Work Text:
Louis' POV
The vodka Red Bull burns on the way down, but it’s familiar. Comforting, in that warped, festival kind of way. Louis lets it linger on his tongue before swallowing, welcoming the buzz even though it hasn’t hit yet. He’s not drunk, barely even tipsy, but he wouldn’t mind the world softening a little around the edges.
There’s no real reason to be nervous. He tells himself that again and again. He’s been to Glastonbury every bloody year, rain or shine, publicly or hiding. This should feel like home by now. He’s got his closest friends here and his sister Lottie somewhere behind him, laughing at something one of the lads just said. There's music pounding through the speakers, bass heavy enough to thump in his chest.
Still, his shoulders are tight. His grip on the plastic cup just a little too firm.
Zara’s by his side, close enough to sell the image but not quite touching. She’s talking to someone - maybe her stylist, maybe a bored PR intern - and Louis lets his gaze slide past her, unfocused. She’s wearing something loud and designed to be noticed. Something that said "I'm Louis Tomlinson's girlfriend". He can’t even pretend to remember what shade of colour her top is.
He sighs quietly and takes another sip.
Zara. The person he once tried really, really hard to hate. It had been easy, at first. Management made her the perfect target: beautiful, media-ready, willing to play along. But she’d never taken the bait. Had smiled kindly when he was cold, stayed patient when he was sharp. She wasn’t the villain he wanted her to be. She’s not a friend, exactly. But she’s not the enemy either.
Just another actor in the same half-scripted circus.
Around him, the others are chatting, swaying, vibing to the warm-up act playing the smaller stage ahead. The sky’s starting to shift - still daylight, but only just - and everything’s painted in that golden, dusty kind of light that makes everyone look like they’re part of a memory already.
And Louis… he’s pretending. As always.
He leans a little closer to Zara when someone lifts a phone nearby, camera angle obvious. He smiles, doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’ll do. It has to.
He’s meant to look like the perfect, supportive boyfriend. Glastonbury power couple. All that bollocks. And it’s not hard, exactly. Just exhausting.
Because somewhere in this same crowd - close but never close enough - is the only person he really wants to be standing next to. The only person who makes all of this bearable. His husband, somewhere in the maze of stages and tents and curated chaos. Just a few muddy paths away. Close, but not touchable. Not here. Not now.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes scanning the crowd out of habit. Not for threats, not exactly. Just for him. Not that Harry will be anywhere near him right now. That would be too much. Of fucking course it would. Just the idea of it is ridiculous. He can't be here. Not with so many phones, so many lenses, so many watching eyes. But still. The idea of being in the same space, breathing the same thick festival air, makes his pulse quicken.
Louis takes another drink and keeps his expression light.
It's going to be a long weekend.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Louis checks his phone again.
And again.
He’s on his burner account, thumb swiping mindlessly through Instagram. Not even pretending to be casual about it. Lottie would mock him if she noticed, but she’s still talking to someone from their group, oblivious. Or pretending to be. Maybe everyone’s pretending tonight.
His feed is a blur of reposted clips, candids, and blurry zoom-ins - fans with good phones and better timing. Most of it’s familiar: him standing near Zara, him walking with Lottie, him sipping his drink talking to his friends. Lottie’s even posted one - a cute little sibling moment, Louis hugging her from behind, both of them grinning. A textbook move. Natural, relaxed. Approachable.
But not the one he’s waiting for.
There’s still no sign of him.
When will it land?
It’s all been planned out so carefully. Months of tiptoeing around contracts, discussions with management, making the right noise in the right interviews. That line “Still good friends with him. Still very very proud of him taking over the world.” delivered with the kind of ease that made his publicist beam and his stomach twist.
This is the next step.
Harry needs to be seen here. Not just rumoured. Seen. A photo. A timestamp. Something tangible. The fans have to know, it’s what this whole campaign’s been building towards.
“Relax,” Zara murmurs beside him, close enough that only he hears. Her voice is low, soft, too calm for his mood. “It’ll happen soon enough.”
Louis exhales through his nose, sharp. He flicks a glance at her, not angry but raw-edged. His fingers tighten around his phone.
“Soon enough?” he mutters, biting the inside of his cheek. “It’s been years, Zara. Years of fake smiles and sneaking around. It’s time to change this fucking narrative now or I swear to God, I’ll drag him up on stage in Athens and kiss him in front of everyone.”
Zara gives him that look, the one that sits somewhere between sympathy and admiration. Her smile is small, too soft for this place, too understanding for someone who’s meant to be part of the problem. She doesn’t argue. She never does. That’s part of why Louis stopped hating her.
She pities him. He knows it.
He doesn’t care.
He refreshes Instagram. Again. And then -
There it is.
His breath catches, just slightly, as the image loads.
Harry. Harry at Glastonbury.
The photo’s perfect, obviously. Probably leaked on purpose. Maybe even staged. Harry standing near the artist compound entrance, wind catching the hem of his tiny red shorts like he owns the fucking place. His hair is styled perfectly, lips slightly parted, sunglasses on his nose like he didn’t think twice about it.
And just like that, the comments start pouring in.
HE’S THERE OMG???
glastonlarry is REAL
you think they’ll be seen together???? I NEED THIS
This is so deliberate. They want us to know.
Louis and Harry publicly at the same place again??? This changes everything. OMG
Louis scrolls slowly, a smile curling the edge of his mouth. Not a full one, but a genuine flicker. A spark of something that feels close to relief. The fans don’t know everything, but they’re clever. They feel it.
They know this moment matters.
Their fans know it’s monumental.
He tilts his head back and closes his eyes for just a second, letting the noise of the crowd swell around him. Somewhere, Harry’s out there. On the same soil. Under the same sky.
And the whole world is allowed to know it.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Louis is smiling again.
Not big, not obvious, just enough to pass for amusement at something on his phone. Which, in fairness, is partly true. He scrolls and scrolls, pretending to listen to the conversation happening around him, nodding along when someone jokes about the mud or the lineup or the price of chips. But his mind is somewhere else entirely.
The comments keep rolling in, and each one tugs a little more at the knot in his chest.
LOUIS IS THERE TOO. COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT.
Also, The Script playing tomorrow! That's fate.
The red shorts. The blue jacket. The literal flags. THEY’RE NOT EVEN SUBTLE.
It’s happening. Glastonlarry is canon.
Louis presses his tongue against his cheek, grinning like a twat. They’re clocking it. Every move. Every calculated slip of truth. Their fans know the game, but they’ve always known the love, too. No matter what management’s sold them. No matter what he’s been forced to pretend.
This is different.
This is the closest they’ve come to telling the truth in years.
He glances up briefly - Zara’s still mid-chat, Lottie laughing with her hand around someone’s shoulder - and then lets his eyes drop back to the screen as it vibrates.
A new message.
From Him.
H
Guess it’s enough for now, don’t you think so? Let’s disappear.
Louis’ breath stutters. His heart launches hard against his ribs, like it’s trying to break free of him altogether. He reads the message again, then again, eyes dancing across the words like they’re a verse from a song only he knows the melody to.
Let’s disappear.
God, yes.
They only saw each other two days ago - shared a room in London, tangled in each other like they hadn’t been forced apart a dozen times before - but it doesn’t matter. It never does. The ache doesn’t fade just because they’ve learned how to manage it. He misses him always, even when he’s close. That’s what years of hiding does. It turns love into longing, even when it's still there in your hands.
He types fast, fingers shaking slightly with adrenaline.
Louis
On my way. Our spot in 10.
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Doesn’t need one. He tucks his phone into his jacket pocket and turns toward the others, eyes scanning for a clean moment to slip away. But of course, they’re already watching him.
Lottie raises an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. Zara gives a small nod. No one asks.
“I’m heading off,” Louis says, voice low but clear enough. “You lot enjoy the next set, yeah?”
“Have fun,” Lottie grins and someone behind her lets out a cheer that’s only half about the music. No one questions where he’s going. No one ever does.
Zara catches his eye and raises her cup slightly, almost like a toast. “Tell him I said hi.”
Louis softens, just a little. “Will do.”
Harry won't appreciate it, but Zara tried to be nice.
And then he’s gone, moving through the crowd, slipping past strangers and lights and laughter. The music follows him, heartbeat-heavy and wild, but it all starts to fade, drowned out by something louder inside him.
Hope. Anticipation. That stupid, breathless kind of joy.
He’s going to see Harry.
And this time, the world already knows he’s here.
Louis moves quickly, the sounds of the crowd melting into background noise as he takes the winding path towards their meeting place - a tucked-away alcove behind the smaller acoustic stage, flanked by trees and rusted fencing, hidden enough to feel like a secret. The light is starting to dim now, golden giving way to blue, and the air hums with distant music and the smell of trampled grass and beer.
And then he stops dead in his tracks.
Because there he is.
Harry .
Backlit by the soft shimmer of fairy lights strung haphazardly across the branches overhead, wearing those tiny red shorts and that ridiculous, brilliant blue jacket. His sunglasses are still on, even though the sun’s nearly down, hair loose and wild like he’s just rolled out of bed - and he’s breathtaking.
Stupidly, unfairly breathtaking.
Louis’ heart clenches so hard it’s almost funny.
For all the years, the miles, the stages, the secrets, Harry still does this to him. Still knocks the breath from his lungs just by existing. Still makes him feel eighteen again, starry-eyed and spinning. He’s the luckiest man alive and he knows it.
“Babe,” Louis calls out, soft but certain.
His voice cuts through the quiet, and it’s beautiful. So beautiful, because he doesn’t have to whisper. Not here. Not in this moment. They're still at Glastonbury, technically still "on show", but no one’s around. No one’s watching.
Harry looks up.
And when his eyes find Louis, his whole face changes. The teasing curve of his mouth softens, replaced with something private, something tender. A warmth so fierce it nearly knocks Louis back a step. It’s that look. His look. The one he only ever gets. The one that says, There you are. There you are, and I love you .
Louis doesn’t hesitate.
He closes the distance between them with purpose, the last few steps almost a run. And then he’s there, right in front of him, grabbing Harry’s jacket with both hands and pulling him in.
The kiss is immediate and deep, full of everything Louis doesn’t have words for. He sinks into it, savours it, lets it linger far longer than he probably should. His hands slide to Harry’s waist, grounding himself in the familiar curve of him, the warmth, the certainty.
He kisses him like it’s been years instead of days.
Like this is the first chance and the last.
And Harry kisses him back with equal urgency - soft lips and steady hands, like this is home and he’s never leaving again.
When they finally break apart, Louis rests his forehead against Harry’s, breath shallow, heart pounding.
“You’re unreal,” he whispers, and grins, eyes still closed. “Seriously. Have you seen yourself?”
Harry laughs quietly, brushing a thumb along Louis’ cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Louis just shakes his head, overwhelmed in the best possible way.
For now, the world can wait.
They sit down next to each other, hands intertwined between them.
“Zara says hi,” Louis mumbles with a wicked grin, already knowing what's about to come.
Harry puffs out an annoyed breath, “Well, thanks. Don't say ‘hi’ back when you see her. But you can tell her how much you enjoyed spending time with me instead of her.”
Louis laughs and ignores the annoyed eye roll. “I won't do that,” he says, pressing a small kiss to Harry's cheek. Quietly, he adds, “I love your jealous streak.”
And it's true. After all this time, even though Harry has to know how much Louis loves him and just him, he's still jealous and it makes Louis feel loved like nothing else.
It hasn't always been like that. Harry's jealousy was too much when they started and it influenced the mood in the band in a bad way more than once. Now though, he's able to balance it out perfectly. Harry shows his jealousy just enough for Louis to be able to appreciate it.
Harry hums, still mock-offended, but he leans into Louis’ side anyway, thigh pressed close, shoulder warm. He rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder like he’s claiming the space.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, “or I’d throw an actual tantrum.”
Louis chuckles. “You? Never.”
Harry shoots him a look, sharp but fond. “You’ve seen my tantrums.”
“I’ve survived them. Medal-worthy, that is.”
Harry bites down a smile and lets the silence settle between them for a moment. Their hands are still linked, fingers playing idly like they’ve done it a million times before - because they have.
“I saw the pictures,” Harry says eventually, softer now. “You looked good today and yesterday.”
Louis glances sideways, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You stalking me, Styles?”
“Hard not to when the whole internet’s screaming about Glastonlarry,” Harry murmurs, then laughs quietly. “They’re so close, Lou. Scarily close.”
“Let them be,” Louis says, gentle. “They’re the only ones who’ve always tried to tell the truth.”
Harry turns his head, kisses Louis’ shoulder through the fabric of his hoodie. “I know.”
Another beat of quiet. The breeze picks up a bit, ruffling Harry’s curls, and Louis absently reaches up to smooth them down. His hand lingers in Harry’s hair, just because he can.
“You alright?” Harry asks eventually, voice low. “With all this? Being seen - like this. Sort of.”
Louis shrugs. “Dunno. I’m tired of hiding, Haz. We’ve done it for so long. And it’s never been about us, has it? It’s always been about everyone else.”
Harry nods slowly. “Still scares me sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “Me too.”
They sit with that for a while. Not in silence exactly, just in the kind of peace that only exists between people who’ve weathered the same storms.
Louis squeezes Harry’s hand once. “We don’t have to plan the next steps tonight.”
“No,” Harry agrees. “But it’s nice, isn’t it? To not be nowhere. We’re somewhere.”
“Somewhere,” Louis repeats, smiling faintly. “I'm somewhere. In a field, holding hands with a popstar in red shorts.”
Harry laughs, loud and free. “Heeey. These shorts are iconic.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Harry turns to him then, properly, knees nudging Louis’ as he leans in. “You’re it for me, you know that, right?”
Louis swallows. It’s not like Harry doesn’t say it often, but it always hits him hard.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “And you’re it for me.”
They kiss again, slow and sweet and filled with everything unsaid. It’s soft, but it still makes Louis dizzy, still reminds him of every reason he’s kept fighting for this.
For them.
And in this quiet corner of Glastonbury, the noise of the world far away, it finally feels possible.
They sit a while longer, the quiet wrapping around them like a soft blanket, and Louis lets himself sink into it. Harry’s fingers still entwined with his, the world reduced to nothing but this small, golden pocket of calm amid the chaos of the festival.
But then Louis’ phone breaks the silence, ringing insistently on the grass beside them.
He groans, swatting at it. “Not now,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the screen.
But then he sees the name.
Oli.
Louis sighs, irritation fading to mild relief. At least it’s not some random pushy publicist. Or worse, his management.
He picks up, still annoyed but steady.
“Oi oi,” he says, voice low but warm.
“Louis, hey,” Oli’s voice comes through, taut with stress - stress that really ought to be banned at a festival like this. But Oli’s not just his best mate; he’s also part of the relentless machine that keeps Louis’ career ticking. And when work calls, even Glastonbury isn’t safe.
“I need you to come back, okay?” Oli’s words tumble out fast. “Management’s pissed and wants more content, but with you and Zara gone, that’s gonna be problematic.”
Louis frowns, glancing over at Harry, who’s watching him with that familiar, knowing look. He already can guess where this is heading.
“Zara’s gone as well?” Louis asks, surprised. Zara needs this stunt just as much as Louis does. It’s part of the plan. She needs it to get more press, contacts, and attention.
“Yeah,” Oli replies, a little breathless. “She headed back to her hotel. But you should be here partying with us.”
Louis huffs, irritation flaring again. He looks back at Harry, who shrugs, lips twitching with amusement.
Louis hates this. He hates having to choose between this - between Harry, the quiet, the stolen moment - and all the noise waiting just a few steps away.
But he knows the game.
“I’ll come,” Louis sighs finally, cutting the call.
He pockets the phone, exhales deeply, and lets Harry’s hand squeeze his once more.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Duty calls.”
Harry grins, standing up and pulling Louis with him. “Come on then. Let’s go give them the show they want.”
Louis laughs softly, shaking his head. “Always the show.”
They head back toward the crowd. In different directions to not risk being seen together.
Two people stepping back into the spotlight, but carrying something private and unbreakable between them.
Louis weaves back into the crowd from one end, keeping his head low, hood up just enough to look casual and not suspicious. He blends in well, after all, no one expects him to show up alone, not with her meant to be on his arm.
The moment he spots his group again - Lottie, Lewis next to her, a few of his oldest mates laughing over plastic pints - he exhales, letting his shoulders drop. He’s not with Harry, no. But he’s surrounded by people who love him, people who get it, and right now, that’s enough.
Someone passes him a drink - vodka something - and he accepts it with a quick “Cheers,” before letting the music pull him in.
He doesn’t dance, not really. That’s never been his thing. But he moves. A sway here, a tap of his foot there. Just enough to stay with the rhythm, to look the part. His body’s loose, not quite relaxed but close, and the alcohol helps smooth the edges.
It’s fun. It’s loud. The bass vibrates through the soles of his boots and the lights cut through the night like splashes of colour, and it’s fun.
His phone’s in his hand the whole time.
He checks it constantly, even when he tries not to. He's scrolling through fan accounts, swiping through stories. Photos of himself from earlier pop up, someone’s tagged Lottie in a blurry group pic. There’s a short video clip of Zara’s speech. Then -
There he is.
Harry, at the edge of another crowd, just a few steps away. Still in the same ridiculous outfit. Laughing with someone from his team, head thrown back, the curve of his smile bright even through a stranger’s lens.
Louis taps through, heart warming like it always does. He sees the comments.
they’re really both here oh my god.
Glastonlarry 2025 is feeding us.
they’re not even trying to hide it anymore.
C’mon, give us a picture of them ogling each other.
He grins.
It’s not perfect. It’s still all smoke and mirrors. But this? This is a step.
Harry’s here. Not hidden away in some villa or flying in and out secretly. He’s in the crowd, just like Louis. Not beside him, but close.
Close enough for everyone to know.
And it feels good. Like something is shifting. Like the world is finally ready to catch up with what they’ve always known.
Louis takes a long sip of his drink, then laughs at something one of his mates says - something about someone falling in the mud near the bar - and lets himself enjoy the moment.
Because even if they’re not side by side…
They’re here.
Together, in their own way.
And that’s more than they used to get.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
It creeps up on him slowly, the way it always does.
One minute he’s nursing his third - or maybe fourth - vodka Red Bull, only half-listening to Lottie take the piss out of one of their mates for falling over someone’s abandoned backpack, and the next he’s laughing too loud, swaying a bit more than he meant to, grinning without realising it.
The booze has properly settled in now. Not enough to be messy, just that sweet spot. The warm, fizzy kind of drunk where everything feels a bit softer, a bit looser. The music feels louder in the best way, wrapping around him like a blanket and the air doesn’t bite anymore - it just feels fresh.
He still doesn’t dance-dance, not really, but now he’s moving more without thinking about it. Bouncing on his feet. Shoulders dipping in time to the beat. A bit of shouting along to a chorus he doesn’t fully know.
He’s not performing anymore. Not thinking about where the cameras might be or whether he looks like the perfectly curated version of himself.
He’s just here. And it’s actually fun.
Lottie’s dancing across from him, cheeks flushed with drink and laughter and someone’s handed her a glowing flower crown that doesn’t quite sit right on her head. Louis takes a picture just to embarrass her later, and she flips him off, laughing.
One of his oldest mates throws an arm around his shoulder and starts shouting the lyrics in his ear, completely off-key. Louis shoves him off, grinning, and nearly stumbles over a plastic pint cup, catching himself with a bark of laughter.
The ground beneath him is uneven and the air smells like beer and smoke and whatever someone’s cooking three tents down, and it’s all so chaotic - but it’s the kind of chaos that feels good in his bones.
The phone’s still in his pocket, but he’s forgotten to check it for a while now.
For the first time since he arrived at Glastonbury, Louis isn’t waiting for anything.
He’s just living.
And fuck, it feels good.
The lights flash low and red across the crowd, music pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath Louis’ skin. He peels away from the group, empty cup dangling from his fingers, mumbling something about needing another drink. No one really pays him much attention - Lottie’s mid-story, one of the lads is taking blurry selfies, and the rest are dancing like no one’s watching.
He weaves through the bodies, the press of people growing thicker as he nears the bar tent. But then he sees him.
Harry.
In the middle of the crowd like he owns it.
He’s dancing or whatever it is he calls dancing. Louis huffs a laugh through his nose. Arms flailing just enough to draw attention, knees bending in that odd, joyful bounce that should look awkward but somehow doesn’t. It’s ridiculous. It’s so Harry.
Those tiny red shorts are doing nothing to help. Louis’ eyes trail down to his long, tanned legs, then back up to the way his arse moves when he spins a little too enthusiastically, hands in the air like some kind of spiritual offering to the music gods.
He wants to go to him.
Wants to press up behind him, grab his hips and move in time together, let Harry lean his head back onto Louis’ shoulder like they do when it’s just them and no one else is looking.
But he doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
He just stands there for a moment, still half-hidden by the edge of a merch stand, watching like a complete idiot. Watching that stupid, beautiful smile. Watching how people glance Harry’s way, drawn to him like always.
“You’re not even subtle,” a voice says beside him.
Louis startles slightly, turning to find Lottie, arms crossed and grinning.
“I -” he starts, then shrugs. “I got... distracted.”
“I can see that,” she laughs, looping her arm through his. “Come on, we need more alcohol. You can pine dramatically later.”
He lets her pull him away, casting one last look over his shoulder.
But when they come back through the crowd, cups in hand and heads buzzing from laughter and drink, Harry’s gone.
Nowhere in sight.
And Louis feels the absence more than he should. But he hides it, tucks it down and lets Lottie drag him back into the rhythm of the night.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Louis is pissed. Not in a messy way - well, not too messy - but in the way that makes him love everyone a little too much.
He’s got one arm slung around Lottie, who’s way too grown-up now, and he’s been telling her for five minutes straight that she’s cooler than anyone else here. One of his mates handed him a sparkler, which he's waving around like a toddler, and someone else just yelled something about shots.
His cheeks hurt from grinning.
He’s soaked in music and laughter and alcohol, the sort of loose-limbed drunk where everything feels possible. Everyone is golden, everything is brilliant, and he doesn’t even care that his voice is rough from shouting lyrics too loud.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.
He fumbles for it, nearly drops it, then squints at the screen through the blur of lights.
H
I'm waiting in your tent. But honestly, the press is right, it's close to the toilets. Seriously? Why?
Louis barks out a laugh, the kind that makes everyone nearby turn their heads.
He rereads it, a grin stretching across his face. Harry’s actually in the tent. The bloody tent, with its dodgy zips and crap iso mat and yes, it is a bit too close to the toilets - but it’s theirs. At least for this weekend.
It’s cute, really, that Harry’s gone along with it again. Camping’s never been his thing. He likes things that plug in, sheets with a thread count, showers that don’t involve queuing. But he shows up like this, without fanfare, just for Louis.
Louis types back, fingers stumbling a bit over the keys:
Louis
It's practical. I'm on my way. Can't wait to stumble in next to you.
He barely pockets the phone before turning to Lottie and Oli. “Alright,” he says, words a bit slurred around the edges. “I’m off. Love you lot.”
Lottie laughs, pulling him into a quick hug. “Go find your husband before he starts cleaning your tent out of pure spite.”
“Too late for that,” Louis mutters, already stepping back. “He’ll bin my socks again, I just know it.”
Oli falls into step beside him, ever the loyal watchdog, even half-drunk himself. “Come on, Romeo,” he says. “Let’s get you back before you trip over a guy rope and end up sleeping in a portaloo.”
Louis laughs, still glowing from the inside out, knowing exactly what’s waiting for him: a tent that smells faintly of grass and warm fabric, the faint hum of music still in the air, and Harry - grumbling, affectionate, beautiful Harry - lying in wait like he belongs there.
Which, Louis thinks as they walk, he absolutely does.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
The tent is dim and quiet, the world outside muffled by canvas and distance. The hum of the festival lingers faintly in the background - music still drifting in from some far-off stage, distant voices, the occasional shout or burst of laughter - but in here, it feels like its own small world.
Louis lies on his side, one leg hooked around Harry’s, their limbs lazily tangled together in that way that only comes with comfort and familiarity. His hand rests against Harry’s waist, fingers tucked into the hem of his T-shirt. Their faces are close, breath mingling in the space between them and Louis can smell whatever expensive thing Harry spritzed on his neck hours ago, now softened by warm skin and tent air.
Harry’s thumb is brushing over the back of Louis’ hand slowly, absent-mindedly. Like he needs to feel him. Like he always does.
“The Script plays tomorrow,” Harry whispers, voice low and rough from drink and the day.
“I’ve seen,” Louis replies with a small smile, eyes crinkling. He’s not just seen it - he’s seen the fan theories exploding, the chaotic threads, the heart emojis stacked in endless rows. It’s ridiculous and sweet and maddening in equal measure.
Harry hesitates before asking, “We’ll go watch the set together, right?”
His voice is too careful, like he’s trying not to expect too much. Like he’s still unsure, sometimes, even now.
Louis leans in just a little closer, his nose brushing Harry’s. “Of course, we do,” he says simply. “We’ll just have to be sneaky to not be seen there.”
Harry smiles at that, soft and genuine, that small smile that’s just for Louis. “We’ll manage.”
“As always.”
And that’s it. That’s all they need.
No more planning. No more worrying. Not tonight.
They fall into silence, the good kind. The kind where nothing needs to be said because everything’s already known. Harry shifts slightly, his arm wrapping tighter around Louis’ back, their foreheads nearly touching now. It’s warm, but not uncomfortably so. Just right.
Louis listens to the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing, the way it slows and deepens, grounding him. His own eyes flutter shut, the last of the night melting away into peace.
He falls asleep like that - held and holding - wrapped up in love, in quiet, in Harry.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Louis wakes slowly, blinking against the soft grey light filtering through the thin tent walls. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just lies there and lets himself feel it - his limbs pleasantly heavy, the distant thrum of festival life already starting up again, and the comforting warmth of Harry still wrapped around him.
He turns his head slightly and smiles.
Harry’s on his back now, one arm draped carelessly over his stomach, shirt moved up, his tattoos on full display. His lips are parted, breathing steady and peaceful. The sight alone makes something in Louis’ chest ache in the best possible way.
This day belongs to us , Louis thinks, and the thought lights him up from the inside out.
He stretches gently, careful not to wake Harry just yet, and lets out a small content sigh. He’s in good spirits. Better than he’s been in ages, honestly. The chaos and pressure are still there, sure. He’ll have to play his part for the cameras later. Zara’ll need her little moment, and Louis has already worked out the plan for that: one quick video, a laugh, maybe Lottie “accidentally” catching them on camera.
Done. Box ticked. Everyone satisfied.
And then, the rest of the day? It’s theirs.
No press schedule, no meet-and-greets. No endless fake smiles or controlled statements. Just Harry and Louis, ducking in and out of crowds, hiding beneath hoodies and sunglasses, maybe slipping behind stalls or vanishing between stages when the foot traffic’s heavy. Sneaky, yeah. But free in their own quiet, chaotic way.
Louis grins to himself as he imagines it: stuffing chips into their mouths while trying not to be noticed, complaining about overpriced burgers, sitting cross-legged on the grass and arguing about the setlist for The Script. Harry will probably cry during some emotional bit and pretend he’s not, and Louis will pretend he doesn’t notice, until he’s pulling him in by the hoodie strings and holding him through the chorus anyway.
It’ll be perfect.
Just normal, in the way they rarely get to be. A pocket of the world where it’s just them.
Louis shifts onto his side again and nestles closer, nose brushing Harry’s jaw.
He whispers, just loud enough to stir him, “Oi. Wake up, sleepyhead. Today’s ours.”
“Morning,” Harry mumbles, his voice still gravelled from sleep as he shifts closer, arms wrapping around Louis and pulling him in. His face buries into Louis’ neck, the closeness warming Louis’ heart. “Happy 28th.”
Louis huffs a quiet laugh, not even bothering to pretend he’s surprised. “We don’t have to celebrate every single 28th, sun. You know that.”
“I know,” Harry murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss just below Louis’ jaw. “But your fans do. And it’s always special to spend a day with you. And it’s extra special on a 28th.”
There’s that glint of truth behind the silliness, Louis feels it. The date means something. Not just to the fans who spin stories and edit videos to heartbreak songs, but to them too. They’ve fought hard for every 28th they’ve had since their wedding all those years ago. Some were messy, some quiet, but this one? This one is calm and theirs.
Louis rolls his eyes but it’s fond, so fond, and he leans in to press a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Happy 28th then.”
They lie there for a while longer, not quite awake, not quite asleep, just soaking each other in. Louis traces slow shapes along Harry’s spine under his shirt, and Harry’s fingers are tangled in the hem of Louis’ shorts like he’ll float off otherwise. The tent is warm in the morning and everything outside it can wait.
Eventually, Louis sighs and shifts.
“Alright, lazy bones,” he says, nudging Harry gently. “I’m starving, and unless you’ve miraculously installed a mini-fridge in here overnight, I’ve gotta go find us breakfast.”
Harry groans, flopping dramatically onto his back. “I’ll accept anything as long as it’s not one of those greasy wraps you keep pretending to like.”
Louis grins as he sits up and pulls on his hoodie. “It’s Glasto, babe. You’re lucky if it’s not just toast with mud on it.”
He unzips the tent and steps out, squinting into the morning light. The campsite is already coming alive - voices carrying, people laughing, someone blasting music from a cheap speaker. He spots a few people wearing his merch but it’s nothing he’s not used to. Everyone already knows he’s here.
No need to hide this morning.
He stretches, feels the sun warm his skin through the hoodie, and heads off toward the food stalls, thinking of coffee, maybe a greasy egg sandwich, and Harry’s soft “thanks, Lou,” when he brings it back.
It’s a good morning.
A them morning.
Louis feels the eyes before he even reaches the food stall.
It’s subtle at first, just a shift in the air, the way heads turn slightly, the way whispers start the moment he steps into the queue. He keeps his hood low and his sunglasses on, but it doesn’t make much difference. Everyone already knows he’s here. And it’s not like he’s hiding it.
He orders two breakfasts, one veggie wrap and one stacked with bacon and sausage, and feels the stares sharpen. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what they’re thinking. Two breakfasts. One for him, one for her. Zara.
Fine. Let them.
It’s convenient, really - he doesn’t have to explain why he’s not eating alone. If anything, it plays right into the story they want. Louis flashes a tight smile at someone holding up their phone and walks off, tray in hand, boots squelching slightly in the damp grass.
When he unzips the tent, Harry’s already dressed - black jeans, tiny red shorts gone for now, oversized hoodie zipped up, hair still damp around the edges from whatever bottle of water he clearly used as a makeshift shower. He’s sitting cross-legged, scrolling through his phone, but looks up the second Louis enters.
Louis pauses just a second, letting his eyes linger.
He preferred Harry shirtless, tangled in their shared warmth. But this - Harry like this, waiting for him, smiling softly like Louis brought the sun back with him - that’s not too bad either.
“Here,” Louis says, crouching and handing him the vegetarian wrap. “Before you start whining.”
Harry takes it with a grin. “You spoil me.”
They settle in again, knees knocking, wrappers rustling as they dig in. There’s comfort in the ritual: food shared in a stolen moment, festival chaos just outside the thin walls of their privacy.
Conversation drifts easily.
Louis talks through his next few festival appearances - not many this year, just a handful, but still enough to keep him moving. Harry listens, nodding, humming in places, chewing thoughtfully.
“You’ve really gone off the grid, haven’t you?” Louis says, half a tease, nudging Harry’s foot with his own.
“I’m resting, thank you very much,” Harry retorts. “It’s a spiritual hiatus.”
Louis snorts. “You mean you’re just sleeping in and running marathons and letting everyone wait for your comeback.”
“Exactly,” Harry grins. “Spiritual.”
They laugh together, quietly, their conversation tapering off as the last bites are eaten. Wrappers tossed aside. Cups empty. And then it’s quiet again, the good kind, comfortable, knowing.
Louis shifts closer, presses a slow kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry turns into it easily, catches Louis’ lips with his own, and for a while, it’s just that, kissing.
Unhurried, soft. No pressure, no rush.
They won’t go further. Not here. Not after what happened in Leeds.
Back then, in a different tent, in a reckless moment, they hadn’t thought twice. They were young and horny and tipsy and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. The fallout had been chaos. Security alerted. Staff and confused witnesses bribed. NDAs signed. A terrifying phone call from management that still gives Louis a phantom headache when he thinks about it. And that was after they'd already been screamed at for hours.
So, no. Not again.
Not at Glastonbury. Not this weekend.
But this… this is more than enough.
Every kiss is savoured. Slow, gentle, memorised. Harry’s hand finds the back of Louis’ neck, thumb stroking along the edge of his jaw. Louis hums against his lips, smiling between kisses, letting the peace of it settle into his bones.
They won’t be caught again.
But they will hold on to this. As long as they can.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Louis sighs and pulls away from Harry, breath still caught in the warmth they’d built between them. “I’ve gotta go,” he mutters, already digging around for his hoodie. “Time to shoot the fucking masterpiece.”
Harry chuckles, flopping dramatically onto his back. “Tell Zara you love me,” he teases.
Louis throws a middle finger over his shoulder. “Don’t tempt me to actually pass that on.”
He zips up the tent, squinting as the light hits him. The shift from the soft, hidden world of the tent to the open field of performance mode is always jarring, even now. But this is the plan. The one video. Just enough to remind the press, the fans, the story machine that their relationship is alive and well.
Lottie’s already in position, casually lounging with her phone, looking like she’s just posting some relaxed “here’s my Glasto vibe” content. She glances at Louis as he approaches, nodding slightly. It’s time.
Zara’s there too, standing at the right angle, drink in hand, expression playful. Louis steps in beside her, offering a small laugh at something she says - he doesn’t even catch the words. The important thing is how they look.
Lottie lifts her phone. Starts filming. Something about the crowd, about the music. And there, in the blurred background: Louis and Zara, looking soft. Naturally. Together.
Louis knows the fans will analyse it frame by frame.
His trousers have green stripes and his cap shows off blue ones. It’s not even subtle. And sure, maybe he’s “accidentally” blue-greening again, but he’ll tell management he was tired, hungover, distracted by the music - whatever excuse they want. Let them believe what they need. Let the fans believe what they want.
Video secured, Lottie stops filming and sends him a tiny wink before hitting ‘post’.
“That’s your scene done,” she says. “You’re free to run along now, lover boy.”
“Appreciate the artistry,” Louis grins, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before slipping away.
By the time he makes it back to the edge of the main arena, his phone buzzes.
H
Made it to the VIP area. Waiting for you.
Of course he is. Of course he’s already slipped out of the tent, unnoticed, unnoticed enough, waiting for Louis like he always does - quietly, loyally, just there.
Louis hurries toward the VIP area, heart lifting a little with every step. The fake moment is done.
Now, he can have something real again.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
The day unfolds like something borrowed from a life that might one day be theirs.
Hidden away in the quieter corners of the festival, Louis and Harry exist outside the noise and eyes for a while. It’s not always easy to find space where no one’s watching, but they manage - ducking between food stalls, cutting through the artist areas, lounging behind tinted sunglasses and under the shelter of bucket hats and hoodies.
They laugh - God, they laugh so much. About stupid fan edits, ridiculous festival outfits, the chicken wrap that was definitely not chicken, and the fact that Harry’s sunglasses are completely impractical but apparently “essential for the aesthetic.”
They talk shit, too. About old friends and even older tour stories. And then, when the sun starts sinking a little and the crowds hum louder, they get quieter. The conversation shifts.
They talk about what ifs. About a future where maybe they won’t need burner phones and coded texts. Where a simple “I love you” could be said out loud without fear. Maybe they’ll be seen one day, walking together, just as friends even. That’s all they’d need.
It’s closer. They feel it in the air, in the way things have been changing - slowly, but steadily.
Still, in case anyone’s watching now, they keep it casual. Harry nudges Louis’ shoulder when he makes a dumb joke; Louis throws his head back in mock offence. If a picture is snapped, it’ll look like two mates catching up. That’s what they are to the world, anyway.
By the time The Script are about to go on, they’ve worked their way to the edge of the stage. Connections and years of experience have earned them that privilege, to be close without being centre stage themselves.
It’s loud and electric, and still somehow intimate.
They stand in the shadow of the scaffolding, just out of sight. The music thunders through their chests as familiar lyrics soar over the field. “For the First Time” kicks in and Louis smiles to himself - it’s too on the nose, almost painfully so.
Harry sings along under his breath, eyes closed, swaying gently. Louis watches him, heart aching in the best way.
And then, hidden behind a curtain and a speaker stack, Louis grabs his hand and pulls him close. They kiss like they’re still twenty, like nothing’s ever been lost. It’s clumsy and grinning and soft, and it tastes like warm cider and freedom.
The bass trembles through the floor beneath them, crowd roars echoing from just beyond the curtain. But here, in the shadow of the stage, time slows.
Their next kiss begins slow, gentle. A quiet press of lips that says I’ve missed you even though they were together all day. But then Harry deepens it, tilts his head slightly and Louis lets him. His free hand comes up to cup Harry’s jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone as their mouths move together with growing urgency.
It’s not hurried, not desperate, just full. Like they’ve been holding back all day and are finally allowed to let a little of it slip out.
Harry parts his lips and Louis takes the invitation. Their tongues meet, teasing, slow and warm and familiar. Louis feels the flutter low in his belly, that heat building, the kind that always sparks just from Harry’s mouth on his.
Harry’s hands grip Louis’ waist, pulling him in closer. Louis can feel his breath catch, feel Harry’s chest rise against his own. It’s dizzying - the music, the adrenaline, the sheer fact that they’re doing this here. It makes Louis want to push him against the scaffold and lose himself in the moment, to forget about everything else for just a little longer.
But he can’t. They can’t.
Louis pulls back slightly, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. His lips are red and a little swollen and he knows Harry’s are too. For a second, neither of them speaks. They just breathe, hearts pounding in rhythm.
“Fuck,” Harry whispers, eyes still closed. “You always taste like summer at a festival.”
Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s just warm beer and strawberry vape, love.”
Harry grins, still breathless. “Delicious, then.”
They linger like that, foreheads pressed together, until the roar of the crowd swells again, pulling them gently back to the reality around them.
Louis nudges Harry’s nose with his own. “We should stop before I start something we can’t finish.”
Harry smirks. “What happened with no control ?” he asks, voice teasing.
No Control.
His song. The song that was so obvious, Louis still can't believe they were allowed to put it out there. The song Harry loved and freaked out to on stage. Louis smiles at the memory.
“I still feel like that, baby, don't you worry,” Louis answers, pressing a small kiss to Harry's lips.
They laugh softly, the kind of laughter that hums with love, with history, with the knowledge of everything they’ve been through to still have this.
❦ ════ •⊰❂⊱• ════ ❦
Back in the tent, the air is cooler now, the night humming with distant music and the soft chatter of late festival-goers. Louis lies stretched out, fully naked, head propped up on his arm, his phone glowing dimly in front of him. Harry’s beside him, legs tangled lazily with his, their limbs fitting together in that way they always have - like two pieces of a puzzle snapped into place.
They’re scrolling through Instagram, fingers swiping idly, hunting for any sign that they’d slipped. So far, nothing. No blurry photos of them in the crowd, no grainy zoom-ins of them beside the stage. Just speculation, tweets about “the tension,” headlines teasing Harry Styles parties at Glastonbury - with another 1D member in attendance.
“God, the articles,” Louis mumbles, amused. “They make it sound like we bumped into each other at the bloody portaloos.”
Harry snorts, leaning in to read over his shoulder. “Styles and Tomlinson’s surprise Glasto overlap sparks reunion rumours. Classic.”
They scroll further, deeper into the fan edits and nostalgia. There’s something oddly comforting about it - watching strangers piece together moments from a decade ago, clips of lingering glances, inside jokes, the way they moved around each other. It’s like looking at an old photo album someone else lovingly curated.
There's the video when Louis defended Harry's honour with a water fight, then the moment Liam pulled down Harry's trousers on stage. The interview where Harry is on vocal rest and Niall looks like he's dying when they ask if Louis is on vocal rest as well.
They’re both giggling now, warm and unguarded, wrapped up in each other and the memories, until a reel appears - one that stills Louis completely.
It’s from that one interview.
The one where Harry had sat slightly angled toward Louis, eyes soft, full of something dangerously close to reverence. The kind of look that told stories. That revealed things they hadn’t been allowed to say.
Louis feels the breath catch in his chest.
He remembers everything about that day. The way Harry had squeezed his knee when the camera was still off, the way their hands had brushed, the sheer effort it took not to reach for him. He doesn’t even remember what they were promoting - just that look. That feeling.
Without thinking, he double taps.
Then freezes.
“Oh fuck,” he blurts out, staring at his screen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I liked it. On my main. Not the burner.”
Harry’s head snaps toward him. “What?”
“I liked the video. The interview one. On my actual fucking account.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, instead of panic, Harry just smiles and reaches over to squeeze Louis’ forearm.
“Let them see it,” he says softly. “Let them know you saw it and liked it. You can unlike it later, if you want.”
Louis blinks at him. “That’s insane.”
Harry grins. “You like insane. And you love a bit of chaos.”
Louis stares at the screen. The like is already gathering attention. Notifications are buzzing. Comments are appearing in real-time.
“This is gonna be everywhere in five minutes,” he murmurs.
Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Then let it be. They miss us, Lou. Let them miss us properly for a night.”
Louis breathes out, still half-shocked, but also buzzing in that weird, reckless way that’s always followed Harry around like a storm cloud full of glitter.
“Management’s gonna fucking kill me,” he mutters.
Harry leans in, lips brushing his temple. “Yeah. But they’ll deal with it. Just like they always do.”
Louis nods. He can feel his heart thudding, not in fear, but in something strangely like joy. Maybe it is chaos. Maybe it’s madness. But maybe, it’s a start.
He locks his phone and tosses it aside. “Well. No backing out now.”
Harry chuckles and pulls him closer, tucking them into their familiar tangle. “Wouldn’t want to anyway.”