Very very curious about your stories in regard to the Ed Sheeran/Harry couch picture if you feel like sharing…
Anon 2: I'd love to hear your stories about the Harry Ed photo!
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It's more a series of stories that I have told that mean I understand that photo in a very particular way.
In 2017, Louis gave an interview with Matt Edmonson (BBC presenter that he'd known for years) and Matt Edmonson asked about Simon Cowell. Louis thought a little bit, made it clear that he was going to have to edit the story and then talked about an early gig 1D had performed. Louis had been drunk and the next day he got a message from Simon Cowell saying that he needed to fly to LA the following day. He flew to LA so Simon could tell him off for being drunk. You can read a transcript of the interview here.
I went full string and cork board in relation to this. There were very few options and one of the most obvious options was their second G-A-Y gig. I went through a timeline and searched forums to find out where 1D were after their gigs (see this post and this post). And it became very clear that their second G-A-Y gig was by far the most likely candidate.
And that was pretty significant - because if you've ever watched videos from those gigs (and if you haven't run don't walk) - it's very clear that he has some alcohol - but that wasn't interfering with his performance of the music - just with his performance of heterosexuality.
That story - 19 year old Louis being overjoyed performing in a G-A-Y club, and then being flown out to LA to be told by Simon Cowell that he needed to change - has always been a big deal to me.
One of the reasons that Louis was so happy that night was that performance was the day they learned that What Makes You Beautiful had gone to number one.
And so when I see Harry, who didn't like to be alone, hanging out with mates the week he had a number one single. All I can think about is Louis on a plane to LA.
I often mourn what Harry could have had if Severus Snape, Peter Pettigrew and Voldemort weren't the bitch they were. (I mean it in that order btw)
Two parents who loved him to the moon and back, two uncles (Remus and Sirius) who saw him as their son and more. He would have grown with people he was loved by, who could not even imagine a place without him.
He would have been loved, so loved more than he already was.
87 or 99, sirry or halbus or any config of timsaxloch?! 🌝
el you know the way to my heart 🙂↕️
I absolutely took this as an opportunity to finally try my hand at writing halbus (and if I slipped and fell into 2d POV person then I blame charmeuse again <3) for this drabble game
"don't look at me like that" + halbus | 1500 words
In the end, it takes two days.
You thought you’d last longer, but age has worn you out. Your guilt has silently festered like mould around your lungs, a parasite gnawing at your defences until you find yourself so helplessly bare suddenly, without warning.
What hurts, though, in the wake of your weakness, is your son’s crestfallen look. Only took him forty-eight hours and some to translate that naked yearning in your eyes, the one you so tightly locked behind a set jaw and firm eyes years ago, the one you swallowed back until it swallowed you whole.
And just like that, you’re ruining five years of work.
(Five years of constant heartstrain, five years of heavy looks, five years of cold, holidays spent apart, flimsy excuses, and a distance that did nothing to starve the rotten roots of a damned love.)
“Harry.”
“Dad,” you correct, because god knows you hate feeling so distant with him, and maybe, actually love feeling like no matter what, you’re always tied to him with that name, that blood that runs through his veins which is yours, but you pretend it’s to keep the distance, the healthy one, that it’s to make things right, but he—
He shatters.
A red flush blooms on his cheekbones, and his pupils blow out a second. You fight to keep your gaze there, but you know, because he is yours, and you’ve learned to decipher every inch of him, so you just know.
Thought he had a trouble with authority, sure, but Merlin, you’d never thought it’d turn to that. Or maybe it’s just with you. What you do to him. Fuck, your guts should not be swooping happily.
“Son, I’m—” sorry? Pathetic. Far from enough. “—glad you’re here.” When he doesn’t say anything, you clear your throat. Run a hand through that mess on top of your head. “I missed you.”
He huffs, but it’s weak, and morphs into an awkward chuckle halfway through. Look at you, like two exes meeting again, three drinks away from getting another taste of the past. “Why did you invite me here, dad?”
Dad. Feels like a win.
The smile that spreads on your lips is buttery and sweet, the first actual one you’ve cracked in months. “What, like I need an excuse to spend some time with my son?”
You hadn’t prepared yourself for him to get right into it. To leave you alone in this attempt to ignore everything, to play normal dad and son, but to stand his ground and point at the elephant in the room. A terrible, terrible oversight.
His face hardens, eyes blazing with a bravery you could never match, and with each step closer to you, he steals your breath. Instinct is a powerful thing, too strong to fight against, because how could it feel anything but natural?
That’s your boy, your boy grown into a man, but still yours, still carrying your features and your burdens save for the scar, a hint of some scruff on his jaw, sure, a new piercing over his left eyebrow, but that’s still—and always will be your son, walking towards you, now.
So, you can’t really be blamed for letting him. For not moving away, not until his toes are touching yours, and you can taste every exhale out of his mouth.
“Don’t look at me like that, then.”
For a second, you think you’re the one who said that.
You’d said that to him once. First real night out, and he was too young, too stupid, too eager, clumsily crawling in your lap after you’d held his hair back so he could puke all his reckless teenager years out in the toilets, and it had felt so natural to hold his small frame in your big arms, kiss his forehead, and stroke that cheek with a thumb too greedy, too reverent.
(You were parched for his touch. Never truly got to be a father to him, too busy when he was a kid, and when you finally decided to show up, he’d already made up his mind about you, he’d laid it out at the very moment alcohol had stripped him of his walls.)
Drowning in their abyss had felt like a sin in and of itself. Heart sinking like a dead weight because you could read what you never thought you would in your son.
Suddenly the hate, the resentment, the anger, the coldness he wielded like a blade made to hurt, it all clicked like a jagged missing piece; and the most horrible awful feeling, was realizing how you hadn’t just unlocked his secret, but yours as well.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you’d pleaded, too drunk on this new world-breaking discovery to control your tone, and instead, it had sounded too breathy with want, too hoarse with need.
It might as well have been a green light to him.
He’d surged up and claimed your lips with trembling hands clawing at your neck with a despair that made your chest twist, and a sense of urgency quickly dissolving into a broken moan you’d instinctively licked and tasted with delight. It was lavender, and smoked pines on his skin—the smell of your soap, cranberry vodka, and tobacco at the back of his molars. You’d taken way too long to stop it, overwhelmed by bliss, and then just as quickly by the guilt shredding your stomach to pieces.
By then, it was too late.
You’d have gladly walked into a courtroom, shackled your own wrists and crucified yourself if it weren’t for the sob that had suddenly ripped out of his throat and racked up his entire body like a castle crumbling. Still so small and vulnerable he was, seventeen years old and just half your size.
You had the insane thought you could fit him inside your rib cage, then. That you would in a heartbeat. To protect him for everyone, from the world, (from yourself).
So, you’d held him, held his tears, kissed him like a father, dutifully ignoring the burning mark of his mouth still slick over your lips, and in a weakened moment of meeting his watery eyes and hearing a wobbly please, allowed him to sleep into your bed. It was easy. It was natural. It was wrong.
Your precious Al, curled around your chest like innocence willingly laying in the lion’s den.
Don’t look at me like that, then.
Now, the truth slips beside your will, like you’re the eager, drunk teenager, barely able to keep it together, keep your mouth shut to hold the, “I can’t.”
“Try.”
“I’m sorry,” you say stupidly.
Guilt nearly makes you double over when you see the scorching despair twisting his features; you shut your eyes to protect him from your perversity.
Gods, he deserves so much better than you. Yet the thought that anyone could ever be worth him feels laughable. Still, you realize here that inviting him was selfish.
He’s moved on, and it’s good, it’s a good thing, you tell yourself. You’re the one with rot clogging your arteries, fangs for teeth and claws for hands, you’re the monster that should be muzzled and kept on a leash, away from him—but he’s your—that’s your boy, that’s your son, and—you missed him, hoped he’d missed you too—hoped, selfishly, that you’d both be trapped again in the same boat, still, and though the fault would always fall on you, its weight was always easier to bear upon that crystal, pure need reflected in his eyes.
You ought to flee, but your feet can’t move, your guts are in your throat, and your lips are shaking.
At once, everything stops. There’s a blissful silence over the roaring of your thoughts, a warmth on your forehead that anchors you, and it’s enough to have you open your eyes again.
A light sea green stares back at you. Clear as turquoise sea water you’d love to test, dip your toes in, taste the salt and come back for more. You want to drown in him, you want to be the ocean that inhabits his soul, that keeps him going—you want it all.
“If you don’t push me away now, you can’t push me away later,” he murmurs gently. Then, voice stronger, eyelashes fluttering, he adds, “ever.”
You can’t believe your luck. Can’t believe you’re two seconds away from celebrating the wicked joy of having him again. A trophy that doesn’t shine like it should. But wrong and twisted as it is, you can’t help but think at least, at least you’re going to treat him right—you’ll do everything—try, at least, with everything in you—give him outs, anytime—
“Promise, Harry.”
“If you promise to stop calling me that,” you manage to choke out.
Oh. You’d missed that smile. Tilted up at the corner of his mouth, and hinting at a dimple; it warms you up down to the very marrow of your bones.
“Alright, dad.” Cheeky eyeroll. “If you really want me, then—”
“Christ, how could I not, darling,” you whisper, letting your head fall pitifully against the palm of his hand. Pathetic, pathetic, and so gone for him, you are. So proud, and so grateful, for his existence. He’s worth every ache of this.
“—stop leaving me.”
“I don’t think I could do it again if I tried.”
What a horrible truth. Even more horrible to see how it brightens that face, paints it with hope. You’ve no choice but to let him bridge the gap, then—with just as much urgency as the last time, but more relief—and reunite with him in the way no father and son should, but in every way that makes this you and him. He sighs into the kiss, melts as you cup him between broad palms, and your chest unwinds.
There he is, your heart sings, racing with every beat. Your boy. You’ll never let him go again.
