Harry is exhausted by the time he crawls into bed.
He’s ashamed to admit it, but he was nervous about going to bed. He didn’t want to pick up the argument. But sometimes he can’t let things go. Neither can Louis. They don’t fight often, but when they do it isn’t cheap. They get it all out.
Louis forgot to close the curtains before he got into bed and the moonlight shines directly in. It’s full tonight, first day of Spring, and the knowledge of the impending flowers is calming.
Louis is curled up on his side, facing Harry’s side of the bed. He must have rolled once he was asleep, because if Harry knows him at all he knows Louis would have forced himself to fall asleep facing away. The line between Louis’s stubbornness being endearing and wildly annoying is merely but a thread.
Harry suppresses a sigh and climbs into bed, his eyes on Louis, the moon shimmering in the distance through the window behind him. The light glances off his cheekbones and sinks in, creates a sort of glow that Harry is sure nobody else in the world has. It highlights the freckles on his cheeks, the ones under his eyes, the flecks of grey in his hair.
Harry drags the covers up to his shoulders and shuffles his way across the bed until he’s face to face with Louis. He breathes out slowly, his breath ruffling Louis’s fringe.
“I love you so much,” Harry whispers. “I have to start there.”
Louis’s nose twitches.
“I love how you fold the newspaper when you do the crossword and I love how you think you help with the grocery list but all you do is write question marks, and I love how you judge everybody’s tea orders.”
Louis’s dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his lids, but Harry wishes he could see his eyes.
“I love how much you love me, how much you love love, and I even love how good you are at arguing.”
Harry swears Louis’s lips twitch.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” he says. “But I’m not sorry for having a different opinion. I like that we’re different sometimes. I love that about us.”
And then Harry is faced with those blue eyes and that glimmer in them that looks like a laugh.
“I’m sorry too,” Louis says, his voice raspy from sleep. “And my question marks are helpful.”
“And I love you,” he finishes on the back of a yawn, reaching out to wrap his arm around Harry’s body. “You always do this.”
“It’s easier in the dark,” Harry says, and before he used to be embarrassed, but now it’s a habit. After their biggest fights, when it’s dark, he tells Louis all the things he loves about him; it calms him, eases the sting of their words and feelings.
“I know,” he says. “I love that about you.”