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Harry had suffered from anxiety for most of his life, and while he generally had it under control, sometimes it still became too much for him to handle.
This was one of those times.
Harry clutched his microphone in his sweaty hands, taking deep breaths to try and stave off the overwhelming panic that was settling in the bottom of his stomach and tightening across his chest.
He could do this, he told himself. He had practised and practised and his mother was standing right next to him, right hand firmly on his shoulder. He could do this, and if the lead weights would please leave his internal organs, that would be wonderful.
Because he was going to audition for the X Factor. And it would be amazing. As long as he didn't throw up. Or faint.
____
He didn't throw up or faint. He got two out of three yeses, and collapsed into his mum's arms after he was safely off-stage. He felt oddly giddy, and a weird tangy taste in his mouth signified his adrenaline rush and slight shock. He didn't cry, but it was a close thing.
____
Being eliminated at bootcamp made Harry feel about as worthless as he'd always suspected he was. He couldn't sing, who was he kidding? Not Simon and Louis. He wrapped his arms around himself and felt utterly alone. He couldn't do this, he couldn't do anything. He was sixteen years old and he worked in a bakery, for god's sakes. He'd risked everything for this—his job, his schooling—because he'd thought he was actually worth something more than a quaint career and a quiet life. He was so stupid. And now, what was he going to do? What if the bakery didn't take him back? What if—
And then there was his name, his name was being called, along with four others, and from the crying masses they were pulled back, and they stood together and Simon said we're making you into groups and they were all hugging each other and the boy closest whispered hi I'm Louis and Harry just buried his head into Louis' shoulder and tried to breath normally.
____
After that, it was mostly manageable. Every time before he got onstage Harry instinctively clutched Louis' arm for support, reasoning with himself, a constant stream of goodwill and mental encouragement. In front of everyone, the judges and the audience beyond, Harry lost himself in the music, the genuine joy he received from singing. He closed his eyes and sung his part, surrounded by some of the closest friends he'd ever made, and felt the most relaxed he had in his entire life.
It didn't make sense, not rationally, not in context—there was so much at stake—but that was how it was. He loved singing, he loved the boys, and he loved being there.
The anxiousness returned after, when the judges and the audience made the decision, when they stood there and clutched each other because Harry felt like he was going to physically break apart without Liam and Louis and Niall and Zayn to hold onto, but for that split second he was happy and relaxed and he smiled as he sang.
____
Strangely, the worst attack wasn't after they lost.
Because even though they were out, eliminated at third, they'd made it that far, farther than any of the other groups. They had fans, hundreds and hundreds, already lining up in the audience, screaming their names. Harry knew that plenty of successful artists had launched their career even if they hadn't won the show.
So he'd cried and clutched Louis' shirt that night and curled into a ball on his bed, the words worthless worthless worthless swirling around in his brain, but he stayed silent and tight-lipped and he woke up the next morning to a tentative record deal and they weren't over, not by a long shot. He smiled hesitantly at the boys and they all beamed back because they weren't going anywhere, not ever.
Thus, that night wasn't the worst attack.
The worst attack was after they touched down in America.
Because then it hit Harry, really hit him, that they were doing this, they were trying to become famous and successful, more so than he could have ever imagined, and he stared at wall of his hotel room in a foreign country and he thought about how insane it all was, and what if it didn't work, what if America didn't like them, Harry couldn't go back to school now, he had thrown himself into this career and hadn't looked back and what if that was the wrong choice, he had money now but it wouldn't last forever, and he'd forgotten, he'd forgotten how to bake a decent mince pie, was it one or one and a half cups of flour, and so how was he ever going to learn how to feed himself he was useless and what if he really can't sing, he'd seen the critiques, he'd read them all, he was just the pretty face and ever since Caroline his own fans had been treating him differently and everything was going to fall apart, the boys didn't need him, they shouldn't want him, he was a wreck because this wasn't normal and god he didn't even know how to pay taxes and he was in America he didn't know how to pay taxes in America how did that work he was almost eighteen years old and he couldn't take care of himself and as soon as he turned eighteen he'd have to but he couldn't and—
And Louis had found him and he was shaking his shoulder and pulling him upright and saying something in his ear and rubbing his back and clutching his arm but Harry couldn't focus on that because god now Louis could see him and he was just so pathetic and it was terrible and why would he even want to be around someone as messed up as Harry, because Harry couldn't even remember if he'd packed a toothbrush and what if people didn't like their songs because of Harry's voice and he was getting Louis' shirt wet and this was one of Louis' favourite shirts and Niall was there—
And there were more voices and Harry didn't care what they were saying because all of them, the entire band could see him and he was making a spectacle of himself, he was throwing a tantrum like a child and the shame welled up and he needed to get away because he was just awful, everything was just so awful and he didn't deserve to be here, he was only the one with the hair anyway, he was just marketable, he had no actual talent, and Louis was clutching him tighter around the waist and didn't he know, didn't he realise how worthless and awful Harry was, how awful he could be because he wasn't— he liked—
But then there was a phone, and a voice said honey, Harry, listen to me, love and Harry cried harder because it was his mum, and then.
Then there was a hand in his hair.
Louis touched his hair constantly, ruffling it or teasingly pulling on a curl, but this time he was stroking his hair, down to the base of his neck, and Harry stopped wanting to pull away, and curled up closer, and his mother asked him kindly, so very kindly like she always did, what made him upset, love, what was it, and Louis was asking too, his voice a breath across Harry's cheek, and Harry confessed everything, all his constant worries both big and little, and Louis ran his fingers through his hair and Liam clutched his hand and Niall patted his back and Zayn replied throughout his entire broken monologue, soothing and encouraging, and Harry fell asleep like that, exhausted.
____
After that, Louis attached himself to Harry's side like a burr. Harry felt guilty, tried to push him away, but Louis would shrug and smile and ask him do you not want me around, what kind of best friend are you, and finally Harry would give in because he always gave in to Louis, always said yes in the end.
And when Harry became nervous, when he bit his lip and clenched his fist and wondered what if what if what if, Louis was always there with a hand in his hair, pulling him close and whispering It's okay, you're wonderful, you're the best, don't worry it's okay in his ear, no matter what they were doing. He brushed his fingers through Harry's hair in slow circles, massaging his scalp, and Harry would lean his head against Louis' chest and breathe, and hear Louis' heartbeat thrum under his jaw.
The first kiss, when it came—while they lay huddled in a hotel bed while Niall and Zayn played video games on the floor in front of them and Liam was in his own room—was between whispered words of you're beautiful and caring and amazing and talented, a quick peck to Harry's cheek after each adjective, and it wasn't quite expected, but it was no surprise, and the only acknowledgement Harry gave was a sigh as he relaxed further against Louis' body.
The kisses came fairly frequently after that, the real ones at least, the ones not for cameras, the ones intermixed with encouragement and support and Louis' constant warm presence in Harry's hair. They were always light, always fluttering around Harry like the words Louis murmured until it all flowed together; light kisses to his cheek and jaw and brow, soft words, and feather-light fingers against his skull.
It was so very easy, so casual when Harry tilted his head and connected Louis' mouth with his own. He lifted his hands and slipped them into Louis' hair for once, and he held him there, made it more than a comfort, made it tangible and distinct and disengaged from Louis' rapport. A blatant statement of something that already existed, that Harry was making absolutely clear.
He pulled away, and the anxiety returned in droves, the lead weights dropping into his stomach with a clang, the bitter taste welling in his mouth, his mouth that still felt soft and tingly and warm.
But then Louis broke into a brilliant smile, and his hands, perpetually in Harry's hair, tugged him forward and into another kiss, reassuring and eager. And Harry felt his worry quickly melt away, because of all the uncertainties both real and imaginary in Harry's life, there was one thing he could always be sure of.