What do you think it was like when Harry and Louis first kissed?
You know what? I don’t think it was like fireworks. I don’t think it was like the first drop of a rollercoaster, or the burst of color from a paintball pellet, or the opening note of a rock show. I think it was softer than that. Simpler than that. Gentle.
I think that it was late, and quiet, and maybe they were laying on the trampoline in the cold August air at the bungalow, or maybe they were crammed, hot and sweaty, in one of the x-factor bunks, and they looked at each other and one of them leant in and just went for it. I think they stepped off a cliff, but weren’t ever afraid that they’d fall. I think it was like the crack of a log when the campfire has burned down to just coals. I think it was familiar, and warm, and weird in the way that lots of teenage first kisses are, but that it worked. I think it felt like safe and happy and hope, so much hope. I think they didn’t linger long, but still took moments to say anything after. Moments to find the words. Moments to hold onto the giddy joy only night time secrets bring.
I think they smiled lazily, I think Louis’ eyes went crinkly, and Harry’s dimples were faint shadows in the moon glow, and I think they decided that they were going to do that a second time. And a third time. And a fourth time. And so on.
I think the other boys figured it out fast enough. I think Harry was upset by Hannah, and Louis was upset by himself, but they worked it out in the end. I think they still kiss the way they did the first time, because it wasn’t deafening symphonies or crashing tidal waves or breaking windows; it was coming home.
And that’s the crack of a log when the campfire has burned down to just coals. A glow that keeps going even on the darkest of nights. Not desperate, not dramatic, but present, always. Home.