1k words of harry’s pov after Louis leaves at the end of tshu PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!!
lol yayyyyyyyyyy i think i've posted part of this before but maybe just the email. i hope i didn't post the whole thing. it's called the drum beats out of time:
If he drives straight back to the flat, he could be in bed by midnight, but he doesn’t. Harry backs his car out of the garage bay, sits there with it still in reverse and watches as the door is slowly lowered until it’s fully closed. Even then, he doesn’t head down the drive toward the road for another minute or two, and when he eventually leaves, he turns right instead of left and wanders around aimlessly, driving until he’s low on gas before he goes home.
It’s a little after one in the morning when Harry finally gets the key to turn in the lock and he stumbles inside the empty flat, but he isn’t tired, or is too keyed up to sleep, probably. Still, he walks back to the bedroom, pulling his clothes off on his way through the dark flat. Harry feels around on the top of his dresser and finds his laptop, settles onto the bed with it, figuring he’ll distract himself for the next little bit before two o’clock. He just wants to stay awake until Louis leaves, as if his being awake and aware makes a difference. As if he’ll feel Louis’ absence more acutely once he’s no longer in this time.
He opens Netflix, but ignores it in favor of checking his email. There’s a short message from Zayn, telling Harry to keep in touch, and reassuring him that Louis will make it to 2023 just fine. Which he can’t know, and Zayn admits as much, but he says he has a good feeling about it. Harry’ll reply to Zayn’s email later, maybe in the morning or maybe in a few days. When he’s not feeling as raw as he is tonight.
Harry clicks over to Netflix and watches the pilot episode of Friends, something he’s seen dozens of times and doesn’t have to focus on or keep up with, something he can pretend to watch while he zones out and thinks of Louis and watches the minutes pass on the digital clock in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen. At one fifty-nine, Harry closes out Netflix and stares at the clock. His heartbeat gets incrementally faster, and when the numbers change to read two o’clock, Harry gasps involuntarily and his stomach flips almost violently as he thinks of Louis being taken away from him. Because that’s how he sees it, even if it’s nowhere near the truth. For the next few minutes, Harry continues to watch the clock, and when it’s five after two, he bites his lip and closes his eyes, letting the few tears he has left roll down his cheeks.
Blinking to clear his vision, Harry stretches his fingers, then opens a new email message.
To: futurelou
Subject: hi
You’re probably in 2023 already, which is totally fucking with my head. I miss you so much and you just left a few minutes ago. I hope the trip wasn’t bad or uncomfortable…….. Sounds like you’re on a train or something instead of traveling through a wormhole into the future. Idk why I’m emailing you other than I thought of you (haven’t stopped thinking of you, actually) and wanted to talk to you, so here I am. Now that you’re not here to distract me, I’m going to buckle down and figure out what I’m going to do at uni. Eventually. I love you.
Always yours,
Harry
————
“It’s fucking raining. Shocking, I know,” Harry says, phone wedges between his ear and his shoulder, fiddling with the key in the door, and finally locking it through sheer force of will. At least that’s something he won’t have to deal with in London—wishing for Louis to be there every single time he tries to lock or unlock the goddamn flat.
Harry hurries to his car and slides behind the wheel, but rushing doesn’t do a damn thing because he’s absolutely soaked. The ends of his hair are dripping rainwater onto his already wet clothes. He wipes his phone dry on the upholstery of the passenger seat, pulls his hair aside with one hand and squeezes some of the water out before twisting it up into a bun and asking, “How is he?”
“I don’t know,” Zayn answers quietly. “It’s not like we talk. He comes to work, he stays late, we avoid each other, and repeat.”
Harry sighs. “I just miss him.”
“I know, mate. I, um… I do too. It’s weird. Listen, when you have time, I want to talk to you about the stabilization of the wormhole.”
“What about?”
“Nothing now. And no big rush. Just when you get settled with your sister, give me a ring?”
“Not sure what you think I can help with. I mean, I’ve got Louis’ notes, but…”
Zayn clicks his tongue and Harry rolls his eyes, knowing what comes next. “It’s nothing to do with Louis’ notes. Want to bounce some ideas around in that curly head of yours. And, Harry, please think it over. You’d be such an asset. You already are.”
Harry scoffs. “I’m not even starting uni until September, if then, and I told you I’m not strong in maths. I don’t see the point in studying physics if I can’t handle—”
“I might know a guy who can tutor you. Just think about it. And let’s Skype soon. Yeah?”
“Yeah, alright.” Harry looks at their old flat through the rain battering the windshield, turns on the wipers and watches them swish back and forth. He mutters, “Wish you could give him my love or something.”
Zayn laughs and says, “He’d kick my arse. How about… send me some of his tea. I’ll sneak it into the break room. It’ll be like a secret gift from you to him.”
Harry smiles, but then his eyes begin to water and he bites his lip and nods, even though Zayn can’t see him. He takes a breath and tries to keep his voice steady. “Thanks, Z. Get some sleep. It’s late there.”
“I’m off tomorrow, so no worries. Safe travels, mate. Anything I can do, just let me know.”
Harry hangs up and sets his phone in the cup holder, rubs his eyes with the cuff of his flannel shirt, and checks the rearview mirror before backing into the road and taking off. It’s still dark out, the sun won’t be up for a few hours, and the roads in Donny are dead quiet. A stark difference from what he knows he’ll find in London, especially since he’s due to arrive at his sister’s sometime around half-nine.
The repetitive whirring sound of his tires spinning on the street is almost hypnotizing, so Harry clicks on his radio and flips to his most recently made and most listened to playlist and sings along to all of the sad songs that somehow seem to lessen the ache of missing Louis.
Eleven weeks down, two hundred forty-nine to go.