Randominity

Title: Shut Your Mouth and Hold Your Breath (Part 3/3)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Louis/other, Louis/Hannah, Harry/Louis
Word Count: This part: ~7600
Warnings: Recurring sexual abuse/dubcon/noncon
Disclaimer: This really, really, really did not happen, ever, at all.
Summary: Written to fill my own kinkmeme prompt here. Louis is coerced into performing sexual favors in order to progress through The X Factor and to protect the other boys in One Direction.
A/N: I'm so very sorry.

Read the whole thing at AO3.



Part 1 | Part 2

They make it to the finals and the only thing that mars Louis' excitement about having made it this far is that Aiden isn't still with them. He can't comprehend how unfair it all is, how it could have happened that Aiden, who felt like one of the brightest, most talented personalities Louis'd seen, couldn't get through. Aiden had everything, he'd thought; there was no way Simon and Louis would ever have listened to Aiden, looked at him perform, and said that what he had was not enough. And now Aiden's been sent home and Louis is still here; it feels wrong, and it has everyone in the house shaken, but it's not about just Louis anymore. He's doing this for the others now, and they deserve the chances they've got. He's sure of it.

They do their hometown tour and at Hall Cross Louis stands on the stage in the auditorium and can't hear himself over the screaming and remembers what it was like to be too terrified to perform more than a song or two in front of a couple hundred kids at assembly. Now it's everyone packed into the hall and holding signs and he's not even singing by himself but he feels that familiar fear, a different beast entirely from performing before the lights and cameras of the X Factor studios. These are kids he's passed in the halls and who didn't even know he existed except maybe as one of the 6th Form lads a few months ago, and he feels a tiny surge of pride; he wants to do them proud, too. He'd asked the crew if they could make sure Hannah and Stan can get spots out in front, and they're out there, singing along and grinning at him while Hannah makes wanking and blowjob gestures during Summer of '69, and Stan sticks his tongue through the V of his fingers. It cuts through the fear and Louis smiles back hard through the chorus and it's well enough to get him through.

He doesn't get a chance to see Hannah since they're pretty much off after the show, but on the phone that night, she tells him about their incidental brush with fame. "There was honestly a girl in Year 9 who wanted to start a row with me over you," she says, and Louis grins, leaning back against the front door since it's one of the least populated parts of the house at the moment. There's such a lot more free space and so many fewer of them as contestants these days.

"You're joking," he says. "Why? What'd she say?"

"Well, obviously it's because I don't understand your deep and abiding love for carrots the way she does," she starts, and Louis covers his face with his hand as he laughs, although he knows Hannah won't see.

"God, I love it," he says, then deadpans, "seriously, though, was she fit?"

"Well fit," Hannah says flippantly. "I gave her your mobile number, do you mind?"

"Oh, sure," Louis says. "I'll just get myself a new number, and pretend I don't know you when you ring me next. 'Who's this Blocked Number? Never met her.'"

"You wouldn't last a week without my conversation," Hannah tells him, and when he agrees, she says, "so can I ask you something?" in a hushed voice, suddenly apprehensive. Louis presses his phone closer, thumbs up the volume to hear. "What if I met someone else? You know, if I did, what would you do?" Hannah asks.

Louis frowns, recoiling a bit. "What?" he says, and casts about in his mind for names of lads at school they both know. "I-- like who? Are you--"

"No," Hannah says quickly. "I'm not saying I met someone, I'm asking. What if I met someone. You know? 'Cos you're just so busy, and everywhere, and. All these girls at school are screaming for you now. And it's... been a while, for you and me," she finishes, even more softly.

"I was joking, earlier," Louis says slowly. "About the girl, you know."

"I know," Hannah tells him. "I know that. But... say I met someone. You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?"

Louis takes a deep breath, brushing his fingers through his fringe, feeling fond and a bit guilty. He's not been interested in the girls, the notes with mobile numbers written on, the skimpy clothing worn in dead of winter. Hannah can't know that, and she's giving him an out, he knows, and it makes him not want to take it. But she also doesn't know about Harry, and the conflicting feelings he's been having, and they've not discussed it, but she'd been so understanding about the way they've not been sleeping together. He's sure it isn't fair to assure her about the future when he's not certain he can ever be the way he was with her again. He thinks about her with someone else and it honestly makes him feel relieved and not jealous, like she deserves something he's not able to give her anymore and he loves her enough to want her to be able to have it.

"I wouldn't be angry with you, Hannah," he says, sincerely. "I couldn't; you're incredible. I--" he bites his lip and lets out the breath he's been holding. "I would want you to be happy, I think. Would you... you could still ring me, yeah? We could still talk?"

"Of course," Hannah tells him. "I could still be your girlfriend, and you could tell people, it's more like... I could be seeing someone else, for a while, and... and if I ever wanted to come back...."

"I would want for you to feel you like could come back," Louis says carefully, speaking for himself.

"I would like that, too, yeah," Hannah says.

Louis raises a finger to his mouth and bites at the nail for a bit. "So," he says. "I love you," he blurts, and cringes at the finality of saying it like that.

"Oh, don't be silly," Hannah says. "You'll call me in a week and I'll vote for Cher and tell you I voted for you, and nothing else needs to change, you hear me?"

"You'd vote for Cher over me?" Louis says, mock hurt. "I choose you over fit Year 9 girls and this is how you repay me?"

"Well, Wagner isn't on anymore, and he was my favourite," Hannah replies. "And anyway, I love you, too."

-----

Louis' gratified to be in the final live show, but there's something of it, an edge, or dread, that also feels like he imagines being in the bottom three must feel like on any given night. They perform Torn again and he feels such a bigger part of it this time. They've changed the arrangement just slightly but now he feels like he helped craft this, and it really does seem like they've come full circle, Zayn leaning forward confidently to sing, and Louis thinks, we made that happen, all of them together. They've all come so far. But then there's no one left on the stage but them and Rebecca and when he hears Rebecca's name Louis is surprised that he's actually ready for this; it still hurts, but he's already wracking his brain, thinking of ways he can fix things.

Simon had said he'd only sign them if they won in the end, but he'd said that to the group, not to Louis. He's not made an offer to Louis yet, and Louis thinks if he can just get to Simon, well. That's what this has all been about; what Louis could do for them, what he could make happen for them, and he doesn't even care what Simon would have him do, now. It's everything else that matters. He sees Harry move out of the corner of his eye and when he glances over Harry's head is bent over his hand and he immediately reaches out for him because Harry doesn't know, can't know, that Louis will do anything to make this right again.

Backstage, the boys fall into a hug, clutching at each other with the desperation and frustration of having been so close, and Louis tells them, "we're going to be okay, boys," and refuses to be chastened by Liam's warning look because Liam's hopeful but cautious, and that's just not something Louis feels much of right now. Simon takes them around and talks them up to the cameras and then invites them to his office, and Louis watches him closely, looking for an opening.

But everything's happening so fast now, and then Simon's saying, "Sony will be signing you in the morning," and Niall leaps off the sofa, pumping his fist, and Liam and Zayn are exchanging disbelieving glances, slow smiles spreading across their faces in tandem. Louis looks at Harry and Harry's beaming, grin stretched wide and gaze flitting between him and Simon and Louis doesn't know what he feels.

Simon stands and comes round the sofa to them, clapping them on shoulders when they rise. "Well done, boys," he's saying, guiding them out, "you'll have a lot of meetings and papers to look over tomorrow, so get your rest," and Louis hasn't any idea what he's to do, finds himself looking to Simon who's not meeting his gaze at all, not touching him, not even moving in his direction, his hands on Zayn's and Niall's shoulders.

And then Simon's leaving them, off to talk to press with a final warning not to tell anyone of the deal until Syco can announce it, and Louis' left staring at his retreating back, a bit lost. If they've done it, really properly done it, earned this record deal... if he's not had to fight for it, then he's not sure what that means for him, if Simon is finished with him, or, or... he doesn't know. He's never let himself think of a time when Simon wouldn't ask anything of him, or take it from him, and he can't think what it means if he's not... if he's not that, for Simon, or for the band.

He allows himself a moment of self pity to think of what he'd been willing to do if Simon had asked it, almost rocks on his feet with the horror of it, and then he realises Harry's shaking his shoulder, warm breath puffing on the side of his face, saying, "Louis!" over and over in his ear. He presses his lips together and tastes salt, touches his cheek and finds it wet with tears.

"You just sort of... went quiet for a second and started welling up, like you were sad or something," Harry tells him, then points at his own face, his own eyes full of unshed tears. "I don't know why I'm crying, either. This is supposed to be good news, isn't it?"

Louis just nods and then he throws his arms around Harry's neck, rubbing the tip of his nose into Harry's cheek until he squirms. He sniffles discreetly and buries his face in Harry's collar. "Best ever," he says.

-----

The rest of the year is a whirlwind of signing papers and contracts, management and meetings, planning gigs and their recording schedule, and Louis can't believe that this is their life, that this gets to be their life. They move into the hotel they'll be staying in after the X Factor house, and Louis and Harry christen their beds, the telly stand, the closet. They perform local gigs and check in with Simon every couple of days and it's like Simon doesn't even look at Louis anymore; he wonders if it was always that way and he'd just been too anxious to see it. He starts watching the other boys, wary when someone goes to the toilet and he's not above saying he has to go, too, just to be certain, but everyone seems just fine. Everything seems fine.

So Louis just says, "Uncle Simon," after one of their brief meetings, using the appellation Simon'd asked him to use what seems like ages ago as the other boys file out of his office. "Can I ask you a quick question?" he asks, and he remembers how Niall had given him a probing look the first time he'd called Simon 'Uncle,' the way he'd said, "reckon I should start calling him that, too?" and how Louis had just looked out the window of their car and said,

"you probably shouldn't, no."

"What can I do for you, Louis?" Simon asks, his hands folded in front of him on his desk, and Louis has his back to the door and makes himself come forward and sit back down in one of Simon's comfortable chairs, his hands gripping the armrests.

"What's happened?" is all Louis says, picking at the fabric beneath his fingers. It sounds like such a pathetic question to him once he's said it, like he's a jilted lover, like he's asking for more, but Simon had said, once, that he should understand how these things worked, and he doesn't, he doesn't understand it at all.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Simon says blandly, and holds out his hands. "You have a record deal with me -- that's what all that paperwork was about -- and now I'm your boss, and you're my employee. You're a good employee," he adds, "you work hard and I'm sure I can give you a good performance review come mid-year, all right?" He smirks at Louis and winks, good-natured, then raises his eyebrows in question. "Does that clear anything up for you?" he says, and it feels like a dismissal, so Louis gives him a small nod, saying,

"Yeah, thanks," and gets up to leave.

"Louis," Simon calls as he's got his hand on the door handle, and he pauses, but doesn't turn back. "I hope we'll have a good professional relationship moving forward," Simon says, and Louis takes a deep breath and fumbles with the handle, hands shaking with relief, before he's able to get back outside.

It doesn't change anything else for him, anyway; he'd started to hope, when another day would go by and nobody would come for him, or take him aside, or meet him in the toilets, that maybe things might start to get normal for him again. But he still finds fantasising about sexual things discomfiting, can't bring himself to look down when he comes into the spray of the shower.

He finds out Steve Brookstein's been tweeting shit about him because Hannah and Stan text him telling him to avoid his Twitter feed, and then Harry comes over and asks to see his phone, pocketing it when he hands it over and shuffling back over to his seat to play with his DS. Louis marches across the room to crawl over him, smacking him on the arm and then twisting his nipple, hard, until he gives the phone back up. He slouches down on the cushion next to Harry and thumbs through his feed, skimming past the retweets and indignant messages from fans until he sees the originals. He reads over them a few times, chewing on his lip, and then he realises his hands are shaking so he tosses his phone down on the table, gets up, and wipes his hands on his thighs.

"It's all rubbish, really," Harry says, looking up at him, and Louis doesn't think he's been playing his DS after all. "What he said," Harry goes on to clarify, and Louis just shrugs, pressing his lips together.

"He doesn't know me," he says, finally, and that doesn't even begin to cover it. Steve doesn't know anything about how scared he's been or how hard he's worked or how far he's come, doesn't know anything about what he's done or what he'd have done for this. "I didn't even get put through as a solo artist anyway, did I?" he says bitterly, and then he fishes around for his iPod and puts his headphones on and doesn't take them off until they're ready to pile out of the van for their gig that day.

His mum rings him later, wanting to know if he's angry or all right, telling him what a bully Steve's being and he says, "I'm fine, mum, I don't care, really," and he wonders if Steve would have walked away if Simon and Louis had said those things to him. He wonders if it would have been easy to do, for someone like Steve.

After he gets off the phone with her, he sits down on his bed and carefully types out a tweet in response, takes a deep breath and hits send. Harry texts him from across their room with "my hero. :-) x" and Louis texts back, "You are the wind beneath my wings. x" and when he peels back the covers, inviting Harry in, Harry comes like Louis' the one doing him a favour.

-----

They get a week off for Christmas and Hannah spends half days with him and his family, sharing birthday cake with his sisters in his bedroom, playing at teatime. "It's like we're not even trying anymore," he laments, arms draped over Hannah's shoulders as he stands behind her in the foyer while he sees her off. He goes on his tiptoes to get the reach to try to grope at her breasts from above, but even that seems a token effort at best. "Have you met anyone?" he whispers in her ear, wiggling his fingertips on top of her breast.

"No," she giggles, and grabs his hand with both of hers to pretend she's going to throw him wrestling-style. "Have you?"

"Maybe," he says coyly. "Or no. Really, no."

He and Harry return to their hotel room in London after hols and when Harry asks him, as they're unpacking, what he got for Christmas and his birthday, Louis says, "the gift of celibacy." Over Harry's cackle, he adds, "it's all right, I'm meant to be seeing other people now, anyway."

"You and Hannah broke up?" Harry looks alarmed, but Louis' not in a mood to discuss it.

"That's just it," he says. "We didn't. She's just lovely like that, gave me a pass to shag all the willing fans I can handle."

"And you don't want them," Harry says, sagely.

"And I don't want them," Louis says.

So he tickles Harry in the toilet, pinning him against the sink, batting his knees away from his balls and occasionally tweaking a curl to keep him guessing where Louis' hands will be next, and it's the closest thing to sex Louis can imagine having anymore.

"I do believe I have the upper hand," he crows, holding one of Harry's above his head by the wrist. "I do believe that what I have here is decisively--"

Harry suddenly reaches up with his other hand draws his fingers down Louis' face from forehead to chin, shushing him. Louis tucks his chin in and raises his eyebrows in question, stilling with Harry's other hand held in the air. "What?" he says, and Harry makes a frustrated sound and glares.

"I said shush!" Harry tells him, and Louis nods, whispers,

"What?" loudly, just to hear him growl with mock anger.

Harry gazes at him for a long moment, making him wait far past the point where it's grown awkward, the corners of his mouth twitching back up and up until Louis tosses his own head impatiently. Then he uses his free hand to pull the corners of his mouth down until his expression is neutral again.

“Don't get weird,” Harry whispers in Louis' face. “But your girlfriend said it's okay, so I'm going to kiss you now.”

Louis blinks, and his heart lurches. “You've kind of made it weird by announcing your intentions like that,” he says, trying to stop himself going all tense because there are so many variables, really, and Harry knows about his hair, but he doesn't know other things, and he's not going to think about sex with Harry just now and Harry breathes,

"shush," and leans in.

"Wait," Louis says, and Harry pauses, gaze flicking from Louis' mouth to his eyes again. "Ask me," Louis says, softly, and holds his breath.

Harry's mouth quirks a little, half-open on a retort, but then he straightens slightly and very solemnly says, "Louis Tomlinson. Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Louis whispers, and it just feels nice, really, being asked, he'd never thought it could mean so much, and then Harry's mouth is on his and okay, he thinks, okay.

Harry's lips are soft, which Louis'd thought they would be, and he doesn't have stubble, which Louis hadn't thought he would, and he moves rather aggressively for a first kiss, which Louis probably could have imagined, but didn't. His mouth moves in tiny suckles and bites along Louis' lips like he wants to map out every inch of the outside before moving in, and Louis is about to chalk it up to youthful enthusiasm when Harry slides his tongue between his lips and suddenly every tiny bite and nibble feels sensitized, as his mouth widens to slot against Harry's, meets Harry's tongue with his own, their faces pushing his glasses slightly askew as he does.

He lets go of Harry's hand and takes a tiny step back to put space between their hips, but puts both hands on Harry's jaw, thumbs rubbing over his cheeks as they pull apart.

"So," Harry says, his breath coming just a bit heavier. "Now you've kissed a boy."

Louis gives him a disbelieving glare. "You can't have done that just because I said I was curious," he says.

"No," Harry agrees, shaking his head slowly, blinking. He waits a beat. "I did it because I wanted to kiss a real man," he says, and Louis snorts and drops his head to Harry's shoulder to giggle.

"Louis," Harry goes on, smile evident in his voice, and Louis tilts his forehead on Harry's shoulder to take him in. "Can I kiss you again?"

Louis lifts his head and nods. "Yeah," he says, and takes his glasses off, holding them in one hand as he leans back in. He tilts his head to get closer, tongue pushing past Harry's teeth, and moans into his mouth when Harry just sucks on it, doesn't bother pushing back. The slick sounds of their kissing are amplified in the toilet and Harry keeps pressing forward with his hips, trying to close the distance between his and Louis', but Louis keeps on shifting back until his arse hits the doorframe, startling them apart. They stare at each other a moment and Louis knows he must be mirroring Harry's flushed face and wet lips. Harry's looking at him like he's rooting for secrets and Louis wants to give him one, something, even if it's something safe for now, so he reaches down and grabs his shirt by the hem, pulling it up and over his head and folding his glasses inside before setting it on the floor. They'll probably step on them later, but right now Louis can't quite manage to care.

"Can I," Harry begins, and Louis just nods and says,

"yes," letting Harry slide his hands up and over his ribs to rest on his chest, kissing him once more before he entangles his fingers in the bottom of Harry's own jumper. They pull it over his head together and Louis guides Harry back towards Louis' bed, closest to the toilet.

They snog properly once they get there, Louis stretched out between Harry's spread thighs. One of Louis' hands is resting in Harry's hair and one of Harry's is low on Louis' waist with the fingertips just dipping into Louis' back pocket, and Louis slowly becomes aware of his fading arousal, how it just seems to ebb away until he's less turned on and more feeling warm and heavy. He notices, now, the way Harry's making tight little circles with his hips against him, red-faced with his eyes shut. Harry's definitely hard in his trousers and Louis knows what his cock looks like, but he can't even bring it to mind now, to try to boost his own arousal. He sighs and rolls off Harry, still flushed with the memory of his hardon.

"Did you want to stop?" Harry asks, voice low, gripping his forearm, and Louis shakes his head, looking over and down the length of Harry's body and biting his lip. He can do this, he thinks. It doesn't have to be like anything else he's ever done.

"No," he says. "I could still," and he leans back over Harry and smooths his hair from his forehead with one hand while he reaches down and undoes Harry's fly with the other, sticks his hand into the opening in Harry's trousers, into his pants. Harry's hard and hot inside and Louis just watches his mouth fall wordlessly open as Louis takes him in hand and starts stroking; Harry closes his eyes and clutches at Louis' arm, starting up his tiny thrusts again into Louis' palm, breathing heavily and trying to stifle it.

Louis doesn't have any real technique to speak of and he's not trying to, really, just focusing on Harry's face and responding to his tics; more on this upstroke, a little tighter now, and he feels connected to Harry up there, with their heads leaned in together and nearly touching, Harry's hairline growing damp beneath his thumb. Harry chokes out a sob and his eyes fly open and he starts moaning, hips jerking hard under Louis' wrist as he comes, and Louis lets go, pulls his hand back and presses it to the sheets beside Harry's hip until Harry stops shuddering.

Harry takes a couple of deep breaths and blows them out toward the ceiling before he cranes his neck to look down at himself. "Ugh," he says. "I'm a mess," and Louis hops off the bed to forage for Harry's jumper, throwing it hard across the room at him before stooping for his own shirt and glasses. He pulls his shirt back on and waits until Harry's finished wiping himself down and tucking himself back in before approaching again and sitting on the edge of the bed, hand outstretched.

"And now you've got off with a boy," he says, as Harry places his hand in his.

"Mmm," Harry agrees. "You didn't, though," he points out, and Louis shrugs.

"I don't need to," he says, matter-of-factly. "I have amazing powers of stamina. I'm a forty-hour man; I'll have my orgasm on Tuesday."

Harry narrows his eyes at him. "I'm pretty sure that's not what's meant by stamina," he says, then, "I could blow you," he adds.

"It's all right, Harry," Louis tells him, and pulls his feet up on the bed, laying down facing him. He gestures in the air for Harry to turn over so they can spoon.

"Can I blow you?" Harry asks instead, and Louis has to stifle his smile.

"No," he says, pushing on Harry's shoulder until he gives and rolls to his other side. "But thanks for asking."

----

Harry makes it a point to ask him for permission all the time, and though Louis hadn't at all meant for it to become standard practice, he likes being able to say "yes," and to be able to freely say "no" without a curl of panic in his stomach just because Harry's fingers are edging toward the waistband of his pants, or curving too low on his arse.

They travel to LA to record tracks and Harry asks, "can I?" with his fingers hooked in Louis' belt loops, bumping their hips together. He asks, "can I?" as he takes Louis' hand in his and swings their hands between them as they walk down the hall to the hotel consuite for another meeting. "Can I?" he asks, fork poised over the last sausage on Louis' plate at breakfast, and Niall frowns and asks,

"hey, are you two...?" gaze moving between the two of them.

They exchange glances and then look down at the sausage, grinning, and Louis says, "er, actually, yeah, and I can't help but think that's really a bit symbolic. Good one, Niall." Niall whoops and holds up his hand for a high five, and Louis spears his sausage and feeds it to Harry.

"Wait, what?" Liam says, looking up from his phone.

"I think Harry and Louis just said they're shagging," Zayn says, his mouth still a bit open in surprise.

"Each other?" Liam says. "That's-- hey, that's great, guys," he says, putting down his phone and coming over to them to give them each hugs. "That's. Congratulations."

"I mean, is that new?" Zayn asks. "Or were you always shagging?"

"Yeah, I thought they were always shagging, too," Niall says. He holds up his hand for a high five, and Zayn gives it to him.

"Then why'd you just say something now?" Harry says, after swallowing a mouthful of tea around his sausage. "We're not doing anything different, we share food all the time. We share food with you all the time."

"Yeah," Niall says, "but you don't usually look more interested in eating each other than the food."

-----

They snog a lot, lengthy sessions, "snogathons" as Louis has dubbed them, and Louis spends a lot of time hard but happy. He doesn't mind pulling away most times when Harry starts pushing up against him, seeking friction, wiping a thumb over his wet lip and saying, "I think I fancy putting on some music. Wanna dance?" or lightly grasping Harry's hands in his as he says, "no touching," or "I'm not really happy to see you, it's just my phone's gone sideways in my pocket." When they're just snogging -- when it's just that -- he's fine, he likes it, gets turned on by it. He thinks he might be okay, thinks he might like more, and some nights they do more.

He props himself up on his elbow as he grinds down against Harry, biting gently at Harry's collarbone because he likes the sound Harry makes when he does. He could get off like this, he knows, but he never lets himself; other times he'll find he's tumbling up, away and out of his head and makes himself stop because he can't stand that, having this with Harry and just watching like he let himself do too often with Hannah.

"Can I," Harry twists his head away from Louis, gulps and clutches at Louis' shirt beneath his jumper, fingers rubbing over his back, "can I touch you?" He always asks.

Louis shakes his head into Harry's shoulder. "No," he says, hips stuttering, and he always says no. They must have been doing this a while, rubbing against each other, for Harry to ask. Louis thinks he might actually be getting off like this. He should probably stop.

"Can I, then," Harry pants, "oh, god, can you touch me," and he reaches down between them and fumbles with his belt buckle, before just shoving his trousers and pants down a few inches, not even bothering to unbutton them first. Louis can see the head of Harry's cock peek out from the waistband of his pants and drags his gaze back up to Harry's face, wide-eyed.

"Harry," he says warily, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut and says,

"Can I touch myself?" and doesn't wait for a response, just pushes his palm against his cock below the head, says, "oh, oh shit," and comes, into the air and over his shirt and on the sleeve of Louis' jumper.

Louis doesn't mean to, but he can't, he can't be near Harry right now, and he hurriedly backs up off the bed, cards a hand through his hair. "Um," he says, shrugging his shoulders helplessly, "sorry, I didn't--"

"Sorry," Harry echoes, his face still red and a bit shocked. "That was... sudden." He tucks his cock back in past his waistband but his erection hasn't gone completely down yet, his trousers still slightly tented with it. He reaches out for Louis. "You can come back," he says. "I'm sorry, you were close, I could tell--"

"No," Louis says quickly, and he's not anywhere even close to coming, anymore. He knows this is not the appropriate response to having the boy you're getting off with actually successfully get off, and he says, "I have to," and heads for the toilet. He sees Harry start to sit up as he goes but then he's shutting the door behind him, leaning back against it and he makes himself take a few breaths. They don't help, just make him more aware that Harry came on him, on his jumper, and he feels like he can smell it on him, so he shrugs out of it, wads it up and throws it against the tub. He leans over the sink, gripping the counter, and tries to get his breathing under control. Then he sighs, stripping out of the rest of his clothes and starting the shower.

He strokes himself hard and fast under the water, the quickest and easiet way for him to come, and thinks it's ironic that Harry probably suspects he's wanking right now, but not like this, not the way he can't get off with anything but pressure anymore. He thinks of the way Harry had pushed down his pants, needy, how he couldn't stop himself coming, from wanting Louis so badly, and he suddenly wants to cry. He can't go on like this, he knows. He can't fix himself on his own.

He puts the same clothes back on because he knows they're still clean, that Harry only got the jumper and he'll deal with that later, and when he comes out of the toilet, his wet hair slicked back, Harry's sitting on his own bed, having changed into different clothes entirely. His fringe is tucked tight behind his ear, which Louis knows means he's been fussing with it, pulling it taut again and again, and Harry says, "you have to talk to me, Louis."

Louis purses his lips and puts his hands in his pockets, shuffling over to sit beside Harry. "Yeah," he says.

"I feel like I'm doing everything wrong with you," Harry says sadly.

Louis shakes his head. "No, it's... it's me. I'm, um." He heaves a sigh. "Not okay," he admits. "I probably need," he shrugs. "Some kind of, like, help, or counselling or something, I don't know, I'm just. I know I'm not all right. I don't... feel... all right."

"Okay," Harry nods slowly. "Okay," he says.

Louis pulls his hands out of his pockets and puts them in his lap and stares hard at them, taking a deep breath, then another, steeling himself, and the words for this won't come, he can't sort them to explain this. "Harry, I've done..." he begins, hesitantly. "Things, with Simon, and Louis, um." He bites his lip. "Like, sexual things, to get put through on the show. For us to get put through."

He hears Harry's sharp intake of breath and twists his fingers together. "But-- when?" Louis only barely hears him say, and he shrugs again.

"Since I auditioned," he says, and Harry mutters,

"oh, god."

"Until, um. The finals."

"Oh, god," Harry says, and Louis feels his hand clamp down heavily on his shoulder. "How did you... but we're on... have you told anyone else?" he asks quietly, urgently, his face right up next to Louis', but Louis can't bring himself to meet his gaze.

"Just you," he admits. "I don't know if I can... if I could... tell anyone else." He chews on his lip a bit. He'd thought he'd feel better, saying it the first time, like he'd feel unburdened, like he could move on, but he doesn't. He's just as ashamed and guilty and angry as before, and he's glad, at least, that he doesn't have to hide it from Harry now, but he doesn't feel any better about it and he wonders why he ever thought he might, how he could possibly feel better just because he'd admitted it enough times to enough people.

"But you should do," Harry's insisting. "I mean, you even said, you should get counselling, it can help--"

"Kind of difficult to get to a regular counsellor in our line of work, don't you think?" Louis says, a little sharply.

He chances a look at Harry and Harry seems taken aback by that. "I guess I... I guess," Harry says. "But there's. There's numbers, like, hotlines and. God, we work with him! I don't know what to tell you," he says, in a small voice. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Louis shakes his head, still looking at his fingers. "I did... really a lot of awful things," he says, his eyes burning.

"But they made you do them," Harry says.

Louis thinks back on all the things Louis and Simon said to him, the questions and offers, and shrugs again.

"But they made you do them," Harry repeats. "They-- it's not your fault, whatever you did."

His eyes are full of tears and he doesn't really want to argue about it, so "okay," Louis says softly.

"Louis," Harry says, and his face looks stricken when Louis looks over at him.

"They didn't make me do all of it," Louis says, and blinks the first few tears out of his eyes. "I didn't have to do all of it." He pulls his feet up on the bed and wraps his arms around his knees so he can hide his face in them.

"But no, that's-- why would you say that?" Harry gets up on his knees next to him, hand kneading his shoulder, like he's pleading. "Because that's not, that's like, the first thing everyone ever--"

"Because I'm not sorry," Louis blurts, into the shadow of his knees. "Because," he heaves a sigh into the denim there, "I wouldn't have any of this, anything, if I hadn't. I wouldn't-- because I could've said, I could've stopped it and I didn't, I wanted--" he cuts himself off, fights for air.

"But that's," Harry says, softly, "why it's, like. Not consent, isn't it, I mean, if someone has power or, or you're doing it for something--"

"But it," Louis gulps. "But it is, it's not like." He chokes back a sob. "I went to them, I--"

"You couldn't have done," Harry whispers.

"I didn't want to be nothing," Louis insists, and he can't keep the thick, choked sound of tears out of his voice, feels his knees grow warm and wet with them as he cries. "And then there was the, the band and I did it for us and I-- wouldn't say no, I wouldn't have--" he sobs. "I wanted to protect you, because-- he would've--" Louis presses his lips together and tries to keep it together long enough to finish because he doesn't know if he ever will, if he doesn't now. "I would have done-- anything," he says, shuddering, and covers his head with his arms, wants to disappear.

He feels Harry knee up closer to him, feels his arms come round to hug him from the side and he's muttering to himself but Louis can hear him, just "oh my god, my god, Louis, how can I help you, Louis, I'm so sorry, Louis,"

and he feels like he's going to be sick from shame and crying and he leans over, trying to get onto his side; Harry goes with him, follows him down and lays behind him and puts his hand over Louis' where they're clutching at his own hair. Harry lays there with him and he stops crying eventually, feeling ragged and sore and worn out, and then Harry says, "I'm really, really sorry," and Louis turns around and sees that Harry's been crying, too. "Can I--" Harry begins. "Can I still be with you? Can I stay with you?"

Louis blinks at him and his eyes feel gritty and swollen as he nods and says, "yeah. Yeah, please."

-----

They don't have a day off right away, but Louis manages, gets rested at night and he knows Harry's keeping an eye on him during the days, always careful to ask permission and always ready to intervene if one of the boys get too handsy. "I don't mind being cuddled on, Harry," he tells him, but he does it with fans and interviewers, too, if they get too familiar, put a hand on his arm without checking with him first, and Harry says,

"Just being careful, is all," and if he's honest Louis' grateful.

The next day off Louis calls a crisis number they've looked up because Harry'd begged him, saying, "please, please, you have to tell someone," and it actually is easier to say it the second time, though probably because he doesn't have Harry's reaction to fear, or worry anyone's watching him describe his shame. He cries again, and has to put the phone down at one point to go to the toilet and lean against the bowl trying not to be sick, but in the end he gets a few e-mail addresses of contacts, and a few links to message boards for survivors of sexual abuse. They tell him it's not his fault and he nods, says "I know," and intellectually he does, but he hopes he'll be able to believe it one day, too.

He doesn't tell Harry everything at once, just things he's thinking sometimes, when he thinks of them. He'll say, "Sometimes I fantasise about tearing them to pieces, like, with my bare hands and my teeth and everything," as they're sat watching a DVD. He glances over at Harry who's watching him carefully, and Harry nods in acknowledgement, the only indication what he's heard bothers him in the way his knuckles have gone white where he grips his phone, or the way he's gnawing on his lip. "I fantasise about that more than anything," Louis admits.

Months of touring means months Louis doesn't have to be in the same room as Simon, and despite the lack of stability he's settling into his own routine of messageboards, and Skype, and texts and e-mails with other survivors, with families of survivors. Harry's in contact with some of them as well, and sometimes Louis will come out of the toilet and find Harry sitting with his face illuminated by the screen of his laptop, wiping tears from his face, and know that at least he's not suffering through this alone, any more than Louis has to anymore. He loves Harry fiercely, now, and he's finding a way to be thankful for having him that doesn't let him blame himself for everything else that happened to him along the way.

He tells the other boys near the end of the tour, because they'll be back in London soon, back in Simon's office, and he thinks he'll be fine, but he doesn't want to blindside them. This is their job, their lives; they can figure out what to do with the details later. He tells them and Niall cries and Zayn hugs him and won't let go, murmuring, "sorry, I'm so sorry, I understand now, I'm so, so sorry," and Liam sounds so bewildered when he says,

"How could we not know? How could we not-- you were hurting and, and everything you were going through-- I don't understand how we could not see that?"

"There was a new boy in my school parish, the last year I was in," Niall tells them, his face red and blotchy with tears. "He said there was a priest at his old parish that had some accusations against him, and they couldn't get it prosecuted so his family just moved, to get away from him." He glances up at Louis. "He was like you, sometimes, like the way you could be sometimes, and... I think back on some of the things you did and sometimes I think I could've known, but I never said. I mean, how do you ask that?" His chin crumples and he scrubs at his face with his hands. "I'm sorry I didn't notice," he says, and Louis shakes his head.

"It's nobody's fault in this room," he says, "and believe me when I say it took me months to actually think that was true."

They ask him if he's all right, and he says, "I don't know." He's not the way he was anymore, but he's no longer afraid all the time of being found out, of having someone look too closely and see the ways in which he's not working properly. But he still never can tell when Harry might stroke a hand down his hip and make him go far away and distant, or sense memory might make him go cold all over, feel like he can't breathe for a moment. He's got to tell his mum and dad and maybe even the authorities someday, because he doesn't want this to happen to anyone else, but all he can do is what he does every day, which is whatever he thinks he has to do.

He leans back between Harry's legs where he's sat above him on the sofa. "I don't know," he says. "I think I will be."

End.