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Assistant: Title: You Were Always Between the Lines
        Author: keepstylinson keepstylinson 
        Chapter: 3/5 
        Summary: Alternative Universe : College / University, Pen palsAfter the sudden loss of his mother, Louis finds himself struggling to keep afloat. Grief-stricken and emotionally withdrawn, he reluctantly agrees to join an anonymous letter-writing program meant to help young adults process their pain through words.What begins as a reluctant exchange with a stranger named Orpheus soon becomes something more — a lifeline, a mirror, a connection deeper than Louis thought possible.Then comes Rome. A new city, a shared room, and Harry — distant, difficult, and impossible to ignore. Between tense silences, quiet glances, and unresolved tension, Louis feels himself pulled in two directions: toward the anonymous voice that understands his soul… and the roommate who slowly begins to unravel him.A story of grief, healing, intimacy, and the tangled ways we come to know — and love — one another.
            
            “They said it would help. Writing. I think they meant ‘help me live’. But mostly I’m trying not to fall apart.”
        Contents: Chapter 3: Chapter 3 — I’m Falling Apart and I Think You’re the Knife
    

    

        
          
          
            “There’s someone in my bed, and someone in my head. And I’m terrified they’re the same person.”
          
        

  

  
  
    
    He waited two days before writing. Not because he wanted to create distance, nor because he had forgotten. Just because he couldn't bring himself to respond hastily, to toss out words like one would throw a plaster over an open wound. He reread Orpheus's letter several times each evening, in the silence of the room when Harry was already asleep, and each time the weight was the same. He knew he had to reply with some form of truth, however shaky it might be, and he took his time because he wanted to do it properly. Because he didn’t want to lose him, didn’t want to lie to him, didn’t want to pretend. 
  Letter #22 — From Requiem to Orpheus  
 
   Orpheus,   

   I’m sorry for the silence. I’ve taken a long time to reply, I know. And it’s not because I’m forgetting you. It’s precisely because I’m not forgetting you that writing this is complicated.   

   I will try to be honest, even if I know I will be dancing around things. You already know I’ve moved cities. What you don’t know is that I’ve met someone. The person I mentioned in my previous letters—the chaos, the lack of balance, the constant tension—has become something more tangible. Not official. Not settled. Not healthy at every moment. But real. And alive. And disturbing. We sleep together. We touch each other. We seek each other out. We avoid one another too, sometimes. I cannot really say what it is, nor what it will become. But I believe it is there.   

   And yet, I still find myself thinking of you.   

   That’s the strangest part, and perhaps the most unfair. Because I think of you often. But I don’t know whether I think of you because I feel something profound and unique, or because you represent a space that no one else has ever offered me. Am I becoming attached to you because you’ve seen my scars without turning away? Or because we share a pain that I cannot articulate anywhere else? Or is it simply... you?   

   I don’t know whether I am falling in love with you. Or whether I need you. And perhaps the two are blending together.   

   I tell you all this without expecting you to understand, much less to forgive my vagueness. I just want you to know that what you’ve brought into my life, what you still bring, is immense. It’s warm. It’s precious. Even though I’m unable to shape it into something clear.   

   I am in a beautiful city that I don’t even have the courage to explore. I walk past the streets my mother would have loved. I close my eyes when I pass a building she had described to me. I am surrounded by life and advance with a feeling of stone in my throat. And sometimes I find myself thinking that if I had died a few months ago, it would have been an easy solution. Not better. But quicker.   

   And then I surprise myself by thinking that I would have missed things. Letters. Gestures. Glances. Perhaps even a little love.   

  I am lost, Orpheus. Again. And I’m afraid that this confusion will tear me away from you, that I’ll become distant, vague, nearly absent in my letters, as you’ve so keenly sensed. But I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to lose you. I need you to still be here, even if I can’t give you everything.  

   I’m sorry for being this kind of person. I do what I can.   

  — Requiem

  
  
The terrace is nearly empty, rocked by the comings and goings of the waiters and the muffled voices of a couple at the other end. A pale sun slowly sinks behind the buildings, casting golden lines on the metal tables and half-full glasses. Louis stirs his coffee absently, his eyes lost in the barely steaming black liquid, not really listening to what Zayn is saying.Zayn speaks of Paris with a gentle smile, reminiscing about the tiny bars where he would cram in with his friends, the tepid pints in Belleville, the cigarettes on window ledges in Montmartre, the discussions stretching late into the night, the loud music, the disillusioned waiters. He describes another world, a world from before, and Louis listens only half-heartedly.He hesitates. Several times. He looks at Zayn, then at his coffee, then at the sky, as if searching for an excuse not to say anything, to let the moment slip away. He wants to talk; he can feel the words bubbling up inside him, but he holds it all back, teeth clenched, the words stuck at the back of his throat. He lowers his eyes once again, ready to let the moment pass. But Zayn, who has been observing him from the start, eventually sets down his glass slowly, silently, and looks at him for a few seconds."You aren't listening to me. What’s bothering you?"Louis knits his brows slightly, caught off guard before shaking his head gently, remaining silent."You can’t tell me everything's fine with a face like that. Spit it out, Tomlinson. I've got all my time."A sigh escapes him. Louis raises his eyes, remains silent for a moment, hesitates again, then speaks up in a low, tired voice: "I’ve never really told you what brought me here."Zayn doesn’t reply. He waits."My mother died. Just before I left. I’d already signed up to come to Rome; I had everything organised. And then it happened. Abruptly. Cancer. I didn’t know how to cope. I... I went through some very dark times."He breathes slowly, letting his hand slide over his cup. "My therapist, before my departure, suggested I join a programme. An anonymous writing thing between students at different universities. We write to each other each week, under pseudonyms, without ever meeting. I accepted a bit out of desperation. And then I encountered him. Orpheus."Zayn raises an eyebrow but stays silent, focused."I don’t know how to put this without sounding odd, but... those letters became a sort of lifeline at first. He wrote to me with raw honesty, and I began to respond without too much thought, as if I could express everything I was concealing from the rest of the world. And over the weeks... I became attached. Not just to the letters. To him. To what he is through his words."He takes a pause, swallowing a mouthful of coffee that he doesn’t even notice going down."And then there’s Harry. I think you already know. Well... it became complicated. We sleep together. We spend the night together. We live together, without really discussing it. It’s light and heavy at the same time. And I struggled to manage both. I pushed Orpheus aside. It took me time to respond. And now, I feel bad. Guilty. Lost. I want to stay with Harry, want to let myself go, but I’m afraid of hurting Orpheus by disappearing. And I'm scared that all of this is built on nothing."He clenches his jaw, lowering his voice:"I feel like I'm splitting myself in two. And disappointing everyone."Zayn doesn’t respond immediately. He leans slightly back in his chair, twirling his glass of sparkling water between his fingers, his gaze fixed on Louis. And for a second, he says nothing. He watches him. Really. With that calm quality he has, that charged silence that always precedes the not-so-pleasant truth.Then he smiles. Slowly. A little smirk, the kind he gives when he’s realised something that Louis isn’t ready to admit."Do you realise you’re recounting a love triangle between a faceless boy, a borderline flatmate, and you, trying to survive while distributing your heart in equal portions like you were overstocked?"Louis rolls his eyes, a mocking sigh escaping at the edges of his lips. "Thanks, that was exactly what I needed to hear."Zayn shrugs, placing his glass down and continues, more serious this time, keeping the light tone."Listen. You haven’t killed anyone. You haven’t broken any contracts. You merely... loved several people at once. That’s human. Not very comfortable, but human."He pauses, observing Louis as he now focuses on his cup again; so he continues, a bit more gently:"But you’re going to have to ask yourself a real question, Lou. Not right away, not in the pain, but at some point... you’ll need to choose. Or at least, understand what you feel, what you want. And especially, what you can give. Because you can’t ask someone to stay if you aren’t there yourself."He crosses his arms on the table, his fingers tapping softly on the warm metal."Do you want Harry to see you as the guy he sleeps with who secretly reads letters at night? Do you want Orpheus to attach himself to a type that only writes to him when he feels guilty? Or are you just afraid of hurting both, so you’d rather not decide at all?"Louis doesn’t reply. Not immediately. And Zayn can see that. So he softens his tone, looking at him with a hint of tenderness in his eyes."I’m not judging you. I know you’re doing what you can. But the truth is, you have two beautiful things in your hands. And if you’re not careful, you might lose both."He straightens up, takes a sip of water, then adds with a wider smile:"And seriously now. Orpheus? Harry? Couldn’t you fall for a guy with a normal name?"Louis laughs softly despite himself, his forehead resting in his hand, his throat tight. 
  
  
  
***
  
  
  
The sky had grown heavier as Louis left the terrace. The sun had set behind the rooftops of Rome, and the air held that stifling warmth of spring evenings, just humid enough to cling to thoughts without one realising it. He walked slowly, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. The conversation with Zayn echoed in his mind, not as a painful echo, but as a series of long notes he could not silence.  He wasn't sure if it had relieved him, but it had awakened him, just a bit. Like a dim light in a too-dark room. Zayn was not wrong. He hadn’t imposed anything upon him; he hadn’t pointed fingers. He had simply held a mirror to Louis. And for the first time in days, Louis hadn’t looked away.  When he pushed open the door to the residence, everything was calm. He ascended the stairs slowly, nodding at a few students he passed in the corridors, exchanging fleeting smiles. He wasn’t thinking about anything specific. Or rather, he was thinking about everything, but at a distance. He found himself in that strange state where things took shape without yet making a sound.  He paused for a moment in front of the bedroom door. Inhaling softly. Then he entered.  Harry sat on his bed, absorbed in a book. Bare-footed, hair unkempt, a light blanket draped over his legs, the glasses he sometimes wore for reading perched on the bridge of his nose. He turned a page without raising his eyes, as if he had sensed Louis's presence—no need to check.  Louis gazed at him. Really looked. And for the first time since their unusual relationship had begun, he pondered what he was building with him; what he was giving, what he was taking, what he was hiding, and what he wanted.  At that moment, Harry lifted his gaze as if something had caught his attention. He smiled at Louis gently, without seeking anything in return.  “You look tired,” he remarked, not pressing for more.  Louis shrugged, dropped his bag, and removed his jacket. He didn’t respond—there was no need to.  He moved closer, sitting on the edge of his own bed, close to Harry's. In the warm silence of the room, bathed in the hazy glow of a bedside lamp, he realised that everything unfolded here. Between what he felt and what he remained silent about. Between Orpheus, kept in the shadows, and Harry, who illuminated him unknowingly.  Silence extended within the room, muted, filled with that tranquil warmth that comes when the fatigue of the day intertwines with a certain peace. Harry had let his book fall to the side, pages half-turned, glasses at the foot of his bed, and his eyes were fixed on an invisible spot on the ceiling, caught somewhere between clarity and confusion. Louis lay beside him, arms crossed behind his neck, barely turned towards him. He didn’t say anything for a while, sensing that if he spoke too quickly, he would shatter something. Yet he felt the urge to express himself; he needed to open a small breach. So, when he finally decided to speak, his voice was calm, composed, almost a whisper.  “We haven’t yet found the words for what we are, you and I.”Harry blinks, tilting his head slightly towards him, his face shrouded in shadow, as if the bright light would have momentarily hindered his ability to respond. He swallows, moistens his lips, and begins, without directly looking at him: "I... I know. It’s just that I’m not really... well, I’ve had a relationship before. It was… complicated, and—" But he falters, the words catching somewhere in his throat, his voice quavering slightly, not from fear but from embarrassment, that dull discomfort one feels when wanting to explain without reliving the experience. Louis straightens up a bit, leaning on his elbow, looking at him with a gentle yet serious expression, and then whispers, his hand cupping Harry’s forearm: "You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m not asking you to divulge everything, nor to force yourself into anything. We’re not here to reopen wounds. We’re just us, now." Harry lowers his gaze, somewhat surprised, but also a bit relieved. He nods slowly, a minuscule movement that conveys everything. Then Louis, speaking even softer: "I don't want to close you off. I don't want us to slap a label on things if it makes you anxious. I just want us to walk together, in the same direction. The rest, we’ll write bit by bit." A tender silence settles in. Harry inches closer, nestling against him with hesitant slowness, as if still testing the safety of this embrace. His voice is a whisper in the crook of Louis's neck, a fragile question uttered hesitantly. "And… if we put a name to all this, what happens when the exchange ends? When we go back home?" Louis holds him a bit tighter, resting his chin against his hair. "Is Holmes Chapel far from London?” Harry gives a faint smile, exhaling a “no” against his skin. Then Louis closes his eyes and simply murmurs: "Then it won’t stop." And there’s nothing more to say. Because in this bed too small for two, everything feels just right. Because in that moment, there’s no need for a past or a future. Just them. Together. 
  
  
  
***
  
  
  
The days slip by with an almost strange lightness, as if everything that had kept them at arm's length for weeks has melted away quietly. The room, rearranged without them needing to say a word, has become a cocoon. Louis finds himself smiling more often, reaching out instinctively, waking up with Harry pressed against him, their legs tangled, warm breaths against his throat. They speak little, but they understand each other. They sometimes laugh for no reason. They gently bicker over who will make the coffee. And at times, Louis watches him without saying a word, as if trying to engrave every detail into his memory, just in case. But that morning, when he goes down to fetch the mail, something seizes him as soon as he spots the envelope. He recognises it immediately. The paper, the stamp, the address of the programme. Orpheus. He holds it between his fingers for a long moment, unmoving, his heart suddenly racing, palpably present. He doesn’t open it straight away. He crosses the hallway in silence, ascends partway up the stairs, then settles on the steps, where no one will disturb him. He sits against the wall, legs stretched out, the unopened envelope resting on his knees. He takes a deep breath, grazes his fingers over the paper, and only then nudges a fingernail under the flap. And begins to read. 
  Letter #23 — From Orpheus to Requiem
 
   Requiem,   

   I believe I understand. 

   I didn't need to read between the lines. You told me everything with enough honesty that I didn’t have to strain. There is someone in your life. Someone real, present. Someone who looks at you, touches you, speaks to you aloud, without waiting for an envelope or guessing your silences. And though it’s difficult to write, I know I cannot place myself between you and that person.   

   Because you deserve to be seen in real life. You deserve to be held in warm arms, not to be sought within the words of a stranger. You deserve flesh, breath, rumpled sheets, laughter in the early morning, arguments resolved without waiting a week.   

   And for my part…there is someone too. Not a story. Nothing clear. Just a "thing" that’s beginning to emerge. It’s not as strong as what I feel when I read your letters, but it’s there. And I need to try. For me. For my mental health. To stop living between pages.   

   You have been my light in nights that were far too long. You allowed me to write things I had never communicated to anyone. You listened when I was on the edge. You offered me space to breathe when I struggled to cope. And I will always be grateful to you for that.   

   But I believe the moment has come for me to let you go. Not because I don't love you. Quite the opposite. Because I care for you too much to keep you bound by my expectations. Because I don’t want to be that anchor that holds you back while you begin to move forward once more.   

  So I will sever contact here.  

   I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to disappear without a word. But I also don’t want to be that voice you hear when you should listen to your own heart.   

   I wish you a beautiful future, Requiem. Truly. I hope you experience love that brings peace, one that doesn’t frighten you. I hope you visit this city for its sake, but most importantly for yours. I hope you continue to write, even if it’s no longer addressed to me.   

   You have mattered. You still do. And perhaps one day, somewhere, in another life or another city, we will cross paths again. And on that day, I will recognise you. I will know even without an envelope, even without a pseudonym.   

   Take care of yourself.   

  — Orpheus

  
  
He rereads the letter again and again, unable to detach himself from it, as if his eyes sought to prove to the rest of his body that this is not real, that it cannot end like this, not now, not in such a way, not so gently, not in a polite and tender formulation, not when he still had so much to say, so many questions to ask, so many images to send her, so many silences to write to her. And yet, the words remain frozen, printed with a horrifying delicacy that hurts even more because there is nothing to hate in what Orpheus has told him. Nothing to curse. Just a final letter sweet like a farewell kiss, like a hand slowly withdrawing while everything inside him screams not to let it go. And there, his heart races. Without warning. As if the ground was collapsing beneath his feet while he is still sitting on the stone steps, the letter trembling in one hand, the other clenched against his chest, where his breath becomes too short, too dry, too irregular. He does not understand what is happening to him. He feels cold, all of a sudden. Then hot. His stomach twists, his throat tightens to the point of pain. He tilts his head slightly back, eyelids half-closed, as if he could stop this vertigo simply by closing his eyes, but the pain continues to rise, a pure, acid anxiety that he has not felt for so long, a raw panic that makes no sound but devours everything in its wake. A voice. A hand on his shoulder. "Stai bene? Hai bisogno di qualcosa?"It is a girl. A student. He does not really see her. He just feels her presence, her melodic accent, her genuine concern. He attempts to respond but no words come out. He shakes his head, sharply, a desperate gesture, and jumps up abruptly, the letter still in his hand, already crumpled, already too heavy. He rushes up the stairs, his legs shaking, breath still uneven, jaw clenched as if he might explode. When he slams the door of his room behind him, he leans against it for a moment, back to the wood, eyes closed, head thrown back, as if trying to ground himself to the world through that contact. Then he opens his eyes, strides across the room, grabs the drawer with a swift motion, tosses aside anything unimportant, and pulls out the box. The one containing Orpheus. The one that has become his secret sanctuary. He opens it with both hands, almost reverently, and everything explodes. He lays out the letters, unfolds them, rereads them, touches them as if trying to bring back the voice through the ink. He searches for a word, a phrase, a hesitation in a comma, something that would say, “I will return,” something that would say, “I am not truly abandoning you,” something to hold on to, anything at all, but all he reads is goodbye. A calm goodbye. A goodbye that does not shout, but kills him more surely than any scream. So he screams. Not with his voice. With his body. He throws the letters onto the bed, then onto the floor, one after another, he trembles, he can no longer breathe, he paces in circles, he pounds his fist onto the surface of the desk, he collapses to his knees, unable to cry. Because the tears do not come. Not this time. He just hurts. Hurts in his bones. Hurts in his stomach. Hurts in his heart. It’s as if he is losing someone he loved all over again, without having had the chance to tell them. As if death was silently returning to reclaim him. As if it was starting again. “I didn’t want… I didn’t want to lose him…” he murmurs, still, lips dry, voice broken. “I didn’t want… I just wanted to keep him a little longer, just a bit more…” And in this room that is too quiet, too empty, amidst scattered sheets, crumpled, covered with ink and love, Louis realises that everything he failed to choose… he has already lost.He remains on his knees for a long moment, his trembling hands resting on the letters that stare at him without any more promises, and then something twists inside him. It is not a clean break, it is not an external explosion; it is an underground collapse, a sharp crack in a corner of himself, a silent fissure that transforms into a tidal wave. He suddenly straightens up, driven by an instinct for survival, and begins to gather the letters one by one. Not gently this time, but with cold, precise rage, a urgency that burns his fingers. He folds them poorly, shoving them back into their box as if he wants to bury them alive, treating the paper, these words, these memories as suddenly too burdensome for him to bear.He gets up and tosses the box under the bed in one sharp movement, as one would reject an unacknowledged mistake, or hide a weapon whose handle one no longer wants to see protruding. He stands there, breathless, his eyes lost in the void. Then he moves towards his desk, pulls open a drawer violently, and retrieves a stack of blank sheets. He sits down and picks up a pen.And he writes.He has no plan, no structure. He does not search for his words; he spits them out. The first letter is a deluge of apology. He writes that he is sorry, that he has been foolish, that he did not want to hurt, that he did not want to lose. The second is a plea, almost a supplication, where he states that he does not want this to end, that he does not know how to live without this connection, that he does not know how to carry on without that voice in his life. The third is more choppy, drier, like a reversed break-up letter, where he declares he refuses to accept this ending, that it is not fair, that Orpheus cannot do this to him. The fourth is tenderer; he speaks of memories, of what each letter meant to him, and how they filled a void that no one else could.The fifth is a disguised cry of love, and the sixth... the sixth is a lengthy silence, a page filled with aborted phrases, crossed-out words, and a simple "come back" written a hundred times in a frantic, desperate hand.He barely rereads them. He folds them, stacks them, slides them into a large envelope which he seals with too much force. And then he rises.He hastily puts on his jacket, grabs his keys, and bursts out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t even know if he’s supposed to be out at this hour. He doesn’t look at his phone. He strides down the stairs two at a time, crosses the foyer without a glance at anyone, like an angry spectre.The city is quiet. Too quiet. But Louis sees nothing. He walks briskly, the envelope clutched tightly against him, like a spare heart. When he stands before the programme's post box, he freezes for a moment.He hesitates. Then he slides the envelope inside.And it might just be the most vulnerable thing he has done in months.
  
  
***
  
  
  
When Harry enters the room, he immediately senses that something is different. The air feels heavier, less inhabited, as though the room has lost its warmth in his absence. He gently shuts the door behind him, places his bag in a corner, and immediately notices Louis’s silhouette perched on the edge of the bed, back hunched, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on his knees, gaze lost at a point which Harry cannot follow. He is unresponsive, indifferent to the sound of the door, or to his presence, as if he hasn’t heard Harry come in, or worse, that he has but simply doesn’t have the strength to turn his head.Harry approaches slowly, as if afraid of scaring him off, weaves around the bed and crouches down next to him. He observes him in silence, searching for a sign, a word, an emotion to read on this face he is beginning to memorise - only, there is nothing to be found. Just this absence. This strange exhaustion that is neither the fatigue from classes nor from sleepless nights. An exhaustion that comes from further afield, more deeply rooted.“Do you want me to leave you alone?” he asks softly, his voice low, nearly fragile.And Louis finally turns his head. He looks at him, not truly seeing, his eyes dull, his face expressionless. He shakes his head gently, just once, without a word. And then, in a movement that is not abrupt but brimming with an irrepressible need, he leans forward and slips into Harry's arms. He does not give him time to comprehend. He wraps himself around Harry, holding tightly, more forcefully than usual, as if this contact were the only thing keeping him upright. His head nestles into the curve of Harry's neck, his chest presses against his, and his hands clutch at Harry’s jumper, fingers refusing to let go.Harry holds him in return, initially surprised, then with the concerned tenderness he always reserves for Louis. He senses that something is broken. He feels it in the tension of Louis’s arms, in the stiffness of his back, in the way he leans against him without entirely surrendering. He threads a hand through Louis's curls, murmurs against his temple softly,“What is it…?”Louis closes his eyes, inhales, holds his breath. He wants to speak. Truly. He wants to say that he has ruined everything. That he has lost someone. That he has received a letter which has devastated him. But he cannot bring himself to do so. He cannot explain that kind of emptiness. Not even to himself. So he simply responds, staying close,“Nothing. I’m fine.”And Harry says nothing. He holds him close. He rocks him gently, almost unconsciously. He lets him breathe there, in this silence that speaks volumes. He knows it’s not true. He knows that "I’m fine" means "I’m screaming," but he doesn’t press further.And Louis remains there in his arms, repeating to himself that it will be okay, that this will pass, that it’s not such a big deal, that it was only letters. But inside, he feels that vast fracture, that deep chasm where loneliness has nestled itself in. Because he has lost someone else. Because he couldn’t choose. Because he had Orpheus at his fingertips, and could not hold on.And he clings to Harry like a lifeline, even though it’s too late, even though he is still adrift in a sea that no longer belongs to him. 
  
  
***
  
  
The days go by. Slowly, strangely, wrapped in a kind of thick cotton that seems to muffle every sound, every action, every thought. Louis gets up, eats, washes, goes to classes, responds when spoken to, even smiles sometimes, laughing softly at Zayn’s jokes or Niall’s silly faces. He grits his teeth when he needs to concentrate, forcing his focus on spreadsheets, readings, group presentations. He speaks to Harry as he used to, or nearly so — about mundane things, meals to prepare, assignments to submit, lessons not to forget.He still kisses him. He kisses him tenderly, warmly, in the morning after stepping out of the shower, and at night when settling in against him, in the peaceful intimacy they have created. He touches him, he embraces him, occasionally gazing at him in silence, telling himself that it would be simpler to think only of him. But there’s a distance he cannot control. Something within him remains frozen, withdrawn, like a part of his heart paused, a door he cannot manage to reopen. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night without reason, too heavy-hearted to fall back asleep, his eyes set on the ceiling. He hears Harry’s breath close by, soft and steady, and he thinks he should be happy, that he should feel complete, that he has what he wanted. Yet there is that missing voice. That secret rendezvous in the words. That unique bond he allowed to slip away. And it haunts him. It doesn’t scream. It whispers. It digs. Slowly.He keeps everything to himself. He says nothing. Not even to Zayn. He puts on a brave face, playing the role perfectly, but something crumbles within. He can no longer write. Can no longer think clearly. He hasn’t received an answer, even though he checks the reception three times a day; the letter doesn’t arrive.And Harry, for his part, doesn’t see the whole picture. He senses that Louis is somewhat elsewhere. That he smiles a little less, that he sometimes drifts off, eyes glazed. But he considers it to be fatigue, the demands of classes, the season. He doesn’t realise that there is a bereavement underway. An invisible one. Silent. That Louis still weeps, every day, for someone he has never seen.And every time Louis finds himself alone for just a few minutes, every time he opens his notebook to take notes, every time he comes across a phrase that reminds him of a letter, every time he sees the envelope peeking slightly from under his bed… he looks away. 
  
  
  
***
  
  
  
It's been two weeks. Two long weeks without a word. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of writing without a response, putting letters in that mailbox as one tosses a bottle into the sea, with the anxiety that no one will ever read the words inside. Two weeks of watching for the post, feeling a knot in his stomach every time a delivery is announced, blaming himself for still hoping. Two weeks of waking up next to Harry, relishing that warmth, that skin, those sighs, in this strange but unlabelled routine — because no words have been put to what they are, and Louis has stopped trying to articulate it. That morning, the light filters softly through the partially open window, the curtain dancing listlessly with the warm air from the city. The sheets are tangled, Harry's sleeping body nestled against his, a leg draped over his, his curls still slightly damp from the previous day's shower, his peaceful breath warming the hollow at the base of his throat. Louis has been awake for a while. He says nothing. He barely moves. He watches him.Then, slowly, with an almost sacred tenderness, he tilts his head and kisses his forehead. Then his temple. Then the tip of his nose. Then his collarbone. Then the inside of his wrist. Each contact is light, attentive, like a silent thank you, a quiet apology for everything he cannot bring himself to say. He loves him just a little, right there. Not enough to say it. Too much to ignore it.Eventually, Harry stirs a bit, emerging from that half-slumber with a slight smile playing on his lips, one of those he reserves just for Louis, when no one else is watching. "We’ve got two days ahead of us…" he murmurs, his voice still hoarse from the night. "Do you want to go explore a bit of Rome? The Colosseum, Piazza Navona, Villa Borghese, the Trevi Fountain… whatever you fancy. We said we'd do it. We've only got just under two months left." Louis freezes. A millimetre of stillness. Just a tautness in his shoulder, a heartbeat suspended. He half sits up, gently pulling away, inadvertently. “No,” he breathes out. Harry looks at him, surprised. He sits up more in bed, the sheets pulled over his legs, eyebrows knitting together, a lost expression on his face. “Why? You don’t want to? I thought… well, we said we’d do it if we ever had time… wasn’t that true? You didn’t really want to?” Louis runs a hand over his face, eyes closed for a moment as if he's feeling a headache coming on. Then he breathes in slowly, very slowly. And he knows he can't avoid it this time. Not with that light in Harry's eyes. Not with all he has already taken from him. “I’m not ready,” he finally says, his voice rough. “I…” He stops. To say it is painful. To articulate it is to open a wound he has kept tightly shut for months."My mother came to Rome. She visited all these places. She left me a list with her favourite spots, restaurants, little streets, even some bl@@dy benches, because she wanted me to see all of it in turn. Like her. As if we were walking in the same footsteps."His voice trembles slightly. He bites the inside of his cheek to avoid breaking down."And I can't. Not yet. Because if I visit them… it’s as if she’s no longer here. It’s like I have to accept that she will never tell me again what she saw. That it’s mine now. And I can’t do it. I can’t, Harry."Harry doesn’t say anything. He simply reaches out, his hand gently resting on Louis's thigh, with no pressure. Not to pull him in, not to bring him back. Just to be there.Louis remains seated, naked in this bed, naked in this pain. He looks at the floor, the rumpled sheets, the warm imprint of their morning. And in his chest, the absence of Orpheus mingles with the ghost of his mother, with the silence of her letters, with the uncertainty of Harry.Harry does not speak straight away. He allows a silence to pass, one of those that stretches without becoming uncomfortable, because it carries something. He keeps his hand on Louis’s thigh, gently, and then, with a voice even softer than the sheets surrounding them, he murmurs:"Do you want to talk about it a bit?"Louis barely nods, as if he agrees without saying so, then he sits up, moving away from the bed to walk to his bedside table. He opens the drawer with a slow, almost ceremonial motion, and pulls out a photo which he holds with both hands as though lifting a fragile treasure. He doesn’t look at Harry right away. He gazes at the image for a long time, the morning light gently reflecting off it. Then he comes back to sit down, placing his knees against Harry’s, and holds the photo out to Harry.It’s a woman. Radiant. Standing in front of the Trevi Fountain, her hair pulled back in a slightly tousled bun, an enormous smile on her face, hands on her hips as if the whole world belonged to her. She radiates. With life. With joy. With tenderness."I know you saw this photo last time, but… I’m officially introducing her to you. It’s her," Louis breathes out, almost in a whisper. "My mother."Harry takes it gingerly between his fingers, studying it for a long time without uttering a word.  “She was a nurse. She raised a kid all by herself, in a forgotten corner of London, with nothing in her pockets but so much in her heart. She worked day and night, yet she always made time to bake me a cake for my birthdays or slip words of encouragement into my notebooks when I was struggling.”  He pauses for a moment, his eyes slightly misty but without tears. He isn’t crying. He’s reliving.  “I never left our home. Because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t need more than what she gave me. She wasn’t just my mother. She was my best friend. My whole world.”  Harry listens with immense attention, not interrupting, breath held, almost moved himself by the way Louis says “her,” as one would say “the light,” “the anchor,” “the pillar.”  “Rome… it was her dream. She talked about it all the time. She had come here once when she was young. She kept everything: tickets, scribbled maps, photographs. This one, she had it enlarged, framed, and placed in the living room. It was the first thing I saw when I got up.”  He straightens slightly, taking the photo back into his hands and gently caressing it with his thumb.  “When she died, I couldn’t touch anything in the house for weeks. Nothing. And coming here…it’s like walking into a version of her I can’t reach anymore. Every street, every fountain, every stone, that’s her. And I don’t have the courage to go there.”  A silence falls, but it’s not empty. It’s the echo of everything he just shared, the imprint of his voice resonating in the space they share. And in this silence, Harry slides his hand into Louis's, gently intertwining their fingers.  “You can take your time,” he breathes.  And Louis, for the first time in a long while, feels understood in what he cannot yet face. He feels understood like he did with Orpheus, even if he can never replace him.   Silence falls back around them, soft, filled with that emotion that isn’t yet expressed aloud but lingers in the air like an evident truth. Harry hasn't let go of Louis's hand. He lightly strokes it with his thumb, eyes still focused on the photo, then he leans in slowly, almost shyly, and places a kiss on his bare shoulder, right there, at the tender junction of skin and silence.  “I don’t know your mother," he whispers against him, voice a little hoarse, "but I believe that if she loved you like you said if she raised you like that, she would have wanted you to see this city. To discover it with your own eyes. Not to turn the page. Not to forget. But because she loved it and would have wanted you to love it too. In your own way.”  Louis keeps his eyes downcast, breath caught in his throat, as if every word Harry utters touches a still tender spot in him, a pain he had frozen but that starts to shift now, slowly rising. He says nothing, but he feels. He hears.  Harry continues, in an even lower tone, sliding his fingers along Louis’s arm.  “I'll wait for you. For as long as you need. I’m not going without you, and I’m not forcing you into anything. Just… I’m here. And if one day you want to go, to walk in her footsteps, to see what she saw… then I’ll come with you. That’s all.”  The words cling to Louis like a soft blanket. No pressure, no date, no obligation. Just presence, and a hand extended. He wants to say, “You speak like him,” but he can't.  And Louis, slowly, very slowly, turns towards him. He looks at him for a long time, eyes shining with that silent recognition that isn't always expressed. Then he leans in, brushing his lips against Harry's in a calm, brief kiss, full of meaning, fatigue, and mingled courage.  “I think there’s no better person than you to accompany me there,” he murmurs, almost breathless.  Then, after a moment, he adds a bit louder, with more assurance:  “Then let’s try today. You’re right. I don’t want to keep running away.”  And in Harry's gaze, there’s neither surprise nor triumph. Just that quiet pride, that tender relief, and the gentle light he reserves only for Louis.  
  
  
***
  
  
They left just before midday, without haste, without a specific plan, hands in pockets and hearts in balance. Louis had left the photo on his bedside table, but he thought about it incessantly, as if it were still accompanying him, as if his mother were walking somewhere between the two of them, invisible yet there, sometimes gliding between cobblestones, in the splash of a fountain, in the call of a bird or the beam of light on an ochre façade.  Rome is beautiful, hideously beautiful. It had already been so; he knew it, he had sensed it from the first days, but today it felt different. It wounded him a little less. It embraced him differently.  Harry talks a lot. He comments on alleyways, buildings, sculptures, flowers spilling from balconies, tourists strolling with their eyes fixed ahead, and sleeping cats basking in the sun. He talks without tiring, without taking up too much space — just enough for Louis to have something to listen to, something to hold onto when emotions come rushing back. And it happens. In waves. In Piazza Navona, in front of the Baroque fountains, Louis feels his eyes pr@ck unexpectedly. He stops, breathes a little too quickly, his heart racing out of sync. But Harry notices without saying anything. He slows down, continues to speak softly, as if he were telling a story to the child he once was.  And Louis resumes walking.  They circle the Pantheon, look up simultaneously with smiles, pass through the small squares filled with music, and cross paths with an ice cream vendor who playfully offers them two cones with a wink. When they finally arrive at a quieter alley, bathed in golden light, just a step away from the Trevi Fountain — yet without going there just yet — Louis halts for a moment. He looks at Harry, who points out something on a façade, his eyes bright, a smile too wide.  And then, without thinking, without forcing it, he takes his hand.  He slips his fingers between Harry's, holding him gently, as if signing for something larger than words. Harry pauses midsentence, surprised, cheeks immediately flushing, his lips forming a soft, almost shy smile.  He says nothing. He grips Louis' hand a bit tighter.  And Louis looks ahead. He feels the weight in his chest. He also feels he can bear it. Thanks to him.  The Trevi Fountain looms at the junction of a narrow alley, like a static apparition in the heart of a constantly moving city, bathed in an almost unreal light that the water reflects against the stone columns, the faces, the sky. The bustle of the place is vivid, alive, full of chattering sounds, mixed languages, steps crossing, and shutters clicking incessantly, and yet, at the very instant the majestic silhouette of the fountain reveals itself, Louis stops dead, as if struck by an invisible force, breath caught in his throat, incapable of taking another step.  His gaze clings to the details he already knows, not because he had seen them, but because he had imagined them so many times, projected them, relived them through the photograph of his mother he had studied so closely that every stone, every contour of the façade felt familiar. Without even needing to think, he recognizes the exact spot where she stood that day, dressed in a light dress, her hair gathered in a loose bun, hands on her hips, and that beaming smile seemed to have swallowed the whole city. He freezes, eyes moist without needing to blink, Harry's hand tightly clasped in his like a silent anchor point, a fragile thread preventing him from completely dissolving.  A slow vertigo rises in his belly, the kind of vertigo that doesn't spin the head but twists the insides, a constriction of the heart that doesn’t hurt at first but gradually squeezes the breath away, as if, through the marble and the jets of water, through the crowd and the passing years, something in him found itself precisely where it had never been. This is not a tourist spot he sees before him. It’s a sanctuary. A piece of memory transformed into stone and sound. And he doesn’t know whether to cry, to smile, to collapse, or to flee.  Beside him, Harry says nothing. He feels. He perceives. Then, in a soft and tranquil voice, he whispers without rushing, without breaking that suspended moment:  “Do you want me to take a photo of you? Right here... in the same spot?”Louis inhales deeply, jaw clenched to contain everything that threatens to collapse. He nods slowly, as if each movement requires immense effort, then takes a few steps forward, almost instinctively finding the exact angle, the stone ledge, the perspective, as if his mother's body had left an invisible imprint that his aligns with gently. Harry steps back just a little, searching for the perfect angle, lifting his phone, adjusting the light, and Louis, standing tall, outwardly calm yet burning within, gazes for a moment at the fountain, then into the lens. He does not insist on smiling. He does not need to. His face is serene, marked by a blend of gravity and relief, restrained pain and intense presence. In his eyes, there are a thousand things: absence, love, the rage of solitude, the pride of having endured, and perhaps, finally, a hint of soothe.When the photo is taken, he rejoins Harry, takes back the phone, glances at it for a second, then speaks softly: "Now one with you." Harry looks at him, surprised, his cheeks already flushing with embarrassment, and attempts to protest: "But..." Louis gently cuts him off, impatience absent, his gaze grounded in Harry's: "You brought me here. You gave me the strength. I don’t want to keep that memory without you." Harry lowers his eyes momentarily, almost bashful at the sincerity of the moment, then nods with a shy smile. He moves in closer, standing by his side, and Louis slips an arm around his waist, instantly feeling the heat of his body, the slightly hesitant breath, the discreet shiver coursing down his back like a fragile wave. Somebody, a smiling tourist, offers to take a photo of them both, and they accept with quiet thanks. The photo captures them at that exact moment when their bodies draw near, as Harry leans a little more against Louis, where their gazes do not seek the pose but turn towards each other in a gesture of barely acknowledged tenderness. And when the click resonates, it feels as if the circle is complete, as if the stone has finally welcomed something other than absence: a mark, an extension, a promise. Louis remains silent. He looks at the photo. He sees himself, with Harry. And for the first time in a very long time, he thinks that perhaps he is not just surviving anymore. He is living. They do not leave immediately. They linger a while longer near the fountain, silent, just there, side by side, fingers still intertwined, watching people toss coins into the water, making secret wishes, taking photos that they will look back on later without suspecting that, so close to them, two boys have just written an important page of their story—one that Louis never believed he could experience here, in this city full of ghosts. Then they resume their walk, step by step, without a specific aim, letting themselves be carried by the cobbled streets, by the aromas of pine and coffee, by the golden reflections cascading onto the orange facades. It is pleasant, neither too hot nor too cool, just enough to feel the sun on the nape of their necks, walking without needing to rush. The crowd fades in places, giving way to quiet areas, small squares where fountains sing, where laughter bounces between the colonnades, where buskers play old Italian songs that seem suspended in time. Louis has nothing to say, yet he feels he could talk for hours. He feels lighter, as if something within him has opened, has relaxed, has finally accepted the city. He observes it differently. He sees it through the eyes of his mother but also through his own, for the first time. He notices the plants hanging from windows, the children chasing after pigeons, couples unabashedly kissing beneath the colonnades. And suddenly, he understands what she wanted to transmit to him. Rome is alive. It is beautiful. It is kind when one gives it a chance. And today, he does not walk alone. Harry's hand is still in his, and he grips it a little tighter at times, as if to reassure himself that he is there, that he is real, that this light is not a dream, that these streets will not fade upon waking. He listens to Harry speak about everything and nothing, instances observed, childhood memories, Roman recipes he wants to try, cats reminiscent of his childhood neighbour’s. And Louis smiles. He cannot help it. It is as if his body had held onto the pain for too long, and now, tenderness must find its way out somewhere. They stop on a bench, sharing a lemon granita, teasing each other about whether it is too sour or not with enough flavour, stealing sips like two teenagers who have not yet dared to vocalise what their skin has long been shouting. And in Louis’ eyes, there is peace. A real one. Fragile yet sincere. Something unprecedented. Rome will always be his mother’s city. But on that day, it also becomes somewhat his. And Harry, by his side, becomes a certainty.  ***
  
  
The end-of-year prom is already upon them, and with it comes a strange excitement hanging in the air—a blend of student euphoria, palpable nostalgia, and contained adrenaline. Only two weeks remain before the exchange finishes, and for Louis, Rome has assumed a peculiar flavour, caught between the familiar warmth of a home he never imagined he could love and the somewhat painful certainty that he will soon have to leave it all behind. That evening, in the grand hall decorated for the farewell ball, surrounded by Niall, Liam, Zayn, and Harry, he finds it easier to smile, to laugh a little louder; his body feels more relaxed, yet somewhere within him, one door remains firmly shut. Because despite the laughter, despite Harry’s hand occasionally slipping into his, despite the dances and the shared drinks, Louis continues to write. He hasn’t stopped. Every week, he slips a letter or two into the postbox, addressed to Orpheus, or rather to the programme itself, an obstinate prayer he refuses to relinquish, even if nothing returns anymore. He has shared the details of his visit to the fountain, the photo taken where his mother once stood, the walks around Rome, the dishes Harry had encouraged him to taste, the sunsets over the golden cobbles, and also, more discreetly, his good exam results, plans to return to England, the steps taken to validate his year. He has told everything, as one continues to write to someone whose existence is uncertain, but whose echoes within refuse to fade.Yet, Orpheus has never replied. Not a word. Not a line. Not even a silence that felt different. And if Louis seems to be doing better, if his heart beats a bit stronger every time Harry kisses him in the crook of the neck, if his nights are more peaceful and his sorrow has found a place that aches less, there remains, deep within him, that unvoiced question tightening his throat, that strange sensation of inverted betrayal, as if he has let go of something precious without knowing how to hold on to it. The music pulses through the speakers, rhythmic and joyful, perhaps a bit too loud to allow for easy conversations, but familiar enough for everyone to dance without inhibition. On the dance floor, Niall and Harry move with free energy, led by a group of Italian students, their laughter merging with the joyous shouts around them, whilst Liam, further back and clearly captivated by a girl with dark hair, has engaged in an animated discussion, already halfway through offering her a drink. Louis, meanwhile, has slipped away a little further, leaning against a wooden pillar that creaks under the bass, half a drink in hand, when Zayn joins him, calmly, as though he knew precisely where to find him.They exchange glances, a subtle smile, not the kind shared at grand parties nor from easy jokes, but rather one of connections that endure. Zayn lifts his cup to toast quietly, and Louis follows suit, saying nothing at first. Then Zayn finally speaks, his words almost swallowed by the music. “Do you think we will keep seeing each other?” he asks, not worried, just sincere. Louis turns his head towards him, his eyebrows slightly raised, taken aback by the question, yet touched. He hesitates for a second, then gently shakes his head. “I can't imagine my life any other way, honestly.”Zayn provides a half-smile, one of those that conveys he matters even without acknowledgement.  "I live in Lille," he mentions casually. "There's the Eurostar. Just two and a half hours. It’s nothing at all. We can meet up."  Louis nods a bit quicker this time, grateful. He keeps his eyes on the dance floor, on Harry who dances carefree, and Zayn follows his gaze. He then asks, in a softer tone, as if placing a hand on a shoulder without actually touching:  "And how about you? How are you? Really."  Louis is silent for a few seconds. He chews over his words, as if they’re too heavy to come out all at once, then finally replies, in a thicker whisper:  "I miss Orpheus. Always. I try to act as if it’s behind me, but I struggle. I keep writing to him. He doesn't respond, but I keep on. It’s as if I don’t know how to do otherwise."  Zayn doesn’t respond immediately. He listens, he holds the space. Louis then adds, a fraction softer, his eyes lowered to the bottom of his glass:  "I haven’t told Harry anything. I can’t. Not yet. But maybe it will pass with time. Maybe I will forget. Perhaps I just need more silence for it to fade away. And then with Harry… sometimes I forget that Orpheus exists."  They both linger there, slightly apart from the chaos, glasses in hand, their bodies propped against the walls, watching the world speed around them like a fast-forward theatre. Zayn makes a small satisfying grimace as he stretches his arms, glancing up at the ceiling twinkling with silver garlands, and then allows an amused smile to slip onto his lips before asking, in a falsely innocent tone:  "Do you reckon I stand a chance of marrying an Italian by tomorrow?"  Louis bursts into a little laugh, tilting his head at him teasingly:  "That depends. Have you brought frog legs to share?"  Zayn laughs too, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, then raises his shoulders in a dramatic sigh. "No, not at all. Bl@@dy hell… not a single Italian swayed by my French accent and lukewarm beer."  Louis gently shakes his head with a smile, his cheeks etched by a serene honesty, and his gaze glides over the dance floor to find their friends. It's then that they spot Liam, triumphantly making his way back towards them, slightly dishevelled hair, his shirt collar open, grinning ear to ear, and most importantly, a small folded piece of napkin in his hand.  "Number," he announces proudly as he approaches, "and the promise of a date after the ball. Her name’s Isabella. I’m a happy man."  Zayn bursts into laughter, Louis too, a genuine laugh this time, warm and rich, reverberating against the wall, cutting through a bit of fatigue. Louis raises his eyebrows teasingly:  "Are you going to make us believe again that it's your charm when it’s just your little dimples doing all the work?"  Liam pretends to be appalled, placing a hand over his heart as if he's just been stabbed.  "You break my heart, Louis. Honestly. Fortunately, my lovely lady awaits me in the west wing of the castle."  "And do you plan on returning in a carriage or on a scooter?" Zayn quips without hesitation, and all three of them break into a discreet chuckle, the kind of laughter you share among boys you didn’t choose but would have willingly chosen a thousand times over.  And in that suspended moment, Louis forgets, if only briefly, the weight on his chest. He forgets Orpheus's silence, he forgets what could come next.Liam slips away without another word, leaving behind a trail of electric energy and the sound of his laughter mingling with Niall and Harry's chuckles, which he senses at the far end of the room, their silhouettes framed in pools of coloured light. They dance, they shout, they live, and for a fleeting moment, Louis watches them, his eyes slightly squinted, as if he were trying to imprint this image on his memory—this version of a joyful, carefree Harry who seems so distant from the boy he met at the start of term, the one he encountered in their room with that curious fatigue in his gaze, that fragility he struggled to mask with his soft smiles.Zayn stands beside him, remaining somewhat in the background, and when he feels that Liam is far enough away, he turns his head towards Louis, as if casually resuming a conversation he had set down long ago."You see," he says, nodding discreetly towards Harry with a subtle motion of his chin, "I'm glad to see him like this. When he arrived in Rome and I first met him, he wasn't smiling like that. I know it sounds silly, but... it's really nice to see him dancing, laughing. You were sceptical at first, but we were right. Harry is truly a good person."Louis keeps his gaze fixed on the dance floor, slightly nodding his head, immersed in the tableau of lively bodies animated by the party. He doesn’t respond immediately, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he has nothing to add at that moment. Zayn, however, continues, as if he feels the need to share something heavier, something that has weighed on him for a long time without finding a space to exist."And honestly," he resumes, his voice dropping slightly, "when you know what he’s been through with his ex... it's almost miraculous to see him like this."Louis turns his head, surprised, his gaze now steadier, the tone of his voice measured and calm, almost too soft. "Which ex?"Zayn pauses, his lips parting slightly, his eyes searching for an escape, a corner of the ceiling to focus on instead of meeting Louis's gaze. He hesitates. He regrets. He sighs. "Merde, I thought you knew… D@mn. I don’t know if I should tell you. It’s not my story to tell.""Go on," murmurs Louis, without tension, but with that tranquil firmness he sometimes employs; the sort that doesn’t leave much room for disagreement.So Zayn relents, in a resigned, almost guilty breath. "His ex took his life. It was a complicated, toxic relationship, I believe. From what little I know, it was full of emotional dependency, crises, on-again-off-again breakups. Harry tried to get out a few times, but the other always threatened to do something reckless. And one day, he really did it. Since then... Harry hardly ever talks about it. Liam told me this at the very beginning. He said Harry struggled to bounce back, to trust again. You understand better why we look out for him."A thick silence descends. Dense. Cottony.Louis does not move. He does not speak. He keeps staring at Harry over there on the dance floor, spinning under the red and golden lights, his curls floating gently, his smile radiant. And within him, something stirs. Something all too familiar. A letter. A word. Orpheus had shared a similar story. He feels, though he cannot explain it, that this information has just unlocked something immense. So he smiles at Zayn, quickly assuring him he understands and won't betray his secret. He takes a sip of his drink, hesitating little before making his way toward Harry. He advances into the dense crowd, navigating through damp silhouettes, bursts of laughter, and disorderly movements until he finds him right there, among the others, the curls gleaming under the strobe lights, hips swaying slowly to the beat, arms raised in an almost subconscious choreography, eyelids half-closed, the skin beautiful and glowing, the t-shirt sticking to his back like a second skin.Louis no longer thinks. He approaches, slides his hands around Harry's waist in a fluid, firm, natural gesture. He gently pulls him against him, their bodies aligning, breath momentarily caught due to the contact. Harry flinches slightly and then turns around, recognising him instantly, a split smile on his face, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with either alcohol or perhaps simply happiness.Louis then places his mouth right there, in the crook of Harry's neck, letting his lips glide over his skin in a kiss barely contained, almost feverish. He murmurs in a warm, rough whisper, only for him, between two bass notes that make the floor vibrate: "Blimey, you look absolutely stunning tonight... Those jeans, that gloss on your lips, that bandana in your hair..."Harry lets out a soft laugh, his neck arching under Louis's lips, and his body arches slightly more against Louis, their breaths mingling, their movements merging with those of the crowd.Louis continues, his hands still pressed on Harry's hips, fingers grazing the band of skin between his t-shirt and trousers, his words lower, more intimate, obscene and tender all at once, pervading Harry’s ear in a heated litany: "You know I’ve been thinking about you all day? Do you know what I want to do right now? I want to get you up into that bl@@dy room and tease you until you scream my name... I want to take you against the door, against the wall, on the bed, wherever you like... As long as it’s with you."Harry bursts into a muffled laugh, surprised, flustered, charmed, his shoulders shaking with nervous excitement, his hips pressed against Louis's. He slips a hand around Louis's neck, pulling him closer, dancing slowly, languorously, as if they were alone in the room.And for a moment, Louis thinks of nothing else. Neither the silence of letters, nor Zayn's revelation, nor the fragments of the past that clash in a far corner of his mind. It’s just this body against his, this warm skin under his palms, this mouth that opens to smile at him, this half-light, half-shadow gaze that he already loves more than he ought.But suddenly, without warning, an odd fear rises within him, slow and acrid, like a silent wave crashing against his ribs from the inside. He couldn't quite articulate why. It’s blurry. Instinctive. A foreboding without a name that softly tightens around his throat, like an invisible hand. A brutal, primal fear that all of this could vanish. That this moment is fragile. That this happiness is too bright to last.So, without voicing it, he grips Harry a little tighter.Louis kisses the base of Harry's jaw, just below his ear, and Harry leans slightly, mouth near Louis's ear, breath a bit short, voice almost shy, yet with mischief sparkling in his eyes. "I've got a bit of a crazy fantasy," he murmurs, fingers sliding beneath Louis's shirt. Louis lifts his head, an amused smile spreading across his lips, eyes half-squinted, teasing without cruelty, tender even, softened like every time Harry unexpectedly reveals too much of himself."Oh really? I'm listening. Go on, surprise me," he invites.Harry hesitates for half a second, then he smiles, his cheeks slightly rosy, an air like that of someone who, despite it all, embraces their audacity, like a child caught red-handed munching on sweet treats."Having s@x at school."Louis erupts into a soft, choked laugh, the kind that gets caught in the throat, not mocking but surprised, as thrilled by the idea as he is by the one articulating it. He straightens up slightly, slipping his hands behind Harry's neck, and whispers, straight into Harry’s gaze:"You want to play like that?"Harry holds his gaze, a smile twitching uncertainly on his lips, but he nods. And Louis, with his smile still intact, lifts his chin as though genuinely contemplating the question, before leaning in to whisper against his lips:"The law building lecture theatre is empty at this hour. The acoustics are incredible, the curtains are thick, no one ever goes in there at night. And the seats... quite comfortable."Harry raises an eyebrow, both surprised and captivated, then bites gently into the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling too broadly. He nods slowly, as if he doesn't want to seem too keen, yet the spark in his eyes completely betrays him."Perfect, then."He takes hold of his hand without warning, without thinking, and thrusts his through the feverish crowd, parting bodies like a stream of water finding its way through a torrent of music and human warmth. He doesn’t cast a single glance behind him, doesn’t apologise to those he jostles past, his fingers firmly intertwined with Harry's, his gaze fixed on the exit, on that swinging door which he pushes through without slowing down, as if fleeing from a reality that feels too narrow, as if running towards something broader, greater, more vibrant. The night air greets them at the exit, cooler, laden with the scent of pine and warm tarmac, and Louis doesn’t stop; he strides ahead across the almost empty courtyard, their shadows stretching beneath the streetlamps, his heart pounding against his chest like a slightly mad drum.They pass through the gates of the law building, the same one Louis has crossed dozens of times without a second thought, but tonight, everything feels different, imbued with an almost magical aura, as if this place knew that something was about to take shape. The door to the amphitheatre swings open without a creak, and a muffled darkness envelops them instantly, peaceful, solemn, almost intimate. There’s only the sound of their breaths, the gentle echo of their footsteps on the stairs, and the dull beat of the tension that has been following them for days.Suddenly, Harry is in front of him, gently tugging him by the hand as he begins to climb the steps one by one in the dark, his crystalline laughter bouncing off the empty walls like an echo of childhood and desire. He turns his head towards Louis, arms raised, eyes shining in the dim light, his face illuminated by a beam of moonlight filtering through the glass roof."I feel like I’m the king of the world, here with you."And Louis, standing at the bottom of the steps, watches him as one watches a film scene, as if witnessing something immense, moving, completely unreal yet agonisingly palpable. He doesn’t speak at once, merely allowing his gaze to absorb the image — Harry, free, smiling, unreserved, magnificent, arms outstretched like a child on an invisible throne, and suddenly, something jolts in his chest, a mix of burning desire, silent admiration, and a love he still can’t name.Louis joins him at the top of the steps as though climbing toward an altar, without truly realising it, his eyes fixed on him, unable to tear his gaze away from that dancing silhouette, those open arms, that laughing mouth he has desired so many times. And when he finally reaches his side, when he places his hands on Harry's slender hips, when their breaths collide in the still air of the amphitheatre, there is nothing else but this truth: he wants to touch nothing else but him.His lips find Harry's in a kiss that begins gently, but very quickly intensifies, becoming stronger, more hungry, more urgent. He kisses him as if he needs to keep him at the edge of the world, as if he fears that Harry will disappear if he stops touching him for even a second. His hands slide beneath his t-shirt, glide up his back, tracing every vertebra, every shiver, every sigh, and Harry groans against his mouth, a sound so pure, so fragile and so electric that Louis' heart skips a beat.He wants everything, to undress him in a single motion, to feel his bare skin against his own, to take him here, now, without delay, but he also wants to savour every second, to prolong this moment of temptation and fever, to let this dizzy spell linger where everything seems to burn without pain. So, he alternates, gazes hungrily at him, kisses him slowly along his neck, then feverishly along his jaw, caressing his chest with clumsy tenderness, his trembling fingers brushing against the cloth that is still too present. He gently pushes him against a row of seats, pressing him back against the frame while his own body stays close behind, and Harry, between muffled laughs and trembling gasps, groans against him, rolling his hips, his hands gripping Louis' shoulders, his supple, burning body offered up.And in a suspended moment, as if the world had paused on the edge of that invisible scene, Louis cradles his face between his palms, looks him straight in the eyes, thumbs resting against his flushed cheeks, and he speaks.In a rough, hesitant voice, not quite certain but so sincere that it trembles:  "I think I'm sincerely falling in love with you."   Harry freezes. A breath. A second of pure disbelief. Then an immense wave in his eyes, as if the world had just hit him square in the chest but in a gentle way, one that lifts him rather than drowning him. He blinks, once, twice, and his mouth opens in a broken breath.  "Me too," he murmurs. "Louis... me too."   Louis pulls him close with a gentle authority, his hands sliding around his waist as if he never wants to let go, and he sits down without releasing him, breathless, legs buckled, back against one of the wooden seats in the amphitheatre. The leather creaks slightly beneath his weight, the dimness trembling around them, and without a word, Harry instinctively settles himself astride Louis, knees on either side of his hips, hands resting against his neck, his chest pressed to Louis's in a movement so fluid it feels as if it was always meant to happen.  Their lips kiss again, but this time it's slower, more heated, deeper — kisses that elongate, that become lost, that turn into sighs in the darkness. And their bodies follow suit, with an urgency almost primal, a controlled tension, a rhythm set by their entwined breaths. Harry rolls his hips slowly, sliding against Louis's, seeking impact, friction, that spark.  A low growl escapes Louis’s throat as he feels that delightful, firm rubbing through the fabric still between them, and he grips his thighs around Harry, placing his hands on his hips, guiding him into a movement that grows more precise, more assertive. Every gesture is a caress, every breath a confession. They no longer speak. They feel. They read. They respond.  Louis’s hands travel under Harry’s shirt, caressing his burning skin, grazing the curve of his spine, the delicate hollows of his back, before descending to the small of his back. Harry gasps against his mouth, releasing a nervous little laugh, almost surprised by the intensity of the desire sweeping through him.  Their foreheads press together, their noses brush, and their movements quicken just slightly, just enough for the heat to become a burn, for silence to morph into an inner scream. There are only their two bodies, caught in this ballet of friction, sighs and whispers, alongside this primal need to feel alive against one another, here, in this forbidden place, sanctified by their desire.  Louis places a slow kiss just beneath Harry’s ear, then another in the hollow of his throat, murmuring between breaths,  "You’re driving me mad..."    Harry leans in, his chest slightly pulled away from Louis’s, his restless hands gently sliding beneath his own top before pulling it over his head in a smooth, almost feline motion, and Louis watches as though he is witnessing a secret ceremony, eyes slightly squinted, lips parted, hypnotised by every inch of skin revealed in the twilight. The dim light of the moon filtering through the amphitheatre windows carves the lines of his body with an almost unreal softness, and Louis, unable to look away, places his hands against Harry’s hips, thumbs brushing the edge of his trousers.  Slowly, with that same controlled urgency, he unbuttons his own jeans, pulling just enough on the fabric to slide it down his hips, taking his boxers with it until he is bare, taut, vulnerable, presented. His breath quickens as the pressure mounts, as their movements become more defined, more purposeful, and then, with a fluid motion, Harry reaches into the back pocket of his trousers, still clinging to his ankle, pulls out a protection, sliding it between his fingers before offering it to Louis.  But Louis does not take it.  He smiles, that kind of lopsided grin born out of the fatigue of desire, in the fire of his throat and the softness of his lower back, murmuring between ragged breaths,  "Did you plan for this?"  Harry shrugs, mischievous and unsettling, his gaze locked onto Louis's, the glimmer of his pupils shining like moon-soaked crystal. He answers, straightforwardly, his voice rougher than usual:  "I just hoped you wanted the same things as me, yes."  And Louis, shaken by an uncontrollable shiver, lets his head fall back against the chair's frame, his eyes half-closed, his heart beating heavily at the very edge of his lips. He doesn't need to reply. He lets him take the lead.  Then, gently, with an astonishingly precise tenderness, Harry tears open the wrapper, unfurling the condom down Louis's length, his hands firm yet delicate, his movements focused, almost ceremonial. Louis, tense beneath him, suppresses a trembling sigh, one hand pressed against Harry's hip while the other slides around his neck to draw him close, to prevent him from slipping away.  Harry says nothing, but his eyes speak volumes. He watches him with that intensity that constricts the chest, that blend of confidence and vulnerability that's just as deeply unsettling as it is arousing, then he slowly straightens up, his hands resting on either side of Louis's shoulders, his body unfolding in a fluid, graceful, almost silent motion. His bare skin glistens under the light filtering through the windows, his lithe silhouette stark against the shadowy heaviness of the amphitheatre. When he kneels above Louis, his knees locked on either side of Louis’s thighs, Louis feels his breath get lodged in his throat.  He doesn't take his eyes off him. Not for a second. His gaze travels up the length of Harry's thighs, glides over his stomach, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his uneven breath, until it reaches his face — that face that drives him wild, just above him, focused, fragile, exquisite.  And then, with a breath that trembles in the dimness, Harry yields to him.  He lets himself slide down slowly, precisely, with mastery, his body opening around Louis with an almost unreal fluidity, and Louis, beneath him, tilts his head back, a muffled groan escaping from his slightly parted lips, his hand gripping Harry's waist, unable to manage the beauty of this moment, this sensation of warmth, of complete connection, of losing control.  Harry braces himself against him, momentarily still, his fingers clenching on Louis's shoulders, his eyelids half-lowered, his mouth slightly open in a soundless sigh, then he starts to move — slowly at first, in a supple, undulating rhythm, almost languid, his hips rolling with precision, dipping and rising in a perfect choreography.  And Louis, astonished by such sensuality, watches.  He looks at no one but him.  The pink bandana still impeccably tied in his curls frames his face flushed from exertion, lips red, wet, open to barely restrained moans, eyes nearly closed, gleaming beneath his dark lashes. He is breathtakingly beautiful. He is everything Louis has never known he desired until now.  And he allows it, his body taut beneath Harry’s movements, his hands gliding over his hips, his belly, his chest, his lower back, unable to remain passive but too hypnotised to change the pace. He lets Harry rise and fall above him, he lets him take full control, he lets him shine overhead like a divine apparition in this silent lecture hall.  "You... are magnificent."  His hands rise, sliding between Harry's shoulder blades, caressing the lines of his back with an almost reverent tenderness, then trailing down to intertwine between their bodies. He feels him, tense, hot, pulsing, just as lost as he is. Then he cups Harry in his hand, unexpectedly, gently — just a gesture full of warmth and certainty, a gesture that says "I’m here," a gesture meant to bring him down alongside him.  Harry moans louder, a short, broken cry, and his movements become more erratic, less controlled, his rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds, as the pressure intensifies, as every friction, each thrust, every synchronised movement pushes them both closer to the edge.  Louis continues to stroke him, his palm gliding slowly, firmly, with this newfound knowledge of his body, his reactions, of the way Harry yields to him, never pulling away. He looks him straight in the eyes now, and he says nothing, for there is nothing to say — everything is in their breaths, in their moans, in the way their gazes seek and find each other, dilated, bright, trembling.Then, in one last undulation, a final precise thrust, a final sigh too strong to be contained, they come together. One against the other. One with the other. A muffled cry within a kiss. A shiver shared to the bone. A total surrender. Harry gently collapses against him, his forehead resting on his shoulder, breathless, fingers gripping at his arms as though he fears floating away. And Louis, still trembling, still lost in this beautiful trance, holds him close, his lips in his hair, his hand abstractly caressing his neck, as if to prolong this moment beyond what is possible. The silence that follows is profound, soft, almost unreal. There are only their breaths struggling to regain a regular rhythm, their hearts still beating loudly, and this warmth between them, moist, alive, gentle, like a second skin that has settled over their own. Harry stays a few more seconds pressed against Louis, his forehead against his clavicle, arms wrapped around his neck, trembling with exhaustion and pleasure. Then gently, without a word, he lifts himself with a sort of quiet modesty, a fervent tenderness, just enough for Louis to slip out of him, the condom still in place, and the moment is simple yet laden, almost solemn in this night full of echoes. Louis says nothing. He leans halfway, carefully removes the plastic, ties it up and places it beside them, somewhere outside their little sanctuary. And when he settles back against Harry, he leans forward immediately to place a slow, long kiss on the middle of his chest, where his skin is still flushed with warmth, where his heart beats fiercely beneath the ribcage, then another, higher, between his collarbones, and yet another, just beneath his throat. And between each kiss, he whispers. Not loudly. Just enough for the words to belong only to them. "I’m so glad I came to Rome." He leaves another kiss on his shoulder, light, almost trembling. "Because I met you." Harry doesn’t move. He stays there, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling, as if afraid to move and break this fragile and perfect bubble of intimacy. His arms tighten around Louis, fingers slipping through his hair, and a quiet sigh escapes his lips, like a response, like a silent agreement. And when Louis raises his eyes to him, he finds him smiling. 
  
  
***
  
  
  
They ascend the stairs in a conspiratorial silence, their fingers intertwined as if this simple pressure was enough to express everything they are still unable to articulate. They’ve dressed again, half-laughing, in the still feverish warmth of the aftermath, with slightly creased clothing, tousled hair, lips still red from kisses, and glances shimmering with what they have just experienced. A bubble has formed around them, soft, warm, comforting, and even the chill of the hallway on the ground floor fails to penetrate it. The door leading to the party room is just before them, some voices already filtering from the other side, bursts of music and laughter, like a reminder of the outside world awaiting them, ready to engulf them again in the tumult of bodies, glances, questions. But just before Louis grasps the handle, Harry gently catches hold of his wrist. Louis freezes, surprised, and when he turns to him, he sees that look, the one Harry doesn’t often show, one filled with both modesty and urgency, fire and fear.And in a breath, Harry said:"You are always the one who finds the right words. You look at me and speak in a way that reassures, that illuminates, that feels good. And I’ve never been able to do that. Not really. Not like you. So I just wanted to… tell you that. Before we go back in there."He takes a pause, and then his gaze dives just a bit deeper into Louis's."I’m happy with what we share, Louis. I’m happy to be with you. To feel all of this, even if it’s blurry, even if it’s frightening. Because… I thought I had no right to it anymore. I thought I had lost everything forever. And now, with you… I feel like something is returning. Something that I had lost."Louis doesn’t know how to respond straight away. He looks at him, his heart racing, struck in the gut by these unexpected words that he hadn’t anticipated, had hardly dared to hope for. And he senses that these words mean more, that they contain a story he doesn’t yet know, a fragment of a past that Harry hasn’t yet unveiled, that he keeps to himself, but has just managed to hint at enough for Louis to feel that he is in the process of mending something within him.So when Harry leans in to kiss him, it’s soft, it’s slow, it’s intense, and Louis closes his eyes, his hand resting on the nape of Harry's neck, and he realises that something has just happened, a click, a silent confession, even if he doesn’t yet have all the words to articulate it.They exchange one last look, conspiratorial, then Louis pushes the door open, and the world takes them back, unaware that something sacred has just taken place on the other side.  
  
  
***
  
  
  
The morning seeps slowly into the room, in pale and golden streams that glide over the floor littered with clothes, across the rumpled sheets, onto the fog still clinging to the mirror of the slightly ajar bathroom. The room is calm, humid from too short a sleep, fragrant with mixed scents of sweat, shower gel, and something even more intimate—a perfume of the night that has been spent, of bodies weary from pleasure, of skin still tasting of repeated @rg@sms.  Louis opens his eyes without truly waking, his nose buried in the warm neck of Harry, his arms wrapped around his bare torso, their legs intertwined in a sheets that barely cover them, and his smile, from the very first seconds, emerges with that blissful laziness that one cannot control, that kind of sweet, burning, almost guilty grin that arises when the body remembers even before the mind does.  He remembers.  He remembers Harry laughing against his ear in the hallway, a little drunk on desire, a little crazy over him, those trembling hands undoing his belt as soon as the door was closed, that almost violent urgency that drove them against walls, against furniture, against everything that could open its arms to excess.  He recalls his mouth, red and impatient, kneeling before him without a word, devouring him with that unabashed fervour, that skilled tongue, that warm throat, those muffled sighs against his thighs, and him, unable to stand, clutching the edge of the bed, panting his name into the darkness.  He smiles even wider when he thinks of the moment he caught him, his eyes sparkling with fire, pushing him wordlessly against the desk, whispering "bend over," and Harry complied, heart beating as if it would burst, hands flat against the cold wood, breath stolen by the way Louis took him, firmly, perfectly, in a surge that flowed through them both without any wish or hope of escape.  And then the shower.  Their laughter, their bodies pressed under the hot water, kisses pressed against the steamy tiles, fingers sliding, caressing, reclaiming skin they already know by heart, and Louis, pinned against the wall, moaning in Harry’s mouth, too filled with love and desire to know the difference.  And now, morning. The calm after the storm. The silence after the fever.  He feels Harry breathing slowly against him, his curls still damp scattered on the pillow, his shoulder blades moving gently with each breath, and this body he could recognise with his eyes closed, so deeply has he marked it with his hands, with his mouth, with his skin, with his sighs.  And he smiles. God, how he smiles.Because he has never known this. Because he has been afraid his whole life of never experiencing this blossoming love and the lightness he thought he would never rediscover.  He watches the way Harry's lashes rest against his cheeks, the curve of his slightly parted lips, the curls scattered on the pillow, and his heart tightens a little, as it always does when he realises he could stay there for hours, simply watching him breathe.  His fingers, almost of their own accord, venture towards Harry’s cheek, caressing the soft skin just beneath his eye, slowly gliding down to his chin in a gesture so tender, so delicate, that Harry barely shivers. He blinks softly, stirs without opening his mouth, and eventually turns his face towards Louis, a sleepy smile lingering on his lips, as if waking up by his side were enough to make the world simpler.  “You’re spying on me while I sleep…” he murmurs, his voice deep, muffled, choked by sleep.  Louis smiles too, without responding, and simply continues stroking his cheek, then his curls, tucking a few strands behind his ear with an almost painful attention.  “I’m just trying to enjoy while I can,” he finally breathes, the words hovering between them like a soap bubble.  Harry sits up slightly, props his arm under his head, and gazes at him in turn, this time fully awake, his expression filled with strange calm, with gentle melancholy. They both know. They count the days they have left without saying a word. Not many. A few handfuls of mornings like this, at most. And then they must return. Go back to their lives. Resume the course of things.  Harry inhales slowly, his gaze lost for a moment on the ceiling, before murmuring,“We’re close, you know. It’s not as if we’ll disappear… We can see each other often. London-Holmes Chapel isn’t far. Two hours by train.”  Louis nods, gently squeezing his hand in his, and whispers back,“Yes. I promise we’ll see each other. As often as you want.”  He means it, from the depths of his throat, from the pit of his stomach, with that slightly feverish certainty that one has when they want to hold onto time with sheer strength. He looks at him again and again, as if trying to imprint every detail of his face somewhere beneath his eyelids, for the days when he will miss him too much. And he thinks to himself that he loves him. Without saying it. Not yet, it is far too soon.  Harry leans towards him unannounced, placing a first kiss on his sleep-warmed mouth, then a second, slower, deeper, before gently nibbling on his lower lip with a little noise that escapes Louis as an amused sigh. He cannot resist. He requests a third kiss, which Harry offers him with the tips of his lips, his eyes shining, his mouth already stretching into that playful smile he reserves just for Louis.  “Stop,” Louis breathes, his voice low and gravely, a little raspy from contained desire. “Or I’m going to have to put my head between your thighs and not stop.”  Harry bursts out laughing, a light, ringing laugh that resonates through the room like a clear bell. He leans back just slightly, his hand still resting against Louis's chest, and then he slips out of bed with a nearly feline grace, a teasing nonchalance that is distinctly his own. He raises his arms above his head, stretches luxuriously, his back arching, his hips rolling in an exaggeratedly slow movement, just to annoy him.“We can do that, yes,” he said in a sing-song voice, a smile in his eyes. “But I’m going to take a shower first, if you don’t mind me being a bit clean while you lick every bit of me.”  Louis watched him, half-fascinated, half-exasperated, the pillow still clutched against his chest, and couldn’t help but smile back, shaken by a low laugh.  “You little provocative git,” he muttered, before throwing the pillow at him in a swift gesture.  Harry dodged just in time, laughed again, and strutted into the bathroom, his hips swaying, without even looking back, but he knew Louis was watching. He felt it. He wanted it.  “Get a move on, Styles!” Louis shouted through the ajar door. “I swear, if you take longer than five minutes, I’ll leap on you, showered or not!” Harry chuckled as he turned on the water and then spoke:  “And afterwards... we can cook if you like? I’m starving.”  Louis nodded vaguely, his gaze still hazy from sleep.  “If you cook, I’ll help, but fair warning, I’m not good. Like, really not.”  Harry poked his head through the slight opening of the door for a brief moment.  “That’s perfect then,” he said with a smile, disappearing fully back into the bathroom. “If it’s too perfect and precise, it means you haven’t cooked with your heart.”  The phrase lingered in the air for a moment, light, thrown out without thought, without awaiting a response. But Louis froze. He blinked once, then twice, his heart tightening slightly without immediately understanding why.  Then it returned. His childhood kitchen, the smell of butter that clung to the pan a bit too quickly, the chilly tiles under his feet, and his mother crouched by the oven, focused on a pie that slightly overflowed at the edges.  
   “You know, Louis, people are like those slightly failed dishes. You have to taste them several times before you judge. Especially when they’re lukewarm. And then, the dishes that are too perfect, it's often because we haven’t cooked them ourselves.”   
He had rolled his eyes at that time, a bit teasing. She had stuck her tongue out at him with a laugh.  Then Louis regained his composure.  “Right, we’ll do that, but afterward, it’ll be you that I feast on.”The only response he receives is a distant laugh, followed by the sound of water starting to flow and the door closing completely. Louis lies back down, arms outstretched, his heart a bit too full for so early in the morning, a smile still playing on his lips despite the memory that has resurfaced in his mind.Eventually, he reluctantly gets up, leaving the bed still warm from Harry and their last night together. He shuffles lazily to his wardrobe, feeling somewhat heavy-limbed and dishevelled, his body still sluggish from the mingling of pleasure and sleep. He opens the wardrobe door with a lazy gesture, running his hand over the piles of clothes, searching for a clean T-shirt—but realising as he pulls at some wrinkled fabrics that he hasn't done laundry for the past two days. He sighs, glancing at the ceiling, cursing his careless nature, before turning slightly towards the bathroom door from which a light mist is escaping, accompanied by the sound of water trickling over Harry's skin."Can I borrow a T-shirt?" he calls softly, loud enough to cover the sound of the shower, but not too loudly either.But there's no response.Just the steady patter of water and a soft sigh that could just as easily be a satisfied groan or a murmured tune. Louis waits three seconds, then four, before shrugging with a half-smile."Suit yourself then."He approaches Harry's wardrobe, the one he has long ignored or even avoided. He knows little of this area of the room; it is like a semi-secret territory that he has always respected without admitting it to himself, as if rummaging through Harry’s belongings, even with his permission, would disturb him in an intimacy deeper than that of their bed. But this morning, he feels relaxed. He is in love. And in his mind, Harry won’t hold it against him. He even imagines Harry’s teasing voice later saying he could have taken two if he wanted.So, he opens the door. Slowly. A small, almost timid creak escapes.He begins to rummage. His fingers brush against neatly folded T-shirts, a stack of hoodies, soft-coloured shirts, a few pairs of trousers rolled to the side. He smiles gently as he recognises an old black top he has pilfered from him one night—or perhaps it was the other way around. He thinks of Harry in the shower, of his wet skin, of that smile waiting for him on the other side of the door. He only seeks a simple garment. Just something to slip on quickly before breakfast.He gently pushes aside a T-shirt rolled up, his fingers gliding blindly across something firmer and denser. A cardboard edge, a corner of paper that shouldn't be there. Louis frowns, inclines a bit more, rummaging between two carefully arranged piles, his fingers find a bundle of envelopes, secured under an old black elastic band. It seems unremarkable, at least for now. Perhaps some mail Harry has forgotten to send, or a few personal papers he keeps there for convenience's sake. He grabs one almost absent-mindedly, but the moment his eyes catch the top-left corner of the envelope, something within him falters.The address.The address of the therapeutic programme.The same typeface. The same arrangement.The red stamp at the top right.His stomach clenches. His heart skips a beat.He freezes for a moment, the envelope still clutched between his fingers as though it has just burned his skin. But he says nothing. He thinks nothing. He simply opens it. Because it cannot be possible. It must surely be nothing. Because it cannot be what he fears it is.The flap gives way gently. The paper is still warm against his clammy palms. He pulls the sheet out, unfolds it.And there it is, his world shattering. The writing... is his. No doubt. The black ink, the slightly slanting letters, the overly long sentences, the staccato rhythm, the pauses between the words. And right at the bottom, that signature. 
   Requiem
His own pseudonyme.A chill runs down his neck. But he doesn't want to. He doesn’t want to understand. He places the letter down halfway, his fingers already trembling, and grabs another envelope. Then another. And yet another. He opens them all. One by one. He doesn’t read yet. He only looks. He checks. He tries to prove to his own body that this is not what it seems.But it is.Every letter. Every word. Every phrase he had written in the past few weeks. They are all there. Even the ones he sent after the silence. The ones he thought were lost. The ones he imagined were buried in administrative paperwork. They are there. In Harry’s cupboard.And yet, he will not admit it to himself. He refuses. It cannot be possible.He continues to open. To read snippets.To recognise each comma, each scribble, each breath printed on those pages that should have remained in the shadows, far from their everyday life, far from the morning light filtering through the curtains.His stomach twists. He feels his throat tighten, his temples throb, but he persists, as if he could still conjure reality, as if it were merely a misunderstanding. As if this horrifying coincidence would explain itself in the next letter. Or the one after.But there is no explanation.Only the truth taking shape, letter by letter. And Louis, though he does not want to believe it, is beginning to understand.He rises slowly, as if his own body has become too heavy to carry, his legs numb from the shock, gripping at uneven breaths, his throat tight with an overflowing that he can’t quite name yet. The letters lie scattered around him, like shards of a truth he had refused to see, but can no longer ignore now. He leaves them there, bypassing them without even a glance, drawn involuntarily to Harry's desk, to that familiar surface he has never truly explored, to those notebooks he has never opened, to that sphere of intimacy he has always respected without thinking, convinced he did not need to know more.His fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second, then grasp the first notebook. He opens it at random, flips through a few pages quickly, not really reading, just to quell the growing unease, the dull thrum in his ears that prevents him from thinking clearly. He flips through mechanically until his gaze is suddenly arrested, abruptly halted, caught on black ink, elegant, slightly inclined, achingly familiar handwriting. It is not the page that strikes him. It is the shape of the letters. The curves of certain words. The lowercase letters a bit too tall. The capitals carefully formed. He knows this handwriting. He knows it by heart.And suddenly, everything halts within him.He reads a sentence at random, a few scrawled words in the margin, a mundane observation about a class, perhaps, or an idea jotted down hastily. But the voice resonating within him, as his eyes trace the ink, is not Harry’s. It belongs to Orpheus. The one he has read dozens of times. The one that has watched over him for weeks. The one he confided everything to, faceless, without expectation, with raw, unmasked trust. The one he first loved in secret, through a profound and silent epistolary love.And now it is there, on this paper and in this room, in the hand of the one who shares his bed.He pulls back slightly, sets the notebook down, allowing his fingers to tremble without attempting to control them. It's no longer a matter of surprise. It is something larger, more frightening, more unsettling. A soft, slow crack running through his entire world. Harry is Orpheus.And the worst part is that Harry does not know. Louis understands, hints at, senses it deep within his gut—this revelation, he is the only one experiencing it. Harry is oblivious. Harry cannot know.And perhaps that is the most disconcerting part of all.He is alone in facing the most improbable and uprooting coincidence of his entire life. Alone in piecing together the fragments of two people who were one. Alone in feeling this love in double, across two different languages, without the one he loves knowing yet.In the bathroom, the shower continues to run, regular, indifferent to the silent storm that has just erupted.And Louis, immobile in the centre of the room, no longer knows whether he should rejoice or collapse.His eyes scan the inside of the cupboard and he sees another parcel, this time without an envelope, but he recognises the folded white paper like the ones they receive, so he doesn't hesitate and reaches out to retrieve them, discovering letters that were meant for him but he never received.The first few pages are dated, some are not. He does not know where to begin. So he takes the first one that comes.  
   "Requiem,   

    I don’t know why I’m writing to you tonight. Perhaps because I’m at a loss for words when spoken aloud. Perhaps because I’ve read you too much not to reply. Maybe it’s easier this way, to be truthful in the void. I tell myself that if I don’t send you this letter, then it doesn’t actually exist. And yet, I write it anyway."   

   "There was a moment the other day when you spoke about that place, that fountain your mother loved so much. You didn’t name it. You didn’t really describe it. And yet, I saw. I saw the light you were trying to convey. The silence you spoke of. And I knew. I recognised something. It’s crazy what grief can smell like."   
He closes his eyes for a second, breath held. He could have understood. He should have. He continues.  
   "You told me that you write at night, hiding a bit. So do I, sometimes. I slip out of bed, I sneak towards the window, I turn on just enough light to see the paper. I feel that if I write quietly, then my thoughts won't betray me. I want to tell you so many things. But to what end? You won’t read this letter. You won’t guess. And maybe that’s for the best."   
Louis turns to the next letter, feeling a bit more anxious now. The writing is more fragmented, more tense.  
   "You spoke of solitude, and I wanted to write to you about silence. The true silence. The kind that isn’t an absence but an overwhelming presence. One shared without words. The silence that makes us turn in bed without daring to touch the other. I believe you know that silence. It seems I’ve seen it in your eyes before."   
Another one. Crumpled. The ink somewhat faded, as though it had been dampened, or simply aged.  
   "I sometimes think that if I were to send you everything I’ve written for you, you would understand. But what would you understand? That I saw you? That I read you between the lines? That I loved you in two languages, two bodies, two names? It would be too much. You wouldn’t forgive me. So I send nothing. I keep it all. And I hope my gestures are enough, even if my words escape you."   
He does not understand the underlying remarks or rather, he doesn’t want to understand them.  He hears the bathroom door opening, but it feels unreal, as if the sound lacked substance, as if his brain refused to grasp it to avoid facing what he knows to be inevitable.  Harry emerges in a cloud of warm steam, his hair still damp, a towel wrapped around his waist, bare feet on the floorboards, face still soft with sleep and warmth. And then his eyes fall on the scene. On the desk laid bare. On the scattered letters. On Louis’ expression, too pale, too still, too frozen not to be alarming.  And everything within Harry’s expression shifts. He freezes. His breath catches. He understands immediately. And in his eyes, it’s not surprise that springs forth. It’s not shock, nor panic. It’s something else. Something heavier. Something familiar.  Louis wants to talk to him at first. He wants to speak the truth. His truth.  So, in a voice too low, too hoarse, he says clumsily,  "Wait. Let me explain, alright? Just… wait."  He moves a bit closer, lifts a letter, folds it in half, holds it between his fingers like a trembling talisman, then continues, daring not to gaze at him for too long.  "I never made the connection. I swear. Never. It’s just now, opening your cupboard, I saw… I saw the programme’s address. And I thought it was impossible, that it couldn’t be. And then I recognised the handwriting. I re-read the letters. And I understood."  Harry doesn’t move. He is still there, standing, still in his towel, still damp, still silent. And that silence makes more noise than any anger could.  Louis swallows hard, the words catch in his throat, but he continues. He speaks quickly, barely aware of what he’s saying, simply because it is now or never."I am Requiem, Harry. It’s me. I wrote all those letters to you. I didn’t know, I swear. I never told you, but after my mother’s death, I entered this programme, I was in a bad place, I didn’t even think it would work, but you became… Well, Orpheus became someone important. And I continued. And I saw nothing. Understood nothing."He takes a step back, searching for Harry's eyes, but sees nothing of what he expected there. And then, suddenly, without warning, the ground slips away beneath him. Because he realises. Because he feels. Because something doesn't add up.Because Harry says nothing. Because he does not seem taken aback, nor does he look surprised. And then, Louis's voice trembles slightly, just barely, as he breathes out a strangled whisper: "You knew."Louis falls silent. He doesn’t move. He simply stands there in front of Harry, arms hanging at his sides, fingers still tightly coiled around a letter he hasn’t read for a long time, eyes fixed on the boy opposite him, as if still searching for a way out, an explanation, a flicker of doubt that doesn’t come. And what he sees in Harry's eyes is not the fear of being discovered. It is not panic. It is not shame.It is resignation.And that is what destroys him. He feels his stomach clench, an invisible wave of nausea, a burning anxiety slowly rising in his throat, as his whole body turns heavy, as if he suddenly bore the weight of several months of blindness, trust, and naivety."You knew, bl@@dy hell..." he whispers again, more a plea than an accusation.Harry remains silent for one second too long, then runs a nervous hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact, breaths uncertain. He searches for his words. It seems he weighs them, dreading them as much as he accepts them."I... I didn’t know when you arrived here to be my flatmate," he finally murmurs. "I swear I didn’t know. I saw you for the first time, and you were just... Louis. That was it."Louis does not react right away. He hasn’t yet registered what he hears, as it is not the answer to the question he is asking. So, in a harsher, tenser voice, he insists: "When did you know? Truly know."Harry averts his gaze. He leans slightly against the edge of the desk, tightening the towel around his waist as if it could protect him from what he is about to say, then exhales slowly, as if conceding defeat."I started having doubts… the night you found me on the floor. With my medication. When you said your mother died of cancer."Louis remains still. He feels his blood chilling. It was at the beginning of his arrival in Rome.  Harry continues, quieter and slower, as if he were digging a grave with each word.  “Requiem told me that his mother had died. Of cancer. And also… that he was moving to another city. When you told me about that, I thought that… the coincidence was too great.”  Louis shuts his eyes for a moment, but the image is too powerful to fade. He sees himself again, that night, shocked, panicked, worried for him, and Harry listening to him with wide-open eyes. He now understands that behind this silence was more than fear. There was recognition.  “When you told me that your mother had come to Rome. Requiem had said he was going to a city his mother loved. You said practically the same phrases. And then when you also told me that you had tried to kill yourself after your mother’s death, I understood that this was what had led you to see a therapist and to join the programme…”  Louis brings a hand to his lips, realising that it's been nearly four or five months since Harry has known, that Harry knows everything.  “I thought you would discover it too. I told Requiem that I wrote in a café, that there was an elderly lady who would bring me a plate of croissants that I devoured while writing, and one day, you saw me there. I thought you would make the connection.”  Louis's blue eyes widen even more; it was right in front of him. He remains there, motionless, trapped in a mixture of pain and confusion, his arms by his sides, his gaze burned by this accumulation of revelations he cannot digest. He feels his heart beating too strongly, too quickly, pounding against his rib cage with the violence of a war drum, but it's his mind that wavers the most — because nothing holds up, nothing makes sense any more, and everything he thought he knew about Harry, Orpheus, their history, their letters, their kisses, blends into a devastating chaos.  He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything anymore.  So, in a rasping, almost painful whisper, he articulates, as if fighting against a knot in his throat:  “Why didn't you tell me…?”  His eyes are fixed on Harry's, almost pleading, as if searching for a lifebuoy, an anchor, something to cling to in this internal shipwreck that swallows him without warning. There are so many things he could have dealt with, he knows, but not this. Not this sweet lie, not this silence disguised as tenderness, not this closeness built on such a vast secret.  Harry opens his mouth, closes it, lowers his eyes, and when he finally lifts his face, his features are contorted, filled with a heartbreaking regret, a poorly managed love, an awkward tenderness.  “Because… because I didn’t know how to do it.”  And those words, so simple, so human, wrench a painful beat from Louis's chest.  Harry steps forward, hesitantly, his voice low, wavering at points, but he continues, because he must say everything now, because there are no more escapes.  “Requiem told me he had met someone. And I later realised that someone was me. But at the time, I didn’t want to ruin everything. I thought you still hated me. I thought you were writing to Orpheus to spill everything, to complain about me, to mock me… And when I realised that this wasn’t the case, that you were writing to Orpheus things you never said to me, I panicked.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair, nervously, his eyes bright yet tearless.  “I realised you saw two different people. That you did not associate Harry and Orpheus at all. So I tried… I tried to talk about you in my letters. I slipped in details. The café. The old lady. The croissants. The fact that I too had found someone but he pretended to hate me while sometimes taking care of me. It was you. It was you all along. And I hoped you would understand, that you would dare to make the connection, that I wouldn’t have to say it.”  Louis looks at him, his eyes wide open, void of tears but full of invisible cracks. He wants to cry; he feels the pain pulsing under his skin, he feels his shoulders weigh down with an immense fatigue, the fatigue of betrayal, the dizziness, but he keeps his head held high, chin up, because he does not want to crumble, not in front of him, not yet.  Harry continues to speak, voice lower, more broken:  “I tried not to make too much of it. I tried to leave you hints. But you never saw anything…”  Louis understands that everything he believed to be authentic was merely a mirror. Because he had confided his most intimate pains to someone who had just been there, every day, silent, tender, complicit — and a liar.The silence between them starts to vibrate once more, like an elastic band stretched to its limit, threatening to snap with every passing second. Louis can no longer hold it in; his voice barely trembles, but his words snap out, carrying all the distress he has tried to contain for far too long.  "Why did you stop writing?" he gasps, almost at his wits' end. "Why did Orpheus disappear? Why did you stop responding, for God's sake?"  He looks at him, his eyes shining, his breath too rapid, fingers clutching that crumpled letter as if it possessed the power to piece together something he can no longer even name.  Harry remains frozen for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest as though to protect himself, his features drawn tight by a sadness he no longer tries to hide. Then he speaks, softly, directly, as if laying down a final confession in a world that is crumbling.  "Because I couldn’t let you love two people... when it was the same."  He says it with a slowness that feels like a confession. Not a justification. Not a defence. A simple truth, expressed too late.  And Louis, his heart shattered, immediately responds, almost in a strangled whisper, as if it were the only thing he still knows how to say:  "I fell in love with you. With Harry. And Requiem, he fell in love with Orpheus."  A heartbeat of silence fills the space. An expanse between the words, between their bodies, between their hearts. Then Harry slowly shakes his head, painfully, his brow furrowed, throat tight, and his voice resonates like a torn accusation.  "You’re still dissociating…" he murmurs. "Even though we’re the same."  And that phrase... that phrase hits like a punch.  Because it says everything. Because it accuses without shouting. Because it reveals what Louis has refused to see.  He has loved him twice, passionately, sincerely, intensely, but never as one and the same person, never with the entirety that Harry had expected.  Louis does not respond immediately. He says nothing. He steps back, as if in a dream that is going awry, as if his own body no longer truly belongs to him. He slowly turns away, navigates around the bed in silence, opens the wardrobe with movements that are almost too calm, then his fingers find the handle of that old suitcase, the one he hasn’t touched since arriving in Rome. It had remained there, still, silent, a mute witness to his new beginning. And today, it is that suitcase he opens, not sparing a glance at Harry, not saying a word, not trembling.  Harry watches him, frozen. He doesn’t understand—or rather, he understands all too well. He takes a step forward, then another, his voice uncertain, breaths trembling:  "What are you doing...? Louis? What are you doing?"  But Louis does not reply. He pulls out shirts, T-shirts, hastily folded clothes, grabbing what he finds, tossing them into the suitcase without logic, without thought, as if his only urgent aim is to disappear.  "Louis..." Harry repeats, louder now, panic breaking through his tone.And this time, Louis speaks. His voice is hard, hoarse, choked by something that resembles a sob he refuses to let out:  "You cannot know the suffering I've endured since Orpheus disappeared."  His hands continue to shove clothes into his bag, too quickly, too nervously.  "You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning hoping for a letter. To wait for something, anything. To think maybe he's dead, that he no longer exists, that you've imagined him. You have no idea what it feels like to be betrayed by someone who doesn't even have a face."  He closes a compartment, forcing the zip down in a sharp motion.  "You don’t know what it’s like to love two people without understanding why, and to feel guilty every day, believing you're betraying one by loving the other, when in reality…"  He stops, his gaze fixed, his jaw clenched.  "It was you all along. From the start. And you knew it."  Harry steps closer, his voice breaking, eyes wide open, breath short:  "That's why I made sure Orpheus left."  And he releases those words like a sweet truth, like an awkward gesture of love, a desperate attempt at atonement.  "So that you could love me… completely."  But Louis freezes. He grips the handle of his suitcase so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He finally turns to Harry, his face hard, eyes filled with unshed tears, and spits the words like a judgement:  "I should have never fallen in love with you."  And that. That is the phrase that tears Harry's heart apart. It is the blade, sharp, cutting. The one that hurts more than all the silences.  Harry steps back, eyes moist, breath caught in his throat.  Louis, on the other hand, grabs his bag, zips it half shut, seizes his phone, jacket, documents, the bare minimum to disappear. So what if he forgets things? So what if he leaves pieces of himself behind here? He no longer wants them.  He heads towards the door with all his belongings, and Harry, almost whispering, devastated, asks:  "Where are you going?"  Louis stops. He doesn't turn around. He looks up at the door, opens it, and with a last, cold breath, he replies:  "Anywhere you are not."  And the door slams shut. And the silence that follows… is burning with pain.'
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