You've Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes)

Chapter 10

The morning of the American Music Awards, Harry awakes far too early. Immediately, the stiffness in his limbs is evident, his aching back flat against the hard floorboards doing away with whatever temporary sleep-induced disorientation he might've felt. A single bleary-eyed blink up at the vaulted ceilings and he's rooted to the top floor of The Roosevelt.

He's woken up in so many places over the years, always unsure which bed he's in, what time it is, and what country he's in. He's done it so many times that eventually even being home he'd wake displaced. It used to be that having the familiar warmth of someone beside him was enough to ground him anywhere. All he'd have to do is reach out and snake an arm around Louis' waist to feel reassured that although they might've been halfway across the world in a completely different time zone, they were together. That was enough. It had always been enough. Until one day it just wasn't.

The previous night's conversation comes to the forefront of Harry's groggy jetlagged mind, and then, because his brain is taking a little time to catch up, he realises Louis is in the room with him. He silently rises and admires the square of sun illuminating Louis' peacefully slumbering features on the bed. His eyelashes look like honey, his hair is highlighted with gold, and he's enveloped in what looks like a cloud of blankets. He's almost cherubic, like a renaissance painting suspended in the Louvre.

Harry has to stop himself from staring, afraid he'll be caught out since Louis' such a light sleeper. He grabs a complimentary robe from the cupboard to cover his naked torso and creeps downstairs.

The morning light pools onto the floor of the living room, polished oak made bright white on contact. Harry shuffles in, socks sliding on the lacquer, feeling slightly chilly in only his boxers. His hair is a mess and he fiddles with it absentmindedly while roaming the first floor quarters. He'd been so jet-lagged last night that he'd gone straight upstairs to bed.

The living room is generous in size, sectioned off into the dining area with a long table and floor to ceiling views of Los Angeles to eat by. The decorative palm plants thrive in the corner and another smaller flowering plant sits on a pile of coffee table books in the living area.

Harry eases back into the worn red cocoa leather couch, creased and aged just enough to be inviting and comfortable. It's situated opposite two studded armchairs and a flat-screen TV. He passes the time scrolling through his phone, catching up on the lives of friends and strangers on social media.

He's halfway between a picture of Rita Ora on an unknown tropical beach and another of Ny nude in her bathtub, laughing freely when Louis' Instagram handle catches his eye. He scrolls back up to see a post that makes his heart skip a beat. The photograph is mundane if you were to do nothing but glance at it, but Harry's analysing it as if his life depends on it. It's a photograph of Bruce, sitting like Lady Muck on Louis' couch. He's scruffy, butterscotch blonde fur matted and curling all over the place and the caption 'Boyo' is generic, one he's used to describe the dogs in posts before. But that isn't what is racking in millions of likes and thousands upon thousands of blue and green heart emojis in the comments section. In the background, barely cropped off, Harry recognises his own hand, cross tattoo and anchor on display. He's sitting on the other end of the couch just out of frame, his arm draped over the back of the couch, hand limp at the wrist. The rest of him isn't visible and if it weren't for the identifying tattoos, you'd never know he was there with Louis at all. It's subtle and it eludes to a life lived together outside the public eye, a life that they once shared long ago.

Harry indulges in the simple joy of being captured unawares by Louis – he certainly doesn't remember when this was taken – and the fact that Louis felt comfortable enough to put it out in the world. His thumb hovers hesitantly over the image, and before he can think too much about it, he double taps to like it.