title: it gives a lovely light
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: 5k
disclaimer: i own neither les miserables nor any of the people mentioned. i wish. title from a few figs from thistles by edna st. vincent millay.
summary: as it had been since they were children, harry stands with his feet solidly planted between louis and the smart choice, the wise choice. wise has never been my style, louis thinks.
notes: one minute my dash was giving me happy harry/louis photosets and the next it gave me 'do you hear the people sing?' and then this happened. it's inspired by the enjolras/grantaire storyline, but i really just took everything that made me cry in the movie and then added some of my own backstory and threw in one direction because of course i did. warnings for major character death, spoilers for les miserables (movie and musical and book), slightly graphic violence and sexual content.

harry has a lot of feelings.

this is nothing new, louis has learned to deal with it. he takes to causes as a duck to water, can’t wait to dive into a new one. from the time they were schoolboys and louis wanted nothing more than to sit by the wall and sketch out the flowers, harry kept his eyes constantly scanning the yard. the minute he’s spot a smaller child in distress or being harassed, he’d jump to his feet in the middle of louis’ sentence, eyes blazing, and stalk across the field. it didn’t matter how much taller or wider the other boys were, there had never been a time when they didn’t back down at the fire in harry’s face, the taut lines of his shoulders. no one dared swing a punch either, aware that any scratch or bruise would be worn like a battle wound and therefore completely useless to embarrass him. he’d walk back to louis with his head held high, sure that he’d singlehandedly saved someone, done something.

and louis will always be there, sitting, waiting for his hero to come back to him. it’s a rhythm as old as they are.

****

louis isn’t sure what he expects when they enter the university. he finds himself buried to the neck in papers and lectures and women, and it takes longer than it should to notice that harry has stopped coming to the winehouses with him, stumbles into bed far too late and far too sober.

“come on, cherie, tell me where you’ve been sneaking off to. what’s her name, then?”

harry rolls his eyes, but then sets them on louis in a way that makes his skin tingle. it’s a familiar look, but it’s never been sent in his direction. he drops his eyes, unable to keep contact.

“louis,” harry says carefully, “don’t you ever feel… guilty?”

for so many things, louis thinks. “never,” he says, as much to see the way he knows harry’s jaw will twitch and the slightest blush will rise on his cheeks.

“louis,” harry chides, and louis can tell he’s only seconds away from stomping his foot. “be serious. haven’t you ever felt guilty about how literally everything has always been, and will always be, handed to you on a silver platter?”

so it’s that kind of night. louis is far too sober for this conversation, and starts rummaging under his bed for the flask he’s hoping will help rectify that particular situation. when he comes back up empty handed harry’s still standing with his arms crossed and waiting for louis to respond.

“no, hazza, I don’t,” he sighs over his shoulder as he makes his way to the closet. he knows that flask is here somewhere…

“well maybe you should.” the last word is punctuated by harry grabbing louis’ shoulder and spinning him round and against the wall. and, oh. because harry’s hands are gripping him tight, his forehead inches away, his lips… and louis cannot follow that train of thought. he goes back to the eyes, but instantly regrets it. they’re clear, the green endless and sharp. his lashes brush against his cheekbones when he blinks, quick like he doesn’t want to miss a heartbeat of looking at louis. it’s a little like being drunk, the way harry’s eyes run over his face, and he can feel his own skin flush under the weight of his gaze.

louis only has a split second to think, but refuses to take even that because if he uses any more brain power than it’s going to require to tilt his head and lean forward just that fraction of an inch, he’s going to lose his nerve. harry’s eyes widen just the tiniest bit, and his lips part to take in a breath. it feels like he takes the air straight from louis’ lungs, and this is it, this is –

“harry, where are you, the meeting started – oh.”

harry pulls away in an instant, turning to face zayn. louis buries his face in his hands, knows that everything he’s feeling is playing across it and that he has no way to stop it. he takes a shaky breath, trying to compose himself as harry crosses the room to talk with zayn. he hears harry say something to zayn, and zayn reply, so some form of conversation must go on, but he can’t hear a thing over the roaring of the blood in his ears. he processes the heavy thunk of the door shutting, the light sound of zayn’s footsteps growing fainter, and only then does he feel that his breath is even enough to take his hands away and open his eyes. harry’s moved across the room, sagging against his bed like he’s exhausted. and he is, now that louis is looking closely. his eyes are heavy and his shoulders hunched like they’re carrying the weight of the world, the shoulders of someone so much older than just eighteen. for a second louis wonders if harry notices the same things about him, the way his eyes are always red and his fingers perpetually black with ink stains. how his lips are always red and chapped from the cold wind.

they stand that way for minutes, or hours, or centuries, but finally harry’s voice breaks the silence.

“i… the meeting. they’ll be expecting me.”

it’s quiet, tentative, like he knows he’s taking the easy way out. louis can feel his heart break just then, that harry wants to take the easy way out. that there’s anything more important to him than the seconds leading up to zayn barging through the door. he wants to scream, to cry, for one mad instant he wants nothing more than to slap harry across the face.

instead he swallows around the lump in his throat and grins brilliantly at harry. it feels not quite right on his face, like he might have the angles off, but if harry notices… well. harry doesn’t notice.

“off we go then, to save the world I suppose?” he busies himself with the forgotten task of finding the flask, stashed in the sole of a boot, just as he’d supposed.

“just france.”

harry’s voice breaks just a little bit there at the end and louis closes his eyes against it, against all the things he could read into that one little sound if he let himself. he’s not going to be that person. he’s not going to sit here and pine over the boy who’s standing there on the other side of the room, asking him to put aside his feelings for the betterment of france. louis is not that selfish, contrary to popular opinion. he won’t cry or pout, won’t wish that harry could give him more than what he’s offering. he still gets more of harry than anyone else, and that has to be enough for now.

he moves toward the door, stopping only when he realizes harry isn’t right behind him. when he looks over, harry’s still on the bed, gripping the edges so tight his knuckles are white. he’s shaking slightly, eyes hard on the ground and teeth clenched like he’s angry with himself.

if louis were kinder, he’d go to the meeting and make excuses for harry. he could very easily be ill, no one would be the wiser. or if he were any wiser, he’d kick harry out to his precious meetings for his precious cause and take a few hours to lick his own wounds before going out and getting properly drunk and lose himself in some pretty young thing with full breasts and an empty head.

but louis is neither kind nor wise, and has never professed to be either. and they both have their roles to play. maybe later, under the cover of darkness and with enough wine pumping through his veins he’ll allow himself to feel the ache pounding at the door of his heart, but right now there’s an entire country that feels as if it’s been pushed the the ground, and it needs the kind of saving that only harry can provide. louis can do that, can give up his hero for a few days. harry will go off and save the day, and then come back to him, like he always has. like he always will.

****

this meeting is no different from any of the dozens that louis has dragged himself to, but “hope springs eternal,” he’s said to harry earlier that night, so he’s here just the same. there’s a mug full of wine before him and it’s almost late enough in the night that the roaring of the blood in his ears can drown out the ridiculous bickering filling the café.

harry is in rare form tonight, on his feet already and gesturing wildly with his hands. louis idly feels bad for whatever poor sop decided to bare his idiot neck for harry to chew on. he scoffs quietly and goes to take another sip, but – oh. so not so full of wine. with a sigh louis hauls himself to his feet and saunters over to the bar, winking cheekily at the barmaid who rolls her eyes fondly. she slaps his cheek and informs him that he’s close to being cut off if he can’t get his pup under control – “I don’t think it’s actually possible to get harry to heel, but I’ll give it a try for you, darling.” “well if anyone could do it, it’d be you, louis.” – and then decides that if he can’t get harry to calm down and argue like a rational person, he may as way fan the flames.

“… of course it’s oppression, you idiot, it’s slavery as well as any being practiced in india, but instead of being forthright with chains and whips, the bureaucrats are oppressing our people with crusts of bread and threadbare blankets!”

“that may be, but they don’t see it like that, harry. we’re no longer entrenched under a monarchy, that’s good enough. they’ve gotten exactly what they asked for, why should you put your neck on the line just to-”

“because,” louis drawls in, and everyone turns to stare. he doesn’t contribute often, but the regulars have begun to smirk because louis cutting in can only mean one thing – pure entertainment. “when you deny the people the basic right of even understanding that they’re being oppressed, there are too many levels of wrongdoing to even attempt to address. it’s like a house of cards, you can hardly push one around without affecting others.”

harry grins smugly at his competition, and maybe other nights louis would leave it at that, but not tonight. tonight harry’s eyes are far too grin, his cheeks just the tiniest bit flushed from the cold, and his shirt unbuttoned just enough that louis isn’t willing to give him an inch.

“however,” and it’s almost worth it for the way harry’s face goes from gloating to suspicious in an instant, “we’re hardly the ones to roll in on our chariots and play savior.”

it’s the perfect match to light. harry’s riled back up in an instant, hackles raised and eyes expressing nothing but the purest of betrayals. good, louis thinks. a victorious harry in the café translates to a soft and tender harry back in their dormitory, a harry that whispers things louis wishes he didn’t have to hear. but a harry light with self righteous fire, that’s a harry that louis can bear.

“those who have the ability to make a change have the responsibility to, not that you’d understand that. I understand ethics hasn’t always been your area of expertise, louis, nor has the desire to help those less fortunate than you.”

harry spits the words at him like daggers, but louis dodges them easily.

“hazza, darling, when have you ever known me to be anything but the epitome of generosity?”

he flashes a dazzling smile and wink at a passing waitress, pulling her from her course to refill someone or another’s glass and seating her firmly on his lap. she let’s out a giggle and a weak squirm, but louis holds her tight and presses a kiss to the side of her neck before pushing her off with a slap to the bum. she’s return the favor at some point in the night, and it’s just enough to take the heat away from the previous argument.

for most of the lads, anyway, but harry looks fit to be tied. louis is ready for the tirade that’s coming, though, it’s the same song and dance they’ve been doing for years.

“you’ve never cared about anyone but yourself, lou, why don’t you go back to your wine and leave the debates to people who have more than a passing interest in the way they turn out?”

louis loves harry like this, when he knows he’s stepping into a trap he won’t be able to charm his way out of but refuses to back down anyway. he turns into a proper petulant child, eyes flashing and words tripping out just the slightest bit slurred, like he’s trying to speak more quickly but his tongue won’t let him. harry would paint himself into a corner with his arguments every time, but most people back down before he gets to that last desperate second.

louis isn’t most people.

“you won’t admit it but you’re everything they hate. if things had turned out differently you’d be the one sitting in those fine carriages, hazza, the ones they spit upon. if you had just let nature take it’s course you’d be the very type of person you are standing here denouncing. or has the cheap wine and the beauty of the barmaids distracted you enough that you’ve forgotten?”

they’re backed into a corner now, the rest of their group of idealistic students and drunken old men having moved on from fine art of arguing politics to the finer art of finding a pretty enough young thing to warm their bed for the night. it’s just as well; as much as louis relishes the idea of someone finally beating harry at his own game – especially if that someone is louis himself – he knows his place within the group. part of harry’s appeal is that he’s undefeated in debates, it would be hard to rally around a leader who’d been bested at nothing more than talking.

“why do you even bother coming to these meetings then, louis? if the idea of reaching out and helping people lift themselves up is so abhorrent to you, why don’t you return to the land of our fathers, filled with the sparkling chandeliers and girls you have to woo before you bed? you don’t belong here.”

a thousand retorts sit on the edge of louis’ tongue, ready to lash out. every single one of them true, and not one of them he’s brave enough to admit out loud. he finally settles on leaning in close, lips brushing against harry’s ear. the shiver that he feels run through harry’s body is reward enough for him tonight. “I think,” he whispers, “we both know the answer to that.”

****

louis has heard harry’s speech a hundred times. harry was writing it while he was shaving one morning, hadn’t finished it until that night as louis was banging into the room blindingly drunk after a night out with niall. he’d whined like the petulant child he is when louis had blown out the candle and tucked him into bed, and neither of them had slept that night as harry chanted the words under his breath, over and over until louis knew it nearly as well as he did. by the morning of the rally, louis had dryly commented that he was fairly sure that he could jump up and recite it word for word if harry did pass away in a dead faint from the top of the funeral march.

none of that had done any good to prepare him for this moment, though. the minute harry falls out of the ranks and the first few words pour out of his mouth, the hesitancy that louis has been witnessing for weeks melts away. the person standing before him now hardly seems real, more like he’s carved from marble set ablaze. every curl blows in the wind poetically, every sweep of his arm makes him look like the hero from every storybook louis read as a child. the words all sounded as fresh as if this was the first time, the call to arms rolling off harry’s tongue as if he was made for this. he probably was, louis thinks.

he doesn’t miss his cue, falls in line along with the others and takes up the banner, adds his voice to the throng, but he can’t tear his eyes away from harry. he rides along the road on top of the cart, eyes full of that familiar fire. he never spares a glance towards louis, but louis doesn’t need it. he’s already enchanted. instead harry makes eye contact with the hundreds of people lined along the streets, probably every single one. louis’ chest swells with pride at the sight, his best friend setting a blaze that lights the hearts of a country on fire. the gauntlet has been thrown, the call made. when they turn the corner and see the army waiting, louis can’t be bothered to be afraid. they knew this was coming; harry one step ahead as always. louis lets out a sharp whistle, the signal for the rest of their band of brothers to retreat back to the wineshop behind the barricades. everyone turns and runs, urging the crowds to follow them. many do, but louis keeps his eyes trained on harry. he still hasn’t abandoned his spot on top of the horse cart, and louis lets him stay for a minute longer just to memorize the image.

the sun is beginning to set before him, and harry has his arms stretched out like he’s pulling it down single handedly. his voice continues to ring out across the square, long after the others have abandoned him. even from the distance louis can see that his eyes have fallen shut, head thrown back in a look of pure contentment. this is when louis loves harry second best, probably. he’s doing what he was born to do, opening the eyes of the people. for a split second, louis believes. he believes the words ringing out from harry’s red mouth, believes in the people, that any of this will make a difference. he allows himself to be caught up in the wave of pride along with everyone else, before coming back to his senses and climbing just high enough on the funeral cart to tug on harry’s trousers.

“come on then, hero, if you want to live to see another day we’ve got to get out of here before those bayonets arrive!”

harry climbs down reluctantly after shouting out one more “viva la france!” and then he clutches tight to louis’ shirt as they run down the narrow alleyways towards the barricades.

“did you see them, louis?” harry is talking faster than louis has ever heard, excitement fueling his speech. he’s come down from his pedestal and louis can see him clearly now, the same tremble in his fingers and wide set of his eyes that he’d had when they were eleven and had stolen some chocolates from harry’s mother. louis feels it too, that thrill of doing something naughty that they can’t quite believe they’d gotten away with.

as they duck behind the pile of cabinets and chairs, kindle and even one piano, louis can’t help but wonder how anyone can believe they actually did.

****

“they’ll come.”

“I know.”

“louis, stop that. I said they’re going to come. they were so moved today. the fire’s been set, they’ll be here.”

“yes, hazza, I know, and I agreed with you.”

louis watches harry pace back and forth across the tiny room in the back of the café. he’s sprawled across the bed, but he couldn’t sleep if he’d wanted to. he knows harry would rather be out there on watch, waiting for the citizens of paris to swoop in at what is feeling frighteningly close to their eleventh hour. but they’d done their watch until midnight and now there was nothing to be done but wait. the traitor had been dealt with, the boys knew the plan. louis tries to pull up some feeling of fear or anxiety, thinks of the battle that’s sure to come with the morning’s light, but there’s nothing there.

“you know,” he doesn’t look at harry, eyes trained carefully at a slight crack in the ceiling, but they’re the only two in the room, and the way harry’s step slows louis knows he’s listening, “you’re right. you’ve always been right. about me, I mean.” he can nearly hear the quirk of harry’s eyebrow, and takes his slight hmmm as permission to continue. louis takes a deep breath, feeling the chilly air seeping in from the shutters fill his lungs. “I’ve never cared about this, any of it. not this world, or the one we’re still running from.”

harry sits heavily at the edge of the bed at that, and it’s a breath too close. louis won’t be able to say what he needs to say if harry turns those wicked green eyes at him, and he needs to say it in case – well, just in case.

“causes and politics and dinner parties, none of that fit me all that well. or maybe I didn’t fit in them. none of it really… well, you know. I just never had a place.”

“do you think you have a place, then?”

he’s very close now, louis can feel harry’s breath on his neck. he thinks of the old maps his father used to keep in their library. the whole world right there on one piece of paper, the blots of blue bigger than louis’ own hands and the oceans they represented. the beaches and mountains and plains he’d never seen. he thought of harry on those beaches, his skin warm and golden from the sun, a lazy grin like louis has never seen. he can’t envision any of those places without putting harry solidly at his side.

“no, probably not. I suppose it’s just as well I leave this rotten world now, there’s never really been a place for me in it.”

he’s not angling for pity or closeness, but the way harry seizes up at his words isn’t unpleasant. his fingertips claw at louis, probably drawing blood in an effort to pull him so much closer. this isn’t a rhythm they’ve established, so at first louis hasn’t a clue how to respond, but hearing the little broken sobs from harry’s throat seem to ignite something in him and he’s grabbing and pulling just as desperately. if harry is giving him this, the permission to touch and caress and hold, he’s going to take it for whatever time they have left. he buries his face in the crook of harry’s neck, trying to commit the smell, the sounds, the feel, it all to memory. harry is just as eager, hands yanking up louis’ shirt to feel the skin of his back and drag his nails down the warm flesh there. louis likes that, the idea that when they find his body tomorrow it will be covered in the marks that harry gave him, and sets to doing the same on harry, biting sharply into his neck and then soothing over the skin with his tongue.

he’s halfway to a second mark behind harry’s ear, high and hidden above his curls, when harry grabs him by the back of the neck and looks into his eyes. they’re far too serious, louis wants nothing more than to kiss the furrow between his eyebrows like he’s been dreaming about for years, but he holds back and let’s harry speak his mind.

“I’ve never felt like my life was my own,” harry says. it’s too loud to be a whisper, but too hoarse to be anything else. “but if I had, if I did, I would’ve… it would’ve been with you. I would’ve wanted it all with you, louis.”

louis hates him in that moment. it’s a bit of a relief, to finally feel something buzzing through his veins that isn’t pure, blind adoration. the adoration hasn’t disappeared, certainly, but for a moment it’s drowned out by pure rage. it’s nothing he hadn’t expected, but hearing harry say the words. to say to him that he loved him, but not enough. that he was good and right and it would’ve been true, but nothing louis could’ve offered would’ve ever been enough to keep them from where they are now, this suicide mission. that no matter how important louis may have ever been, it would never be important enough.

but louis isn’t built for rage or grudges. he is built for walking out, and for a minute he considers it. imagines getting to his feet and walking down the stairs, slipping out the window while the others sleep. no one would blame him, fewer still would be surprised. they’d all known from the beginning that louis wasn’t interested in change, in the revolution.

but to get to the stairs, he’d have to climb over harry. as it had been since they were children, harry stands with his feet solidly planted between louis and the smart choice, the wise choice.

wise has never been my style, louis thinks, and swings his leg over harry’s to straddle his lap. he bends in half to grab at harry’s curls and pull him up for a bruising kiss. harry responds immediately, hands finding their place at louis’ waist and holding him tightly.

it’s far too little, and it’s certainly too late, but it’s what they have. louis wants to drag it out, to make it last, but harry takes even that from him, pulling his orgasm from him within minutes. harry pants louis’s name into his mouth moments later and tenses, limbs locked around louis. it’s only as he’s coming down that he begins to sob, great heaving things ripped from his chest. it’s good, louis thinks. good that harry sees what he’s doing. what he’s sentencing himself to.

it could be minutes or hours - louis can’t be bothered with time anymore – before harry’s cries subside.

“we could go, you know.”

harry’s voice is wrecked, and louis can’t even take pride in thinking that he did that to him. he made harry sound like that. it’s all hollow now.

“no, cherie, we couldn’t.”

he pushes up on one elbow and leans over to brush his fingertips over the planes of harry’s face and just look. he hasn’t let himself look like this for so long, he can’t imagine he’ll be faulted for indulging just for tonight.

“I’d do it for you, I would. we could sneak away now while no one would see. we could go to england, or even america, australia…”

his voice is fading off now. louis wants to keep him awake, demand that harry look back at him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?

“no, hazza. we have a date with the barricades when the sun comes up.”

harry’s drifted off by now, but his hand is still fisted tightly in louis’ shirt, pulling him closer even in sleep. louis rearranges them so he’s facing the window, then tugs harry up to rest on his chest.

“besides,” he says under his breath, “the people will come.”

****

the morning comes, exactly as louis knew it would.

considering it’s his last few hours, he wishes they’d have the courtesy to slow down a little. instead everything happens in flashes.

harry’s face when he wakes up to the rays of lights streaming in through the shutters and runs to the window. louis watches as that tiny bit of hope is dashed when he sees no one but their own few band of brothers.

the sound from that first cannon. he remembers cannons from when he was younger and his father would take him to parades. they hadn’t been nearly this loud back then, he’s sure.

that first scream as the first boy fell. louis isn’t even sure who it is, but it’s followed by a dozen more, so it hardly matters who went first. he supposes they can bicker over it once they all arrive in hell.

the smell. it’s overwhelming. had he known that blood has a smell? thinking back on it, probably not. but it’s here now in droves, like copper and death and decay.

there’s one moment he remembers clearly, though. he’s nursing a bullet wound to his shoulder when he sees the red flag waving out the second story window of the café, knows there’s only one person who would dare. every instinct in his body is screaming at him to ignore it, that he has a chance of surviving this if he turns and runs now. someone should survive this, he thinks, someone to carry on the cause.

but it’s never been about the cause. not for one second. all it’s been about is the boy he can see through the shards of shattered glass in the window, frantically waving and shouting but holding his ground. he can see the light flashing off their bayonets now as well.

louis climbs to his feet, pressing one hand hard against his injured shoulder. he staggers through the door and up the stairwell, yelling for the soldiers to wait, please, everyone in the room turns to look at him, and harry’s eyes widen almost comically.

“nonononono, louis, no, go now! go, don’t be stupid!”

but louis just pushes his way through the men – pardon, monsieur – and move to stand beside harry. harry’s eyes are dry, but just barely. that furrow has appeared again between his eyebrows.

never did get a chance to kiss it away, is the last thing louis thinks before the flash of the gunpowder.

louis goes first, the bullets landing neatly in his temple and chest before he even gets a chance to feel the pain. his body crumples to the floor instantly.

for the first time, it’s harry who follows.

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