forever

The event changed everything, but a story can’t have a central theme unless there are walls to support it, roads that take you there and on, because I can’t just give you a fact and you understand it fully until I explain it. So here it is; I love Harry Styles, but the roads that I take you on to understand may not be one’s that you really want to travel, so heed the signs on the barren roadsides, and understand. I’ll tell you about the days, thirty before and thirty after, encompassing Harry’s attempted suicide.

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37. The Day

THE DAY

My birthday is a hit with everyone. With the press and with Twitter and with my guests and most of all with Harry, who has taken the whole ordeal as his own masterpiece, and he jokingly denies that Liam, Zayn, and Niall helped at all. "Two of whom were too busy kissing," he jokes, and Niall turns red. "I thought we weren't going to joke until we knew for sure!" I exclaim, and Liam whips his head around to make sure no guests are paying attention before rolling his eyes. "I knew a month ago. You and Harry are just slow." "Hey!" we cry together, and Liam laughs. The hotel is brilliant, almost blinding in its white. White walls, white furniture, white beds, but I enjoy it. It's clean. A fresh start. From here on out, Harry would be okay. My birthday cake features the five of us as action figures, standing among pink icing. "This is quite a girly cake," Harry laughs, snapping a picture of it with his phone. "It's Tweet worthy." "Must we tweet all the pictures of every cake we get?" I ask tiredly. "This one is the best," Niall says, sticking his pinkie finger into the icing; Zayn snatches his hands and licks it off before Niall can indulge himself, and soon they are chasing one another around the giant ball room. The guests laugh and snap pictures. When I am sung to, Harry sings close to my ear, and my mind hones in on his voice, like it's a ship lost at sea, and I can't help but to think about how sweet he sounds, like the words are a promise. I do hope it's a happy birthday. My favorite part of my birthday was the sole unplanned event. There is a split second where, after everyone is dismissed to their rooms (Zayn sprints away, tugging a blushing Niall along) that I don't think anything will happen. I figure we will treat the hotel room just as we treat our apartment and lounge about a bit before we fall asleep. Instead, as I turn to close the door to our suite, I find Harry standing close behind me, his breath ghosting against my neck. I drop the keys, but the door is shut and locked, so what does it matter? "Happy birthday, Lou," he says, with such an infinite softness I feel almost as if it's suffocating me. "Thanks," I manage, and I don't know why the birthday wish is different on his lips, but I'm sick of questions and mysteries, and I want to know why every word that falls from his mouth elicits such emotions from me, so I turn to find out, forgetting that I need to take things slowly before I admit anything to him. I can't wait anymore. There is no pause where he does not kiss back, or where he lips do not move with mine instantly. We are a river, prematurely disturbed, but the dam that held us back was breaking fast. "Louis," he almost warns, and he sounds pained, but I'm sick of pain as well. I'm sick of him hurting and I'm sick of waiting for an answer that will never be given. "Do you mind?" I ask, my eyes still closed, my lips still against him. "Not at all," he answers shakily, and we resume instantly. I don't know at what point the kiss breaks, but I do know that my clothes are near as suffocating as the tenderness in his eyes. I tug his shirt off, brushing my lips against the first spot of available skin, and he gasps. "Not fair," he says, but he sounds dizzy and like he doesn't exactly mean it, so I don't bother stopping until his hand are insistent at the hem of my own shirt. I take it off impatiently, and he seems momentarily satisfied as I continue my assault on his chest. He is impossibly warm, maybe from the hot tub water (Liam insisted on that event), or maybe from the moment, but I do know that pressing my lips against him is like putting my face close to a fire. I don't want to be burned, but if I move away from him, I will surely freeze. There is a soft tug and I am surprised to find his fingers in my hair. I don't remember them being there, but it feels as though they have been for a long time. I don't really know how we ended up in this situation in the first place, but I can't complain. It is hard to say, but I think he has gotten taller, because I must rock onto my tiptoes a little to move back into our kiss. He surely must have been leaning down earlier. I feel his groan against my mouth as my hands slid down his sides, my fingers moving across his ribs and gripping his hips. The groan almost sends me over the edge, but I keep myself in check. I let my heels fall back as I kiss a trail down his chest. He stretches his neck upwards, offering up more skin, more of a chance to feel. I don't remember falling onto the bed, but I more so am aware of how much easier it is to press more of me to him, to straddle him and tug at his pants. I hear his shoes hit the floor and then his jeans, and I decide it is best that mine follow before they get in the way. "This is going to hurt," I warn him, and I feel my face turn warm at my own words, because, as far as I know, neither of us have ever done this before and I'm not entirely sure what it's doing. And hadn't I told myself that I would stop letting Harry hurt? "I don't mind," he whispers beneath me, and his green eyes are shadowed with lust, hooded with expectation. His breath is short of coming as I rock towards him, against his erection I feel beneath me. I kiss and suck at his neck, leaving a mark there, and I find that I like that very much, a piece of me there, a new mark that can draw my eyes away from his wrist. A mark of love instead of hate. I dip down again, letting my kisses and tongue glide over him, and I hear him begging but I know they are merely echoes of my own wants and I try to tune them out because if I were to follow his pleas, I would not be able to gentle with him and I had to be. At his the top of his boxers, I pause, and my mouth is so close to him that I don't know what I'm waiting for until I feel his shudder, racing against my own flesh and I feel a savage need to do exactly as he asks without hesitation. When I pull of his underwear, I yank mine off as well, because I don't want any more interruptions. I just want him and I could have all of him and I didn't want any part of me saying any different. He can't even form another 'please' before I take all of him in my mouth, letting my tongue wrap around him, letting my teeth graze against the sensitive area to the slightest of degrees. Beneath me, he jerks and nearly convulses, so I must place a hand on his hip to keep him down. My touch does not calm him as intended it to, but instead sends him over the edge, and I nearly choke on him and come everywhere as he lets out a desperate, low, scream. I think that the whole hotel must hear it, because it rings in my ears and I need him instantly. The blowjob is short lived in my mind, but it might have lasted longer than I thought. I bob up and down, taking all of him, breathing against the head of his cock, and sealing my lips firmly around him as he comes. I just want to be inside him, to make him cry again and again. Thoughts in synch with mine, he rolls, hardly disrupting me, and I find my eyes sweeping down the length of his back, to his butt and his legs and the way that he is just waiting. Waiting for me to make him happy, and I can finally do that without any restriction. I have nothing to ease the pain I will inflict but my spit, so I decided it will have to do. I might have begun to consider going and asking Zayn or Niall if they cared to share any lube (Niall would have insisted on that one), but I think they must be just as occupied as we are. With my hands on his hips, I position myself. I'm scared of doing something wrong, and I don't know if this is how it's supposed to work or not but I do know that me and Harry belong together in every way so it's okay if I mess up because we can make and amend our mistakes together. With all the doubts thrown away, I press into him, slowly, and his head falls against the bed with that same cry. "Louis," he groans, and I don't know if I will have the self-control to continue at such a slow pace, but I must remember that he trusts me, and I press deeper, letting him adjust while I revel in the feeling of the feeling of being in him, of the way that I am driving him insane. "Faster," he demands, with the faintest hint of ferocity, and I comply, pulling out slightly before easing back in, though not as slow, and I repeat, picking up the rhythm, enjoying the sounds that slip from him lips, of the way his face twists with undefinable pleasure. "Don't stop," he begs, and I don't think I could if I tried. We are rocking the bed slightly, and I know without a doubt that someone, somewhere, in this hotel is now highly aware that I am fucking Harry Styles and I honestly can't care, because, hey, I'm fucking Harry Styles. He screams my name louder as the tempo of movement increases. I can't even warn him as I come, and he doesn't even say another word as he does for the second time. Instead, we groan, then sigh. I pull out, but keep my hands on him. I don't know if I'll ever be able to move them again. We lay together, and now that I have relished in what we have did, I can say it is the best birthday I have ever had and maybe ever will have. I think he is asleep against my chest, and I am thinking I will soon follow, when his eyelashes flutter against me like butterflies, and he sits up. "I need to take my medicine," he explains, and instead of the fact that he must do such a thing ruining the moment, it is undermined by the fact that Harry is mine and he is smiling down at me, and I can sweep my eyes across his still-naked body and think about all the things we can do now. All mine. "Happy birthday, Louis," he says, barely audible, and I don't question the expression on his face, the weirdness, the reluctance the pain the sorrow, or even the pitiful love that I see. All those emotions flash through his features, but I don't read into them. My mind feels sluggish. He disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door. I doze off. When I finally draw my eyes open, I find myself alone in the bed still, and this unsettles me. My phone is vibrating on the floor, still in my pants pocket. I know they are birthday wishes and such, but thankfully the clock hanging above the TV says I only have about forty minutes left in my birthday. The best one I've had. "Harry?" I call, and I don't know what I expect, but it isn't the silence. I sit up, my sights focusing on the cracked bathroom door, and my stomach does a flip. "Harry!" I call again, more demanding this time, like he is just being childish. I must calm myself with the fact that I don't even know that he is in here, if maybe he left to talk to one of the others. Still, I slide off the bed and pull on my boxers and my pants. If he isn't in the bathroom I have every intention to go find him. Maybe he will be smiling that half-smile. Maybe he will want to pick up where we left off. We still have all night. We have forever. And this is what I am thinking when I press against the door, and find him on the floor.

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