Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis is straight. (Stop laughing, Zayn.)

Addendum: Louis is mostly straight.

Or.

He was.

At a certain point, things get a little murky. He’s only ever slept with women, but…

But.

He maybe enjoys a tight set of abs or thick, sturdy thighs just a bit more than the next perfectly straight guy would.

It doesn't mean anything.

Maybe, in weak moments, slipped silently between his own sheets, in his own bed, hard and desperate in his own hand, maybe Louis thinks about broad shoulders and dark stubble over a sharp jaw just a little more often than your average hetero male might.

And, yes, okay, maybe sometimes he imagines what it might feel like to be pressed into the mattress by someone bigger than him, someone who could hold him down with big, wide hands, keep him still and make him take

It doesn’t mean anything. Louis is straight.

So what if his fantasies sometimes skew ever-so-slightly toward the homoerotic. That’s just, like… everyone thinks about it. It doesn’t mean anything. No one cares if he occasionally gets off thinking about pretty boys draped in silky fabrics. It’s not the end of the world for him to get caught up in daydreams of how it might feel to have such a person writhing beneath him, both of them trembling, gasping, coming so hard they can't breathe -

Ahem.

So, yeah. Obviously, Louis is straight.

"Could I bother you for a drag of that?"

Second addendum: Louis used to be straight.

…

(ish.)

(Shut up, Zayn!)

Chapter Text

Right up until the moment Louis found himself confronted by the reality of one ridiculous boy in particular, he was perfectly content with the - apparently quite fragile - bubble of bullshittery he'd constructed, re: the aforementioned mostly-straightness.

It was easier, for the most part. Hadn’t felt like losing anything because no one ever bothered to ask.

It was easy enough to figure out who his parents, his friends - life - expected him to be. No one ever had to explain it or demand his compliance. He learned by existing.

A joyful, curious boy made of chaos and sensitivity, whose father didn’t want him playing with Barbies or learning to cook at his mother’s side. An outgoing but careful teen, whose friends were obsessed with their dicks and where they could put them, but insisted “no homo” when they sat around talking about it. Boys who thought they knew everything and threw punches over nothing.

Louis learned keeping his head down meant occasionally ignoring whispers somewhere in the back of his mind. It sometimes meant playing whack-a-mole with an errant desire or two, but that was fine.

It was fine.

Until college. When his parents had long since split up and remarried, and the weight of parental expectations continued to shift. When the pressure sat differently on Louis' shoulders. It was then he allowed himself to even momentarily consider he might place differently on the Kinsey Scale than he'd been willing to admit.

He'd done enough living, enough learning by then, to acknowledge the glimmer of truth in things people sometimes assumed about him. To wonder if there was more to it than stereotypes and his having grown up in a house full to overflowing with feminine energy.

He'd always been hyperaware of how his mannerisms and affectations might read to the casual observer. Why a person might take one look at the delicate set of Louis’ wrists and ankles, the generous curves of his lower half and the little slip of his waist, or sometimes simply hear him speak and feel confident enough to hazard a guess.

Having outgrown his youthful insecurities, Louis was mostly fine with people assuming whatever they wanted about him. He wasn’t offended by the assumption he was anything other than straight. He was fine with whatever, really. It was just that none of those assumptions ever felt like the truth.

Not enough to risk the stability he’d cultivated, at least.

The older he got, though, the more he let himself wonder. By then, he was too busy clinging to who he thought he was, who he’d always tried to be, to stop and give himself time to consider any long-dismissed options, but… he wondered.

It wasn’t until halfway through their sophomore year of college, after several intro-level sex and gender courses, a few pointed conversations with Zayn, and more nights than he could count spent staring at the ceiling, that he was willing to quietly acknowledge in the safety of his own mind that he was attracted to men in some capacity.

He decided there had just never been a time he laid eyes on one and felt compelled to hit his knees about it.

And that felt like a monumental flaw in the logic. Because, surely, if it were going to happen it would have by now. He semi-regularly woke up next to Zayn Malik, for fuck’s sake. He’d seen Liam naked on several occasions, only half of which were even remotely sports-related. Niall is Irish.

Louis briefly considered that wanting to suck someone off wasn’t necessarily the hinge upon which homosexuality depended, but dismissed that out of hand.

Over time, there were… moments. Glimmers of some remote possibility for potential.

When you're as openly flirtatious as Louis can often be, with an equal opportunity theory of the art, it's almost inevitable. It's just that, the way Louis figures it, an occasional drunken makeout does not a homosexual make.

On this point, he’s almost entirely certain.

Zayn pretty emphatically disagrees, but he’s also deeply biased on the matter and Louis is therefore confident in his decision to disregard Zayn's opinion.

As it stands, by the time Louis is thirty, he and his sexuality have reached an understanding. They've settled into themselves a bit, found their groove. Gotten comfortable.

Dudes are sometimes hot and Louis is okay with that. It doesn’t make him any less straight.

Really, he's in a good place.

It's fine.

Everything is fine.

It's half past ten on a Friday night and Louis is officially inebriated. Somewhere between tall glasses of an incredibly pretty pink fizzy concoction and Louis' decreed round of lemon drops, he managed to tip clear over the line from buzzed into, like, mildly drunk. Stationary objects remain stationary, for which he's quite grateful, but his insides have gone all slow and syrupy. When he moves just right on the high-back barstool, the roll of his body makes him feel a little like he's cradled in a wave.

Zayn had, thankfully, remembered to feed him at some point, so, really, his situation could be worse.

As long as no one asks him to do anything requiring the use of his legs in the next five minutes, he's ninety percent sure everything’ll be fine.

"Another round, barkeep!"

Liam rolls his eyes goodnaturedly without glancing up from where he’s using a thin-bladed knife to slice a pear into wafer-thin sheets. "I'm not carrying you home tonight, Tommo."

Zayn doesn’t even truly attempt to disguise his snort with a cough, which is fine, really, because it’s poorly executed in the end, anyway. He’s unrepentant even as he reaches behind the lacquered bartop and liberates an entire bowl of lemon wedges, a vial of sugar, and the bottle of Belvedere Liam poured from not ten minutes before.

Wisely, instead of protesting his partner's predilection toward petty theft, Liam ignores it entirely.

"Heard from Niall," he offers, skillfully manipulating a slice of fruit into the shape he wants. Satisfied with the resulting rose, he pokes a tiny dagger-shaped cocktail skewer through it, then gently submerges the whole thing in a shallow dish full of something clear that smells heavily of lemon and roses. “Should be in any minute.”

Louis scoffs. Niall, who is chronically late on a good day, will be at least another half an hour. Longer, if Harry, the friend he's subjecting to their presence tonight is anywhere near as bad as he is.

Louis is willing to wager Niall won't make it three steps inside the building without acquiring at least one extra shadow. He's just that type. The guy who can befriend literally anyone, and generally endeavors to do just that.

It's his face, is the thing. Niall's face is a masterclass in guile, with just enough honesty thrown in to make you trust him. The eyes, probably.

Point is, by the time they finally do arrive, it’ll be ages yet before they make it anywhere near the actual bar. Therefore, Louis is free to continue drinking.

He’s swallowing down the candied burn of another shot when Zayn and Liam start to quietly bicker. Before the situation can devolve into their weird version of foreplay, Louis slides off his barstool and melts into the flow of movement around the main floor, letting it carry him around the edges of the room. He peels off and ducks down the moodily-lit hallway to his right, follows it all the way to the end.

The men's bathroom is immaculate, a concept of which, for Louis at least, the novelty has yet to wear off. Just two years earlier, his surroundings would be less shiny porcelain and lemon fresh scent, more worn steel, graffiti, and urine cakes.

Because despite numerous other redeeming qualities, dive bars and nightclubs aren't exactly renowned for the cleanliness of their facilities.

Though the vibes can differ pretty wildly between establishments, some things are inherent to public restrooms the world over. For example, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a horny drunk in possession of an enthusiastic partner, must be in want for a semi-private location in which to get off.

Even in the classier joints.

As evidenced by the couple discreetly banging one out in the stall behind Louis while he's washing his hands.

The distinctly masculine sounds echoing around the pristine walls follow Louis all the way outside. If his fingers tremble ever so slightly as he wrestles a crushed pack of smokes from the tight pocket of his jeans, he ignores it. Leans casually against the bar's brick façade, back of his neck prickling where sweat cools along his hairline. It’s early March and the rapid temperature shift from inside makes him shiver. He lights a cigarette and sucks the smoke to the bottom of his lungs, tilting his head back to blow it out toward the streetlight overhead, willing some of the tension beneath his skin to go with it.

"Could I bother you for a drag of that?"

Louis doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. He cracks one eye, peering through wispy smoke and hazy darkness toward the deep, rumbling voice, and nearly chokes on his tongue.

Boys should not be allowed to be that pretty. People should not be allowed to be that pretty. It isn't fair. How is anyone meant to survive when there are humans out there walking around looking this way? Just waiting for an opportunity to spring themselves on unsuspecting passersby.

Who even has eyes that green?!

Some circuit somewhere in Louis' vodka-soaked brain misfires and the only words his mouth deigns appropriate right then are, "Oh, fuck off with that face!"

Well done, Tomlinson. Absolute class.

"Sorry?" Green Eyes laughs, taking the cigarette Louis holds out like a peace offering. He shuffles his long legs, bringing him a few steps closer. Close enough for Louis to catch a whiff of him.

God, he might actually be drooling.

He decides to try again.

"Your face.”

Oh good, his own face feels like it’s on fire. Christ, kill him now. Preferably quickly. Wipe him clear off the face of the earth, thereby rescuing him from this excruciating moment of absolute derangement. He clears his throat.

"S'a nice face."

Tall, Dark, and Curly rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, unsuccessfully biting back a grin.

"S'alright," he allows, then wraps bitten-red lips around the cigarette and inhales.

Louis is one wrong move away from hitting the ground.

When Gold Boots exhales smoke, it’s little more than a nicotine-saturated sigh of relief. "Not all of us can be blessed with those cheekbones," he smirks, shooting Louis a sideways glance that has heat coiling at the base of his spine.

He knows he's blushing from top to tail, he can feel it.

Fuck, this is bad. Very, very bad. Which must be why he think’s to hell with it.

"Have you seen you, love?"

Because, yeah, no, that's… not really any better. Borderline worse, actually.

The Rebel Cherub just laughs again, bright and bold and so fucking attractive, his head thrown back, angle of his jaw sharp enough to shred Louis into tiny rainbow confetti on the fucking spot.

He’s suddenly struck with the awareness he's neck-deep in an identity crisis right there on a broken bar sidewalk in the middle of the night, at least two-and-a-half sheets to the wind. His hands shake as he taps another cigarette from the pack, skin buzzing like he's suffering the aftereffects of a lightning strike.

He somehow manages to spark the lighter and force his lungs to cooperate. It takes an embarrassingly long time to decide what to do with his hands once he's finished.

Graphic Tee Under A Peacoat doesn't mention it. Too busy being a lightning bolt, probably.

Instead, he pulls up a couple of bricks and mirrors Louis' stance, flicking ash from the cherry end of his cigarette. His wide shoulders are drawn back flush with the building, but his hips jut out obscenely toward the street, his flat stomach and sloping waist accentuated by the deep arch of his lower back.

It’s too much for Louis' tenuous grasp on heterosexuality.

"I've been trying to give it up," Bunny Teeth is explaining, waving the nub of his pilfered cigarette lazily between them.

If he shifts approximately four inches to the right their shoulders will bump. Louis is mortified to discover he's somehow managed to ingest an entire swarm of bees in the last ten seconds.

"Something about a night out, though. Go a bit weak."

Christ, Louis wasn't ready. He's never been more unprepared for anything in his life than he was for this delightful creature's existence. And that's fucked up, really, because the Universe has historically been relatively kind to Louis. It's not like they’re besties, too much history between them for that. Still, he thought they were cool.

But this – sending this revelation to his metaphorical doorstep without some kind of warning? Not so much as a weird breeze or shooting star to announce this being's imminenet arrival? Not cool, Universe. Very, very not cool.

Several beats pass, during which Louis struggles to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Touch Me Hands patiently waits him out. He's considerate enough to keep his gaze averted, aimed out at midnight revelers stumbling past in the street, giving Louis at least the illusion of privacy while he attempts to get his shit together.

"Boys' night?" he eventually manages to ask.

High-Waisted Trousers hums in a way that seems affirmative, before firmly shaking his head. It sends the loose curls of his hair into chaos, a wave of longer strands flopping forward to hang over his forehead.

"Just A Night," he says and rakes it back.

The movement reduces the distance between them by at least two inches.

Louis is probably dying. Shit, he should have reminded Zayn to clear his browser history. Oh god, and the box in his closet, what if Lottie finds it–

"Gemma would castrate me if I lumped her in with us miscreants."

Gemma?

"Gemma?" Please, God, don't let her be a girlfriend. "Girlfriend?"

Legs grimaces like he's just been aggressively force-fed an entire lemon, rind and all.

"Sister," he clarifies with a shudder. "Ugh, and our meet cute was going so well."

"Sorry, sorry," Louis apologizes around a laugh.

That sound was not a borderline hysterical giggle, damn it. Oh god, they're less than an inch apart. Ohgodohgodohgod.

"Lemme make it up to you," his mouth says while his brain pours forth a litany of suggestive ideas on how exactly he might go about that. "Buy you a drink?" he settles on, thumbing over his shoulder at the building still holding them both upright.

Jawline gives him an obvious once over, letting his heavy gaze linger a bit as it meanders up the length of his body. Louis' skin crackles. A smirk firmly back in place, Trouble nods and shoves himself away from the wall, already striding toward the entrance.

He stops halfway there, looking back over his shoulder at where Louis stands rooted in place. He cocks his head. "You coming?"

What choice does Louis have but to follow?

Roughly half a dozen steps inside, Louis is being engulfed by the charm hurricane that is Niall. The rowdy brunet shouts when he spots them and immediately carves a wide swath across the dancefloor, throwing himself bodily into Louis' waiting arms the second he's reasonably within range.

Dimples hovers nearby, looking inexplicably confused.

"Thought you'd abandoned me," Niall calls over the music.

Louis opens his mouth to reply, but Currently Taking Off His Coat beats him to it.

"Already?" Fuck, that's a lot of tattoos. "What kinda girl do you take me for, Horan?"

Wait.

"Vermont is a long way from Kansas, Dorothrry. That's all I'm saying."

Oh no. Nonononono.

"I've never even been to Kansas." Harry laughs, twinkling at Niall before pulling him into an embrace that is impressively handsy.

"Get off me, I just saw you three hours ago," Niall complains, swatting Harry away when he cops a handful of asscheek. He's grinning though, so Harry ignores him and gives him an extra squeeze for good measure.

And yeah, clearly, Louis spent the previous fifteen minutes mutually, intensely flirting with Niall's childhood friend, Harry Styles, the Oregon transplant he just used two weeks of vacation to retrieve from their shared hometown.

They literally stepped off the tarmac this morning.

So. That's a thing.

Louis needs a drink.

"I'm gonna." He jerks his head toward the bar, then flees into the crowd, intent on drowning the relentless buzzy feeling in his stomach.

Liam and Zayn have swapped places, with Zayn now behind the bar and Liam leaning on his forearms opposite him, swiveling side to side on his barstool in time with the bass-heavy beat of some trancy indie hit Louis doesn't know a single word to.

"Zayn."

He doesn't react. Louis stretches onto his tiptoes and bends, hoisting himself halfway across the bar, clumsily searching behind it for a suitable projectile. Harry and Niall are going to catch up any second, he does not have time for this.

"Zayn!" he hisses more urgently, finally rustling up a cherry to wing at his face.

Zayn turns with a deeply despondent sigh, throwing a look across the taps. Something in Louis' expression must broadcast his distress because Zayn abandons his task of drying glassware without a second thought.

"What's wrong?" he demands, slinging a towel over his shoulder while exchanging a look with Liam, who has already begun scanning the crowd behind Louis for possible threats.

He loves them both fiercely.

"Lou?"

Right. Best to steer into the skid, then.

"There's a boy."

When Liam tilts his head that way he looks like a confused Labrador. It makes Louis chuckle, and though it comes out high and a little strangled, it saps some of the rigidity from his spine.

Then there's Zayn.

Louis can tell from the tempered amusement glinting to life in his friend's eyes that Zayn knows what he isn't saying. He doesn't ask if there's a boy or if there's a boy; he doesn't need to. And if his smile is a little self-satisfied, a little bit smug, Louis is willing to let him have this one.

Especially when – instead of even the gentlest of ribbing – the only words out of Zayn's mouth are, "You good?"

"Yeah. Yes."

Shit, is that Harry?

"No."

That's definitely Harry.

"He's coming, shut up!"

Niall emerges from the dancefloor first, Harry less than a step behind him, with who Louis assumes is Gemma bringing up the rear. There are the requisite introductions, an offensively knowing eyebrow raise from one, Zayn Malik, and then drinks are being dispersed. They all drop anchor at the bar and Louis can feel himself sweating through his t-shirt even as Harry slips into the seat beside him, casually knocking their knees while he settles. He leans in close enough that Louis' next breath tastes the way Harry smells, a warm, heady blend of smoke and boy and something ineffably sweet.

Is that a pearl necklace?

"Still wanna buy me that drink?"

Louis blinks. It's an out. Harry is giving him an out.

Because now he's not just Dimples, the scorchingly hot stranger Louis plucked off a bar sidewalk. Now, he's Harry, Niall's lifelong bestie and the reason Louis is currently trying to determine whether or not he can run faster than Niall can throw hands.

He’s risked more for less.

“Alright, Styles,” Louis decides. "One drink."

Chapter Text

Louis wakes to an empty bed and the scent of fresh coffee.

Neither of these is a particularly uncommon occurrence, especially for what appears to be a relatively early Saturday afternoon, if both the sun and Louis' wrung-out brain are to be trusted. With the café downstairs you'd be hard-pressed to find an hour of the day his apartment doesn't reek of bold roast. The scent wafts up and seeps right into… well, everything, really. Floorboards. Walls. The sheets he’s currently sprawled across.

It’s a bit like living in the deep end of an espresso, Louis imagines.

The perpetually empty bed only narrowly avoids being just as common an occurrence, for no other reason than Louis and his friends being astoundingly clingy.

The memories of last night are new, though, something entirely uncommon. Harry’s voice echoes softly in the back of his mind, his laugh a rumble Louis feels behind his own ribs.

Some moments are blurrier than others. Some stand out in technicolor relief, clear and so bright they burn.

In his mind, Louis watches as Harry stumbles into his ridiculous boots, wholly dependent upon his sister and Louis’ front door to stay upright. He smiles over his shoulder, flashing those dents beside his mouth, his cheeks rosy with remnants of sleep. His eyes glitter as he says goodbye, reaching out to pull Louis into a hug that makes his toes go tingly.

Louis whimpers and smashes his face into the pillow, green and gold flitting behind his eyelids.

Eventually, he forces himself to get up, hitting play on the sound system as he passes. Billie Joe Armstrong laments the tragedies of suburban America while Louis drags himself into the kitchen, yawning his way through setting up a pot of coffee. He could slip downstairs for a proper fix, but the effort of having to put on pants honestly just isn't worth it.

While he waits, Louis pops a couple of Excedrin and scrolls his notifications, idly nursing a bottle of water. He's got a string of texts from Lottie but no voicemails, so he figures there’s no cause for alarm. If needs must, Lottie would've stormed the gates ages ago and yanked him out of bed by the ankles. Whatever she’s riled up about can wait at least until his brain is fully back online.

There's a message from Zayn that's nothing but an eggplant emoji.

Two texts from Niall. One is a photo from the undoubtedly prolific number they’d taken the night before. This particular picture, a selfie, is just Niall and Harry pulling funny faces with their belts around their foreheads like an uncoordinated set of makeshift leather diadem. Louis laughs a little helplessly, immediately setting it as Niall's contact photo.

The second text isn't much of anything, just the word "SLINKY" with twenty-eight exclamation points.

An unsaved number sent a picture of beaten-up gold booties heaped beside what Louis recognizes as his own entryway table, a pair of scuffed, green-striped Adidas mixed in as though they belong. There's no caption, no attached or subsequent message. Just a photograph sent out into the ether with a goodbye wave and the absolute certainty that Louis would understand.

The message is timestamped, sent early this morning, long before Louis even attempted to peel himself out of bed. And that… that has to mean Harry woke up thinking about him, too, right? That despite last night’s best effort to pickle his own brain, Harry blinked awake after what was almost certainly far too little sleep, inevitably worse for the wear, and amongst his first thoughts?

Louis.

He has to physically restrain his eyeballs morphing into cartoon hearts and popping clean out of his skull. He bites down on the smile threatening to split his face and saves the number to his contacts, firing off a carefully measured response before he can second-guess the impulse.

Halfway through his second cup of coffee the phone rings, newly minted contact flashing Harry’s beaming grin up from the table. Louis’ heart falls clean out of his ass. He scrambles to answer with his stomach lodged in his throat, almost spilling sideways out of his chair in the process.

His first attempt at a greeting results in a squeak that truly is the most mortifying sound he's ever made in his life. He thumps his forehead weakly against the kitchen table, face burning.

"Hello?"

Harry's laugh is warm and indulgent down the line. "Rough morning?"

"It is twelve-thirty in the afternoon," Louis snorts and curls into himself, tucking knees-to-chin.

"I knew that. Was fairly certain you didn't."

Shithead. "Were you just calling to sass me, or?"

"Not originally, no."

A tinkling laugh carries through Louis’ speaker. With no small amount of dawning horror, he realizes he recognizes it.

"Are you with Lottie?!"

Harry cackles. Louis can almost hear the dimples deploying.

"Gemma said you promised her free coffee for life if she could produce evidence in support of your theory."

His stomach lurches, then sinks. "What theory?"

"Dunno. She's apparently done it, though, because we've only been here an hour and you may already need to file for bankruptcy."

"File for–" Hang on. "Wait, here? As in, here here? In my café?"

Harry makes a throaty sound. "Think calling this place a café is underselling it a bit, if we’re being honest."

Pride ripples through him. "Harry."

"Louis."

Silence. Thick, loaded silence.

Louis sighs. "Give me ten minutes."

Twenty minutes later, Louis lets himself into the café's kitchen via private entrance. The adjoining door is half-hidden between the office and the pantry, so his arrival goes mostly unnoticed. Shawn is the only one who seems to care, but he just offers a nod of acknowledgment and returns to his bagels.

Louis takes a second to prepare himself, tugging nervously at the hem of his maroon sweater with sleeve-covered fingers before stepping through to the café proper. He catches sight of Lottie perched on the arm of the massive chair in the corner, amusement making her cheeks glow pink. Gemma is beside her in the purple velveteen monstrosity, gesticulating wildly while Harry lounges on the plush, burnt orange sofa across from them, a soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Any hope Louis had of last night being a flash in the pan are swiftly and mercilessly extinguished.

Gone are the casual tee and thick black coat, the wide-leg linen and worn boots. Instead, Harry is the epitome of softness in a downy lilac sweater and black leggings, his curls loose and begging to be touched. He's already lost his sneakers - pink Gazelles that he kicked beneath the low table in front of the couch - and made himself comfortable, both feet tucked under him.

The buzz in Louis' stomach returns in the form of a full-fledged hive, but it feels softer somehow. Diffused beneath his skin rather than concentrated in his belly. Like he swallowed a small sun. Or a jar full of fireflies. His fingertips tingle with it and, to his unending mortification, his knees give one good, solid wobble.

For this hour on a Saturday, there aren't many customers other than the four of them. A teenage girl has set up camp over by the bookshelves, but she's wearing headphones, fully immersed in whatever it is she's working on. A middle-aged couple sit in quiet conversation around a small table in front of the windows, coffee and pastries and obvious affection between them. Louis is slightly buoyed by the knowledge that witnesses to his’ shame are limited to three strangers, his sister (who's witnessed far greater offenses in her tenure), Harry's sister (whose smirk is far too amused for his liking), Harry himself (he’s so fucking pretty, what the fuck), and, finally, the last lingering remnants of Louis' dignity (RIP, little buddy).

"Perk up, buttercup," Gemma calls out, eyes gleaming wickedly over the rim of her giant mug. "I come bearing gifts."

"I have this theory," Louis had begun, reluctantly fond as he watched Harry snore, fast asleep after curling up like a cat in the oversized chaise by the fireplace.

Liam and Zayn had shooed them from their barstools just before closing, but Louis, unable to stomach the thought of being thoroughly sauced and left to his own devices, had attempted to lure Harry, Niall, and Gemma back to his place with promises of caffeine and a pantry full of snacks, with the added incentive of only having to walk three blocks around the nearest corner.

Harry and Gemma had taken little convincing, but Niall asked for a raincheck on account of having his own curly-headed pretty boy waiting up for him at home. And, well, Louis couldn’t really fault him that.

He did, however, find that without Niall's presence as a deterrent, the progressively neurotic loop he'd fallen into had, over the course of the evening, become a full-fledged spiral. Even as the three of them stumbled up the stairs and into his apartment, Louis hadn't been able to focus on anything that wasn't the anxiety-inducing black hole of want deep in the pit of his stomach.

Because that’s what this was. Louis wanted. Visceraly. Achingly. From the very center of his bones. He wanted Harry, wanted to shape a hand to the curve of his hip, press scraping kisses to the bolt of his jaw, whisper soft praise and swallow softer sighs.

But wanting wasn’t all there was, and the more Louis tried to fight the feeling, the bigger it got, swirling together with every ounce of alcohol in his blood, before ultimately culminating in a bitter burn at the back of his throat.

Gemma waved him on, her face a study in staid academia at the other end of the sofa. "Alright, Einstein. Enlighten me."

Resigned, he'd taken a deep breath, preparing himself for judgment, and spoke aloud the words that had been haunting around the back of his thoughts all night.

"The universe wants me to marry your brother."

Gemma’s brows tightened, drawing down and together over the bridge of her nose. She twisted her mouth sideways, lips twitching suspiciously even as she nodded.

"Obviously."

"You're laughing at me!"

"I'm not! I promise I'm not! C'mon, tell me."

Louis looked away, tipsily playing his fingertips over the bump of his ankle. Thinking about Niall, and Harry, and destiny, and all the things he thought he knew when he woke up that morning. He'd lost his shoes at some point, his feet were freezing. He wrapped his hands around them.

"I just. Do you believe in soulmates, Gem?” he asked, unable to meet her eyes as the words leaked out of him. “Not the – not in, like, the two halves of the same soul way or anything. Or. Maybe? But more like… there are people out there, right? And you either vibe or you don’t, but there’s not much more to it than that.

"But then there are these other people - people you meet who feel like home, somehow. Just, immediately. Something inside you sees them and goes, 'Oh. So that's what belonging feels like'." Louis chuckled as though there weren't a chasm of vulnerability opening up in the center of his chest and tucked his chin behind his knees. "I know that sounds insane–"

"No," Gemma interjected, straightening out of the slump she'd melted into against the cushions and leaning toward him. "No, I get what you're saying. And, I guess, yes, in that context, I do think soulmates are real."

She considered him for a long moment, her gaze assessing, before shifting her attention to her brother. Harry was spilled diagonally across the lounge on his stomach, one foot dangling toward the floor, still snoring. Gemma huffed a quiet laugh.

"You're saying Harry is one of those people for you. The belonging types."

God, even hearing it, it sounded insane. He'd known the man for the sum total of four hours. But Louis couldn’t deny it felt like the truth to say his atoms took one look at Harry Styles and knew.

And that had to mean something.

He tried to offer Gemma a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it. It's – there's something there, Gemma. Something real."

She stared at him silently for so long Louis was afraid he'd broken her. Finally, she nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'm in.” She'd leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratory murmur. "So, hypothetically, if a person were to have in their possession evidence to support this theory - what might that be worth to an interested party with unfettered access to an espresso machine?"

Coffee. Louis needs coffee.

"Coffee?" he asks around, carefully avoiding eye contact with - well. Everyone. "Gemma? Lend me a hand?"

He can feel Harry's gaze track him all the way to the counter. He tugs Gemma behind it, slapping her hand away when she attempts to swipe a maple turnover from a display.

"I don't want to be your friend anymore," Louis declares, scrounging up a plate while trying to will his heartbeat steady.

"Too late," she quips and sticks her tongue out at him while he serves out two of the turnovers, an apple cinnamon chip muffin, and a couple of peach danishes. "I'm afraid the Styles Experience is a permanent installation. Best just get used to it."

Louis groans at the rafters even as his hands operate on muscle memory. "Whatever I did, I take it back," he pledges to whichever higher power is currently orchestrating his demise.

"Shut up." Gemma smacks him in the arm, sending espresso grind everywhere, which she elects to ignore. "Look," she deflects brightly, producing a yellow envelope and setting it between them on the prep counter. She taps it once and slides it toward him.

Louis clears his throat, jaw clenching, and refuses to so much as glance down. "What is it?"

"Proof that the universe wants you to marry my brother. As discussed."

"Gemma, I was drunk. And overtired," he grits, narrowly avoiding being scalded courtesy of the milk frother. "I wasn't serious."

She taps the envelope again, more pointedly this time, and doesn't utter another word until he meets her eye.

"If I believed that were true, we wouldn't be standing here right now," she informs him, perfectly friendly despite the distinct, stinging edge of warning. And then her expression clears, the teasing tilt of her mouth returning in full force. She pokes his hip. "Nut up, Bil."

Louis has got to stop getting drunk with Styleses.

As soon as he's finished building the cappuccino, Gemma carefully steals it. "You don't have to open it now," she soothes, employing her best empathetic big sister voice even as she inches away with her winnings. "Keep me in coffee and, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation never even happened."

Louis quickly shoves the envelope under the register.

"Done."

Despite Gemma's best efforts to embarrass him into an early grave, they have a nice time.

Gemma and Lottie get on like they've known each other their whole lives, which is, at this point, entirely unsurprising. The couple by the window leaves. Shawn comes out to turn over the table. Harry and Lottie bond over a shared passion for all things baking and end up trading recipes like a pair of ancient nonne. Eventually, though, Shawn pops out of the kitchen for Lottie and she reluctantly returns to work.

On her way past, she pinches Louis in the ribs and sends him a look that reiterates for him she's not above torture as a means of extracting information.

"I should get going, too," Gemma declares a few minutes later. She stands, looping a brown bag with a long strap over her head, tugging the ends of her hair free when they get caught underneath it. "See you at home?"

Harry nods, slouching further into his seat, his mile-long legs pulling up from the floor to drape across the sofa. His toes press into Louis' thigh and stay there. "I'll bring dinner."

Gemma clocks the contact and the implication, blatantly smirks at Louis, and then disappears out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

When it's just him and Harry, Louis turns, bending a knee up between them on the sofa. "So, Gemma is staying with you while you get settled?"

"Other way around," Harry corrects, burrowing his feet under Louis' leg. "I've annexed her guestroom while they put some finishing touches on the shop. The apartment itself is pretty much done, I just can't deal with the fumes and the racket. Should hopefully only be a few more days."

"Oh." Louis frowns into his coffee. "Dunno why I thought she was still in Oregon."

Harry shrugs. "M'not sure. She's been here about a year, year and a half?" He wiggles his toes, wedging them against the back of Louis’ thigh. "Bit of a snob, though. Doesn't surprise me you two don't quite run in the same circles."

Louis gasps over the rim of his mug. "D'you mean to tell me Niall doesn't qualify as a classy little circle unto himself?"

Harry's laugh vibrates through the couch cushions, embedding itself in Louis' bones. "I've seen that boy drink whiskey from a bong, Louis. You tell me."

They talk about Niall for a while, about how he and Louis met when one of Louis' sisters wanted to take guitar lessons and Louis scouted possible instructors. Daisy ended up loving guitar, Louis ended up loving Niall.

They move on to the rest of Louis' siblings, his parents’ divorce, the house he grew up in. Harry asks a pile of thoughtful questions, seemingly obsessed with the concept of a big family.

"It's just Gemma and me," he pouts, licking peach preserves off his thumb like the casual glimpse of tongue doesn't have Louis mentally reciting pi just to keep his shit together. "My parents are lame."

He pops his whole thumb into his mouth and Louis has to start over. 3.14159265…

Harry talks about growing up on the West Coast with Niall permanently affixed to his side almost from birth. How he misses the ocean already and plans to drive out through New Hampshire soon just to catch a glimpse.

"Probably a bit disorienting, having it on the other side," he muses and kicks his feet fully up into Louis' lap. "I miss the sound of waves, though."

Liam grew up on the coast of Maine so they talk about him, as well. How he’s the human equivalent of a teddy bear plushie, but also the toughest motherfucker Louis has ever met. How he left home for college but also because he was running. How long he ran and how easy it was to stop when he finally found something worth staying still for.

Louis smiles when he talks about Zayn. He explains that they’ve been inseparable since they were eight, that they shared a shitty one-bedroom apartment for the majority of their late teens, well into their mid-twenties, right up until they cobbled together enough capital to put a down payment on the building that eventually became Louis' pride and joy.

"You and Zayn are partners in the café?" Harry asks and sits up, scanning around the room with a newly discerning eye. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

"We were."

Louis points at a picture stuck on the massive mirror above the prep counter. It's one of a couple hundred memories tacked up in a haphazard border around the mirror's edge – photographs and newspaper clippings, ticket stubs. A bevy of colorful lipstick imprints kissed onto the backs of otherwise useless business cards. In the photo, Zayn and Louis stand beneath a freshly painted sign, the word Haven in looping black script on a live-edge pine slab bolted above the café door. They're clinging onto one another in an obvious state of pants-shitting terror, but they're also both beaming so hard their eyes have practically disappeared.

"I bought him out when he and Liam wanted to buy the bar. What, not enough Malik around here for you, Styles?" Louis teases.

"No, I just- I mean, look at this place," Harry says with a helpless gesture and a breathy laugh, motioning widely at their surroundings. "It's almost exactly what I imagine the inside of your brain to look like. It's… Fuck, I don’t even know. It just feels like you."

Sunlight shimmers beneath Louis' skin, tingling as it floods his limbs. He's acutely aware of the way pleasure shivers through him, has the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, the sensation of warm water trickling down his spine. He wants to run, to hide, almost as much as he wants to build a home in this moment, put down roots and give the place a name. Something ostentatious, so everyone will know it belongs to him.

Because Harry is right – it's all him.

The counter, with its patchwork of band flyers, song lyrics, and pressed flowers he thought were pretty epoxied across the front. The wrought iron and copper table and deep-cushioned armchairs of the study corner, with its laddered bookshelves extending all the way up to where string lights run in sagging horizontal lines across the ceiling. The cork bulletin board hanging by the door, currently covered in hand-illustrated fliers for an open mic night the following week (and what can only be described as a truly aggressive amount of glitter).

The photographs, the movie posters, the weird sentimental touchstones – it's all Louis.

And there's something about that. Having Harry see all these precious little pieces of Louis and his life scattered around them, watching him hold each fragment up to the light and smile with wonder at its many brilliant facets… makes giddiness flood up into Louis' throat.

"Almost?" he asks, breathless. Exhilarated. Hands trembling where he’s got them stuffed beneath his legs.

"Mmm." Harry unfolds himself from the couch and stands, stretching both arms above his head, working the kinks out of his back as he meanders toward the wall. His attention is caught on a poster for Burlesque and he cocks his head, casual as anything if not for the blatant tease in his tone. "Just feel like it's missing a lot of explicit content," he says, one finger tracing the poster's frame.

Madness. This is pure, unadulterated madness.

"What's that?" he asks suddenly, already wandering away while Louis' brain experiences the psychological equivalent of a sixteen-car pileup.

By the time he snaps himself out of it, Harry stands in front of an alcove carved out just beyond the study corner, filled to its edges with tufted cushions and giant marshmallowy floor pillows. Gauzy white fabric and glittering string lights are woven into a loosely gathered willow-branch arch serving as a doorway, as though standing guard above the entry point to some whimsical plane of existence rather than an almost literal hole in the wall.

Unconsciously, Louis' lips curl into a smile.

"That, dear Harold, is Wonderland," he explains, pushing off the couch to follow Harry over. "It's essentially a kids' corner. There's, like, crayons and coloring books and shit. Some toys the twins have donated. And by the twins, I mean my mom."

Ducking into the alcove, he motions Harry to do the same and points out the foam coloring boards and clear storage bins on the left-hand side of the space.

Harry stares at a set of squat bookshelves along the back wall with big Bambi eyes, quietly radiating squee. "They have their own books."

"Course they do.” Louis tries very hard not to blush under the force of Harry's starry-eyed gaze. "Austin and Vonnegut aren't for everyone, love."

Harry mutters something undoubtedly unflattering under his breath, slapping weakly at Louis' shoulder, and backs out of the nook, tugging on Louis' sleeve so he'll follow. "I meant there's more than Dr. Suess and rainbow fish on those shelves."

"Some kids are into that kinda thing," Louis says, crooking a finger, beckoning Harry toward the counter. "They can sit for hours, reading the same book a thousand times, never getting bored."

Harry swings a leg around and straddles a stool at the end of the counter, watching while Louis pours them both a glass of water.

"Some kids get bored. And, being a formerly bored kid myself, I know boredom and even a momentary lack of supervision are recipe for disaster."

One side of Harry's mouth tugs up. "So, you - what? Supply better reading material and hope it's enough to keep them engaged while their adults caffeinate?"

"Or study," Louis says, giving a one-shouldered shrug as he leans against the espresso bar. He averts his gaze, squinting at an indistinct spot over Harry's right shoulder, and clears is throat. "I have this regular," he begins, stuffing both hands into his pockets. "Danny. She's nineteen. Really smart kid. Attitude for days."

Harry's laugh. God. "I'm familiar with the type."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Smartass."

"Sorry." He grins, flagrantly unrepentant, and gestures for him to continue. "I'll behave, I swear."

That's. Louis can't handle that right now.

"Anyway," he intones, deliberately ignoring Harry's amused huff. "Danny's got two years left on a Bachelor's. Something with math, I can never remember. She has an eight-year-old brother named Lucas, and – between the two of them – they have zero parents."

Harry's brow furrows, concern lancing through the humor in his gaze. He doesn't interrupt, just leans in, more attentive than ever.

"They were never around much to begin with, from what I understand, but they finally fucked off for good early last year. And Danny – she tries so fucking hard, you know? To be the parent Luke deserves. I've never seen a person so determined to get it right.

"She comes in sometimes, and I can see the exhaustion on her. Like a… a lead balloon tied around her neck. But she still has to study and work, and Luke needs her all the time, so…"

"So," Harry continues softly when Louis doesn't pick up the thread. "You put out books you know Lucas will love, keep him occupied so Danny can get a few minutes to herself knowing her baby brother is safe."

Louis' gaze snaps to Harry's, his heart fluttering wildly.

"Yeah." His voice has gone airy, knocked thin by the feeling of being seen so fucking clearly by someone he's only just met. "Yeah, I - I like that I'm. That this place – my place – can be that for them."

"A literal safe haven," Harry marvels, dimpling at him with such naked affection it makes Louis' chest hurt. "The name of your café is a pun," he delights, both eyes glittering. His chin fits perfectly in the heel of his hand when he plants his elbow on the marble countertop and leans ever-so-slightly forward. "Fuck me, Tomlinson, where have they been hiding you?"

Louis' brain responds with a reflexive closet joke that would make Zayn proud, but which really only serves to send unhinged laughter careening around the inside of Louis' skull.

Chapter Text

Sunset comes and goes without either of them noticing. They're upstairs, sprawled opposite one another on Louis' sofa, feet and shins tangled together on the empty cushion between them. One episode of Friends fades into another, Louis’ jaw cracks with a yawn, and a string of texts suddenly come through from Gemma, demanding her brother's safe return.

Gem: Unwed, Tomlinson. I know where you live.

Louis responds with a bride and the middle finger emoji because he's a shit.

"Guess it's time to get you home, Cinderellrry," he tells Harry, jabbing him in the ankle with his foot.

Harry kicks him in the shin and groans, tugging up the blanket he’s spent most of the evening wrapped in. He drags it over his head, turning into what can only be described as the world’s cuddliest pill bug at the other end of the sofa. "Should've thought about that before buying this couch.”

Louis snorts and prods him again, this time in the ass. "Comfortable?"

Harry hums, snuggling down deeper into the cushions. "I live here now."

A daydream bursts to life so fast Louis gets dizzy: Harry dancing around his sun-washed kitchen in nothing but an old football jersey, the name TOMLINSON emblazoned across his shimmying shoulders as he sways in time with a beat Louis can’t hear over the tolling in his ears. Daydream Harry rolls his hips, the hem of Louis’ jersey flirting along the tops of bruise-bitten thighs, a particularly violet claim staked just beneath the curve of his right asscheek.

Oh, Louis is so incredibly fucked right now.

"C'mon, Boots,” he chokes quickly, swinging his legs around so he can sit up and click off the television. “I'll give you a ride."

Harry stills for a beat, slowly lifting his head to stare at Louis with cow eyes and a smile that’s gone just the tiniest bit goofy.

“Wha-” Oh.

Heat floods up from Louis’ chest the second his brain catches up to his mouth. He’s positive if he blushes any harder he’s going to burst into actual flames. Some poor sap (Zayn, most likely) will have to come vacuum his ashes out of the couch.

He clears his throat, looking away as he climbs to his feet, mumbling, “Should probably go start the car,” as he flees across the room. He sucks in a breath, commanding his heartrate to chill the fuck out, and snatches his keys off the counter as he passes. “Gemma will skin me alive if you come back with frostbite.”

Harry accepts the blatant bob and weave for what it is.

“She wouldn’t,” he promises through a yawn that somehow still sounds far too amused for Louis’ liking.

He forces himself to turn around, transfixed as Harry untangles himself from the sofa and stands. He stretches his arms above his head, arching back until his spine crackles and his sweater rides up above his belly button, showing off a few more tattoos Louis immediately wants to trace with his tongue. He snatches his gaze away from the canvas of skin and ink visible above Harry’s waistband just in time to catch a smirk.

“No?” Okay, whoa there, Henning May, reel it in. Louis coughs roughly, relieved when his voice comes out closer to normal. “No offense, but I don’t think even you could convince me Gemma’s bark is worse than her bite.”

“Oh, no,” Harry chuckles, making his way down the hall, presumably, to the bathroom. “Natural born killer, that sister of mine,” he calls, amusement so clear in his tone that Louis can almost hear his grin. He can also hear the bathroom door creak open and the light hum to life, and then Harry’s voice again, still amused but now with another layer, something that makes Louis’ knees go a little wobbly. “She just knows better than to touch my things.”

Fuck, if that’s not the hottest thing anyone’s ever said. Probably ever, but definitely to him.

“Oh.”

What else can he say? Louis isn’t even sure he’s breathing, give him a break.

Harry’s chuckle is warm when it bounces down the hallway. “Go start your car, Lou.”

“Right.” Louis shakes himself. “I’m gonna. Uh. Go. Do… that.”

It’s a relatively quick task. His black Ascent is parked around back, right at the bottom of the stairs off the deck. It only takes a few seconds to slip behind the wheel and drop the fob into the cupholder, a heavy foot on the brake pedal as he pushes the ignition. The engine purrs to life. He cranks the heat and turns on the seat warmers, then dashes back upstairs.

Harry is standing in the kitchen when Louis lets himself in through the French doors, staring out at Lake Champlain and the Adirondack mountains as though he can actually see any of it in the dark. Louis steps into the empty space beside him, watching a dimple slowly indent itself in Harry’s cheek.

"View is better in the daylight," he teases.

Harry turns toward him, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. "That an invitation?"

Louis shakes his head, a grin of his own locked and loaded. "Just a tip,” he corrects, grin slicing wider when Harry snorts. “Y’know - since you’ve declared yourself a denizen of my sofa and everything."

Harry laughs, throaty and pleased. "I’ll have to remember that."

His eyes sparkle.

Louis’ belly swoops.

The ride across town is short and comfortably quiet. Louis can tell Harry is flagging, jetlag and an all-nighter finally catching up to him, his body nearly deflating in his seat. He pulls along the curb in front of the Italian place near Gemma's and shifts into park, twisting toward the passenger side.

“Home sweet home, H,” he murmurs, reaching across the cab to poke a gentle finger into the smooth spot on Harry’s cheek where his dimple belongs. “Well,” he hums and shifts his attention to the neon sign above the restaurant’s door, visible through the passenger side window. “Sorta.”

Head lolled back against the seat, Harry blinks tired eyes, a soft, sleepy smile aimed over the gearshift. "Thanks for the ride, Lou."

His voice is little more than a deep rasp, gritty with the exhaustion weighing down his eyelashes. Louis’ hand moves completely of its own accord, tucking an errant curl back, fingertips ghosting over the shell of Harry’s ear as he settles the lock into place, hand steady even as his heart thrashes beneath his ribs.

"Any time.”

Harry shivers, nuzzling into Louis’ touch, the very tip of his nose grazing his palm.

"Can I…” he pauses, looking away for a beat that makes Louis’ lungs seize, and then drags his gaze back.

Something in his expression implores Louis to give this boy whatever he wants. Everything he can think to ask for, all the things he never would.

“Can’t imagine there’s much in this universe I’d deny you” Louis admits, heartbeat so loud it feels like it pulses in the empty air between them.

Harry blushes, a delicious shade of dusty rose across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the very tops of his adorable ears. He buries his flush in both hands, flustered but beaming.

“Louis.”

Warmth unfurls in Louis’ belly, so fucking pleased he could go mad with it. “What is it, Harry?” he prompts, a gentle brush to Harry’s wrist with just his fingertips.

Harry only lowers his hands when he’s managed to get a wrangle on his face. “I just…” he exhales harshly. “I wanted to thank you.”

Louis’ mouth quirks into a grin before he can help it. "Already did that."

"Dickhead,” Harry laughs, swatting at him across the seat. “I meant for this. For… I dunno, being so nice, I guess. Welcoming. Niall was right, his friends really are the loveliest people."

“You don’t have to thank me for being decent, Harry.”

“No, I know. I meant…” Two of Harry’s fingers pinch together, pulling anxiously at his bottom lip. “This move was a big deal for me, you know? I’ve never been this far from home before, not alone. Gems and Niall, they’re different; pieces of home. But you… I guess I just never dreamed that I could feel like this so quickly, not in a new place. Everything is still kind of up in the air, with the shop and everything, but. I dunno. I feel… settled with you. Safe.”

The blush creeps back, but they both ignore it.

“Is that weird, do you think?” Harry asks, hesitant and unsure.

Louis wraps one hand around both of Harry’s where they rest in his lap, trying for his best reassuring smile. “I’m glad you feel safe with me, Harry,” he says, letting all of his sincerity bleed into his voice. “And it’s not weird. Rare, maybe. S’not a bad thing, though. Promise.”

“Oh.” A smile fights its way onto Harry’s lips, carving both dimples deep into his cheeks. “Okay, then. Good.”

Louis’ lungs balloon so fast it makes him cough.

He collects himself, waving a hand when Harry’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Go on, that's enough mush, Styles. Get outta my car."

Harry laughs again, low and sleepy but so fucking warm. "I’m going, I’m going.”

He gathers himself up and cracks the door, one foot poised to slip out into the night, one stubbornly fixed to Louis’ floorboard. His gaze lingers over Louis’ face, drinking him in like he’s memorizing every detail. He clears his throat.

“Okay. See you?"

Louis swallows hard, tucking his right hand beneath his thigh to keep himself from reaching out and yanking Harry back.

"Yeah,” he says and ignores the way his fingertips twitch. “See you."

"Liam Payne, if you don't quit looking at me like that–"

"I'm sorry!" Liam chuckles and shakes his head, holding both palms up in surrender. "I just can't believe I'm finally hearing this."

While fair, Louis' patience evaporated thirty minutes ago and it's all he can do to keep from flinging himself out the nearest window every time Liam does the look.

It's not a bad look, not like it's rude or judgmental or anything of the sort. It's just.

He's so fucking pleased.

Not in the self-satisfied flavor of pleased Zayn is, but in this genuine, wholesome sort of way. It makes his warm brown eyes go positively liquid, his chest puffing like he's a proud mama hen and Louis is his emotionally stunted chick. Zayn, he can handle. Because Zayn looks at Louis like he's welcoming him in on a secret. Like he’s proud – which is both nice and also terrible – but mostly too smug to be anything other than irritating.

Louis can handle irritating.

What he cannot handle is Liam's face.

The softness, or the pride, or the goddamn heart eyes, or, most objectionably, the gooey feeling he gets behind his sternum when it's all directed at him.

"Fuck off," he mutters.

He fidgets, picking at the label of his beer. It’s a locally brewed IPA, some friend of a friend of one of 1D’s delivery guys. The logo is a bat, its leathery wings outspread, silhouetted by a silver moon. The beer is borderline undrinkable. The bat is cute enough.

Zayn rolls his eyes at their bickering and ushers them both into the living room with a slap on the backside.

They don't spread out so much as all pile into the middle of the giant sectional, huddling together under a knitted throw blanket with Louis at the center. As everyone settles, Zayn drags Louis' legs over his lap and holds his hand out, wiggling his fingers invitingly.

Louis hesitates, gut churning hot and agitated, but Zayn just wiggles more insistently until he gives in and laces their fingers together. His eyes immediately prickle, an overinflated feeling around his heart making his whole body shudder. He didn’t realize how much he ached for this, how desperately he needed to be held close and loved just the same way he’d always been. To prove that this still belongs to him, this is still safe. Still his.

As though Liam can sense it, he shuffles closer, his side flush to Louis' back. Louis burrows backward into Liam’s warmth and closes his eyes, taking deep, uneven breaths. When fingers start carding through his hair he doesn't even look to see who they belong to.

Feels like Liam, anyway.

"Nothing has changed," Zayn promises after a comfortable, if emotionally fraught, silence. "Not you. Not this," he promises, tightening his grip on Louis' hand.

And Louis knows that. He believes it. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

Zayn tugs their clasped hands into his chest, cradling them over his heart, and Louis does his best to ignore the tears pooling in melted amber. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Lou.”

Yeah, his whole body is blushing, he just knows it.

“Can you be, like, five percent less proud of me?” he tries, flexing his fingers against Zayn’s chest. “You’re killing my hand.”

“Shut up and let me love you, dickhead.”

“Okay,” Liam snorts, intervening before things can devolve into a wrestling match.

Not that they would.

Probably.

“Any idea what you want to do about Harry?”

“Besides nail him to a wall, you mean?”

“Bless.”

“Zayn, I swear to god-”

Liam clears his throat. Pointedly.

Louis sighs. “No, Payno, I have not yet decided what I’d like to do about Harry. I mean, forget that I have no idea how to go about… things. with a guy - there’s no way Niall is gonna be okay with it. Harry’s his best friend.”

“I’m your best friend,” Zayn notes with a thoughtful frown.

Louis wrinkles his nose. “And?”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs. “I’m your best friend and you let Liam fuck me.”

Louis blinks. “I… wasn’t aware I had the veto on that.”

Liam snorts so loud they both turn wide eyes on him. “What? I was.”

“My point,” Zayn emphasizes, “is that Niall loves you. Just like you love Liam. He knows your heart, Lou. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

Louis closes his eyes and lets himself sink back, taking a few deep breaths.

"S'just a lot at once," he admits, and opens his eyes to stare blankly at the moody floral wallpaper Zayn insisted on putting on the ceiling. "For god's sake, twenty-four hours ago Harry Styles was just some kid Niall grew up with, and I had never once considered going ass up on my espresso bar for a boy because he fucking twinkled at me."

"Babe," Zayn deadpans.

The eyebrows he gives feel incredibly judgemental. Not cruel, but… definitely judgey.

Liam groans, swatting at Zayn over Louis' head. "Don't tease him, Z. He's fragile."

Louis throws an elbow back, half-hearted at best. He is feeling a little fragile if he's honest. A little brittle. What with the existential whiplash and sweet, curly boys from out of town. He figures he’s entitled.

"You can both fuck right off with your emotional honesty," he grumbles, reaching up to flick Zayn weakly on the chin. "Denial and avoidance have served me well, thus far."

"Have they, though?" Louis tilts his head back to frown at Liam, who only shrugs and offers up his most rueful grin. "That's not teasing, Tommo. It's realism."

"This is bullying," Louis informs them both, making no effort to extricate himself from the cuddle puddle. "I am actively being bullied."

Zayn exhales a laugh through his nose, pinching Louis’ hip. "Oh, I have not even begun to bully you, Tomlinson."

By the time Louis forces himself to head out, it's much later than any of them noticed. They ordered takeout and played too many rounds of FIFA - it was easy to lose track of time. He feels better than he did when he turned up on their doorstep after dropping Harry off, trembling like a frightened chihuahua. He’s less manic now, a little less raw. Hell, he might even be able to catch a few hours sleep before work.

Zayn walks him out to the garage, holding onto the driver's side door while Louis gets situated.

"You know I love you, yeah?" he says, and steps back for Louis to close the door. The second the window goes down, he leans in again. “Like. An unhealthy amount, probably. Don’t tell Liam.”

Louis draws an X over his heart, then holds out his fist. "Ditto.”

Zayn's eye roll can probably be seen from space, but he gives up the knuckles. "Get some sleep, Swayze.”

Grinning, Louis shifts into reverse, foot poised to release the brake. "Promise I will, Demi,” he laughs, then hesitates before backing out, watching as Zayn turns to head back inside.

"Hey, Z?"

He half-turns and levels Louis with a look, one hand gripping the door handle. "Yes, boo."

Louis can’t help but grin. "Love you back,” he promises, then blows a kiss across the garage.

Zayn shakes his head and tries not to smile, but Louis sees it anyway.

The apartment is too quiet.

It’s the middle of the night, of course it’s quiet, but Louis can feel the weight of it like it’s trying to suffocate him and it makes his pulse race. He should shower, scrape off the day. Find a way to sleep. But he can’t. The sense of calm that settled over him on Zayn and Liam’s sofa fled almost before Louis was halfway home, returning in the form of restlessness that made him feel jittery and a little queasy.

He does manage to shower, but the feeling lingers. There’s only ever been one person Louis wants to talk to when he gets like this, and it’s too late, he knows it’s far too late, but that’s never stopped him before.

Resigned, Louis bundles himself in the crazy soft blanket off the back of the sofa, the one that still smells a bit like Harry, and goes out onto the deck. He huddles down in one of the Adirondack chairs and flicks on the bowl-shaped outdoor fire pit to blunt the bitter bite of wind blowing up from the water, ignoring the way his eyes start to well almost immediately.

He hits call before he can talk himself out of it. The line doesn’t even ring, just kicks right over to voicemail.

Louis closes his eyes and listens, letting the familiar comfort, the safety of her voice seep down inside where he needs it.

“Hi, Mama, it's me.” He sighs, shoulders slumping, and nestles deeper into his blanket cocoon, pulling it more tightly around him. “Sorry it's been so long. Everything has just been…” He blinks rapidly, frustrated by the moisture clouding his vision. “I won't let it happen again, I promise.” Her worried gaze flashes through his mind. “I'm okay, really. Things are good.”

Green and gold flicker in and out. Louis’ whole body flushes hot then cold.

“That's actually kind of why I called. I wanted to tell you… I, uh. I - I met someone, I think?”

He looks out across the lake, not really even seeing the mountains or their tiny towns twinkling in the distance. He clamps down tight on the nausea in his throat, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the cold burn of his eyes.

“His…” He swallows hard. “His name is Harry.”

Chapter Text

Louis has the opening Sunday shift - despite personally having made the schedule - because his being the boss doesn’t preclude him from pulling his own weight, never has. He typically opens at least twice a week, trading off with Shawn, Lottie, and occasionally Steve, should the situation necessitate.

Haven opens for coffee at four and breakfast at six, so Louis drags himself out of bed and is mostly clothed by three, approximately two hours after having gotten into bed in the first place. By quarter after he’s downstairs handling as much prep work as possible, groggily turning on machines and warming ovens in anticipation of Shawn’s arrival. Shortly after which point, the day begins its snowballing descent into nothing less than a full-on avalanche of things Louis just…

Can’t.

It starts the way most do - with a handful of loose snowflakes and nowhere to go but down.

Louis has just placed two mugs on the center island when Shawn bursts through the backdoor, mid-struggle with an oversized green, plaid-patterned rain jacket.

The jacket appears to be winning.

“Alright, love?” he greets, wincing in sympathy when Shawn surrenders with a frustrated noise, blowing a limp curl out of his eyes as he stands there dripping icy water all over the kitchen floor, fully pouting.

“The yuck wasn’t supposed to start until after I got here.”

Louis hums, offering him one of the mugs, the milky, unsweetened black tea he favors in the morning. While he drinks, deep and appreciative, Louis tugs one of the overly attached sleeves loose, helping liberate Shawn from the sodden fabric.

“Bet Niall had a pleasant ride in this morning,” he teases and goes to hang the coat in the mudroom.

Shawn raises his voice after him, “Niall had a pleasant ride well before that, he doesn’t get to complain.”

Louis shudders as he returns to the kitchen, face twisted in exaggerated disgust. “That has to be an HR violation, no?”

Shawn just shrugs and sets about assembling pantry ingredients, lining them up neatly along the sides of his prep station. “You saw him naked before I did,” he points out, brandishing a jar of brown sugar with almost too much gusto. “Has to cancel out.”

Louis isn’t sure he agrees, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it because the snowball starts really snowballing right around then.

The phone rings and it’s Daisy, calling out sick. She feels terrible, Louis can tell, but she sounds even worse, so he outright dismisses her hoarse apologies and makes a note to send over some soup around lunchtime.

Phoebe has already agreed to cover the shift despite not technically being one of Louis’ employees anymore. Since starting nursing school, she only very occasionally does a shift at the café - either because they’re in a pinch and Louis can’t find anyone else, or because Phoebe needs to feel connected and an entire eight hours spent bickering with one or more of her siblings goes a long way toward resolidifying those bonds (for better or for worse).

Phoebe has further to travel since she lives on the New York side of the lake now, which means - weather being what it is - she’s likely going to be at least a little late. Not ideal, obviously, but also not the end of the world. Louis calls her immediately after hanging up with Daisy, commanding her to be careful no less than half a dozen times before she shouts that she loves him too and hangs up in his ear.

Billie, thankfully, arrives just a few minutes past the actual beginning of her shift. There are no customers for twenty minutes after that, and by the time they’re ready to serve breakfast, Phoebe has safely made it in and is behind the counter, tying an apron over black jeans and a Schitt’s Creek crewneck with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows.

Things seem like they’re going to level out. Louis unclenches.

Just in time to get buried.

A clerical error with one of their vendors results in an unexpected delivery on top of their scheduled, daily predawn delivery of fresh necessities, which leads Louis and Shawn to spend half the morning unloading stock they haven't planned for while Billie and Phoebe struggle to keep up meal service without burning the kitchen to the ground.

Then the repair guy Louis called last week about the door on the walk-in shows up three hours before he’s meant to, taking up a not-insignificant amount of valuable kitchen/floor space. The girls adopt an assembly line style so no one gets tripped up, but that leaves whoever stays front-of-house on their own to serve, clear, and bus tables while also acting as both hostess and runner.

Louis does his best to swallow the knot of frustration in his throat, but that somehow only makes it harder to breathe out the frenetic pressure building in his chest.

He ends up calling Lottie, who can't come in but promises to call around.

Then the espresso machine decides Louis hasn’t had quite enough yet and throws an egregiously-timed tantrum. It spits and sputters and sprays steamed milk so far they'll be finding it for days even though Billie spends half an hour tracking down strays. While she grumbles around behind the counter (”Paris would never do me like this, what in the gay super hell...”), Louis cranks open a couple of windows, just enough to air out the sour milk smell, before finally, finally managing to sneak out for a cigarette.

He’s gotten the damn thing lit and taken two quick drags in rapid succession, and then there’s wintery slush dripping through from the deck above his head, sliding down the back of his neck, seeping beneath his collar and into his nerves faster than the nicotine has a chance of matching.

By the time relief comes in the form of Ed's arrival, Louis is entertaining the thought of locking himself in the office for a good old-fashioned cry. He very seriously considers it, until he remembers there's overflow from the supply closet crammed in there.

He barely fits behind his desk at the moment, never mind under it.

That's about the point when Billie bursts out back, asking if he remembered to replace the fire extinguisher after Shawn used it a few weeks ago to put out the small blaze Niall started during open mic night (minor, ill-advised pyrotechnics. There’s a rule against it now. Lottie made a sign.)

Louis spares a moment to think it’s not even ten a.m., before hauling ass inside to grab the extinguisher he knows for a fact is hiding somewhere under the prep cart, most likely shoved to the back when they were scrambling to stock.

By noon he has an impressive number of extinguished metaphorical fires under his belt, as well as one quite small but very literal fire after the mishap with the toaster. He's exhausted, a tension headache making his temples throb in time with the instrumental rock piece crackling ambiantly through the café's speakers. His hair reeks of burnt ginger and sour milk, the walk-in repair guy determines it’ll be at least another week before he can fix whatever is wrong with the stupid thing. Shawn drops an entire pan of proofing bagels when attempting to move them, which is more his problem than Louis’, except the percussive metallic clang of it hitting the floor makes Louis jolt, every hair on his body snapping to attention, skin tingling like there’s a current running through it.

He’s self-aware enough to recognize he’s one minor inconvenience away from full-scale nuclear meltdown.

Which is, of course, when Niall arrives.

"Top o' the mornin', Tommo!"

He saunters toward the counter where Louis has set up camp with his paperwork and the largest mug in the café's considerable collection.

"You know that makes me sound like some kind of backward sunrise stripper, correct?" Louis asks without lifting his head. He tosses his glasses on the worktop, using three fingers to massage the tension between his brows.

"Ah, yes," Niall agrees, bypassing Louis and the counter in favor of helping himself to a pot of coffee. "But a hot, Irish, sunrise stripper," he adds, throwing an eyebrow waggle over his shoulder.

It's dumb luck that Louis doesn't stab himself in the forehead with his pen when he faceplants into his legal pad. "What do you want, Horan?"

"Coffee, duh." Niall plants both elbows on the counter beside Louis’ head, close enough for him to feel the heat from his mug. "Also to thank you, though."

Louis immediately thinks of Harry, of his sweet smile and his doe eyes and his generally sunny disposition, and how all Louis has done since he met the man is mentally compile an inventive list of ways in which he'd like to become better intimately acquainted with a few of Harry’s rougher edges.

His stomach twists. "I can promise I've done nothing deserving of gratitude in the last forty-eight hours."

Niall makes a noise of obvious disagreement, sounding eerily reminiscent of a valley girl, and gently knuckles Louis' cheek. "That's not the way I hear it."

And that sounds like he knows something. Maybe not everything, but enough to have something heavy and sour rise in Louis’ gut. Whatever he thinks he knows, Niall doesn't seem angry. If anything, his tone is decidedly amused. Still, for one agonizing second Louis worries he's going to be sick.

He clamps down on the feeling, white-knuckling it where his hands dig into the meat of his thighs beneath the counter. "If you're waiting for me to ask, you can fuc–"

"Now, now, Tommo, no need to get tetchy," Niall teases, unsuccessfully curtailing a laugh. Louis flinches and begins charting a map in his head, plotting out where best to hide a body. "C’mon, I think it's cute!"

"Niall, I have had a day," Louis grits, though it does morph into something edging on volatile there at the end. He sits up with a huff and pushes away from the counter, scrubbing both hands over his face. When he tries to push them back through his hair his fingers get caught on the headband keeping it off his forehead and he whimpers, chewing the inside of his cheek to stop himself dissolving into tears. "Please don't do this to me right now."

Or ever, really - but especially not now.

Not when the café is too loud, too bright, the weight of Louis' clothing uncomfortable and damp against his skin. When everything feels so incomprehensibly vast and Louis suddenly feels so paralyzingly small. Niall can't tease him about Harry, not when Louis is spinning out, wound up and scraped raw but starting to unravel, internalizing the stress and the anxiety and the sinful way Harry fills out a pair of pants, balancing on a razor’s edge with every choppy exhale.

"Hey.” Niall immediately rounds the counter to perch beside Louis on a stool, close enough to feel his body heat without being touched, his voice low and coaxing. "Hey, Lou, c'mon, take a deep breath."

But he can't.

Because his lungs have forgotten their basic function. Because when he tries all he gets is a feeling like the Chrysler building is balanced on his solar plexus, crushing him into the floor. Because Louis knows with absolute certainty that If he does by some miracle manage to actually draw breath, if he does he's positive he’s going to explode like a dying star.

And he can't do that here. He won't.

Fight-or-flight kicks in just in time and Louis, mercifully, doesn’t freeze - he bolts. He’s in the kitchen before he realizes he’s moving, blowing straight past a blur of worried faces, Niall's voice trailing after him.

He slams through the door leading upstairs, scrambling over the threshold. He's just barely inside with the door closed behind him when he needs to either breathe or pass out, and his brain kicks in long enough to remind him how to inhale. The second his lungs inflate the anxiety inside him detonates, exploding outward in a burst of scalding hot tears and trembling hands, strained sips of air that make his chest ache and shudder.

The transition from violent supernova to collapsing black hole is a rapid one.

He has no idea how much time passes while he huddles there on the stairs - if it’s even still morning, if it’s stopped pissing down sleet. All Louis knows is that his skin hurts and his eyeballs feel like embers in their sockets and, fuck, his chest is throbbing.

Obviously, that was a panic attack.

He hasn't had one that intense since he was sixteen and Zayn kissed him on the mouth at a party in Oli’s garage, but he vividly remembers the experience.

They'd been far too drunk for their age: laughing, and dancing, draped all over one another beneath a cheap disco light, and Zayn just… laid one on. Louis remembers very clearly his body locking up as cold broke over his head, a viscous drip along his neck and shoulders, dribbling down to his heels.

And then he remembers Zayn's expression, eyes wide and regretful, saying he was sorry, please, Lou, don't be mad.

After that, he only remembers the panic.

They were kids, then. Hardly knew what they were doing, much less what any of it truly meant. Louis had Zayn and then it felt like he didn't, and it was all because of a stupid kiss. One of probably half a dozen by then, because that wasn't the first time a boy kissed Louis - wasn't even the first time Zayn had kissed him.

It was just the first time a kiss felt like more than that.

When they finally did talk about it, Zayn swore it didn't mean anything and Louis pretended to believe him. It was easier than saying that it meant too much to both of them, probably, but that Louis was afraid of the part of himself that wanted to be kissed by his best friend - by a boy - and Zayn deserved so much better than someone who couldn’t look him in the eye for nearly a week.

They figured it out.

Zayn moved on while Louis stayed stuck, but eventually, it stopped being a thing. What they had was bigger than temporary weirdness, or panic attacks, or a little lip action between friends. They grew back toward one another naturally, their entire root system somehow even more established and stable than before.

Suffice it to say, when the phenomenon of kissing boys while drunk persisted into Louis' early twenties, it didn’t evade Zayn’s notice. He wasn't obnoxious about it, never said any of the dozen uncharitable things Louis thought he probably deserved, never demanded Louis admit what made him so very different from the football players or the frat guys or the douchey musicians.

He also wasn’t exactly what one would call subtle - affectionate and bladelike with his teasing - but Louis always kinda figured Zayn was entitled to a few perks for putting up with his shit for so long.

Niall knows, obviously. About Louis. The way his orientation has a drunken habit of leaning in one very consistent direction. They’ve known each other for almost a decade, been annihilated together more times than either of them can count; Niall’s seen some shit.

They don't talk about it.

Mostly, Louis doesn't talk about it.

Ever.

Not with Niall, or Zayn, or Liam. Not with Lottie or the girls, or anyone else. He'll roll his eyes and brandish a middle finger when Zayn pokes at the bruise, but he’s the only one really allowed to do so.

Louis’ avoidance is likely the reason that when Niall slips into the stairwell with a suspiciously fragrant coffee and plants himself on the step next to him, he’s a warm, solid presence at Louis’ side, radiating comfort and acceptance, all without uttering a word. Louis quietly tucks himself under the arm Niall offers, sipping his drink, enjoying the soothing heat as it spreads, surreptitiously wiping away stray tears when they make a break for it.

The quiet isn’t heavy, not the way Louis expects it to be. It’s peaceful, really. Warm and familiar, like a favorite cozy sweater. He finds himself relaxing into it, the throb inside his skull dulling to a more manageable ache.

“Hey, Lou?” Niall eventually tries, quiet and soothing even in the silence.

Louis exhales a sigh. “I’m fine, Ni.”

“No, I know. Never doubted it for a second,” he assures with a squeeze. “I, however, could really use a nap.”

For that, he receives a skeptical brow. “A nap?”

Niall shrugs, aiming for guilelessness even as he fakes a yawn. “S’what I said.”

And, yeah, fine, Louis is painfully aware of how tired he is. A nap maybe isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard. He sighs again, but Niall is already lumbering to his feet, pulling Louis up after him.

“C’mon,” he prods gently, herding him up the stairs. “We’ll catch a couple of hours and when we wake up, I might even let you lie to me about what just happened.”

Louis frowns all the way through the apartment. He’s still frowning even as he kicks off his joggers and climbs into bed.

“It doesn’t count if you know I’m lying,” he finally grumbles, tucking the covers up tight under his chin while Niall peels out of his jeans and slides in on the other side.

“Go to sleep, Lou.”

Since that’s exactly what he was planning to do, anyway, he listens.

The mouthwatering aromas of bacon and weed entice Louis out of bed a while later. He stumbles from the hallway hazy-eyed, tragically unfazed by the reality of Niall thrusting around his kitchen to old school Usher, a blunt tucked between two fingers on his left hand while he flips what look like sandwiches in a skillet with his right.

“Pop a squat, Tommo,” he tosses with a hip shimmy, gesturing at what’s already laid out. “Done in a sec.”

Louis nicks a handful of raspberries and pours himself a cup of coffee, blowing his hair out of his eyes as he settles onto a stool. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” he yawns, scratching absentmindedly at his belly. “I’m fi-”

“Fine - yeah, I’ve heard,” Niall assures, distracted, before passing the blunt off to Louis so he can focus. “I was high and you were still asleep, don’t read too much into it.”

Louis laughs and blows a cloud of smoke out through his nose, catching the edge of a smile Niall tries to smother as he hands him a plate.

“Does Shawn know you come up here just to Mom me and sleep in my bed?”

“Please,” Niall scoffs and flicks a hand dismissively as he sits down. “Me, him, and Liam draw straws. Eat your lunch.”

It shouldn’t catch Louis off-guard when Niall stops ignoring the rainbow-painted elephant in the room, but it does.

They’ve cleaned up and parked themselves firmly in front of the television, passing an hour or so in a cloud of video games and shit talk. It’s where they are when Niall hits pause in the middle of a tournament and lays his controller in his lap. He leans over, dropping his head onto Louis’ shoulder.

“Hey, Lou?”

Louis doesn’t immediately notice the tone. He’s distracted. His defenses are down, he thinks nothing of it when he responds with an inquiring hum.

“I love you.”

And, okay - It’s not that they don’t say it.

Liam can’t end a phone call without it. Zayn likes to pretend he’s above having to verbalize such a thing, but lets it slip pretty freely when he’s feeling particularly squishy. Niall - a walking, talking, human heart emoji - says the words more than anyone Louis has ever met because he’s an absolute fucking cupcake of a man. Even Shawn will pepper it in every now and again.

Louis himself is least often to initiate but always, always says it back.

They’re a sappy bunch - they say it frequently and unashamedly, in a seemingly limitless variety of ways.

They don’t say it like this.

“Niall-”

“We all love you. You know that, right?”

Louis flinches. “Yeah, Ni, I kno-”

“Me and Zayn and Liam. Shawn. The girls. Even Ed and the boys.” Niall wriggles his arms around Louis’ bicep, latching on. “We’re your people, Tommo. We’re always going to be your people.”

Louis stares straight ahead, doing his best not to blink. His jaw ticks, clenched down tight against the broken feeling suddenly threatening to swallow him whole, the misery in the space between his ribs that says he’s wrong, it’s all wrong.

Niall shifts closer, like he can sense it, and tucks his head into the curve of Louis’ neck. “We love you and we want you to be happy. No matter what that happiness looks like. Even if you don’t know exactly - that’s okay, too.”

Louis swallows despite there being what feels like a jawbreaker in his throat. “Even if-”

Niall’s grip on him tightens. “Even if.”

Just like that. No asterisks or fine print. No terms and conditions. Not a single string for Louis to tangle himself in.

He wipes churlishly at his eyes. “Okay.”

Niall nuzzles closer. “Just do me one favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“If it turns out to be me,” he starts, already losing the fight against a smile, “Tell me before I buy a ring, yeah? Save all of us the trouble.”

Louis cackles, shoving him away. “I’m telling Shawn you said that.”

Niall pulls out his phone and dials like he’s calling Louis’ bluff, hitting speakerphone as the call rings through. Louis only shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning back to settle in for the afternoon’s entertainment.

Shawn is a lovely man; an absolute sweetheart. Soft-spoken, talented, intelligent. Wildly empathetic.

He’s also a complete savage. It might be Louis’ favorite thing about him.

“Your funeral, Horan.”

Niall just smirks. The line rings twice more and there’s a voice, honeyed and warm, deep as the Mariana. Every trace of blood flees Louis’ face.

“Hey, H,” Niall drawls and throws a wink like Louis is in on the joke rather than its victim. “You’re not busy right now, are you?”

Louis lunges so fast he falls off the couch.