Too revealing.

The lighthouse is busy. So am I. I miss the days where we’d

lounge in bed, bodies – No!

Yes, it’s probably best that Harry never sent him a return
address.

It’s well into May and Louis is checking out a couple of ladies
from France, waiting for their payments to go through as they
giggle into each other’s necks, hands intertwined, when the
postman barges in without knocking.

“Mr. MacLean,” Louis calls, happy for the distraction.

He’s not against PDA, quite the opposite, but ever since Harry
left, a painful spark of jealousy blossoms bitterly in his chest at
the sight of happy couples. It’s hard to witness when the hand
he wants to hold is on the other side of the world, busy with
things greater than Louis could ever fathom. He doesn’t like
what heartbreak has done to him, to be frank, but it’s not like
Louis can help it.

“Hi Louis!” the postman replies happily, waiting on the side

while Louis hands the ladies their receipt, thanking them for
their business and wishing them a safe journey.

They’re adorable and in love and the monster of want in the

bottom of Louis’ stomach has never been more ferocious. God,
Louis hates it. He hates it.

385
The two women leave, waving him off happily, thanking him
in French as they walk out, big backpacks precarious on their
shoulders. They’re off to the Orkneys next, Louis thinks,
excited to see some magical stone circles.

“Anything good for me today?” Louis jokes, stepping around

the reception desk and planting himself in front of the postman,
one hand open in expectation. “Don’t say bills, that’s boring.”

“Oh, aye, you’ve got something interesting Tomlinson,”

MacLean says, a twinkle in his eyes. “Say, you never
mentioned you had friends in America?” he adds and Louis’
mouth opens in a small gasp, hand dropping.

“Wait, what?” he says, heart drumming with excitement to the

beat of Harry! Harry! Harry!

God, he’s pathetic, Louis thinks distantly before his brain

focuses on the fact that he’s probably got mail from Harry
again. He can’t even be offended that Mr. MacLean had a look
through his mail, too used to the way people on the island
gossip about everything. Including private correspondence.

“It’s from LA as well,” the postie continues, and if Louis ever

had any doubt on the sender, it vanishes straight away. “Here,”
MacLean adds, reaching into his little Royal Mail bag for a
postcard and handing it to Louis.

He must see the way Louis’ face becomes serious,

overwhelmed, because he doesn’t joke about it anymore, just
kindly puts it in Louis’ hand with a small supportive smile.
“Been waiting for that one, aye?” Mr. Maclean says, tapping
the card in Louis’ hand twice.

386
Louis nods, too shocked to speak. Truth is, he hasn’t. He really
hasn’t. He’s been foolishly hoping, sure, in the dead of night
where no one can see. He’s been hoping that Harry would write
again, would tell him all about the wonderful things he’s been
getting up to in LA. He’s been hoping Harry would care enough
to share. Despite knowing how much it would hurt to receive
more letters from Harry, Louis has also known all along that
never hearing from him again would be way worse.

So he’s been hoping, yes. But he never expected anything. He

wasn’t actually waiting for anything. Yet here it is, in his hands,
another letter from Harry. New thoughts he’s had while he’s
been away, new thoughts he wants to share with Louis. Louis
who, if asked, would admit to wanting to know every single
one of Harry’s thoughts. Even the silliest ones. Forever.

“Well, have a good day Louis,” Mr. MacLean says politely,

clearly sensing Louis’ need to be alone.

As soon as the postie is gone, Louis hides behind the reception

desk. He’s too shaken to walk all the way back to his room, too
shocked to move more than a few steps, but he can’t bear the
thought of being seen, of existing in this realm while he reads
this letter. He hides behind the reception desk, squeezing
himself on the floor like an idiot between the wall and his stool,
back straight and legs awkwardly bent. He puts the card on his
knee, taking a few seconds to look at the lettering, the
way Someone says hi from California seems to shine on it, to
call at Louis. He smiles a little at the water pictured on the card,
fondness for Harry so strong he’s sure the man can probably
feel it on the other side of the world. He can probably feel the
warmth in Louis’ chest, it can probably stretch that far.

Finally, Louis turns the card around to read the message

387
 .

23/04/19
Louis,
You should see the sea here. It’s different, yet the same.
It goes on and on and on. And so must I.
I’m fighting to speak my own mind.
One song at a time, right?
You’d be proud I hope.
xH

388
“Of course,” Louis replies in a whisper. He’s so furious at the
thought that Harry might doubt how proud Louis is that he feels
faint with it, the emotion zinging through him powerfully and
giving him a head rush.

He reads it again. And again.

It goes on and on and on. And so must I.

There’s a sadness to the letter that Louis is familiar with, the

sadness that always runs through Harry, that he carries every
day.

You’d be proud I hope.

And Louis is. Louis is so so proud he could burst with it. He’s
proud in a way he never thought he could be. He thinks about
Harry: kind, and talented, and beautiful, and smart, and
so so scared. Yet there he is, fighting for himself and his art
anyway.

God, Louis loves him.

God, it hurts.

Louis continues to live his life and tries not to wait.

He goes on his daily run on the beach every morning, Clifford

in tow. Some days, he’ll listen to a playlist Harry made for him.
Others, he’ll put one of Harry’s albums on, ignoring the scary
statistics on his Spotify artist page, the numbers so high Louis

389
can’t even comprehend them. He indulges in the low and
soothing sound of Harry’s voice and pretends that it’s enough.
He’d be ashamed of himself, but who is to know? This is
between him and a higher power he doesn’t believe in. He
always regrets it though, always ends up missing Harry more
fiercely those days, wishing he could hear him joke around with
him, or talk to Clifford in an affectionate voice.

But life goes on, even on the days he’s sad.

Louis cooks for his guests, spending half of his time in the
kitchen with how busy the B&B is. He entertains them with
stories and legends about previous residents of Fair Isle,
recommends books about Scottish Folktales to the receptive
ones and leaves the introverts alone as they spend time on top
of the tower.

At night, Louis rereads his two postcards. He knows them by

heart, could recite them with his eyes closed, but there’s
something satisfying in staring at Harry’s loopy handwriting,
in touching the paper he’s touched. A few days after receiving
the second postcard, Louis dug through his pantries and found
an old pink tin can. It’s a bit rusty, but the inside was clean
enough, and now, when he’s done with reading, he puts them
carefully in the can to keep them safe. He often falls asleep with
the tin next to his pillow, halfway through mentally writing
Harry a reply.

He tries his hardest not to feel embarrassed by his behaviour.

He tries his hardest not to flinch when a guest borrows a jumper
Harry was particularly fond of. He tries his hardest to have
more good days than bad ones, bad ones where the ache where
Harry lives in his heart is so overpowering he doesn’t want to
get out of bed at all. He carries on, trying his best not to nourish

390
the flicker of hope that blooms in his chest when he reads
Harry’s words.

It’s foolish to cultivate such a thing for a man who never made
him any promises.

A week passes. Then a second. And Louis starts thinking that

maybe this is it, maybe Harry doesn’t have anything left to say
to him anymore. Maybe he’s finally gotten too busy to care.

Yet, just as he thinks so, the postman brings him news from
LA.

This time, Louis runs to his bedroom with the postcard clutched
tightly in his hand, the B&B too crowded for him to have any
privacy anywhere else. He’s a bit out of breath by the time he
makes it, mostly from the excitement thrumming through his
veins rather than the run, and he pants a little, back leaning
against his closed bedroom door. When he finally takes the
time to look at the card, the photo montage of all the best things
about LA makes him smile, especially the image of water, right
in the center. He turns it around, the sight of Harry’s
handwriting sending a thrill through his body. It’s an old friend
by now, a comforting vision. It’s dated from a couple of weeks
ago and it’s sad again, but with the same little kernels of
optimism that Harry seems to cling on to.

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 07/05/19
Dear Louis,
I’m taking things one day at a time. Things don’t seem so scary
if it’s just one day I have to go through. I hope you’re well. That
the B&B is full of people ready
to fall in love with Fair Isle like we did.
Give Cliff a kiss from me!
xH

392
 Louis exhales once he’s done reading, fingers drumming
against the postcard. Harry is feeling overwhelmed. He might
not have said so explicitly, but Louis knows him well enough
by now to read between the lines. Now, more than ever, Louis
wishes Harry were here. With him.

It’s a selfish desire, one he’s had before, and, every time, he
suppresses the thought forcefully.

Harry is not someone he gets to keep. Louis isn’t a knight in

shining armor, the lighthouse isn’t a safe haven where Harry
could retire for the rest of his life and avoid the big bad scary
world. And even if they were, that’s not what Harry wants. Nor
is it what he needs.

He’s taking things one day at a time. He’s fine.

Louis nods to himself firmly, convincing himself it is so.

Quickly, he puts the new postcard in the tin with the others
before hiding it in his bed again and going back to work.

Later that day, when Clifford joins Louis in the kitchen while
he’s cooking lunch, Louis drops everything he’s doing,
kneeling down to give his dog a big hug. He presses tiny kisses
on the top of his head and from the way he’s wagging his tail,
Louis chooses to believe that Cliff knows, somehow, that
they’re from Harry.

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Chapter 12

Three days later, Louis wakes up in the middle of the night,

suddenly, unexpectedly, heart racing. He’s disoriented for a
second, breaths quick as he tries to locate what woke him up so
abruptly. There’s no dream leftover in his brain, no aftertaste
of a nightmare that could be the culprit, and he swallows,
frowning. He blinks softly in the dark, confused, half asleep,
his eyes trying to adjust. He sits up absently, looking down to
the floor of his bedroom, trying to find a Clifford shape down
there. He would be the most obvious suspect after all, but he
doesn’t seem to be in the room, at least not where Louis can see
him. He frowns again, eyes automatically moving to the closed
door. There are no whimpering or scratching noises coming
from the other side, meaning Cliff is probably still sleeping
happily in the living room, unperturbed by whatever it is that
bothered Louis’ slumber.

He blinks again, passing a hand through his hair and sighing.

Whatever it was can’t have been that important, Louis thinks
absently as he leans back into the mattress. He’s just closed his
eyes, letting himself drift off to sleep again, when he suddenly
realizes the B&B’s phone is ringing.

He sits up in bed again, abruptly, heart suddenly racing in his

chest, feeling vaguely nauseous.

“Oh god, oh god,” Louis mumbles as he starts to blindly feel

for his phone under his pillows and covers. “What the fuck,

394
where the fuck is it?” he says through gritted teeth just as his
fingers wrap around the mobile.

He extracts it from under the covers, pushing the home button

with clumsy fingers, relief spreading through his veins instantly
when the phone awakens and he realizes he doesn’t have any
missed called on it.

Anyone who would call him with an emergency in the middle

of the night would know to try his mobile first, so he can
discount a family or friend crisis straight away.

His relief is short-lived though because suddenly the phone

stops ringing, the faint noise that miraculously carried through
both buildings disappearing. Louis frowns, waiting for a few
tense seconds until the phone starts ringing again and he jumps
out of bed, running down the corridor between the tower and
the cottage to get to the reception.

Whatever it is, it can’t be good news and he’s mentally flipping

through his elderly neighbours, trying to guess who is most
likely to suffer from a medical emergency with his heart in his
throat when he finally reaches the reception desk. He almost
falls down when he stops suddenly, holding on to the counter
before reaching behind it for the receiver, almost dropping it
immediately as he tries to answer.

“Yes!” Louis says, slightly out of breath, voice raspy with

sleep. “Hello?”

There’s some crackling down the line, the sound of breathing

coming to Louis’ ears, but not much else. Maybe some music,
something faint he can’t really put his fingers on.

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“Hello?” he tries again, working very hard not to let panic slip
through his tone. “Is anybody there?”

There’s a long pause, then, a voice.

“Louis?”

Louis’ heart skips a beat painfully at the sound.

“Harry,” Louis replies, trying to swallow around the ball

lodged in his throat.

He sounds awful. He’s only said one word but it was frantic, a
tremor of panic badly concealed in his voice that Louis can’t
ignore.

“Hey,” Harry says with a sigh.

He sounds exhausted. Louis frowns, trying to mentally

calculate what time it is in LA right now, but he’s not even sure
what time it is in Fair Isle and he doesn’t actually know the
exact time difference between them anyhow. Besides, just
because his last postcard was from Los Angeles, it doesn’t
mean Harry is still there. He’s got money and time, for all Louis
knows, he could be anywhere in the world. Louis has no idea.

“Hey,” he simply replies in a similar exhale. Tired. Sad.

Worried. The too much-ness of it all making it hard to speak.
It’s been weeks and months since Louis’ heard his voice.
Weeks and months of longing.

“Hey,” Harry repeats, voice trembling, and maybe he doesn’t

know what to say either.

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Yesterday, Louis would have given anything to hear that voice
again. Yesterday, he missed it like a limb and would have given
anything for that low timbre in his ears one more time. Hell,
he’s listened to Harry’s old albums during his runs, or curled
up on top of the tower, so many times by now, secretly wishing
he could hear his voice properly. Now, listening to the shaky
way Harry keeps greeting him, Louis wants to take it back.
Give him back his penny, cancel his shooting star. He doesn’t
want to hear Harry in distress like this, not when he can’t tangle
their fingers together in a show of support, his hand fitting in
Harry’s perfectly.

Except… it’s not quite true, is it? If Harry’s having a hard time,
Louis would much rather know. He’ll spend hours on the phone
if that’s what Harry needs and maybe that’s something Louis
should worry about, a scary truth that will only end with him
getting hurt, that has already hurt him, but he can’t panic about
it now. Not when Harry clearly needs him.

They breathe in unison on the phone, neither of them saying

anything else for the longest of time. After a while, Harry’s
breathing finally slows into a more normal pattern, less
panicked than before. Louis sighs, shoulders dropping in relief
and he settles down on the floor, in the tiny space between the
reception desk and the wall, the old phone on his lap as he starts
twisting its cord around his finger.

“Harry…” Louis says, reveling in the way the word takes shape
in his mouth. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud since Harry
left and he hadn’t realised he’d missed it until now. “Harry,” he
repeats.

There are so many things Louis wants to say, so many

unhelpful things, that he doesn’t know where to start. He wants

397
to ask him if he’s okay, but doesn’t know if that will make
things worse when the answer is obviously no .

Instead, he settles on jokingly, awkwardly, commenting on the

most ridiculous thing.

“It’s the middle of the night here, did you know? I was in bed
and everything, took ages for me to realise the noise that woke
me up was the phone.” Louis laughs, mostly chuckles to
himself. “Bet some of the guests are gonna be pissed about the
noise tomorrow morning.”

It’s only when the whole thing is out of his mouth that Louis
realizes it sounds like a reproach.

“I mean,” he adds, a bit panicked himself, “not that I care.”

But Harry clearly forgot about silly things like time zones and
he clearly cares, if the way he gasps and sounds completely
devastated as he starts to apologise is to be trusted. “Oh, I’m so
sorry. Oh my god, Lou… I’m so sorry, I’m gonna –”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me now Harry Styles,” Louis snaps

and Harry shuts up immediately, the silence between them
tense for a second. “Or,” Louis starts again, mellower this time,
“or I’m… I’m going to….” He stops himself as he starts getting
emotional, unable to threaten Harry, even as a joke. “Well, I
don’t know what I’m going to do, I can’t think right now. But
you’re not going to like it. At all. So you better stay on the
phone, Mister.”

“Ok.” Harry says it in a small voice and Louis hates that he

might have done that to him.

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“I just…” he says, trying to explain himself. Louis closes his
eyes, inhaling deeply. He can’t get too emotional. “You can’t
call me in a panic in the middle of the night and just… hang up,
okay,” he finally says, voice pleading. “I’m… You’re gonna
freak me out if you do that, alright? I’ll worry. So, don’t hang
up. Please. Stay with me. I don’t care if it's the middle of the
night, Harry. I don’t care. We haven’t spoken in ages. So just…
just talk to me. Please. How are you? How are things?”

Harry snorts, bitter. “How do you think they are?” he says

snippily, sarcastically.

The silence hangs between them painfully. Even in the worst

of his moods, talking to Harry never felt like this. Louis can
feel every single one of those miles between them.

“Sorry,” Louis finally says in a mumble. “Stupid question.”

“No,” Harry sighs. “God, no. I’m sorry. Fuck, Louis. I’m so
sorry. I’m being such a dickhead. I can’t believe I called you in
the middle of the night, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

But Harry isn’t having any of it.

“It’s not,” he insists, sounding more and more frustrated.

Louis pictures him pacing in some Californian mansion he

owns, pictures him passing a hand through his hair the way he
always does. Louis wonders if he’s still growing it, if it’s gone
past his shoulders now.

399
“It’s not alright. Don’t say that. I can’t call you in the middle
of the fucking night and then treat you like shit that’s… That’s
not okay, don’t pretend that it is, please.”

It’s the please, sincere and small, that makes Louis agree.

“Alright,” he says gently. “It’s shitty.” He pauses for a second,

untangling his finger from the phone cord before starting to
tangle it again. “I still want to know how’s it going though.”

Harry sighs. “Tonight?” he asks. “Not so good. In general?” He

sighs again. “Relatively okay, I suppose.”

“Yeah?” Louis says quietly, hoping to get more out of him.

He’s been wanting more information for months now. He’s

been starved of Harry’s thoughts and feelings for so long, it
feels, has been fed nothing but tiny glimpses, tiny hints. He’s
been worried too, despite the general optimistic tones of the
postcards. And if Harry’s erratic breathing down the line is to
be trusted, Louis was right to be concerned. He wants to know
everything, wants Harry to share it all. Every good memory
he’s made since they parted, every hurdle that’s been thrown in
his path. He wants it all, he’s craving it. So he waits with
anticipation for Harry to start talking again.

“I just don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore,” Harry
admits in a small voice and Louis wants to wrap him up, wants
him to crawl inside Louis so he can keep him safe, so he can
never sound this defeated ever again. “And I’m fighting so
hard, too. For a place in this toxic industry and for my music…
I just…”

400
He inhales deeply, clearly trying to stop himself from crying.
Then, he clicks his tongue, annoyed. When he speaks again,
he’s fast, words spitting out of his mouth like bullets, anger so
palpable Louis thinks if he reaches out in front of him, he’ll be
able to touch it. From thousands of miles away.

“I went out tonight with some of my industry friends,” Harry

explains. “Yes,” he adds bitterly, “people you would know.”

Louis gulps, fearing where this might be going.

“First time seeing them, first time going out with them since
I’ve been back in LA. It was supposed to be a small intimate
thing at my friends’ house, but then more and more people got
invited so we went to this fancy restaurant, right? I was getting
nervous about the size of the party but I thought, it’s one of my
favourite restaurants, I deserve a nice night out with friends.
I’m in a good place. Right? I’m in a good place. So we’re
having a nice night out, good food and everything. Celebrating
my return, they said.” He pauses, exhaling shakily.
“Celebrating my bloody return,” he repeats. “Isn’t it fucking
great to have good friends like that, uh? I sure am lucky.”

Louis closes his eyes, holding his breath, waiting for the other
shoe to drop.

“You know what they thought would be a good idea to

celebrate my return, Louis? Champagne. And shots.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis whispers, opening his eyes and shaking

his head.

“One of them offered me cocaine,” Harry says with a bitter

laugh. “We didn’t even get to dessert before one of them

401
offered me fucking cocaine,” he laughs again, his voice
echoing.

“Where are you?” Louis asks. Concerned. Sad.

“I didn’t have any!” Harry exclaims, sounding offended.

Louis scoffs. “I know that babe, I’m just asking.”

“I’m in the loo,” Harry admits. “Just… glamorously sitting on

the floor of this ridiculously posh and American cubicle. I just
wanna go home. They’re all getting drunk. I’ve been sitting
here for thirty minutes and I don’t think any of them noticed.”

“Some welcome home party, uh,” Louis says.

Harry laughs, not angrily this time, sounding a little more like
himself. “Yeah.”

His breath is steady down the phone, a sound Louis can’t help
but find reassuring.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Harry says. “It’s silly but I just… I
was so angry.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You probably should though,” Harry argues and knowing he’s

right doesn’t make it easier to hear.

“Maybe,” Louis agrees. He pauses. “I’m sorry your friends are

literally the most insensitive twats on the planet.”

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“I don’t think they meant anything by it, that’s the worst. They
just wanted a night out. Big party. They didn’t blink when I
refused and reminded them I’m sober. No one tried to pressure
me or anything, it just… I don’t know that I can be around
people like that anymore. I’m in a good place now… Good
enough to say no. But what about six months from now? Or
two years from now?” He swears softly under his breath. “I
guess I have a lot to think about,” he sighs.

“You’ll figure it out,” Louis says reassuringly. “Even if it takes

a while. Remember, you haven’t been back very long.”

He’s been away forever, it feels like. Somehow, Louis can’t

remember a time before Harry was by his side and he’s ached
every second he’s been gone. Not that he would ever admit it
to Harry. Not that there would be a point to admitting it. Louis
knows where they stand. He knows that a bit of whining and
pining isn’t going to drag Harry away from his actual life and
back on the island. He knows there’s no romantic comedy
ending for them, their lives too separate, too different, to work.

God, Louis has missed him though. So much.

“Feels like a long time,” Harry replies, echoing Louis’ feelings

so accurately it hurts, sharp and deep in Louis’ chest. “Feels
like forever. A lifetime ago.”

And Louis doesn’t know what to say to that so he just blinks

and blinks but the tears still come, silently sliding down his
cheeks.

“I’m…” Harry starts saying before he stops himself.

403
Louis exhales silently before speaking. “You what?” he asks,
voice steady. The last thing he needs is for Harry to be able to
tell, he thinks viciously as he wipes his right cheek with the
back of his hand.

“Nothing,” Harry whispers. “I could use a walk along the cliffs

with Clifford tonight, that’s all.”

It just makes Louis cry harder, tears silently streaming down

his face as he swallows down a sob.

“Louis?” Harry asks, voice a bit crackly suddenly. “You still

there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Louis replies insistently, his voice no longer shaking.

“Of course. Just tired,” he lies. “You should leave love,” he
instructs firmly. “Don’t stay with those people. They’re not
celebrating you. And you deserve to be celebrated, alright?”

The line stays silent between them, stretching through miles

and miles of seas and states. Louis closes his eyes, tries to
transport himself back to that moment, walking home from the
village, before he ever met Harry. He tries to remember feeling
content, complete. He tries to remember a life before he knew
he was missing something. His mind, treacherous, swipes the
memory away, replaces it with the thought of Harry sleeping in
his arms, their breaths in synch, the warmth of his body.

404
“Can you stay on the line while I wait for a car?” Harry asks in
a small voice and he probably knows he’s asking for too much,
knows that Louis won’t refuse him even though he should.

“Of course,” Louis agrees without even hesitating.

“Can you tell me about the lighthouse?”

“Of course,” Louis repeats before starting to talk about the

guests staying upstairs right now.

When they hang up twenty minutes later, Louis starts crying

again, sobs coming from the depth of his chest.

He’s clutching the phone to his torso, hunched over himself

when he hears the patter of paws against the floor. Then, a cold
nose pressed against his face.

Louis lets go of the phone, reaching for Clifford instead,

hugging him close to his chest, loving the reassuring weight of
his dog against him.

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispers in his dog’s ears.

Knowing it’s going to be true eventually doesn’t exactly make

it easy, but it helps.

Harry doesn’t call again.

Weeks pass and Louis keeps expecting it, heart jumping

whenever the phone rings, but it’s never him. Of course, it’s

405
not. It’s neighbours who want to come around for dinner and
wonder if the B&B is too full for it, or potential guests calling
to reserve a room, sometimes future guests armed with a long
list of questions Louis has to patiently answer. It’s never who
he wants it to be, never Harry, and as May vanishes into June,
Louis is forced to admit it’s not going to happen.

Maybe it’s better this way, maybe it means Harry is having an

easier time, that he’s actually okay.

Louis certainly hopes so.

He tries not to worry, but it’s hard. He knows Harry is a grown

up, and a wise one at that. Whatever he’s doing right now is
probably the right and safest thing. Still, Louis is haunted by
the panic in his voice when he called, the anger, the grief.

But summer carries on with its earlier sunrises and later

sunsets, and Louis forces himself to enjoy it all. He takes long
walks on the beach in the evenings, sits in the sand with a book.
He can rarely get through more than five pages before he’s
greeted by one of the B&B’s guests or another Fair Isle
resident. It’s hard to think of a sixty people island as crowded,
but as they move into the proper tourist season, it feels like it
is. Louis doesn’t mind though. He likes that rhythm. He likes
the inevitable cycles; lonely winter and busy summer. He chats
with everyone politely every time, endures some gentle teasing
when people notice he’s reading fluffy historical romance
novels and he laughs along, never admitting that he needs the
escapism right now, needs stories that end with a happily ever
after between the heroines and their dashing suitors. His suitor
is long gone, was never a suitor at all, and he hasn’t sent a letter
in weeks. Louis needs the happy endings to cheer him up a bit.
Still, Louis sunbathes on the beach on the rare properly sunny

406
days, even risks a little swim with Clifford once in a blue moon,
trying not to think of a teeth-chattering Harry lunging himself
into the freezing water a few months back.

On June twelfth, it’s the birthday of one of the kids staying at

the B&B and the sun shines brightly, so Louis spends the
morning making homemade ice cream. He goes a bit overboard
with the flavors, excited to do something different and to
surprise the kid’s family. He makes vanilla and chocolate, of
course, but soon enough he’s gotten a bit more creative, using
whatever he’s got around to create more exciting options. With
the goal of pleasing his foreign tourists in mind, he makes at
least one Scottish tablet tub, then goes a bit wild when he
realizes he has cream cheese and makes a strawberry
cheesecake one. He tops it up with a raspberry tub and, as a
grand finale, a green tea option. The whole thing turns into a
bit of a roaring success, with even locals trickling in to buy a
cone. Mrs. Dunn spends twenty minutes trying to convince him
that he should make it a weekly thing and it’s only when he
agrees to consider it that she leaves the premises.

The next morning, Louis is coming out of her husband’s

grocery store with a tote full of raspberries, since he used his
entire stock for the ice cream, when he bumps into Mr.
MacLean.

“Louis!” the postman exclaims. “I was just about to go to the

lighthouse,” he announces, reaching for his red Royal Mail bag.

Even after weeks without news, Louis’ heart still squeezes with
anticipation. “New bills for me, uh?” Louis jokes, trying to
manage his expectations.

407
But MacLean smirks like he knows exactly what Louis is
doing, knows exactly what Louis has been desperately waiting
for.

“Nah, I reckon you’ve got something a bit more exciting than

that,” he says teasingly, still searching through the bag and
Louis doesn’t know how it’s possible for him not to have found
his mail yet, considering how little of a community he actually
has to serve. “Sorry,” the postie adds like he’s read Louis’
mind, “but it’s building the suspense, aye?”

Louis smiles politely through the desire to throttle him. The one
thing he hates about Harry’s postcards is the fact that MacLean
definitely has read all of them and he’s probably told everyone
else. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who the mysterious ‘H’
who keeps writing to him is. Thankfully, no one in town has
mentioned it to Louis, but he can tell they’re treating him
carefully sometimes, like they know he’s sad.

He hates it.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Mr. MacLean takes

his hand out of the bag, tightly clutched in it is a blue postcard.

At first, Louis thinks it’s a picture of the ocean but when the
postman finally hands it to him, he realizes it’s the sky, with a
circle of palm trees towering towards it, Los Angeles written in
bright pink letters in the middle.

“Thank you,” Louis whispers, barely glancing back at

MacLean before walking away.

408
“Nae bother!” MacLean calls back with a chuckle, but Louis is
already long gone.

He waits until he’s past the village and walking towards his
home to flip the card, not even looking at where he’s going.

When he finally reads the text, he stops in his tracks, breath

knocked out of him with the punch it packs.

409
 29/05/19
Darling, Dearest,
I’m fighting for your kind of quiet.
xH

410
Louis looks at the date with wide eyes. Harry wrote it only a
few days after their phone call, only a few days after he told
Louis he didn’t know what he was fighting for anymore. Louis
is shaking a little, unsure how he’s meant to interpret this. The
rational part of his brain keeps reminding him he probably
shouldn’t read too much into it, that he’s hurting himself by
letting the words on the page flutter his heart. The other part of
him, the desperately in love part, melts.

He sits down on the edge of the cliff, the beautiful lighthouse

he loves so much a vision in the distance.

He reads the words. Rereads them.

I’m fighting for your kind of quiet.

Even if Harry doesn’t mean it the way Louis wants him to, he
can’t help how touched he feels. He’s moved that the respite he
and his home managed to give Harry mattered so much to him
that he’s still chasing it from miles away, that he’s still chasing
that feeling. Maybe the peace of Fair Isle will be a comparison
point for the rest of his life, some kind of goal he’ll try to
achieve in his career going forward. Maybe he’ll always come
back to it as a true oasis of quiet, if only in his mind.

If Louis could give him that, even if they never see each other
again, he’ll feel satisfied.

To Louis’ surprise, the next postcard arrives only a week later.

It throws him off a little and he flusters when the postman hands
it to him. He’s outside in front of the cottage, busy giving guests
directions to the bird observatory when MacLean walks up to

411
them, all smiles, postcard already in his hand. Louis suddenly
forgets how to English, hands useless as he vaguely points in
the general direction of the observatory.

“Hum, I… you…” Louis says when MacLean hands him the

postcard.

“Have a good day,” he says cheekily to the guests before

walking back the way he came.

Louis stares at him until he’s barely a dot in the distance and,
only then, does he realizes that he’s been standing silent like an
idiot one hand still pointing. He lets his arm fall, eyes drifting
to the postcard and he frowns a little when he spots the dark
blue of the ocean on it, contrasted by the pale blue of
the Greetings from Jamaica.

Why on Earth is Harry in Jamaica? he wonders for a second

before being dragged out of his thoughts by a small laugh.

“So…” Sophie says, grabbing her partner’s hand. “Straight

ahead until we meet the main road and then we take the next
left, right?”

Louis is bright red, he knows he is, heart pounding, palms

sweating.

“Yeah,” he says, still sounding distracted. “Yes,” he adds, more

confident this time. He shakes his head and puts his empty hand
in the back pocket of his jorts, giving the couple a winning
smile. “You can’t miss it, honestly. There’s not that many
buildings on the island, right?” he jokes, pressing the hand
that’s still holding the postcard on his stomach, pressing the
card against his red tee, hiding it from view.

412
Right on cue, Sophie and her boyfriend, whose name Louis
couldn’t recall even if you paid him, laugh. People on holiday
are so easy to please, he thinks distantly when they thank him
and start walking in the direction he pointed out. They’re
already in a good mood, ready for an adventure and to be
entertained. Even his worst jokes always get a laugh from the
tourists. Still, he’s not desperate for an audience right now, is
quite excited that they’re fucking off actually.

Once they’re gone, Louis opens the cottage front door and
whistles. He waits a few seconds before Clifford appears,
wagging his tail excitedly at being called out.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Louis asks and he smiles when Cliff

tries to climb him in response. “You’re a good boy, aren’t
you?” Louis tells him, scratching behind his ears the way he
likes even though he’s not supposed to climb people.

Louis doesn’t even bother with the leash, too eager to get away
and find some privacy to read his letter. They walk down to the
beach together, relieved to find it not too busy. Still, Louis finds
a rock in a corner and sits down out of sight, taking his vans off
and letting his feet dangle in the water. Clifford is happily
running around the beach, saying hello to the people he knows
and Louis lets him have fun while he focuses on his mail.

413
 03/06/19
Dear Louis,
I found another island to hide while I record.
I wish it felt the same but… It’s sunny all the time here.
And hot. Everyone loves it.
I’d give anything for one of those storms we used to watch
though.
Still, things are progressing faster than I could have imagined.
It’s a good thing, I suppose.
I’m thinking about you.
xH

414
Louis finds himself smiling when he reads the date. Harry
wrote it weeks ago. Right after the latest postcard. He’s been
thinking about Louis all this time, kept thinking about him and
writing to him, even when he got busy with work.

And Harry is working, is recording an album according to the

letter. Louis knew it would happen, of course. That’s why
Harry left after all, why he went back to his regular life without
looking back, or at least not too much. Louis still feels a
blossom of pride at the confirmation. The songs Harry wrote
on Fair Isle are going to live and breathe properly. Those
gorgeous songs Louis fell in love with, that Harry wrote with
so much love and care, are going to go into the world and play
on people’s phone and in their cars. They’re going to play on
the radio. They’ll follow people during hard times and happy
times.

What a thrilling thought. Louis isn’t sure how Harry doesn’t

get a headrush every time he remembers his words and his
voice comfort in moments of hardships, that they accompany
moments big and small in thousands of people’s lives.

Yet, despite the pride, there is always worry. Inescapable.

Blinded by his feelings for Harry, Louis can’t help but read the
melancholia, the sadness, beneath the words and want to make
it better. Except there’s nothing he can do, so he sits there, on
his rock, feet in the water, and swallows down the concern.

Harry is thinking about him. It’s a lifeline and Louis has to

cling onto it.

415
The next time the postman brings Louis some news, it’s more
than a week later, at the very end of June.

The month flew by faster than Louis could have imagined and
he feels like almost all he did in the last two weeks was spend
hours locked in the kitchen to cater to a full cottage. It’s a
blessing not to have any vacancies and Louis knows it, but he’s
only halfway through the season and he can feel himself getting
tired. He knows part of it is because a lot of his energy is still
spent nursing a broken heart. He never lets it show though,
bright friendly smile on his face at all times. But that requires
a lot of energy too, to be ‘on’ every second of every day, except
in the privacy of his own room. Under normal circumstances,
Louis finds customer service easy. He knows how to charm
people and entertain them. He knows how to make them laugh
and leave him five-star reviews on TripAdvisor. He doesn’t
find it too tiring because he only has to do it actively in the busy
half of the year. These days though, faking joy and interest in
everyone else’s life story takes a bit more out of him than
normal.

It’s okay, though. It’s fine. It’ll pass.

He’s still rereading Harry’s cards every night. He knows he

should stop, knows he’ll never get over him if he keeps
indulging in the rush of Harry’s words, but he can’t. It’s almost
an addiction of his own, and Louis would feel ashamed for the
inappropriate comparison, but it’s apt. Bloody hell, it really is.
He just can’t stop. He wants the feeling of his heart fluttering
when he reads that Harry is thinking about him. He wants to
fall asleep every night thinking about the warmth of Harry’s
body next to his. He wants to fall asleep imagining his soft
snores filling Louis’ bedroom. He wants to fail to fall asleep
with images of Harry’s naked body in his mind, his mouth

416
opened in pleasure. So he indulges and indulges again,
rereading the words under the torch light.

Every morning, he wakes up with the foolish hope a letter is

coming. Every morning, he longs for some news of how
Harry’s album is going. Every morning, he craves news on how
Harry is getting on living on an island with the reputation of
being a big boozy holiday destination.

Louis isn’t actually worried about that. If Harry relapses then

that’s life and part of his journey. There’s not much Louis could
do to prevent it, especially not from miles away. Or that’s what
he tries to tell himself so he doesn’t actually feel like a horrible
control freak who thinks he can make better decisions about
Harry’s life than Harry can.

Honestly, what a ridiculous thought, Louis reminds himself in

his moments of weakness.

The morning of June twenty-eight starts like all the others, with
a long jog along the cliffs and down to the beach. Then, Louis
makes breakfast for everyone, chatting pointlessly with guests
as they share the food, having been invited in the dining room
for once. Once the dining room is cleaned up and the dishes are
done, he busies himself with some administrative tasks, staying
at the reception desk so he’s visible should any of the guests
need him desperately. The morning goes by slowly, a little too
warm, a little too boring. Soon enough, it’s too late for
MacLean to turn up and Louis resigns himself to another day
without news.

To his surprise though, the postman shows up sometimes after

lunch, carrying not one, but two postcards from Jamaica and an
uncomfortable look on his face. Louis thanks him and grabs his

417
mail, nervous to read what Harry has to say now that he’s seen
the look on Mr. MacLean’s face.

The first one he grabs is an aerial view, some beach houses

arranged in a heart surrounded by the darkest and deepest of
oceans. Louis tries not to read into the imagery as he flips the
card over and reads.

418
 11/06/19
Dear Louis,
I’m sorry about my latest. Sometimes
I don’t know what I’m talking about.
xH

419
“What?” Louis says as he reads the letter, thinking back to the
last postcard he received, the one that announced Harry was
recording his album.

There is no reason for Harry to regret sending that one and it’s
with his heart in his throat that Louis moves on to the second
postcard, this one another beachy picture, the JAMAICA
written in the flag’s colours in the middle taking almost the
entire space. It takes a second for Louis to even notice
the Greetings, with love written above and below it. Still
nervous and with a slight tremor in his hands, Louis turns the
postcard around.

It’s dated the day before the other card and Louis has to put a
hand on the reception desk to steady himself as he reads it.

420
 10/06/19
I DON’T KNOW IF I KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU.
I RECORD SONGS AND THERE’S ONLY YOU COMING
OUT OF THE
SPEAKERS. I’M PRETTY SURE I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR
THIS.

421
The words are dripping with anger, resentment – Louis doesn’t
need to hear Harry’s tone to know it – and for the first time, he
thinks maybe Harry is suffering for the same reason that he is.

Maybe Harry has feelings too. He’s writing songs about him,
after all. He’s writing songs and he’s frustrated about it. Harry,
who still likes the idea of writing a song for someone as a
romantic gesture even if he doesn’t want them written about
himself. He’s thinking about Louis still, months later. Maybe
Harry’s haunted too ? Maybe he obsesses over thoughts of
Louis the way Louis does…

Does he curl up alone at night, in a big beach house in Jamaica,

wishing Louis’ arms were wrapped around him despite the
heat? Does he feel lonely even when he’s surrounded by people
just because Louis isn’t there? Does he long for Louis’ voice
reading him stories? Does he crave his touch? Is he kissing
people in dark clubs wishing he was tasting Louis’ lips? Does
he touch himself in the morning thinking about their bodies
intertwined the way Louis does? When he sings those songs
he’s talking about, in that recording booth so far away, does he
remember playing his guitar softly for an audience of one? Just
for Louis and no one else.

It all spins quickly in Louis’ head, possibilities and questions.

It’s too big, too upsetting, too exciting, and Louis chases it all
away with a headshake.

He can’t.

He takes a deep settling breath, going back to the second letter.

The apology. Harry must have sent them both back to back,
must have regretted his admission so badly that he wanted to
erase it as soon as it was posted.

422
Should Louis ignore it? Should he ignore the way it makes him
feel? Warm and special and big and important? Sad and
incomplete? Harry clearly wants him to, with the way he’s
apologised for his feelings.

Louis puts the second card away, flat on the counter, image side
up so he doesn’t have to read Harry trying to take his spill of
feelings back.

Instead, he focuses on the first postcard.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU.

He reads the line. Then rereads it. He reads it three times, four
times, five times.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU .

“Then come back,” Louis whispers to the postcard uselessly,

suddenly feeling angry himself. “If you miss me and you think
about it just come back,” he begs, tears coming to his eyes and
he swallows them back down quickly, scoffing at himself.

Like it’s that easy. Like it’s that simple.

Not for the first time, he’s relieved Harry never bothers with a
return address. Louis would hate to be the man begging a fling
from months ago for a drop of attention.

The next postcard doesn’t come until the sixth of July.

423
It’s very informal, as far as Harry’s correspondence goes. It
makes no mention of his previous two letters and Louis, who
has been obsessing over them for days, feels a little cheated.

For nine days now, he’s felt like Harry dropped a bomb on their
relationship, opening himself in ways he had never done before
and Louis has been waiting, heart in a perpetual rollercoaster,
to see what he’d have to say next.

Turns out what he has to say next is a big fat load of nothing.

424
 21/06/19
I think I wrote the best song I’ve ever written yesterday.
It’s not even as scary as it should be.
Feels like… like it might be worth it.

425
It’s not that Louis isn’t happy for him. He’s always happy for
him. But he’s been cultivating the hope that Harry might want
more, might love him back, for nine days now, and the second
he reads that postcard it feels like a bucket of ice cold water has
been thrown at his face.

So what if Harry has feelings? Fuck, Louis has been so naive.

He’s clearly not going to do anything about them, and why
should he? Their lives couldn’t be more different, more at odds.

Even feelings can’t fix that.

But Louis still puts the new postcard carefully in his pink tin,
tucking it inside next to the others so he can reread it whenever
he needs.

On July eleventh, Louis receives :

426
 27/06/19
Hey Louis,
Remember my birthday?
I didn’t think it was possible to feel free like this.
You, me, Cliff & the sea… When I’m not recording here,
I’m always on the beach, chasing that feeling,
feet warm in the water.
It’s not the same, but it’ll do.
xH

427
Louis would be angry at Harry for playing hot and cold, for
being toyed with, but he understands. Understands how hard it
is to be apart, even if they both know they don’t have a choice.
How hard it is to accept that their lives will never tangle
naturally, will never mesh in a way that would make being a
couple easy. He understands how difficult it is to let go,
understands being so reluctant.

In the same way Louis can’t stop treasuring the postcards,

Harry can’t stop sending them. They’re both holding on in
different ways, even if they know they’ll have to let go soon.

So no, Louis can’t feel angry. He’s not ready to let go either,
not yet.

Harry will get bored, or too busy, or both, eventually. And it’s
okay. Louis will deal when the time comes. But for now, he
can’t let go. And he certainly would never blame Harry for
feeling the same.

Still, reading the letter, thinking about Harry’s birthday,

thinking about kissing him on the beach… Louis just wants to
do it again. One last time. He wants Harry to see Fair Isle in the
spring, with puffins everywhere. And in the summer, the beach
almost crowded. He wants him to come back, wants him to
have the feeling he’s chasing, wants him to never go without.

428
Chapter 13

A few days later, Louis is coming back from an afternoon walk

with Clifford when he hears his name called from inside the
living room. He’s a bit shocked when he finds Mrs. Chadwick
inside, curled up by the window, basking in the sun with a
sketchbook open on her lap as she draws the cliffs. He thought
for sure all the guests were outside.

“I’m surprised you’re not outside with the others,” Louis teases
as he walks in instead of saying hi. “We don’t always get them
sunny like this, the beach is beautiful today. You’d get some
great viewpoints of the cliffs and the lighthouse from down
there.”

The elderly woman smiles at him kindly. “I wanted a bit of

peace and quiet,” she explains. “Being on holiday with the
grandkids is lovely, but I don’t have the energy I used to, you
know.”

Louis nods. “Of course, I understand. The beach is really busy,”

he says as he walks closer, taking a look at her drawing. It’s
remarkably precise. “That’s beautiful,” he comments, pointing
at it.

She doesn’t blush. Instead, she beams at him with pride and a
hint of smugness. “Isn’t it?” she says cheekily.

“You’re very talented.”

429
“Thank you, dear. I can’t quite believe you get to be here every
day.”

At that, Louis smiles. “I can’t quite believe it either. I’m really

lucky.” He says the last part quietly, mostly to himself, before
he smiles at her a little more politely this time, rubbing his
hands together. “Now, what can I do for you? Would you like
a nice cold drink? I know it gets warm by the windows.”

“What you can do for me?” Mrs. Chadwick asks, eyes confused
under her thick-rimmed black glasses.

“You called me in here?” Louis says, a bit hesitant, hoping she

hasn’t forgotten.

“Oh! Of course, silly me. No, no, you’ve got it wrong my dear
boy, it’s what I can do for you.”

“Pardon?” Louis says, quite properly confused.

“That nice little postman was here,” she says and Louis can’t
help but snort at the idea of describing MacLean, who towers
over most with his 6 '3 stature, as little. “He’s left a postcard
for you,” she adds and Louis’ inhales sharply.

It’s only been a few days since he last had news. It’s not a bad
thing, not having to wait. Of course, it’s not, but Louis is not
used to receiving Harry’s letters so close together.

While he’s come to loathe the wait in between each postcard,

it’s part of his routine now. Days and weeks go by and he
pretends he’s fine while silently moping and pining at night.
It’s the new normal. Between each of Harry’s new letters, Louis
tries to keep himself busy, tries to cheer himself up that way,

430
but underneath he’s restless, fearing he might have received the
last one without even knowing it, fearing Harry won’t warn him
before stopping to write and he’ll be left unsatisfied with no
closure. It’s not great, but it’s what Louis has become used to.

This lack of delay between correspondence is giving him a bit

of whiplash.

Does it mean anything?

“Oh, did he?” Louis finally replies after a long pause. “Well,
thank you for getting my mail for me, that’s very kind.” He
offers her his hand expectantly, stomach tightening with nerve.

Mrs. Chadwick flips a few pages from her sketchbook until she
finds the two she nestled the postcard between. “There you
are,” she says kindly.

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles, staring at the new card he barely

had to wait for, at the busy street depicted on it, Tokyo! written
on the bottom.

What’s Harry doing in Japan now? Louis can’t help but

wonder fondly. At least that explains why the letter came so
quickly, he figures as he starts walking away.

He’s turned away from the window, flipping the card over and
about to read it as he leaves the room when Mrs. Chadwick
clears her throat.

“Yes?” Louis asks, voice controlled and polite. He turns back

around, a fake smile on his face. “Do you need anything else?”

431
“Oh no,” Mrs. Chadwick says kindly. “I just thought maybe
you’d want to chat.” The way she says it, so pointedly… Louis
knows straight away that she’s joined the long list of people
who have read or heard about his mail.

“I’m alright, thank you,” Louis replies, smile dropping. He

looks down at the card, finally reading the message and his
entire body snaps to attention, back straightening and eyes
widening.

It seems both careless, yet tender, for Harry to write something

like that to him and send it.

432
 05/07/19
“They say when you are missing someone that they are
probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you
to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now”
Edna St. Vincent Millay

433
Louis blinks, eyes wet. He lets out a shuddering exhale, trying
not to cry.

“Louis, my dear boy,” Mrs. Chadwick is saying from far away,

“are you alright?”

He needs to leave this room. Right now. He needs to be out of

sight, needs to be alone. He can feel his hands trembling a little
and he swallows thickly around the ball of want, the ball
of longing , the ball of absence , uncomfortably stuck in his
throat.

If Harry knew how much Louis is thinking about him, worrying

for him, loving him from afar… He never would have sent such
a thing.

After a few long seconds of silence where Louis stares at the

quote without replying, he finally looks up and meets Mrs.
Chadwick’s eyes again.

“I’m quite alright,” he says absently. “I just have a lot to do

today.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she says softly, closing her sketchbook
and putting her pencils aside.

Then, she gets up, walking towards him with

determination. She loops her arm through his, interlocking
them together as she guides him outside of the living room and
down the corridor.

“You need tea,” she announces firmly as they turn into the
kitchen. “Tea and a good chat with a stranger.”

434
“I’m okay,” Louis lies, still following after her.

She sternly points at one of the chairs around the tiny table in
the kitchen – Harry’s chair – before turning her back to him and
putting the kettle on.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me things, but you’d be

surprised how much venting can help.”

Louis snorts, sitting down in the chair and putting the postcard
down on the table, text facing up.

“I know,” he replies. “I vent to my dog a lot. It’s just the two

of us here, you know.”

“Ah, but your dog can’t say anything back now, can he?” she
asks, turning around briefly to smirk at him.

“Some would argue that’s his greatest quality,” Louis jokes

flatly and the corners of his mouth turn up a little when Mrs.
Chadwick laughs with sincerity.

“Go on,” she encourages him a while later – after she’s put a
steaming cuppa in front of him. “You’ll feel better, and I’m an
old nosy hag; I want to know it all.”

Louis chuckles, drinking the hot beverage despite the fact that
it’s boiling outside.

“You love whoever wrote that letter a lot,” Mrs. Chadwick says
and Louis finds himself trying to blink tears away again, this
time much less successfully than before.

435
Not trusting his voice not to shake, Louis simply nods.

“But she can’t stay here with you,” Mrs. Chadwick continues
to guess.

“No,” Louis agrees. Then, because if he’s talking about this he

certainly won’t lie, he adds: “he can’t. His life is far away from
here.”

There’s a second of surprise and discomfort flashing on Mrs.

Chadwick’s face, gone before Louis can truly put his finger on
it. Soon enough, she’s back to looking like the world’s most
concerned Nan.

“That must be difficult.”

“Yeah...,” Louis sniffs, wiping a tear away with the palm of his
hand. “He’s travelling a lot for work and he keeps writing
without leaving a return address. Most days it feels like I’m just
waiting for news, you know?”

Mrs. Chadwick hums before drinking from her mug. “Sounds

a bit unfair,” she comments. “If you both know it’s not going
to work he shouldn’t string you along like this.”

“It’s not like that,” Louis says defensively, though of course to

anyone else it’s exactly like that. It’s exactly like Harry is
playing with Louis’ feelings.

“Sounds a bit selfish if you ask me,” she adds, ignoring Louis’
protest.

“He’s the most selfless man I’ve ever met,” Louis whispers.
“Everything he does… it’s for other people. I can’t be mad at

436
him for writing to me if he needs to when he almost never does
things for himself. I can’t… Even if I miss him and it hurts, and
even if I read that quote and I feel so… so angry because if he
were here and he could feel what I feel, he would never dare to
imply I don’t miss him too.” Louis breathes deeply, looking
down, down at the postcard. “But then… how can I be angry?
When I read this and I just… I think… maybe, if things were
different, he’d be here with me. How can I be angry? When
that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever read.”

“Oh darling,” Mrs. Chadwick says, gently reaching for his hand
across the table squeezing it in hers.

“I don’t want him to be sad,” Louis continues, feeling so

overwhelmingly mournful over it. “I love him, I don’t want to
think about him being miserable in… in Tokyo or in Jamaica!
I want him to be happy. But if he is sad and if he does miss me,
then I’d much rather know about it. Even if it hurts.”

Mrs. Chadwick hums, tapping the top of his hand softly with
her fingers. “You’re all over the place, aren’t you?” she teases.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Louis says, rolling his eyes.
Then, he smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, eventually.”

“Of course, hearts aren’t as delicate as we fear. They can endure

quite a lot,” she says wisely. “Besides, we’ve all had those
passing ships relationships, haven’t we? People who matter
greatly to us but are sailing in the opposite direction, right?”

Louis exhales loudly, a small noise of surprise leaving his

mouth, not quite a gasp. “Yeah,” he agrees after a few seconds.
“That’s exactly it.”

437
“We can only mourn them after they’ve gone, but still treasure
them for what they gave us,” she adds, an absent look on her
face.

“Who was yours?” Louis can’t stop himself from asking.

She looks back to him and smiles. “Just a childhood friend. We

had to go our separate ways. But she was always special to me.
Those were very different times, you know.”

Louis gulps, nodding at her sadly. “Right.”

“You’ll be alright,” Mrs. Chadwick finally says, confident and

supportive.

When she and her husband leave with the grandkids at the end
of the week, she gives Louis one of her sketches of the
lighthouse. In the corner, she quickly writes ‘ Louis, look how
beautiful your world is!’ before handing it to him with a
knowing smile.

The next Japan postcard comes only a week after the first,
surprising Louis a little less. Harry isn’t offering more
information as to why he’s in Asia, but this time, he gives him
a snippet of what life is like for him there. Louis reads the card
with a soft smile on his face as he puts away his jacket, having
just come back from his morning jog. When he reaches the end,
Louis blushes, feeling it spread from his face, down to his torso,
his heart skipping a few beats. The shift in tone alone is enough
to leave Louis a bit confused but flattered nonetheless.

438
 11/07/19
Dear Louis,
Have you ever been to Japan?
I love it there. Walking around Tokyo, I feel like I’m truly
getting lost.
It’s exhilarating. I’ve been trying to pick up the language.
It’s fun but challenging. Keeps me occupied while stuff is
being… negotiated.
All my admiration to the way
your eyelashes kiss your cheeks.
xH

439
It’s such a small thing, a weird compliment if anything, but
Louis lets it spread over him like a caress. Reading it feels
exactly the same as the warmth of Harry’s determined gaze on
his face. It feels exactly like when he spent long evenings
studying every corner of Louis’ features in silence. It feels
exactly like when Harry carefully pressed kisses on every
single inch of Louis’ skin, reverent in what could only be
described as love making even though they never used such
language.

Those words, this letter, feel exactly the same, so Louis blushes
and shivers a little, pressing it against his pounding heart as he
tries to calm himself, as he tries not to feel wooed.

He keeps it in his pocket all day, unable to separate himself

from it for even a second, sneakily rereading the last sentence
whenever he has a moment alone. That night, when he puts it
into the tin with the others, there isn't a twinge of sadness like
most times he receives a postcard from Harry. Instead, Louis
feels flattered, seen, remembered.

Of course, after this, he doesn’t hear from Harry for weeks.

Life carries on, the summer days still long and the lighthouse
still busy. And Louis still waits, trying not to start feeling
worried when August first comes and goes without news. The
Japan postcards arrived more or less a week after being written,
so it’s safe to assume Harry’s moved on, gone somewhere else,
and that’s why Louis hasn’t received a thing yet. To stop his
fussing and worrying, Louis imagines all the far away places
he could be travelling to and that take ages for mail to reach
Fair Isle. One night in the middle of the second week of August,

440
Louis spends an entire evening on top of the lighthouse
imagining Harry sunbathing in Hawaii.

Whenever he gets a bit worked up, either annoyed at being left

in the dark or weepy because he misses Harry desperately,
Louis still rereads his postcards. He spends a lot of time looking
for clues in them, trying to pinpoint the exact emotion hiding
being a certain word choice, trying to imagine the exact way
Harry missed him when he wrote certain phrases. He could
probably write academic papers on his interpretation of Harry’s
correspondence at this point, knows them so well he could
recite them in his sleep. It’s probably pathetic, he thinks
vaguely sometimes, but he can’t help himself.

He’s waiting, life almost on pause in between the postcards,

days blurring into one another until he can’t differentiate
between one or the next, guests all looking and sounding the
same.

He surprises himself, at nine am on August tenth, by thinking

how weird it is that he hasn’t thought to google Harry to see
what he’s up to. After all, it would be the easiest way to find
out where he’s gone, assuming he’s been spotted by fans.

The thought is nauseating even in theory and Louis spends the

rest of the day disappointed in himself for even having it. He
told Harry, all those months ago, that the only things worth
knowing about him were things Harry had told him himself and
Louis meant it. Even as a random passing thought, even as a
mental remark that he hasn’t thought of doing it, the mere
suggestion is vile and violates Harry’s trust. And if there’s one
thing Louis cherishes above anything else, it’s that.

441
He’s fidgety and uncomfortable the whole day, silently
chastising himself for being so needy, so worried, that googling
Harry would be tempting, even for a second. Guests even start
commenting on it, asking him with concerned tones if he’s sure
he’s alright as he serves dinner that evening.

Louis lies, of course. Pastes on a big customer service smile

and lies through his teeth, claiming he’s simply tired rather than
admitting he’s mad at himself, at his weakness. The truth gnaws
at him though, well into the night.

Like it knew it was needed, Harry’s next postcard arrives bright

and early the next morning, finally calming the overwhelming
need for news that Louis has been fighting off. It’s dated from
the end of July and comes from LA, which, of course, explains
the delay in the first place. Louis would be lying if he said he
wasn’t relieved, though the text scribbled on it does make him
pause. He reads and rereads the card while putting some sheets
away for the laundry in the basement, puzzling through Harry’s
relatively evasive message.

442
 25/07/19
Dear Louis,
Recently, I had such a stark moment of clarity it was like the
whole world lit up with certainty. I’ve known what I want for a
while now, but there’s comfort in the bone-deep satisfaction I
felt a few nights ago. The beach was empty, the sky beautiful, I
knew who I am, and I could almost feel your hand in mine…
Selfishly wishing you were here,
H

443
“A stark moment of clarity?” Louis says to himself as he
presses start on the washing machine. “What the hell does that
mean?”

But the card, of course, has no answer.

Harry still misses him though, is still suffering from the other
side of the world, and Louis can’t help the mixture
of reliefgriefempathysadness that fills him up at the
knowledge. He hasn’t moved on yet. They’re both still in the
same boat.

It takes only a little over a week for the next postcard to come,
offering Louis nothing but more whiplash. It’s mid, borderline
late August by now and most of his guests have started trickling
down south again, a few of them heading to Edinburgh for the
festival, while others head home already. He’s a little less busy
than last year, which should be concerning financially, but truth
be told, Louis is a little relieved. He’s got no bookings past the
first week of September and normally he’d be upset, but this
year, he’s really looking forward to the peace and quiet.
Wallowing and nursing a broken heart when he has to smile at
strangers all the time aggravates the pain tenfold and he just
wants to spend an entire day without fake smiling. Just one day.
But, there are still a few bookings here and there, so when Louis
receives a postcard from London around the nineteenth of
August, he has to leave the reception desk flustered,
abandoning a solo traveler and the insanely boring chat he was
subjecting Louis to.

Something about vintage cars? Louis couldn’t say.

444
He’d feel bad for essentially deserting a customer, but there are
little tingles of electricity coursing through his veins at the
thought of Harry being back on this side of the pond and he
needs to read his mail immediately. Right now. Straight away.
By himself. Besides, his lie about forgetting to do something
urgent was convincing enough, what with the way his voice
reached a previously unachieved high pitch the second the
postman left the building.

Louis quickly makes his way through the cottage and the
annex, climbing up the stairs to the tower way too fast to be
fully safe. Once he reaches the top, he’s relieved to find it
empty. He doesn’t stop in the lantern room though, going
straight for the door that leads outside instead, heart thundering
and breaths quickening.

It’s not a sunny day, not really, but the sea is calm on the
horizon and Louis takes it all in as he inhales deeply to calm
himself down.

Harry’s nearby. Harry’s close. Harry’s back.

Louis definitely needs a little fresh air to process this news.

Once he’s got his breathing pattern back to something

resembling normal and he’s stopped his brain from imagining
a thousand silly scenarios where Harry’s come back just for
him , Louis turns the card over and finally reads the message.

445
 16/08/19
Dear Louis,
Here I am, back in the UK, after what feels like forever. I can’t
believe it’s only been a few short months. Going back to LA
– the site of so many triggering memories – felt nothing like a
homecoming. But I’m so glad I was strong enough to do it.
Being in London doesn’t quite feel like a homecoming either. I
guess I’m still looking for that feeling of belonging you
described so perfectly. I’m getting closer though, I know that
now. What a joy. What a relief.
Always thinking of you in your tower,
H

446
Louis puzzles the text for a while, frowning a little. There’s a
new sense of optimism in Harry’s writing that wasn’t there
before. Something that’s been slipping through his last couple
of postcards that’s different. It’s not just him trying to be
cheerful so Louis won’t worry. Louis has learned to recognise
that by now, has learned to spot the badly concealed
melancholy underneath it all. But this… this is sincere
optimism that’s dripping from every single word, a belief that
things are going to be okay. Louis thinks back to that clarity he
mentioned previously and wonders… He wonders what it is
that Harry has figured out that changed everything.

It’s probably music related, Louis figures, as he lets himself be

comforted by the rising wind.

Selfishly, for a second, he hopes it’s about him. Then, quick as

it came, he chases the thought away. Selfishly, for a second, he
hopes Harry doesn’t find whatever it is he’s actually looking
for if it means he’ll stop writing to Louis as a cathartic outlet.
That thought – and the accompanying guilt – doesn’t let itself
be chased away as easily.

The next postcard comes two days later, from LA, dated from
the beginning of the month, right before Harry left the US for
London.

447
 10/08/19
Dear Louis,
It feels good to know that tomorrow I’m leaving LA with all my
business sorted, that I won’t have to be back for a while now.
It’s a weight off my shoulders! I’ve worked hard for so long and
soon, it’s going to start paying off. Soon, I’ll see the results. I’m
sorry if I seem evasive… There’s so much I’m not allowed to
say yet. But I can’t wait to tell you everything. I can’t wait.
Yours,
H

448
It doesn’t give him a lot more information, but it does make
him feel better that Harry didn’t go almost a full month without
writing to him. Without thinking about him. Maybe it means
all of his fears about being forgotten aren’t founded, maybe it
means that Harry finding himself doesn’t necessarily mean the
end for them. They’re only an echo of what they were, of
course, but Louis can’t bear the thought of losing that.

And there’s that bit at the end… that bit where Harry says he
can’t wait to tell him everything.

Fair Isle is quite far for a coffee date to catch up, but Louis is
foolish enough to hope it means Harry will call again with news
at some point. That at some point – probably soon – he’ll pick
up that phone and tell Louis everything. He’ll tell Louis all
about finishing the writing of the album, tell him all about his
recording adventures around the world. His voice will go a little
high pitched like it does when Harry gets passionate about
something, his words won’t be as calculated as usual. There’ll
be fewer pauses where he’s looking for what to say because
he’ll be so excited to tell Louis all about it. He’s foolish enough
to hope that Harry isn’t going to forget Louis on his quest to
reconquer the world with his music, even though he’s officially
left him behind.

He’s back in London now, most of the work on his album must
be done. It has to be. Surely, that means Harry will call with
news any day now.

Any day.

But any day doesn’t come and neither does the phone call.

449
Instead, it’s one more postcard that Louis receives only a
couple of days later. And, for his own sanity, he tries very hard
not to interpret is as a love letter.

450
 20/08/19
When you smile at me, it’s like the whole world vanishes. It’s
what I think about if I feel observed by strangers on the street.
I think about the way you look at me and their inquisitive gaze
can’t touch me. How on Earth do you do that?

451
It makes him feel small and powerful at the same time, and he’s
not sure how Harry can achieve such prowess with only a few
scribbled words.

Still, after that , Harry surely is going to call, Louis thinks.

Any day now.

But a week goes by without a postcard or a call, so Louis forces

himself to swallow down the hope he treacherously allowed to
grow in his chest. He kills it firmly with a few snide mental
remarks, and every time it takes root again somewhere near his
heart, Louis gets twice as vicious as the one before.

He tells himself Harry never cared for him. He tells himself that
Harry’s been toying with him all along. He tells himself that it
never meant anything to him at all. He tells himself that he’s
been nothing but a foolish, stupid, naive man.

Louis knows only the last part is true, but it helps him manage
his expectations when he tells himself those awful things. Hope
is a dangerous and powerful thing and he truly can’t allow
himself the unavoidable disappointments that come with it.
Louis can’t do this

Of course, every time he rereads the postcards, he’s reminded

of how much he’s lying to himself. Of the depth of Harry’s
feelings plainly stated on the page.

Louis doesn’t really believe in anything, but for once in his life,
he finds himself looking up at the stars from the top of the tower
and asking the universe what it's trying to achieve here.

452
On the twenty-seventh of August, Louis simply receives this :

24/08/19
“Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”
maybe Charles Bukowski?

453
He tries not to find it funny, tries to feel miserable about the
randomness of it, but he can’t help but think about Harry –
stupid Harry – who wrote this down and mailed it to Louis,
probably hoping it would make him smile.

So Louis laughs.

He laughs because it’s funny, and a bit ridiculous, and because

he really is in love with that dork.

On the last day of August, Louis receives another postcard from

London.

454
 29/08/19
“Baby, there’s worlds in your silence / there’s a lifeline on your
breath.”

455
The first time he reads it, he lets out a shuddery exhale, resisting
the temptation to google the words. They’re probably new
lyrics, something Harry penned a while back, and Louis tries
not to feel absolutely overwhelmed by that fact. He can’t look
for confirmation though, can’t let himself feel this fully. So he
carries on carrying on, puts the postcard in his tin and keeps the
words in his heart.

And it’s a good thing he does so, considering he doesn’t hear

from Harry again for a fortnight.

September settles in, the last few guests leave, the lighthouse
empties, and suddenly, Louis is alone with that quiet, that
silence. That silence that Harry clearly treasures, still, but that
Louis is finding a little difficult to face alone now that he knows
what it’s like to share it with someone that he loves.

He’s fine though. He’ll be fine.

September fourteen starts like any other day, with Louis

waking up at five am sharp and going on a run with Clifford.
The air is crisp, the sky black, then navy, then redorangepink ,
until it settles on a perfect blue, and Louis observes its
transformation from the beach. He’s disgustingly sweaty,
sitting down on a rock as he watches his world awaken, lets
himself be moved by the beauty of it all, let’s himself enjoy it.
He takes his time before going back to the lighthouse, playing
with Clifford on the sand for longer than he normally would
before heading back up the cliffs and home. Once he’s inside,
it’s late enough that the electricity is on again, so Louis puts his
phone on charge before taking a long shower.

456
Louis has been silently waiting for all his guests to leave so he
could wallow in peace for a while, but now that he’s alone, he’s
not as comfortable in the solitude as he expected he would. He
doesn’t miss having to fake joy constantly, but maybe the
distractions from his broken heart weren’t as bad as he thought.
Still, not having to prep breakfast every single night before
going to bed and then having to cook said breakfast for
everyone early every morning is a luxury. That autumn
morning, Louis enjoys taking his tea on the gallery, sitting on
the floor with his back against the tower and a book in hand.
It’s the Edna St-Vincent Millay poetry book that Harry became
so fond of, the pages now well-loved and annotated messily,
the corners folded without shame on favourites. It looks
cherished now, no longer in pristine condition the American
student it used to belong to left it in, and Louis almost can’t
believe that Harry didn’t leave with it, what with the way he
used to stay nose buried in it night after night. It’s a nice
memento for Louis to have though, he won’t deny that. Not to
himself. Rereading the poems, rereading the little thoughts
Harry has jotted down all over the book, it feels like a part of
him stayed here with Louis. Even if it’s tiny. It’s… nice, Louis
figures, to having something beyond the postcards to keep,
something that proves he was really here with Louis and he’s
left a mark on something else than Louis’ heart.

Louis chuckles, surprisingly with only a smidge of bitterness,

when he comes across a particularly poignant and relevant
poem. He half-smirks as he reads and rereads a few lines,
unable not to think back to the past few months of his life.

“Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;

Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!

457
But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!

Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!”

“You and me both Edna,” Louis whispers as he takes a sip of

tea.

Distractingly, he glances backwards, towards the cottage rather

than the cliffs and he sees a small figure walking away from the
building. A familiar figure carrying a bright red Royal Mail
bag.

Louis nearly chokes on his tea at the sight, heart jumping in his
throat as it has done every single time Maclean has brought him
mail since he has last received a postcard.

Louis swallows his sip, coughing a little, before shaking his

head.

It’s probably nothing, he tells himself straight away, squishing

the stirring of hope in his belly like a bug.

It’s been fourteen days of silence. Fourteen days with nothing

new to receive. Why would today suddenly be different?

Louis shakes his head, going back to his book. He reads one
line, then another, then another, before he realizes he’s not
reading at all. He’s absorbing none of the information, too
obsessed with the hypothetical postcard waiting for him in the
cottage. He can’t focus. He can’t focus when there’s the
possibility that Harry might have written to him again.

Except….

458
“Don’t expect anything,” Louis mumbles to himself as he gets
up. He puts a finger in the book to mark his page, then leans
down to grab his cuppa.

He leaves the gallery in a hurry, the door swinging behind him

as he rushes downstairs.

“It’s probably nothing!” he exclaims as he walks from the

annex to the cottage, then past the open kitchen door, catching
a glimpse of Clifford sleeping underneath the table.

He opens his mouth to remind himself once again that there’s

most likely absolutely nothing exciting waiting for him when
he finally reaches the reception desk and sees the postcard
that’s been left on the counter for him.

“Oh,” Louis whispers, instead of whatever it is he was going to

tell himself.

He takes the last few steps forward slowly, almost like he’s
scared of the letter, and he knows he must look ridiculous, but
he can’t help it. Before going for his mail, he puts both his mug
and the book on the counter, no longer caring about the page at
all.

It’s from Aberdeen , of all places, and Louis can’t imagine what
Harry is doing in Aberdeen unless he’s… Louis swallows hard,
holding onto the reception desk to keep himself upright, heart
squeezing painfully in his chest. He shakes his head, mentally
crushes the thought that Harry is coming .

He can’t.

459
He can’t allow himself the belief that he gets to see Harry soon.

It’ll hurt too much if… when…

So Louis shakes his head and Louis crushes the thought. He

kills the hope and inhales deeply. Then, he exhales. He’s about
to turn the card over when he suddenly closes his eyes, flipping
the card around but unable, not ready, for what’s actually on it.

He waits a few seconds – longer than he should – for the fear

to subside.

It never does, so Louis opens his eyes and reads the card
anyway.

460
 11/09/18
Oh Louis, If only there were words…
A lifetime ago, you asked me if I was a writer. I didn’t answer
quite truthfully. Yet here I am, dozens of songs later, pages of
lyrics I penned, and when I try to think of what to say to you, I
can’t remember a single word... Some poet I turned out to be.
Robbed of his tongue when he needs it the most. Drowning in
thoughts of you.
Always yours,
H

461
“Oh,” Louis whispers again, softly touching the card, the
words, the beautiful words that Harry claims he’s lacking. The
beautiful words that make Louis’ heart flutter.

Always yours, Harry wrote, but they both know that’s not true.
They both know it’s not realistic.

If it were, Harry would be here. Wouldn’t he?

He’s reading in the living room that same afternoon when it

happens.

First, Louis hears the front door creak open. Then, Clifford’s
nails clicking against the floor in the hallway as he goes to see
who just walked in, his barking excited at the sight rather than
threatening. Finally, a low and familiar voice that carries
despite its softness. A voice saying sweet little nothings,
claiming Clifford is “such a good boy” and that “it’s so good to
see him”.

Without even realising he’s moved, Louis is suddenly out of

his seat, poetry book long forgotten when it lands on the floor
with a thud. Heart in his throat, he opens the living room door,
gets out of the room and into the hallway, facing the reception
area, the still open front door, in front of which Harry kneels
bathed in soft autumn light. Clifford’s got his front paws on
Harry’s thighs while he’s being scratched behind the ears the
way that he likes best, Harry laughing as he tries to avoid Cliff’s
kisses directly on his mouth.

462
Louis blinks and Harry is still there.

After months without, it’s a rush he isn’t sure how to control,

so many emotions fighting their way to the surface.

He looks good. Somehow, that’s the thought Louis clings to.

Despite the growing optimism in the postcards, Louis realizes
he had still been worrying when something within him loosens
at the sight of Harry, dimples fully on display, shoulders
relaxed and eyes untroubled.

His hair is a bit shorter than when he left, but not quite as short
as the first time Louis ever saw him, strands of hair curling
against his temples, framing his face delicately. Louis’ stomach
tighten with the desire to bury his fingers in the curls at the nape
of Harry’s neck, to drag him in an embrace, to welcome him
home, to –

Louis inhales deeply and the floor creaks beneath his feet,
giving him away.

Harry finally looks away from Clifford, eyes widening when

they meet Louis’. He gets up, a sudden nervous energy in the
way he moves, wiping the palm of his hands against his jeans
before speaking a single word.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Louis replies, taking a few steps forward to get out of

the corridor and into the reception area.

463
Harry gulps, then smiles – a tiny thing, half shy, half
mischievous. “Got any vacancies?” he asks, gesturing towards
the dinosaur of a computer that Louis curses at every day.

Louis thinks about playing it cool for half a second, before

shaking his head fondly. “For you? Always.”

Harry seems to grow in confidence at that, squaring his

shoulders and giving Louis a proper smile, dimples out and
everything.

“My new album is coming out in a few months,” is what he

says next, taking Louis completely by surprise.

“Oh,” Louis exclaims, giving Harry an encouraging, but

somewhat confused smile. “That’s great, H. That’s… that’s
amazing. Congrats.”

Harry shrugs, dismissing Louis’ compliments with a small

gesture. He looks down, shuffling his feet. “I told the label
that… that I wasn’t ready to go full out like before. That I can’t
do a massive world tour again. The whole different cities every
night thing… No home? No anchor? I told them it was too
early, that I wasn’t ready.”

“Babe,” Louis exhales, the endearment slipping out and

Harry’s eyes find his, pride shining through them.

“They agreed,” he reveals. “They said… They said maybe I can

start with a small UK tour first. Smaller venues? See how that
goes.”

464
Louis takes a step forward. “Harry… I’m…” He smiles,
suddenly wanting to cry. “I’m so happy for you,” he says,
surprising himself by meaning it. “I’m so proud.”

Harry’s not here to stay. He’s got an album coming out, he’s
going on tour again, and even though he’s been writing Louis
what might as well be love letters for the past few months, he’s
not come here to stay.

Louis has always known it, but that doesn’t make it hurt any
less. And still, through the sharp disappointment, Louis feels so
thoroughly relieved, so thoroughly euphoric, that Harry is well,
that he’s going to keep on doing what he loves. On his terms.
That he’s not letting the fear stop him from doing what he was
born to do.

Harry is smiling fully now, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Yeah, I’m… For the first time in a really long time, I’m
actually excited about performing again. I’m excited about the
music I wrote and I’m excited to share it with people, even if
it’s in smaller ways.”

“That’s…” Louis exhales shakily. “That’s amazing,” he

replies, beaming.

“Yeah.”

Silence should maybe feel awkward, yet it falls upon them

naturally, easily, as it always has between them. They stare at
each other, frozen in place, not a hint of discomfort as the clock
ticks. Looking into Harry’s eyes, Louis can’t help but
wonder…

465
“Did you…” Louis takes a step forward. The answer might
hurt, but he needs to know. He needs the closure he never got
when Harry left, needs to know why he’s back here of all
places. “Did you come all this way to tell me about the album?
About the tour?”

There’s a deeper question not well hidden underneath and

Louis would be ashamed for lacking directness, but he knows
Harry doesn’t need someone to talk him through what Louis
wants to know.

Harry looks down, then shakes his head. “No,” he replies softly
before looking back at Louis. “Of course not. I came all this
way because… because… Well, I know you love your life here
and that you’re not lonely up there by yourself,” he gestures
towards the tower. “I know you’re not waiting for someone to
rescue you from the loneliness or anything like that, that you
don’t need someone to complete you, or whatever romantic
bullshit…” Harry clears his throat, eyes wet. “But I thought…
I thought... since I’m deeply in love with you, that maybe it was
worth asking if there’s space for me in that already brilliant life
of yours? Because… just like you feel like the truest version of
yourself here on Fair Isle, I think… I think I feel like the truest
version of myself when I’m with you.”

Louis blinks, a huge lump in his throat. He looks at this man,

this man he loves, who was torn apart by vultures for
entertainment and still willingly, with all the bravery in world,
puts himself out there and says here I am.

“I know I’m complicated,” Harry whispers when Louis has

been silent for too long. There’s a bit of anxiety in his eyes now
and he bites his lower lip, preparing himself for a rejection
Louis would never be able to give.

466
“You’re not complicated,” Louis replies fiercely, walking up to
him, cradling his face in his hands, the most precious cargo
he’ll ever hold.

Harry gulps. “I mean… my life... My life is… It’s going to be

different than when I was first here, but I… I thought I’d ask
anyway.”

“Harry,” Louis whispers against his lips. Their noses rub

together and there’s so much Louis wants to say. Instead, he
slides his arms around Harry’s neck, wrapping him into a fierce
hug, Harry’s breath warm and wet against the skin of Louis’
neck. “I love you,” Louis tells him softly, not ever wanting to
let him go. He shivers a little when he feels Harry’s fingers
tightening where he’s holding Louis’ waist. “I’m in love with
you too. My life is always going to be better with you in it
Harry, no matter how complicated.”

Harry breaks their hug, whispering “Lou,” brokenly, needily,

before leaning forward to kiss him. Time stops as they slot
together. Louis never left yet now, as they’re kissing hungrily,
pouring months of longing and i miss you s in the sliding of
their tongues, he’s finally home again. It should be a scary
feeling, to know that his home has somehow shifted, changed,
that it’s no longer just a place but a person too. But there’s relief
in the feeling: he’s got his island and he’s got Harry. That’s all
he needs to be home.

When they separate, Louis lets his hands rest on Harry’s

shoulder, feeling the softness of his hoodie under his fingers,
smiling a little when he notices the Harry embroidered over his
heart, the sight of what he assumes is Harry’s own merch both
amusing and endearing. He’s come with no secrets hidden in

467
his suitcase this time, unburden, fully himself, and Louis…
Louis loves all of him.

He looks away from Harry's chest, smile falling a little when

he notices how wet Harry’s eyes are, unshed tears clinging to
his eyelashes.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, rubbing his thumb softly under Harry’s

left eye. “What is it? Did you think I was going to say no?” he
teases gently.

Harry shrugs, sniffing a little. “Yes.” He pauses. “No.” He

shrugs again, this time with a chuckle. “I don’t know.”

Louis hums, catching the tears under Harry’s right eye this
time.

“It should scare me,” Louis whispers, “but I could never say
no. You’re undeniable to me, Harry Styles.”

“Louis,” Harry gasps, knowing what he truly means, knowing

the depth of what Louis is saying. “I missed you so much,” he
admits in a whisper. “I thought about you every day.”

“I missed you too,” Louis replies.

This time, when they kiss, there’s no heat, only tenderness.

“Oh,” Harry gasps, separating their bodies, reaching into the

back pocket of his jeans. “I have something for you,” he says,
handing Louis a Fair Isle postcard, the familiar painting of
Louis’ B&B staring at him. “I got it at Mr. Dunn’s.”

468
“Yeah,” Louis nods, having seen this particular model a
thousand times and more near the counter at Dunn’s grocers. “I
know,” he adds, gulping down the well of emotions bubbling
in his chest.

He turns the card around, Harry’s now familiar handwriting

hurried and messy on the paper, like maybe his hand wasn’t
fast enough for everything he wanted to say in that moment.
Louis imagines him leaning over the counter at Mr. Dunn’s,
heart in his throat and hope in his heart, pouring his soul out.

469
 14/09/19
It’s you.
It’s you my love, who brought me back here again and again –
if only in thoughts – like the never-ending storm on this island,
whose winds and waves kiss the beach you walk week after
week. You stand as tall as your tower in my mind’s eyes, a
guiding light, a call home.
A voice in the back of my mind.
Undeniable.

470
471