Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The club is gross.

Dark blue lights drown over sweaty bodies mixed in with long forgotten 2000's pop. A Justin Timberlake type or something similar. The kind of song that makes people forget how to act in public. Louis' trainers stick to the floor with each small step, peeling away with a disgusting squelch that makes him wince.

He's almost certain he can taste the air, caked deep in layers of smoke, dirt, and sex. The combination makes his head spin way too fast, the way it does after too many tequila shots. But he wasn't even drunk. Not yet.

Hours into celebrating Georgia’s 21st, Louis finds himself sandwiched between the group of girls, all singing—no, shouting—lyrics to songs he doesn't really give a toss about. Everything around him just a blur of mini dresses and fake tans, glossy lips mouthing words in perfect sync.

A lad in a white shirt that's more vodka than cotton stumbles past, while some girl in platforms that could qualify as weapons totters dangerously close to Louis' already battered Vans, scuffed and soaked in a way he doesn't want to think about. He knew he shouldn’t have worn them for a night out, but he was just trying to look nice for Mina.

Mina.

Who's bumping into him without care, head lolling back like it weighs two ton, drinks continuously spilling over and onto his favorite pair of blue jeans. Right. He's definitely on babysitting duty tonight. Not that he really minds, her friends are all nice and she's been bouncing off the walls about this for weeks. But fuck, he hates trying to make small talk when he can barely hear himself think. So he does what any sane person would do: squeeze himself right up against the light-up wall, clutching onto his glass like a life vest.

Louis desperately scans the club in search of his own mate. Niall had been sent off on a drink run ages ago, but through the strobing lights and sweaty pile of dancers, there's no sign of him anywhere. Knowing that bastard, he's probably found some bird's tonsils to examine with his tongue anyway.

Mina’s sweet voice cuts through all of the noise, though Louis' not exactly sure what she's said. Something's clearly got her attention, as she waves her arms wildly above her head, bouncing high on her toes. Louis' eyes trail behind her enthusiam and through the crowd, eyebrows slightly arched as they land on someone he's never seen before.

"Harry!" Louis hears her shout, and some lanky bloke practically materializes in his view.

He tries to squint through all of the flashes to get a better look, but all he can see is Mina grinning widely before he even fully approaches. Almost as if she's been waiting all night for this. She barrels forward on her heels, reaching around his waist, "Finally, you came!"

And one by one, all of her mates turn to marvel his sudden entrance. He could've sworn it was the second coming of Christ with how they parted to welcome him into their small glittery circle. Harry—apparently his name—is wearing a black bomber jacket over a black t-shirt, obviously immune to clubs being one thousand degrees. Black jeans. Black everything, almost trying to absorb all of the light in the room. Louis' stomach turns as Mina's hands grab onto his shoulder.

“This is Louis!” She says, and he looks up as Harry's pulled forward—because he has to.

The twat's about seven-foot-something with dark curls spilling long over his shoulders, slouched in a relaxed posture that screams bored. Lips pressed into a thin line.

He’s wearing dark-tinted sunglasses. Inside. Louis adds this to the list of things he already doesn't like about him.

Mina must sense the way neither of their expressions change because she quickly adds, "He’s my boyfriend.”

Harry looks down then, giving Louis a slow, dismissive once-over. Barely reacting. "Right." He says. Then, like Louis' not even worth the syllables: "Cool."

That’s all he says before looking past Louis as if he’s not even there, as if Louis' just some thing he can’t be bothered to interact with.

Right. Cool. Fuck you too, mate.

Disbelief washes over him, worsened by the small amounts of alcohol settling in his stomach. He can't help but glare, completely thrown off by his dismissal. Maybe later, he'd look back on this moment and laugh at how stupid this first impression had been. But right now, all he can focus on is how Harry's presence fills up the entire club worse than all of the heat and the noise.

Mina tosses a pointed look at Louis, eyebrows pulling together and apart, expecting him to do or say something, to make an effort to talk to her very tall and very rude friend. Louis quickly blinks away his daggers, and against all better judgement, offers what he hopes is a smile but probably is more of a grimace.

"Sunglasses inside? What, dodging the feds or summat?" He extends his hand because his mum raised him proper, unlike some people.

That does absolutely nothing. His usual cheeky charm not even making a dent. Harry doesn’t acknowledge the attempted handshake. Doesn't even crack a smile. And by the third or fourth second, Louis starts to feel a little stupid, his arm hanging there like some rejected puppet.

Harry stares at his hand, jaw popping hard against some gum, before craning his neck back over the heat of the crowd. Apparently, Louis is fucking boring him.

Allergic to basic fucking manners, this one.

“Allergic to manners, mate?” Louis repeats his thought.

Mina shoots him another look: play nice or else, clearly not appreciating the rebuttal. Louis rolls his eyes but bites his tongue. He was literally being nice.

This response seems to intrigue Harry though, pulling a small smirk across his lips. “How do you do?” he says in mock cheer, voice dripping deep in sarcasm.

"Oh, brilliant now, thanks for asking," Louis fires back, matching his tone, "Always wanted to meet someone who thinks they're too good for a proper handshake." He would normally pay mind to Mina’s glares. But it’s too late, the irritation's already crawled up his neck. Tightening every single muscle in preparation for a swing.

Harry's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Louis absolutely refuses to track the movement. "Quite passionate about handshakes, then?" He drawls, voice low enough that Louis has to lean in to hear.

There’s a slight pause then, as the two stare each other down with the beat of the music filling the space between them. Clubs are not ideal for formalities, but this guy has to be taking the fucking piss. Louis wants to believe that Harry just can't see through those stupid fucking glasses, but the way Harry's smirk grows tells him that Harry sees plenty.

“Oh, don’t mind him," Mina nervously giggles, "He’s just a weirdo.” She nudges Harry with her hip, her small frame barely moving his large one. Harry doesn't even flinch, his attention still fixed solely on Louis like he’s found something particularly amusing to play with.

And she’s got to be talking about him, right?

Louis doesn’t get to ask.

Instead, Mina eagerly whisks Harry away from Louis' barely-processed confusion and back over toward the group of girls. They're somehow all still equally excited to see him, their cheerful voices a stark contrast to the way he vaguely nods at each of them.

Now Louis is caught somewhere between annoyance and disdain, peering over into his half-empty glass. What the fuck does Mina see in this tosser? She’s usually such a good judge of character, always around warm, friendly people who match her bright and infectious energy. Harry's only been here for a handful of minutes and already managed to piss Louis off with just a few words. 

He trusts Mina, he does. And it's not that. But she doesn’t seem to care that he barely acknowledged Louis. Standing over in the corner with her mates, all drunk and happy, glancing up at Harry as if that entire interaction was completely normal. Something twists in his gut watching her light up around him, a strange mix of jealousy and protectiveness that he doesn't quite know what to do with.

He swallows down whatever's pooling at the bottom of his drink, desperate to distract himself from how his skin is flaring up with unease. But his eyes continue to drift over the rim to Harry, catching how he's pretending to listen with impatient fingers tapping light against his arms. 

“Oi, fuckface—"

The familiar accent forces Louis to spin. He spots Niall balancing four shots above his head through the crowd, his presence an immediate reprieve for his thoughts. He figured he’d never see the bastard again and he'd be stuck dealing with John fucking Bender all night.

Niall wobbles over like a drunk guardian angel. Flushed cheeks, dirty blonde hair matted from sweat and sticking to his forehead as if he’d been off dancing somewhere for hours. His shirt's half untucked into his jeans, typical Niall fashion.

"You owe me 20 for these. And another 20 for making me wait in that long-ass queue," He grins, shoving a shot glass into Louis' hand.

Louis sniffs it suspiciously, nose wrinkling at the sharp smell. "This better be tequila."

"Might be," Niall shrugs. "Might also be whatever the hell was cheapest."

Brilliant. Could be petrol for all he knows.

“What took you so long?” Louis frowns, still eyeing the liquid. “I was starting to think you got kidnapped.”

“Took me ages to get through the queue. Started chatting up some girl, though, so not a total waste of time.”

“Yeah? Did you get her number?”

“No, she had a boyfriend. But that’s never stopped anyone before, right?” Niall nudges Louis with his elbow. His eyes follow as Niall’s attention shifts over to Harry, now leaning against a pillar with his arms perfectly crossed. A painted picture of indifference, "Whose the bloke?"

“Mina’s mate,” Louis rolls his eyes. He's not really interested in trying to hide his revulsion. “Never met him before.”

Niall lifts a single brow in curiosity, sizing Harry up and down, “He looks like a douchebag.”

“Pretentious prick, more like,” Louis mutters.

He doesn't get it. The whole brooding thing. Harry's not even engaging with Mina or her mates anymore. Just staring straight ahead, as though anticipating something more worthwhile. Like he’s above all this. Above her. Above Louis. Which…fuck him, right? Who comes to a club to stand in the damn corner?

Before Niall can ask any more questions, Mina spins through the crowd with Georgia in tow. She doesn’t break stride before slamming straight into Louis, nearly taking them all down.

"Whoa, love." Louis steadies her before she face-plants into his chest. She reeks of alcohol and that fancy perfume she saves for nights out—the expensive one she'd insisted he buy her last month—brown eyes glazed but bright as she beams up at him. Her wide, excited smile eases some of the tension in his chest. But only slightly.

“Niall!" She shouts with a sloppy giggle, "Thought we lost you again, tosser."

"Got your shots, didn't I?" He wiggles them in the air.

Mina leaps out of Louis' arms, instantly snatching two. “Oh thank god!” She spins away again, forcing one on Georgia. "Shots!"

"Sorry mate, would've got you one if I'd known," Niall leans over to Harry, because he's a much better person than Louis.

Harry's head turns slowly, and for just a moment his lips twitch into something that might be interest, "What? Is this a first date? I don't need you to buy me a drink, mate."

The sharp response throws Niall off, but he grins anyway, offering a light-hearted shrug. “What can I say? I know how to treat a lad.”

Harry doesn’t laugh. Or smile. Louis is pretty sure he doesn't even have a pulse. He glances over to Niall with a silent look that reads: Yup, this guy fucking sucks. 

Mina's next victim is Louis, “Babe, drink!” She shoves his glass up towards his face with her hands, nearly missing his mouth. "Come on, don't be boring."

Louis knows better than to argue. He tosses it back without a thought, only to gag. Fuck. That’s not tequila.

That’s vodka.

He absolutely hates vodka.

Fucking Niall.

He winces at the burn, shaking his head as it slides down his throat.

“Remind me why I do this to myself?” Mina laughs, licking the last drop off her lips.

“You're asking the wrong person, love," Louis chokes out, pulling her close to escape the crowd.

“Mm. But you look like you need another.”

“Another?” He smirks, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Miss Mina?”

She sways into him, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, “You need to unwind a little, babes. You're all stiff tonight.” And Louis knows that the tone in her voice means she's not really making a suggestion.

“Well, I’d love to,” He squeezes her hips, already feeling himself cave, “if only your delightful mate over there wasn’t sucking the soul out of the room.”

At that, Mina pulls back with a small frown on her lips. “Oh, hush. Harry’s not that bad.”

He shoots her an amused glance, shoulders deflating, “Mina.” He shakes his head, “He’s standing over there like a damn serial killer. Has he ever smiled once in his life?”

“Oh, come on! He’s just shy,” She laughs, swatting at his arm.

Louis nearly laughs back. But not because it’s funny. Because it’s borderline offensive that she’s passing off Harry’s behavior as just shy. Since the moment he’s arrived, Mina’s been acting like he’s something special and there’s some good reason he should be here with all of them tonight. Louis refuses to understand.

“I think we have two very different definitions of shy, love.”

She rolls her eyes, already over the conversation. “I don’t see why it matters. We’re all here to have fun.”

“Right, but—”

“He’s just not good with new people,” Mina says in the same way people talk about Yorkshire terriers. Not looming entities.

“But I’m not a stranger, Mina. I’m your boyfriend,” He reminds her, the vodka’s not really helping his mood.

Then, as if summoned, or maybe just bored to tears, Harry peels himself off the pillar. "I'm getting a drink," he announces to no one in particular, voice barely carrying over the music.

Mina’s eyes brightens, something clicking in her mind. “Oh, Lou, go with him!" She urges, "Get me one too?”

His eyes widen as she hops in the air, hands clasped together with what she thinks is the best idea in the world, “What?” He shakes his head, “No. Why do I have to go?”

Mina leans back in his grasp, a small pout on her glistening lips. “Because I want another drink, and you need to loosen up.” She points a finger to his chest.

Louis glances over to Niall for backup, but the traitor already has his arms wrapped around one of Mina’s friends, probably whispering something unsavory into her long blonde hair. The dickhead he is.

Harry's already miles away, not bothering to stop or wait for anyone. Meaning Louis will have to catch up.

"Go on," Mina's pushing him now, the playful touch feeling more of an order, "Go!"

He hesitates for a moment, wanting to tell her exactly where Harry can stick this drink run. The last thing Louis wants is to trail after Harry, especially after that god-awful introduction. But Mina's eyes are pleading, and he knows that look. The one that promised consequences if he doesn't play along.

With a deep, deep, internal groan, Louis reluctantly starts his way over to the bar. Each step a personal insult to his dignity. Sometimes being a good boyfriend means doing things you'd rather die than do. Or maybe, he thinks bitterly, it just means knowing when to give in.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Even his gait is condescending.

Louis catches quick glimpses of Harry through the sputtering flashes. Head tilted forward, shoulders dipped low, every careless step forcibly tracked as he tries to keep up with the pace. Harry towers over the crowd like some brooding giant, and Louis has to crane his neck just to glare at him properly.

Not a single 'Excuse me' or 'Sorry'  tumbles from that mouth, and honestly, Louis has no idea why he ever expected even that. Harry barges through, expecting everyone else to bow and move. And, bafflingly enough, they did. They all step aside with reverent whispers and wide eyed stares to the magnetic force, while Louis has to fight through every inch of space, elbowing his way through the masses.

And it isn't just Harry's total disregard or lack of interest that pricks at him. It's the way he moves. How he carries himself through the space, putting everyone else beneath him. And Mina thinks he's worth defending?

Louis glances back at her, hoping she'll see the havoc her friend is wreaking, but there she is, still dancing, utterly oblivious. Because of course. That’s just Mina.

Gritting his teeth, he scoots around a couple tangled together on the dance floor, determined to keep Harry in view. Maybe it's Mina's blind loyalty that's really getting under his skin. Or the way she looked at him when her delicate arms wrapped around his waist—

Nope.

Louis shakes his head. Now he’s just making stuff up.

He huffs over an old Britney song, the shot he'd just taken starting to warm his veins when he notices Harry cutting straight through the bar queue.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

Louis stops moving, momentarily dumbfounded. He can't believe this prick, gliding effortlessly through to the front like no one else around him exists. And Louis knows he should just stay right where he is. At the back of the line. Waiting to get the drinks like anyone with a normal brain would.

But his feet start moving, propelled by pure irritation and spite.

The bass thrums through his chest as he pushes past a barricade of dancers, locking onto the bar top with a newfound determination. His fingers itch to grab Harry right by his ringlets and yank him down to eye level, teaching him a lesson or two about basic manners and respect. The height difference only makes his arrogance more infuriating.

“Sorry…” Louis mutters to the two girls behind him, their derisive glances lost somewhere beneath the blue lights. It’s no surprise that Harry doesn't look his way as he parks right next to him.

“You know there’s a whole line back there, right?” Louis shouts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He stares at Harry for a moment, who only leans further over the counter. His body is now angled away, as though Louis were simply background noise. An insignificant murmur.

Louis' pulse throbs in his temples, his thumb still frozen in place. He inches closer in the already cramped space until he can smell mint gum mixed with leather and something distinctly expensive, "Did you hear what I—"

“I’m not waiting in a line.”

The words finally leave Harry’s mouth, though it's obvious it was never really a consideration. His voice is loud enough to hear, but just as monotonous as you'd expect. Deep, grave, and completely devoid of interest. Just like him. Harry still doesn't turn to look at Louis, even then, his jaw rocking hard as he chews.

“Right, right…" Louis trails, nodding slowly while he pretends to understand. "But you do realize that’s kind of fucking rude?” He feels more like a mum than someone trying to reason with a grown man.

“Is it?” Harry drawls, tone drowning in condescension.

“Yeah," Louis bites out, "it fucking is.” He watches Harry's smirk grow. The bastard is clearly enjoying this, feeding off Louis' frustration like free entertainment.

Harry lets out a deep breath, moving to rest his chin in the palm of his hand. His rings reflect blue as his fingers tap an irritating rhythm against his cheek. Even through those shades, Louis can feel the mockery radiating off him. The boy is entirely unfazed.

“Oh, well. Can't have that, can we?" Harry tutts with amusement, "How ever will they live?” He finally turns over to face Louis properly with a big, fake smile plastered on his face. “Do you always concern yourself with the opinions of strangers?”

Louis exhales sharply through his nose, pulse jumping at how close Harry suddenly feels. There’s something smug in the way he leans in, knowing exactly what he's doing. Louis hates how his throat tightens in response.

But still, he holds his ground, not wanting to give Harry the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.

“No. But I do care about not being a prick.” He narrows his eyes.

“And yet, here you are,” Harry tilts his head, clicking his teeth. “Guess that makes us both pricks.”

Before Louis can counter, Harry shifts back toward the bar. His face falls back into that unperturbed look, a credit card poised between two fingers. “Three shots of whiskey.” He tosses it down and runs a hand through his long hair, ruffling it into place.

Louis knows he's got a point. But admitting that to him? Not happening.

The bartender doesn't blink, pouring liquor into glasses without question. Louis can still feel the glares of those waiting in line behind them, but no one dares to say anything. It's almost maddening how Harry gets away with this, like rules were made for everyone else but him.

The shots slide over, and Harry expertly plucks the gum straight from his mouth, tossing back a full shot of whiskey without a hint of a flinch or wince. 

“What do you want?” the bartender snaps, breaking Louis out of the strange trance he's found himself in. He hadn't realized he'd been staring at Harry's throat, watching him swallow the second one back like it was nothing.

He blinks, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. Why is he even fucking here again? The music is almost too loud, making it hard for him to think. Right. Mina. Drinks. Always the bloody drinks.

"Two tequila sunrises," he manages, oddly proud his voice comes out steady.

The bartender nods, turning away, but Louis can feel Harry staring at him now. When he glances over again, Harry has an eyebrow raised above his Ray-Bans, lips quirking just enough to know that he's still making fun of him.

“Tequila sunrises…” Harry repeats, stretching out each word like it's disgraceful. He pouts out his bottom lip. “Cute.”

“Mina likes them.” Louis defends himself. Maybe a bit too quickly for casual. 

“So, what?” Harry leans in again, whiskey-hot breath hitting against his ear. Louis fights the involuntary shiver that runs down his spine, hating the proximity. “You just take orders then? Got no opinions of your own?”

That makes Louis snap, irritation flaring hot under his skin. His eyes track Harry's long fingers as they shove that bloody piece of gum right back into his mouth, popping it shut and trying to prove a point. The deliberately slow and loud chewing makes Louis’ hands curl tight into fists.

He opens and closes his mouth twice. The desire to punch those designer shades clean off Harry's face is almost overwhelming. But nothing good will come of that, so he settles for a tight-lipped smile. Reminding himself that he's trying to be civil. For Mina.

He forces down the violence threatening to spill from his throat, yanking a crumpled twenty from his wallet. He slaps it onto the counter with enough force to rattle the empty shot glasses, before grabbing his own drinks.

"Have fun being an arsehole, mate." He doesn't meet Harry's eyes when he turns sharply, letting the crowd swallow him whole. Louis focuses on getting back to Mina before the urge to wipe that infuriating smirk becomes too tempting to ignore.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Tequila sloshes dangerously in both glasses as Louis shoves through the crowd.

You just take orders? No opinions of your own?

Who the fuck does Harry think he is?

His mind ricochets with anger as he weaves between shoulders, his own wrung so tight they just might snap off. The audacity that prick has, spewing judgment like fact, as if he knew anything about Louis to begin with.

As if Harry knows the first thing about relationships or compromise.

He doesn't just do things because Mina tells him to. He does them because he cares. Because he loves her. A self-absorbed arse like that wouldn’t understand the value of putting someone else first. Harry made that abundantly clear the moment he walked in, wrapped in his own self-importance.

Louis dodges a few arms swinging wildly above his head, trying his hardest not to spill. When he finally spots Mina in their designated corner of the club, he instantly drops whatever disturbing look he's got on his face, replacing it with the pleasant smile he knows she loves. She's already reaching for the glasses and squealing before he even stops.

"Finally!" Mina tips her head back with a long chug, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Took you forever."

“Yeah, sorry. Long queue.” Louis keeps his smile in place. He stares off as she twirls around with her drink, not particularly bothered with paying mind to his forced act. He's slightly thankful for it though, desperate to forget the infuriating question still circling his mind. And the infuriating mouth it came out of.

"Where did Harry go?" Mina's question doesn't help. She glances around the room, frowning slightly, "Wasn't he with you?"

"I don't know." He shrugs and it's really not a lie because he doesn't know. Or care to know.

"Well, why didn't you wait for him?" She asks, furrowing her brow.

"Because I'm not his bloody keeper?" Louis says with a bit more bite than intended. He's just done with this. "I'm sure he can manage ordering his own drinks."

"Lou," Mina sighs, looking at him like he's being difficult on purpose.

"What?" He presses, "Am I supposed to hold his hand through the queue too?"

He might as well have since clearly no one’s taught Harry how queues work. Or chewing with his mouth closed. Or basic fucking greetings.

"Louis," She warns, eyes locked on his. "You really need to stop with that."

He almost rolls his eyes. But he doesn't. For his own sake. Besides, she's already turning away, clearly just as done with his attitude as he is with Harry's entire existence. Louis takes a chug of his—delightfully delicious, by the way—tequila sunrise and lets what he really wants to say slide back with the sweetness.

"Dance with me," Mina murmurs instead, pulling him close again. She slides an arm around the middle of his back, pressing her body against his and fuck, what is he doing? He should be here. Properly here. Should be fucking ecstatic, really, with the way she's grabbing on him and giving him that wanting look. But Harry's whole everything has thrown him off completely, and now he can't even hold his girlfriend properly without picturing that arrogant prick’s smirk.

Whatever.

He tries to ignore it, letting the alcohol do what it does best to chase away the sober parts of him that are still frustrated with all of that.

It works, mostly, turning everything into a timeless, sweaty blur. Their mates disappear into the crush of bodies, though Louis can't exactly pinpoint when. He’s too caught up in the whirlwind of buying Mina more shots and his own laughable dancing.

And yeah, Harry really never does come back to their circle from the bar.

Which should be a relief, really. One less judgmental stare to deal with while he tries to get back into his element. But his eyes keep searching anyway, landing on every other tall figure moving in the crowd, just in a careful avoidance. It's ridiculous. Harry's probably off being miserable to another stranger by now, motivated off the thrill of ruining someone elses night.

So why can't he stop thinking about it?

It's just him and Mina now, pressed together. They move to whatever the DJ's playing, but Louis can't find the rhythm. Everything's too hot and too close. The suffocating press of bodies, the smell of perfume and sweat touching his skin, the endless thump from the speakers vibrating through his chest. His shirt is completely soaked through, and when Mina kisses him, tasting like tequila and cherry lip gloss, he feels like he's suffocating.

He knows that she could stay here all night. She practically lives for getting lost in the music and chaos. Any other time, he'd push through it for her. But tonight, with all of this and Harry's insufferability still echoing in his mind, the club feels like a trap closing in.

“Cigarette, love?” He rasps, rougher than necessary But he's almost desperate for an escape.

Mina says nothing, just nods lazily, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. And Louis thanks every god in the sky when she starts fast toward the exit. He follows the path she carves out for them, like he always does.

The club spits them out into the night and it's an instant relief against Louis' heated skin. His lungs expand gratefully, the crisp spring air briefly cutting through his drunkenness. The street wobbles slightly beneath his feet as his brain catches up with just how off his face he is now, left with no choice but to confront his swimming vision. Suddenly, he's unable to focus on anything but how his t-shirt's practically glued to his chest and the sweat rolling down his temples.

Their lot is clustered just outside the club. Georgia's sitting on the kerb with a cigarette lit between her fingers while Niall tries his best to charm it away from her. And then, because that's exactly what he needs right now—

"Oh, there's Harry!" Mina exclaims.

Fantastic.

There he fucking is, leaning against the wall behind them with one foot kicked back against the brick. Harry looks entirely unbothered by the heat or the crowd or anything else that's making Louis feel like crawling out of his skin. Even now, he has those ridiculous sunglasses perched on his nose like they're part of his bloody face. He'd hoped that he'd imagined him, honestly. That the crowd had swallowed him whole, or that Harry had taken the hint and vanished.

But no.

Louis rolls his eyes, slipping his hand in Mina's as he drunkenly guides them over to the far edge of the group, as far from Harry as physically possible without actually launching himself into traffic.

“Disgusting, aren’t you?” Georgia's nose wrinkles, swatting her hand at Niall.

“Disgusting enough that you’d still share one of these with me?" He teases, wiggling his brows as he exhales smoke. "Fancy me, do you?”

“Fancy you?" She snatches the cigarette back with a scoff, "Please, I’d rather choke on piss and die.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Mina slides in then, a playful grin on her lips.

“Thank you, Mina!” Niall sighs dramatically, “Tell your lovely friend that I’m a proper gentleman.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that,” Louis murmurs, “You’re a bit of a slag.”

"And a Virgo." Niall points a defensive finger in the air, nearly poking Georgia's eye out. "Which means I'm selective with my slagging, thank you very much."

Georgia and Mina continue to debate Niall’s questionable morals, but their voices blur into the background as he tunes them all out. He busies himself with his own pack of Marlboros, slightly frowning at how the cardboard's gone soggy and bent from being sat on. At least lighting a cigarette gives him something else to focus on besides the obvious needle in the haystack. Though that's proving harder than expected. His eyes drift briefly past Niall. Briefly.

He's only curious.

The club had been too dark before, cutting Harry into mostly fleeting pieces. But under the streetlight, he could see the sharp details of everything, looking a lot like someone you’d cut yourself on if you approached too closely.

The amber lights catch on Harry's rings as he lifts his cigarette to his lips. Chunky silver things that look like they've been stolen from some vintage market. There's a small shadow of a tattoo peaking out from beneath his jacket, too small to try and make out what it is from this distance. Louis' eyes drift up to the purpling love-bite just visible above his collar. Fresh, by the look of it.

Was that there at the bar? He can’t remember.

Harry's long hair falls forward as he takes a drag. Louis follows the movement as he pushes strands back with his fingers, rearranging them over to hang over one side of his head. His jaw, angular and sharp, shifts forward as he sucks in smoke, the hollows of his cheek deepening with the motion.

And before Louis can stop himself, he finds a small, silver earring dangling from Harry's left ear, swaying hypnotically against his pale skin. He swallows, forcing himself to look away. But like a magnet, his gaze keeps pulling back.

"Y'alright, babes?" Mina nudges him, her elbow gentle against his ribs and Louis nearly drops his cigarette.

He quickly glances away, taking a desperate drag to erase the weird pulling in his gut.

“What? Oh—um, yeah." He squeezes Mina's hand a bit too tight, "Peachy, love."

“A bit quiet there,” She squeezes back, a hint of concern in her voice.

"Just enjoying the show." Louis lies, tilting his chin towards Georgia and Niall. "These two would make a great romantic comedy."

Mina giggles at that, her lips brushing his shoulder. "Or a tragic one."

Louis laughs weakly, coughing out a small cloud of smoke like it might hide how his eyes keep finding Harry. He hasn't said a word since they’ve stepped outside, barely even glanced their way. And Louis is equally parts annoyed and baffled how nobody seems to care. Not even Mina. Despite her insistent need to keep him orbiting around them tonight, and his unspoken role no one is allowed to question.

Harry must feel the attention because his head turns slightly. Not much, just enough to make Louis wonder if he’s looking at him. Or past him. Or not at all.

Still, his neck burns hot, feeling caught out. Louis drops his gaze to the pavement, pretending that the pattern of cigarette butts scattered there is more interesting instead, his heart beating traitorously against his ribs.

When he looks back up again, Harry's pushing off the wall, moving further away from his place and toward some bloke emerging from the club. Tall, blonde, and a little bit older than anyone else in their group. The stranger says something that makes Harry's smirk widen. The first real sign of interest Louis' seen from him all night.

Harry angles his head with that sly grin, exchanging words that's impossible to hear from where they're standing, and then he’s gesturing vaguely down the street. Harry’s already half-gone before anyone seems to notice, like he was never really here to begin with.

"That's Harry for you," Mina says beside him, something resigned in her playful sigh. "Always disappearing without saying goodbye."

Louis watches them vanish around the corner, his cigarette long forgotten and burning down to the filter. The ash drops onto his trainers, but he barely notices because, suddenly, his throat's tight again. He tells himself it's relief. That the knot in his stomach is just the frustration of letting some smug stranger get under his skin.

"Another round?" he asks quickly, desperate to move on and think about anything else.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Louis has definitely, absolutely, without a doubt died.

That's the only explanation for why the sunlight peeking through his window, currently attempting to pierce through his eye sockets, feels like God himself reaching down to finish the job. If not, then death would certainly be a lot kinder than this consciousness, he decides, pressing his fingers into his temples and wondering if his brain has always felt this squishy.

He shouldn't have had that last drink. Shouldn’t have had the last five, actually. His head feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to it, which, considering the amount of shots shoved at him last night, isn't too far from the truth.

Cheers, Niall.

Three hours of sleep. A skull-crushing, stomach-churning, absolute-fuck-me hangover. Plus a shift he should’ve left for twenty-five minutes ago. His life is truly a masterclass in poor decisions.

Stumbling through their barely furnished living room, he dodges unopened boxes labelled in Mina's pristine handwriting: 'Kitchen Essentials', 'Louis' Books' (a rather optimistic label), and 'Living Room Decor'. All they've managed to fish out so far are a few necessities and the flowerpot Mina's mum gave them as a housewarming gift. The flat itself is modest, but by far a better stretch than Louis' last apartment. Their fourth story walk-up overlooks the sweetest corner of Manchester, a busy strip of shops and overpriced bakeries.

He spent most of the early week unpacking while Mina directed him on where their things looked best, her voice a constant symphony of "No, babes, a bit to the left" and "That doesn't work there at all." He'd meant to finish, he really did, but then tequila happened and, well. Here they are.

He rubs a hand over his tired eyes and groans, stepping over another box near the kitchen. The place is starting to feel somewhat like home, though he admits it's been difficult getting used to living with someone other than Niall. At least he wouldn’t be tripping over empty beer cans and and finding sordid magazines tucked between couch cushions anymore.

The coffee maker whirs as Louis presses it on, actually whimpering at the sound. His temples are throbbing, his tongue a dried-out sponge stuck to the roof of his mouth. The mere act of swallowing sends waves of nausea rolling through his stomach. Even his teeth hurt, though he's not quite sure how that's possible.

Everything is too loud right now, too bright, too everything. He can hear the squeak of the shower faucets somewhere in the distance, Mina's already awake and probably emerging soon looking like she spent the night at a spa instead of downing tequila until 3 AM. Fucking unfair, that. Somehow, she always looks put together after wild nights out, while his body ached with vengeful intensity.

His uniform barely makes it over his head before he's reaching for two mugs, hastily pouring hot liquid into both. A drop splatters onto his skin, scorching it as he hisses, "Fuck!" sucking on his burnt thumb, adding it to the growing list of ways his morning is trying to kill him.

He's late. So fucking late. His phone buzzes with another text from Jeanine, who's probably going to have his balls mounted on her office wall shortly. Right next to all the other disappointing employees who decided to show up late to their Saturday morning shifts. If he tries to sprint to his car now, takes the stairs two at a time, and ignores all of the traffic laws, he might only be thirty minutes late instead of forty-five.

A huff escapes his lips as he ignores his mounting nerves. His focus is now sugar and cream. When he glances up, Mina's already halfway to the counter with a lazy yawn, her wet dark hair clinging to her—his—oversized t-shirt.

“Good mornin’,” she chirps, flopping into a counter stool, completely oblivious to his internal crisis.

Louis mumbles something vaguely similiar to "Morning" back at her, stirring a silver spoon against the ceramic.

She watches as he fixes her coffee, sliding the steaming mug across the counter in their usual routine. They still haven't talked about last night. About the club. About him. Louis isn't sure he even wants to pick at that particular scab after fighting about it with her again in the taxi on the way home.

“Do we have any more yogurt?” He asks instead, moving over to the fridge. 

Mina lets out a dry little breath, clearly still annoyed about it despite the smile on her face.“You ate the last of it yesterday."

He groans, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the fridge door. Brilliant. No breakfast then. Just nicotine and anxiety. The real breakfast of champions.

He'd picked up smoking properly during his first week at The KettlePot, when the stress of dealing with entitled customers and memorizing complicated orders had him sneaking out back with Niall between rushes. Now it's more habit than necessity, though Mina wrinkles her nose every time he comes in smelling like an ashtray. She doesn't say anything anymore, just opens a window and gives him that look. The same one she has on right now.

“Don’t forget to bring the wine for the dinner party tonight.” Mina says through a sleepy sip of coffee, eyes tracking him as he lifts his head.

His brain, already operating at about 12% capacity, screeches to a complete halt.

Because what dinner party?

"Our housewarming, Lou," Mina sighs, setting her mug down rather harshly, "You forgot, didn't you?"

Shit.

Shit shit shit. He completely forgot about the fucking dinner party. Of course he did, swamped with ten hour shifts and the burden of unpacking, it'd slipped his mind entirely that they were throwing a gathering tonight. Jesus, if he'd known this, he wouldn't have spent so much money on bar tabs.

"Course I remember," he lies, already calculating how many favors he'll have to call in at work to get out early enough to sort this mess out. He doesn't even have to look over his shoulder to know she's still glaring.

Louis spins around, tossing his half-empty mug into the sink before rushing toward the door.

“Who’s all coming again?” he feigns memory, shoving his feet into his dirty Vans, still sticky from last night’s liquor. Louis doesn’t understand how she’s even functioning right now let alone planning a dinner party. But that’s Mina. Always five steps ahead. Always put together.

She starts listing out names, each one with a deliberately annoyed bite.

Georgia, Emmy, Dave,

Then,

"Harry— oh, and you can bring Niall..."

He freezes mid-foot in his left trainer.

His head was already threatening death, but this might actually kill him. Mina carries on, reminding him about seating arrangements and supplies needed for the appetizers. Something about cheeses for the charcuterie board and a tray for sausage rolls. All casually sweet, as if she hadn't just made his stomach drop to his feet.

“Harry?” Louis wrinkles his nose at the name.

Mina’s mouth stops moving, her brow creasing in that way it does when she's trying to figure him out. “Yeah, Harry…"

He curls a fist into the fabric of his jacket, snatching it right off the hook. It's well past the time he's given himself to leave, but this is keeping him rooted in place. Why would she invite him? Of all people. He’s not exactly an ideal dinner guest. She has to know that, right?

“Why?" Louis' arms fold unconsciously across his chest, "I mean, he hardly seemed thrilled to be with us last night. Probably thought the whole thing was beneath him."

"Lou…" Mina's nostrils flare. She pushes away her mug like she's lost her appetite. "Don't start with this again."

"I'm not starting anything, I'm just pointing out an observation."

"Maybe if you actually gave him a chance instead of deciding you hate him—"

"I don't hate him," Louis cuts in, throwing the jacket over his shoulders. "I just don't understand why he needs to be here. In our home."

He can already picture it: Harry slouching in his kitchen, in his space, breathing his air, probably wearing those pretentious sunglasses inside like the twat he is. He doesn’t deserve to be sitting at their table. Especially not when Louis can still feel that dismissive glare from last night and practically hear the condescending tone in his voice.

Mina scoffs, shaking her head, “What is your deal with him?”

And Louis could tell her exactly what his deal is: that Harry's an arsehole. Plain and simple. But he's already toying with his luck by pushing this for the fourth time since last night. He already knows if he keeps going on this will end with him sleeping on the brand-new couch rather than their bed.

So instead, he sighs, “Mina…” a soft plea.

“He's my friend, Louis.” The conversation was over before it even began.

And isn't that just fucking perfect?

Harry's apparently everyone's friend now too. Even after barely interacting with Mina and her mates, he still manages to have leverage over her literal boyfriend during this entire conversation. And now he'll be here, in their flat, probably judging their furniture and the way Louis' arranged the forks in the cutlery drawer when he's not busy being an enigmatic arsehole standing in the corner.

"Right," Louis sighs, giving up the fight. He stares at the floor for a second, then forces a nod. "Brilliant, Fantastic. Looking forward to it."

Mina says nothing, her eyes trailing as he zips up his jacket and reaches for his keys. It's fine, he decides. Just a dinner party. Just a few hours. He can handle it. He's handled worse. Probably.

“Merlot, right?” He forces a grin, the skin feeling pulled too tight.

She grins back, satisfied. “See you later, yeah?”

And just like that, it's decided.

Louis will be forced to sit next to Harry at the dinner table, along with his hangover and anxiety, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it. All three having a grand old time wreaking havoc on his nervous system.

Even as he leaves their flat and heads to his car, the thought lingers hot and restless.

He runs a hand through his fringe and tries to shake it off. If he let himself think about it too much, he’d start spiraling.

Later. He’ll deal with it later.

For now, he just needs to survive the shift ahead.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Saturdays at the restaurant are always brutal, but today's a special kind of hell.

The KettlePot has been recently crowned '#1 hottest brunch spot in Manchester', which, lucky Louis, he gets to work every single weekend shift, serving through endless waves of overcrowded tables, ordering mimosa after mimosa, all while pretending the constant spillage and nonsensical shouting doesn't make him want to blow his brains out.

What used to be a casual eatery exploded into a full-blown city attraction, pulling in lines that wrap around the block during their busiest hours, and Louis has been here long enough to watch it all happen. He was barely twenty-one when he started, just a broke uni kid looking for tips and free meals, never expecting to stick around this long. But now, he’s the one running shifts, training new hires, pretending like he’s got it all figured out even though he's barely got his head on most days.

Not exactly a job to drool over, but if it keeps the lights on and their bellies full, he's fine with that. It keeps Mina happy too, knowing he's got something steady for now, even if it's not the kind of job she dreams for him.

Gerald's already shouting at someone for making a mistake when Louis slips through the back entrance, the nauseating smell of frying oil and breakfast meats taking over all five of his senses as he weaves through the morning rush. He has to grip onto the wall to keep from doubling over, the clatter of plates clanging in time with his temples, which is exactly what he needs when his body is actively trying to expel last night's tequila through his pores.

Trying to sneak past unnoticed, Louis keeps his head tucked, frantically smoothing down his fringe in hopes to stay unseen, but of course, waiting for him around the corner is a familiar pair of dark blue Crocs, decorated with an assortment of hideous pug charms. He looks up to find Jeanine standing there, arms crossed with that signature disapproving scowl on her face that reminds him too much of his mum.

"You're—"

"Late," Louis cuts in, ducking around her to grab his blue apron. "I know, I know. My phone exploded, there was endless traffic, aliens abducted me. Pick your favorite excuse." Another wave of nausea hits him as he tries to tie together the strings, shutting his eyes when a heave threatens to break out of him. Can't puke when there's rent to pay because puking means no shift which means no money which means Mina—

"Third time this week. Sorry isn't cutting it, Lou." She trails behind as he paces over to the sink, her Crocs squeaking loudly despite everything else. "You're lucky I even give you the weekend shifts anymore."

Lucky? He could laugh at that. Seems more like a punishment than anything.

But everything feels like luck these days to Louis. Lucky to have this job, lucky to have Mina, lucky to be barely keeping his head above water while everyone else seems to be swimming just fine.

"I'm trying, Jean," He murmurs, washing his hands, "Swear down."

He's not entirely sure what else she wants him to say. Louis' well aware of his shit attendance lately, got both her and Mina constantly telling him that he needs to get it together before it finally catches up to him. He's far too exhausted and hungover to even defend himself, any excuse he'd make wouldn’t change the fact that he’s been slipping.

Jeanine plants a firm hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks as he tries to get past her and onto the floor. Her cautioning expression softens just a little, like she's debating whether to call him out or ask if he's alright. It makes his throat tight, that look.

"Won't do it again, Jeanny," Louis holds out a wet pinky, trying for that cheeky charm that usually gets him out of trouble, "Promise."

And still, nothing.

His shoulders slump, hand falling dramatically to his side.

"One more and I have to write you up, Lou." Jeanine warns with a hushed voice, "You know I don't want to do that to you." She wags her finger once in his face before stalking off, leaving him alone with the weight of promises he's not sure he can keep right now.

Louis lets out a long, defeated breath, running the heel of his palm over his eyes to soothe them from the harsh tile lights. He knows it's only fair, Jeanine has been cutting him more slack than he deserves lately. She could've knocked him flat on his arse about two months ago, when he'd been on such a bad streak sacking him out of mercy was probably the right choice. Being her favorite comes with certain privileges Louis knows he’s been skating by on for far too long. He'll just pick up a few extra shitty shifts to make it up to her and they'll be sorted.

Nicking a piece of bacon from a hot pan, he ignores the violent growl in his stomach and burn on his tongue as he chews, rising on his toes to catch a glimpse of all the people starting to pile in through the kitchen windows.

A loud snort comes from behind him, and he already knows what's coming without glancing over.

"Christ, you're like a proper rat. At least wait 'til it's on a plate, you animal."

He turns, mouth full of stolen goods, to find Niall swooping in with arms full of clean china and a grin stretching far too wide, clearly enjoying whatever follow-up insult he's about to hurl Louis' way next.

"Morning to you too, sunshine." Louis mumbles, refocusing on the rotations sheet pinned on the corkboard. And of course, his name is crossed out and reassigned to the shit sections today. Cheers for that, Jean.

"Well, you look like shit," Niall points out very helpfully, setting down the plates. "Still drunk?"

"Something like that," Louis rolls his eyes, very much over how everyone around him seems to bounce back to life after a night of excessive drinking.

"Hmm, maybe shouldn't have had those last three shots then," Niall mocks, bending to grab the bin of washed utensils from the dishwasher, dropping it onto the metal counter with an exaggerated clang.

Louis winces at the sound, trying to rub the sore spot in his brain, "Okay, ow?" He scoffs, turning to face him now. "And that was entirely your fault, twat."

"Yeah, but you could've said no," Niall rebuttals without looking up, still smirking. "But we both know you wouldn't have. You never do."

And—

Okay, alright, whatever. Louis scrunches his nose in reluctant agreement, between keeping up with Niall over the years and now Mina, it's a miracle his liver hasn't waved a white flag yet.

When he opens his mouth to bite back with a half-thought-out defense, Jeanine's voice slices through the noise, "Lou, I need you on the floor." She shouts from somewhere in the kitchen. He can't really see her, but somehow, she's always near, always watching him.

Niall glances over his shoulder, then back to Louis, pursing his lip, "Pissed mum off?" He whispers, reaching over for their new embellished black napkins.

Louis leans over the counter on his elbows, letting his head drop into his hands, "It's fine," he murmurs through smushed cheeks, "Was just late."

"Again?"

"Lou!" Jeanine's voice cuts sharper this time, leaving no room for excuses. "Floor, please. Now!"

He groans loudly, just needing all of the sounds to stop for one moment. "I said I'm on it, Jean!" Louis pinches the bridge of his nose, gritting through his teeth, "Jesus." His hands are properly shaking now and it's not just the headache or the clamour or dehydration, but the weight of everything piling up on top of his exhaustion.

Somewhere between Jeanine's orders this week, Mina's expectations and unpacking, he's lost a handle on taking care of himself. He's barely had a proper meal in two days, his body somehow operating on only shitty coffee, stolen bacon, and whatever's leftover of last night's tequila. It's no wonder he feels like he's been hit by a bus.

And then there's the whole dinner party thing still hanging over him, the dreadful thought of having to sit at his own bloody table with Harry, ready to shoot down every awkward attempt at making mundane conversation for Mina's sake. It all feels like some form of torture.

Niall turns slightly, intrigued by Louis' obvious despair, "...Everything alright?" He lifts a brow, clearly already knowing the answer.

Louis sighs, waving him off, "Yeah, yeah." He's unable to even muster up the energy for his usual smartass comments today, "I'm fine, just feel like shit. And Mina's planned this whole dinner party thing tonight." His hands gesture vaguely around them, "Completely slipped my mind."

He blows out a deep breath, remembering how her eyes had lit up when she'd mentioned Harry would be there. Like she was doing everyone some sort of favor, blessing them all with his irritating presence, "She's probably ready to have my head."

Niall sucks his teeth, tutting dramatically as he starts to wrap cutlery in napkins, "Oof, upsetting the misses again." He shakes his head, "How many times has she put you on the naughty step this week?"

Louis narrows his eyes, slumping against the counter with crossed arms, "Oh, piss off," He says with no real anger. Because Niall might be an annoying idiot, but he's still Louis' annoying idiot. No matter how many times he gets on Louis' nerves, he's always there, ready with a pint or a distraction when he needs it most. And maybe that's why he always puts up with his nonsense. Maybe that's why he's about to ask exactly what he's about to ask next.

"Wanna come over?" Louis perks up, trying to sound casual and praying that Niall doesn't catch the desperate edge in his voice. "Bet you're dying for something other than this shit food."

Niall pauses, eyeing him suspiciously, "You really want me there? Or are you just using me to sit there and look pretty?"

"Christ, Niall." Louis huffs, "Can you come or not?"

Of course, his company is always welcome, but tonight, Louis practically needs him to help survive being in the same suffocating room as Harry. He's about two seconds from begging but he'd rather eat glass with his bare hands than admit that.

Niall brings a finger to his chin like he's pretending to think. As if he has better options than wanking himself dry and eating cheap pot noodles.

After a few long seconds, Louis stares at him blankly, "Mate."

"Sure, I could swing by..." Niall trails off, still playfully considering. His eyes widen when he lands on something Louis knows is only going to annoy him further, "But only if you hook me up with her friend, you know, the red-head?"

"What?" Louis scoffs, "No. I'm not playing wing-man in my own flat, you desperate sod."

"Then I'm not coming." Niall shrugs, the bastard. "You think I'm going to sit there drinking tea with my pinky up for nothing?"

"It's not a fucking tea party," Louis deadpans.

"Sure sounds like one," Niall chuckles, waving a salad fork in his face. "Want me in a proper suit and tie? Bake some crumpets, maybe?"

A strangled noise comes from Louis' throat, hands just about ready to rip his hair out by the roots when a small bang coming from behind him nearly sends him out of his skin. He spins on his heel to find Jeanine glaring at him, his obituary already printing out back in her office.

"Lou," She drags out, her fist clenched on the metal surface beside him, "You need to get off your arse and do your bloody job." He definitely should not be standing here in a room full of sharp kitchen knives.

Louis holds his hands out, placating before turning back to Niall for a brief second. "Fine, alright." He concedes, peeling himself from the counter, "But if she rejects you again, which she will, that's entirely on you, mate."

Niall cackles to himself as Louis backs away toward the dining room, hands raised in surrender at Jeanine's menacing glower. His heart's starting to hammer rough against his ribs, though whether from the hangover or the anxiety of tonight, he couldn't say.

"I'm going, I'm going, look!" He shoves another piece of bacon into his mouth as he goes, because if he's going to die today, at least he'll die with a full stomach.

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Everybody loves a good joke, and Louis has loads of them. It's why he's the best server there. He gets the most tips, whether his coworkers want to admit it or not. A few cheeky smiles at someone's nan or pretending the baby’s picking up the bill? They eat it up every time. Sometimes he wonders if he should’ve been a comedian instead.

The second the clock hits 4 PM, Louis is out the door. No goodbyes, no second thoughts. Tips can wait till tomorrow. His apron is still tied around his waist, the stiff blue fabric a reminder that he's barely made it out of there alive. He should go back and hang it up, but he won’t. Let them all stand around and debate if he finally quit.

With a Marlboro between his lips, he takes a long drag, expelling the weight of the day behind him. Mina's already texted twice about the wine for the dinner, both ending in multiple exclamations, reminding him that he's on thin ice. He should be excited about good food and good company, but the thought of sitting still for hours when all he wants is his bed and sleep feels nauseating. And then there’s Harry. His presence lingering over him like the headache he’s been pretending isn’t there.

Louis stops by the shops for not one, but two bottles of Merlot and some shitty tequila for himself. Drinking on a hangover is a terrible idea. He does it anyway.

When he gets back home, Mina is frantically darting between the oven and the counter decorated with rows of mini mince pies with flour dusting her cheeks. Despite her frenzied behavior, the flat looks immaculate and the food looks even better. He's practically salivating as he walks through the door, the hot waft of various meats making his stomach growl.

Before he can even say hello or give her a kiss on the cheek, she’s grabbing at the wine and waving him off toward the bedroom for a shower.

"Go, please." She doesn't look up from the dinner rolls she's buttering, "You smell like onions and grease."

There’s a half-assed attempt at looking like a decent man. He showers, shaves, and throws on a pair of trackies that Mina immediately vetoes for a pair of black jeans. His reflection looks, well, the best it can, his fringe particularly defiant today in how the strands spike up at the top of his head. He's clearly, painfully hungover, eye sockets so hollow they might actually fall out of his head.

Somewhat decently satisified with his efforts, he grabs a flannel and throws it over his white shirt, letting out a deep breath to prepare himself for what's to come. Maybe a shot or two of that tequila can save him. And if it can’t do that, maybe it’ll at least make him too drunk to care.

Emmy, Georgia, and Dave are all there five minutes before 6 PM, piling into their small flat with enthusiastic grins and well-curated gifts. Flowers, champagne, and easily killable house plants, because nothing shows adulthood quite like an aloe vera they'll soon forget about.

Louis' already half-way through his tequila with just enough orange juice by then, small talk made a lot easier when his bloodstream's doing most of the heavy lifting. He nods and smiles, the usual act, as everyone meanders through their flat in awe, impressed that they’ve managed to find something decent enough with two bedrooms and a terrace for city prices. Little do they know, it costs more than they’ve let on.

His phone buzzes against his thigh and he already knows it's bad news before he looks.

Niall: can’t make it tn. give the redhead my number still? xx love yaaa.

Louis stares at it, his blood pressure rising:

ur a dickhead. and no.

If Niall's ditched him for FIFA and pints again, Louis' going to actually, brutally, murder him. 

“Babes, can you let Harry in? He’s just texted,” Mina calls over her shoulder and Louis' head snaps up so fast, it almost gives him whiplash.

She’s sitting on the couch laughing along to something Dave's saying, completely at ease. There’s soft jazz humming from the vinyl spinning on the player and way too many champagne flutes abandoned on the coffee table. How long has he been standing there?

Glancing down at the text one more time, he quickly sets his phone aside with sweaty hands. In a perfect scenario, Niall would be here right now and they'd be properly smashed, ready to take the piss out of Harry together. But even after two drinks alone, all Louis feels is dread.

The fact he barely knows Harry should make this whole thing a lot easier, not harder, but the reality of having to see this smug bastard again so soon makes relaxation near to impossible.

When Mina turns to him with impatience, Louis quickly peels his body from his safety corner, throwing his empty glass to the counter and padding over to the door. He shakes off any visible signs of unease, unfortunately aware of how tight his clothes suddenly feel on his body.

His grip tightens on the doorknob before he twists it open, the scent of leathery spice and winter-fresh hitting him first. It’s sharp and disarming, against the warm, homey smell of roasted meat and butter that's been filling their flat, sending that impending doom straight to his stomach.

Harry towers in the doorway, his entire frame filling the small space with a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He's got a black dress shirt tucked into black trousers,  completely overdressed and trying to fit the bill of a charming dinner guest. Someone should tell him that he looks stupid.

Louis’ eyes climb a labyrinth of brown curls to meet a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses and that same impassive blank look.

“Can I come in or…" He drawls around his gum after a few moments. Louis doesn't realize he's been glaring.

“Oh, please.” He steps aside, putting on his best bullshitters voice, "Make yourself at home."

Harry arches a brow then, surveying the room before sliding past him. He walks in with his shoulders back, not a hint of hurry, and places the whiskey flat on the counter. Lagavulin -16. Of course Harry wouldn’t show up with anything cheap. Just in case anyone forgot how impossibly full of himself he is.

Then he does that thing—that weird sniff, nose scrunching up like he's offended by the very air as his ringed fingers push long strands of curls back over his head. Louis isn't sure if he should say anything, given Harry’s not known to be pleasant. He read online somewhere that punching dinner guests is considered poor form. Shame, that.

The two of them stand in awkward silence as Harry peers around the kitchen. The tension in the air is palpable, though Louis is convinced Harry just brings that with him wherever he goes.

The flat feels smaller with Harry in it, prowling around through the territory that Louis thought was rightfully his. Louis suddenly finds himself hyper-aware of every single cheap print on their walls, every mismatched cushion on their sofa, every dried coffee ring stained on their tables that they haven't bothered to clean yet.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, resisting the urge to say something smart. Years of customer service have trained him to play the role of appeasing entitled knobs, to offer drinks and make boring small talk, but Harry makes him want to forget every single lesson in hospitality he's ever learned, shoving him straight back out the door, gum and all.

"Harry!" Mina launches herself off the couch, laughter bubbling behind her as she pulls him into a hug. "Look at you, all dapper! Didn't think you'd make it!"

A slow, almost polite smile appears on Harry's face when he tilts his head, "And miss another Mina party?" He says. Like he's been to hundreds.

Louis holds back a scoff.

"Haven't changed a bit, have you?" Mina smiles, reaching a hand to playfully tug at the end of his curls. "Can you even see properly in those things?"

Harry catches her wrist gently, lowering it. "Old habits."

It’s bizarre. Watching them interact.

Louis doesn’t know whether or not he should feel offended or relieved by the way Harry’s acting with her. He actually talks to her like a normal human being. He even smiles. With teeth.

Mina plays perfect hostess, shoving a purple concoction she’s created right into his hand, forcing Harry to knock it back in one go.

"Christ," he licks his lips, examining the empty flute. "Gin?"

"It's my take on a Negroni," She laughs, watching his reaction carefully. "Just a dash of prosecco and rosemary. Don’t act like it’s not brilliant!"

After realizing Louis is still glued with his back to the door and scowling, Mina turns to him with an expectant look. The same one from the club. The one that reads: you need to be socializing more.

Louis clears his throat then, focusing on the whiskey instead of Harry's irritating face. "Whiskey kind of lad, yeah?" 

Harry pivots towards him with a flat nod, lips pursed, “Yeah, sorry. Should’ve brought some tequila." He smirks, "You know, for your sunrises.”

Fucking prick.

“No, that’s alright," Louis shoves his hands in his pockets before they make fists. "We can do whiskey."

"That's a really nice bottle, Harry!" Mina snatches the Lagavulin, turning it around like it's made of gold. "Must've been expensive."

Harry shrugs, money clearly meaning nothing, “Shall we christen it?” he suggests with a challenging tone.

And why wouldn’t it be? Louis can feel it oozing off him. Harry thinks he can't handle whiskey. It's there in the way he slowly licks his lips, the way his head scans between him and Mina before landing right back on Louis.

The smart thing would be to say no, but—

"Yeah, go on then." He says, because he's truly that daft.

Harry nods, reaching for the bottle to twist off the cap. The soft pop echos through the kitchen and he doesn’t give Mina the chance to reach for a glass. Just lifts the bottle, lips pressed to the rim before taking a long, measured sip. The liquid slides down his throat with ease, his adams apple bobbing in a slow and unbothered rhythm.

A dribble of whiskey escapes down his chin as he exhales, throwing his arm out to offer Louis the next taste.

Mina stands between them, practically buzzing with joy. In her head, they've just become best mates forever. Louis catches her pleased little smile, the way she's probably already planning their future pub nights complete with matching outfits and Sunday brunches, oblivious to what the festering silence actually means.

If he didn't love her so much he'd take this moment to grab onto that bottle and smash it right in Harry's face.

Instead, Louis snatches the whiskey before he can think better of it, bringing it up to his mouth in one quick motion. He keeps his gaze locked through those shades, not able to see Harry's eyes, but he can feel them. Waiting. Expecting him to fail.

And oh, fuck.

That is aboslutely fucking vile.

Like swallowing broken glass and petrol all at once. The burn doesn't just stop at his throat, it shoots down all the way down to his stomach, somehow landing between his toes.

Louis' stomach lurches in protest, but he manages to down another sip. His cheeks puff out with strain, absolutely refusing to slip out a cough. He'd rather down it all straight from the neck and choke than let Harry win whatever stupid game he thinks they're playing.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after he's done, smacking his lips together with a nice, big "Ahhh." at the end of it. Then shoves the bottle back at Harry, tilting his chin up with false cockiness.

Harry barely seems shaken, letting out a small, amused breath that tells Louis he’s already ten steps ahead, knowing exactly how this would play out.

“So lovely!” Mina clasps her hands together, eagerly bouncing on her heels. “Dinner is all set then!"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The buzz in the room swells, thick with laughter and the clink of silverware against new porcelain. Steam rises from their plates, carrying delicious hints of butter and garlic, along with the faint scent of expensive red. Mina’s mates chatter away with praise of her roast pork and potatoes, and Louis watches Mina bask in all of the appreciation, a little star at the center of her own table, proud and glowing and so painfully lovely.

It’s incredible, really. Appetizers, drinks, dinner, and dessert. Louis has no idea how she managed such a grand party in their states, but then again, she’s always been the glue of them both.

They talk about their new flat, and Louis finds himself reciting their rehearsed answers about living together. Yes, they love the location. No, the neighbors aren't too loud. Yes, they've settled into a routine: Mina cooks, he does the washing up. He nods along as she gushes about their new morning routine and evening takeaways, all while the whiskey digs a big fat hole in his stomach.

He's too aware of Harry sitting right across from him, the table not feeling wide enough. Those stupid fucking rings glint under the lights with every single movement, pulling Louis' attention no matter how hard he tries to fight it. His hands are too clammy against his thighs, somehow getting clammier with every desperate attempt of wiping them dry.

The drinking isn't even helping anymore, if anything, it's making everything unforgivably worse. Making every little tick of Harry's frustratingly loud and obvious. The way he keeps twisting his nose, how he bites his food tongue first, the infuriating way those sunnies are still glued to his face in dim lighting.

Louis tells himself his anxiety would've been at this high level anyway, whiskey or no whiskey, Harry or no Harry. But even he's not drunk enough to believe that lie yet.

Shifting in his seat, Louis reminds himself to stop looking at Harry's fucking hands. It's like trying to not look at a car crash, the more he tries to ignore it, the more his eyes drift back to the silver. There's one shaped like a rose, the other a lion, and there's a third bulky one on his ring finger in the shape of an 'H'.

They all clink when Harry sets down his glass, moving to cut into his pork with careful precision. It's baffling to Louis how someone can make something as simple as eating feel like a performance. He wants to look away, knows he should, but there's something too deliberate about all of it. And it's only pissing him off more.

"Lou?" Mina's gentle tap on his arm startles him, "You've barely touched your food, babes."

Louis blinks at his plate, staring down at his half-eaten potatoes.

"Just savoring it, love." He presses his lips together, pushing his salad around. "It looks almost too good to eat." He only hopes that the compliment is enough to keep everyone from noticing his mindless fidgeting.

Lucky for him, nobody does.

Georgia launches into a story about the firm they all work at together, constantly interrupted by Emmy's too-loud laughs and Dave's not-so-subtle attempts of trying to include Harry in their conversation. Harry just nods around every other word, tilting his head down to Georgia's hand whenever she touches his arm when she speaks.

Mina watches her friends in silent admiration, barely noticing how Harry hasn't said a single word yet somehow commands the entire room from his slouched position. He's leaned back just enough to look like he doesn’t care with idle fingers tracing the stem of his glass. It's ridiculous.

And regardless of his verbal absence, he’s the one everyone keeps glancing to every few minutes, all waiting for him to say something amazing.

“So, um, Harry,” Georgia says between a chew, "Where exactly are you from again?”

The room falls silent then and Louis rolls his eyes at how everyone leans over their plate, the collective interest somehow more annoying than the question itself.

He stabs at his roast, determined not to look up. Louis almost half-expects Harry to say absolutely nothing. But then he finally speaks, and Louis glances up from his fork.

“From around here, not too far. About an hour away.” Harry says slowly, every vowel drawn out, considering whether they deserve to know.

“An hour away? That could be anywhere,” Georgia laughs at his refusal to elaborate, "Blackburn, Preston, Buxton…" She starts listing off.

“Wait, so, how is it you know Mina then? Uni mates, was it?” Emmy asks not even a second later, glancing between the two.

“Well, we went to secondary together, actually,” Mina answers for him. There's a softness in her voice that Louis knows too well. When she's trying to make something sound casual that isn't casual at all. His head shoots over to her because what? She’s never mentioned Harry when talking about secondary. Not once. Ever.

“No way!” Georgia gasps, gently nudging Harry with her elbow. “You knew Mina before she was all domesticated?”

Louis' brow wrinkles at that, but he stays focused on Mina. Waiting for a response that doesn’t come fast enough.

“We were supposed to be in sixth form together.” She pokes at her plate, refusing to catch Louis' heated gaze, “But Harry had his own ideas, I suppose.”

Harry just hums at that, above explaining himself.

“Oh? What kind of ideas?” Emmy scoots close, chin in the palm of her hand.

He lifts his glass to his lips, a sly smile peering over the rim, “Depends who's asking.”

The table erupts into quiet laughter and chuckles, but Harry doesn't bother. He just continues his drinking. Like there’s nothing more to say. Nothing to answer and nobody seems to care or ask what the fuck any of that even means. That's it? That's all they get?

Mina giggles as if it’s something she doesn’t care to know. Or maybe she already does. Maybe she just doesn’t want to share their convoluted inside jokes and apparent years of history everyone else can't be arsed to know. Louis adjusts his chair roughly, feeling a small flicker of annoyance at how easily the conversation diverts.

"What's it then you're doing for work these days?" Mina continues, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Nothing permanent right now." Harry shrugs, setting his glass back down. Louis glances to all of the rings on his fingers again, wondering what kind of "nothing" pays well enough for that.

"You know, Harry and I worked at the same shop one summer,” Mina supplies to the room with a laugh, “to save up for our dream cars.” She shakes her head like she can still picture it. "You were absolutely useless at stocking shelves."

"Was worse at the register," Harry says simply, "Never really got that car."

Louis' head ticks fast between them as they chat and exchange memories, noting how Harry manages to reveal absolutely nothing significant while still answering questions. It's infuriating, really, how he does that.

He refocuses on trying to finish his roast, but his knee bounces incessantly beneath the table, absolutely livid. How could Mina not tell him about going to secondary with Harry? He thought they told each other everything, isn't that what living together is supposed to mean? But here's this whole unknown chapter of her life, sitting right across from him. Speaking in fucking riddles.

Louis glances up again just as Harry takes another sip of Merlot and the conversation drifts into Mina's summers spent at Cornwall. Harry readjusts as he listens, the top buttons of his dress shirt slightly undone, just enough to catch the bare line of his collarbone. Louis thinks he might spot a tattoo there, but then he's distracted again when his eyes climb upwards toward Harry’s throat.

Right beneath the curtain of curls are the love-bites from yesterday, strategically hidden but somehow multiplied, littering all the way up to meet the edge of his jaw. Louis only notices them when Harry stretches his neck, finding himself wondering who left them. Then immediately wishing he hadn't.

He realizes he's staring a second too long when Harry reaches up to readjust his glasses, sliding the dark frames smoothly over his head.

Louis forgets how to chew.

“Babes,” Mina's voice sounds far away, “Would you get me some more wine, yeah?”

He blinks, and for a moment, is at a loss. His mind buffers, trying to process what he's just seen. The room suddenly feels too hot, his thoughts fighting to scatter back into one place.

She didn't even look at him when she asked but Louis finds himself on his feet anyway, some subconscious part of him needing to escape. He grabs Mina’s empty glass, nearly stumbling on his way to the counter.

Green.

Or were they grey?

He’s not exactly sure what he expected beneath the shades. Something darker. Sharper. Maybe even more sinister. But Harry’s eyes are round, too soft for someone who carries himself like that. Almost like they belong to someone else. Someone kinder, framed with soft lashes that don’t match the mouth that only seems to open for something cruel or clever.

The wine topples over the sides as he pours without thought, his hands slippery and slick from sweat. It spills onto the counter and Louis curses under his breath, the spell momentarily broken.

It's just eyes, he tells himself. Everyone fucking has them.

“Here, love,” Louis sips the excess before handing off the glass back to Mina. She grabs it without a glance, still laughing at something Dave said.

He flicks his eyes up, just for a second before sitting back down, unable to help himself.

Harry’s watching him.

Green.

Chapter Text

He stares at people like he’s going to murder them. Or devour them.

Is there even a difference?

Louis has picked up on this sometime in the last forty-five minutes, sprawled out on the sofa along with the rest of them. As soft as Harry's eyes are, his gaze is fucking intense. So intense that Louis almost missed the purple and yellow bruising blooming from the bridge of his nose.

Good, Louis thinks viciously. With a mouth like that, someone was bound to punch him eventually.

Maybe he should’ve kept the Raybans on. It’s like Harry has perma-grimace or something, that creep. His brows are nearly woven together as he half-listens to the camaraderie unfolding around him. Arms crossed, left leg over his right.

His face is so clearly built to piss Louis off. He doesn’t know why he keeps looking at him.

It’s not like he cares. He doesn't.

Obviously.

Harry just doesn’t fit here with Mina and her mates. Her blazer-wearing, boisterous, chummy, strawberry ice-cream-eating mates. While they drone on about summer homes and golf handicaps, he lurks on the opposite couch, every now and then interjecting with something cutting, wrapped in enough charm that no one quite realizes they've been sliced. But Louis realizes. It's equally eerie and wildly inconvenient, especially when he can't stop watching.

His eyes catch Harry's across the room for the third time that night—not counting, observing. Trying to understand exactly who it is they've welcomed into their home. Preliminary caution, just being protective of Mina. But the longer he looks, the less sure he is of what he's looking for.

Louis pulls away his gaze first. Again. Tapping his foot and still nursing the whiskey, that heavy glare from across the room still boring into his skin.

“…Lou?” He vaguely hears Georgia in the distance, then realizes she might've been talking to him. When he looks over, everyone's staring, waiting expectantly. His cheeks heat as he scrambles to piece together snippets of the conversation he so obviously missed, hoping nobody noticed him staring. “You alright?" She continues, "Not like you to stay quiet for too long.”

"Yeah, yeah," Louis blinks hard, lying off his face. He's properly drunk, the alcohol sitting warm in his stomach and making everything fuzzy round the edges, "Just healing a hangover with another hangover,” He raises his glass in a shaky salute, like it’s ever saved him before.

His eyes dart to Mina, who's squinting at him with mild suspicion from her place on their ottoman, "Lou had a rough time at work, he's just tired." She explains, or maybe it's just an excuse. She reaches over, her hand finding his bicep with a gentle squeeze. Usually this would calm him, ground him, but the alcohol, the talk of work, the whole fucking night. It all makes him stiffen up.

"Well, you were properly gone at The Den last night, " Georgia laughs, pushing her ginger hair back over her shoulders. "Weren't you Lou?"

Louis forces a smile, already knowing where this is headed.

"Sure enough," Mina's grip tightens slightly on his arm before she pulls away. "Can't handle his shots like he used to, can you babes?"

There's an underlying meaning beneath the playful tone that only Louis understands. His stomach sinks as he catches Harry's raised eyebrow from across the room.

He definitely needs more whiskey.

"I'd need more than shots if I had to deal with entitled customers all day," Emmy chimes in, wrinkling her nose. "God, I can't imagine how you do it."

“When are you going to leave that dreadful place?" Dave tops off his wine, raising the glass up to his lips, "Don't you hate it?"

Louis takes a long, painful sip before answering, "Hm, can't really do that." He clicks his teeth, "Got a couple of nans convinced I'm their boy toy. Would be a shame to break those hearts now."

A few laughs echo around the room. All but Harry, of course. Louis starts to believe he's incapable of doing that.

“Well, actually," Mina squeezes his arm again and Louis swallows. "Lou has plans to leave soon. Daddy's pulling some strings to have him work at the firm."

Oh god. Not this shit again.

That knot in Louis' stomach quickly turns into a groan he swallows before it can even reach his mouth. The words 'Daddy' and 'Firm' make his teeth ache every single time they come up. Which, lately, is far more often than he'd like to bear. His leg starts to bounce before he notices he's doing it, gripping his glass with enough strength to shatter.

“Really?” Emmy's gasps pierces his ears. She shifts towards them, placing her hand on his knee. “Oh, Louis. That’s just brilliant! We’d so love to have you around the office.”

He glances down at her hand before tossing the rest of his drink back quickly. The whiskey burns, but not enough to drown out the quiet murmurs and nods of agreement bouncing across the room.

“Well, I wouldn’t say soon—”

“We were thinking by the summer,” Mina cuts in smoothly, flashing that wide and bright grin that means we’ll talk about it later. "If everything goes well. Which I don't see why it wouldn't. Lou is a total charmer, right babes?"

Louis scratches the back of his neck, warring between nodding and sneering, not really knowing which one would make everything worse. He's suddenly too aware of all the eyes on his skin, the room tilting just slightly as if the alcohol is waiting for him to slip up and confirm what they all quietly suspect.

“Yeah,” Louis exhales a slow raspberry of defeat, shoulders deflating as he sinks back into the cushion. “Summer. Can’t wait.”

“He’d probably start off doing intakes, but I know he’ll be assisting with briefs in no time.”

“Oh, good!” Emmy cheers, finally lifting off his knee. “Maybe they’ll finally get rid of Janice. I’m sure Louis could do her job better than her in just one day.”

The longer he sits there listening to Mina and her mates glorify their lives at the firm, the more he feels like he’s suffocating, already boxed in before he’s had a chance to think for himself. He rattles the ice in his empty glass, desperate to find something to do with his hands. He can’t stand the way everyone’s talking about it, treating soul-sucking deadlines like a golden ticket to success.

Through all the jabber and noise, their eyes meet again. His and Harry's. It's quick, barely a second, but it's enough. Harry's top lip curves with a knowing huff of breath, one that says he knows exactly what Louis is thinking, can read every frustrated thought right off his face. Louis shouldn't care what Harry thinks. He doesn't. But the hair on his arm stand up under that piercing look anyway.

Fuck this.

Louis leaps out of the loveseat, brimming with an anger that can only be calmed with nicotine. He sets his half-empty glass hard on the coffee table, Mina catching the abrupt force. She turns around, pulling on his arm with a light tug, quietly mouthing Y'alright? as if she doesn't already know. Louis doesn't bother fighting it, tapping two fingers against his lips in their universal signal for need a smoke. With that, she doesn't question it, already back to laughing about whatever corporate bullshit everyone finds so fucking hilarious.

He storms over to the sliding door with a fingernail caught between his teeth, the terrace a vital barrier of tuning out the overwhelming chatter he left behind. The early March air tries to bring Louis back down from his spiral, but it doesn’t bite hard enough, leaving him feeling both winded and cornered with nowhere to go.

He drags both hands down his face, exhaling loudly.

Because that's exactly what he needed tonight, another rousing conversation about leaving his job. As if he hasn't heard enough about how amazing this new opportunity will be, how perfect it is for him. Nobody ever actually bothering to ask him what he wants.

Not that his current job is glamorous or anything, he's not delusional. But at least serving is his. His shit hours, his regular customers, his choice to pick up doubles when he needs extra cash, his tips. His life. The thought of being trapped behind some grey cubicle in Mina's father's firm makes his stomach fold in on itself. Christ, he'd rather work doubles for the rest of his life than spend one day printing papers in a pressed suit.

He should want this, shouldn't he? That's what good boyfriends do—they take the fancy job with benefits, wear the pressed suits, join the stupid country club. They don't live paycheck to paycheck or take on three extra shifts just to afford a proper fancy dinner. They don't cringe when their girlfriend has to tell her mates that he's 'just a waiter.' He used to love his job, love the rush of a busy night, addicted to the pride he felt after perfectly handling his sections. When did that stop being enough?

"Just a waiter," Louis rolls his eyes. He drags himself to lean over the terrace railing, pulling out his favorite blue lighter.

That’s all he does anyway, isn’t it?

Wait.

Wait tables. Wait for his life to start. Wait for the right moment to tell Mina he doesn’t want this. Wait for the courage to admit that he doesn’t know what he does want. Wait, wait, wait.

He rolls his thumb over the flint, twice. The flame doesn't catch.

“Damn it." Louis mutters, flicking it again.

Nothing.

Again.

A spark, then gone. Just like that.

He grits his teeth, shaking the damn thing like that’ll make a difference.

Just work, damn it.

Just fucking work.

Louis lets out a stifled groan, letting his head fall dramatically into his palms. Everything's falling apart and he can't even light a bloody cigarette.

Amid his frustration, he hears the glass door slide open again behind him, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps. He doesn’t bother to turn. He already knows it’s Mina.

If he brings this up now, it’ll turn into a whole thing. He can already picture the way her lips will press together in disappointment, the way her eyes will pull into a wrinkle. That constant silent reminder she wears when he needs to keep his 'attitude' in check. She hates it when he drinks too much. Says he always wants to start an argument.

So he'll do what he always does. Swallow it down. Nod. Smile. Pretend.

"Come on…" Louis whispers, wheeling his thumb over the striker a few more times. The flare is a sham, fizzing out just as fast as it came.

“If you stare at that thing any harder, it might just light out of pity."

“Jesus fucking christ—”

The lighter nearly jettisons through his fingers and four stories down as Louis spins toward the hoarse voice, heart right in his throat.

Harry leans casually against the glass doors with a cigarette perched between his lips like it's always been there,  one eyebrow quirked in an infuriating arch that somehow manages to look both judgmental and amused. Louis’ breath catches before he can stop it, the unexpected sound embarassingly louder than he’d like to admit. The universe has impeccable timing, really. Especially when it wants to ruin his night.

Neither move for a minute, the silence only broken when Harry reaches deep into his pocket, pulling out a small metal zippo. Without breaking glance, he flicks it open in one smooth motion, igniting flame to ember with the hollows of his cheeks.

Bastard.

"Light?" He murmurs through the filter, extending his hand out.

Louis’ eyes fall to metal held between Harry's fingers, then up to the plume of smoke escaping his lips. He's already preparing himself for whatever smug bullshit is about to follow, the terrace suddenly feeling a lot smaller like all the airs been sucked out of the sky. 

He squints at the offer because he’s not stupid, "No, thanks." Louis forces himself to look away, refocusing back on his own useless lighter. The flame sputters pathetically.

Come on, you piece of shit.

“Looks like you’re about to burn your fingers off.”

Louis shrugs one shoulder, sticking out his bottom lip, “I’m fine.” Not that it’s any of Harry’s business, although Harry sure seems to think it is. The heat of that stare creeps hot up Louis' neck, making everything significantly worse, his thumb slick and unable to catch a firm grip against the lighter.

Why is Harry even out here? Shouldn't he be inside being a pretentious twat where there's an audience? Louis knows Harry doesn’t give a shit about the fact that his cigarette won't light, he just wants to make a show of it. The forced casualness of this all is just Harry playing another game of chess.

“I'm sure you are,” He says under his breath.

Louis whips his head back around again then with an actual scowl, met by the smoke Harry purposefully blows towards his face. Jesus. Everything about him was designed to be annoying, like one big walking, talking six-foot headache.

“I said I’m fine, thanks.”

Out of sheer defiance, Louis holds onto Harry's focus, stubborn to no end. Harry's lip twitches, just shy of a smirk, then he flicks some ash off the cherry, finally breaking glance. It's the same game from the club. Harry pushing to see just how far Louis will bend before he breaks, and Louis' body absolutely betraying him, burning with tension as he tries to keep his cool.

This shouldn't be happening. Louis shouldn't be letting someone he just met affect him to the point of actual toothache, but this—along with the exhausting weight of everything else piling on top of him tonight—is about to make him break. And Harry knows it too, the bastard.

The silence stretches until Louis can't take it anymore.

"Did you come out here just to piss me off, or what?" He snaps, watching Harry's weight shift from one foot to the other. Purely relaxed like he's on holiday.

"Came for a smoke," Harry raises two fingers, waving his cigarette in lazy salute before he rests it back in his mouth.

Bull-fucking-shit.

"Yeah," Louis scoffs, shoving his unsmokable cigarette back into its box. "I'm sure you did.”

“Touchy…” Harry taunts. He starts rolling his wrist, snapping that bloody zippo open and closed. "What, long night?”

Click. Click. Click

"Must be nice," Louis watches the movement, "having nothing better to do than lurk about being a prick."

Harry chuckles lightly, snapping the zippo closed with a loud pop. “Just making conversation.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t."

"That’s no way to treat a dinner guest, is it?” Harry asks with a lilt.

"Don't really remember giving a shit," Louis mutters, turning away. He’s not in the mood for whatever this is.

“Mina does."

That stops him cold. He glances over his shoulder again, narrowed eyes tracking Harry as he suddenly decides to move from his spot on the glass. He crosses the small terrace to park on the railing, right next to Louis. The scent of his cologne wraps around all five of Louis' senses before he can sidestep it, making it nearly impossible to ignore every inch of space Harry’s just invaded.

Louis swallows, the tick of his heart taking off from the pit of his stomach. “What does that have to do with anything?" He asks, carefully.

Harry purses his lips, "Nothing," He shrugs, exhaling another stream of smoke. The embers catch the light as his eyes drag over Louis. "It's pretty interesting to watch."

"Watch?" Louis' entire face scrunches in contempt.

"I mean, for someone who spends all his time playing perfect boyfriend, you sure look miserable."

Louis blinks, features falling like Harry's words just punched the air from his lungs. Then he blinks again, for his sanity.

He can't help the laugh that bursts out of him, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose in pure disbelief because—what the actual fuck? It's like Harry was born missing the part of his brain responsible for creating a decent person. Maybe his mum dropped him down the stairs when he was a baby. Multiple times. That's the only reasonable explanation for any of this bullshit. Louis would even feel sorry for him if that were the case.

"If I were you, I’d shut your mouth.” Louis' still laughing. Nothing's actually that funny, he just needs to find the humor to keep himself from going berserk.

“If you were me,” Harry pauses, dragging on his cigarette until the tip glows bright enough to show teeth. “You'd at least have a spine."

Another blow, this time to the gut.

The air between them gets thick and hostile, Louis' fingers curling tight around his lighter. Harry's really pushing it.

"Good thing you don't know shit about me then." Louis' voice is steady, but his hands are starting to shake. He forces himself to look away then, having another go at the stupid plastic instead.

Spark. Nothing. Brilliant.

Harry shifts close enough for Louis' to feel his body heat, "Maybe not." He leans in further, voice dropping low. "But Mina always did like her boys...obedient."

The echo of that word flies through Louis' ears like a kill-shot.

He straightens up, throat unbearably tight with impatience long out the door, his vision swimming red.

“What is your fucking problem?” He puffs out his chest.

Harry keeps still, stretching his long limbs to match his posture. That smirk burned in its place.

His pink lips curl higher, pressing a deep crease into the side of his cheek. Another feature Louis deems too soft to belong to someone like him. A feature that shouldn’t make his throat constrict the way it does. It’s merely just anger, he tells himself.

“Easy,” Harry drawls, baring teeth. “What’s got you so worked up?”

And just when Louis feels like he's about to fucking snap the glass rips open, Mina's tiny silhouette filling the door.

“Louis.”

She drags out the 'S’ in his name.  Never a good sign from her.

His jaw locks as he turns over to Mina, her arms crossed in front of the small crowd of on-lookers poking their heads from their places behind her.

The worst part of it all is that he does exactly what Harry predicts. He takes a step back, folding under her gaze and slipping back inside like the good boyfriend he's meant to be.

Louis could explain right there and then, remind Mina that Harry’s been nothing short of horrible probably since the day he was born. But he’d only be digging himself deeper. This night was supposed to be about them.

Mina does what Mina does best—she apologizes. To Harry.

She doesn't say another word for the rest of the night, and Louis never gets his cigarette.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

“You going to help, or just sit there and drink yourself stupid?” Mina slams the cupboard again, death-gripping anti-bacterial spray as she rounds the counter over to their dining table.

Louis sinks further into the couch, wishing he could disappear between the cushions and be swallowed whole. The room is swaying too roughly for him to keep up with her jabs, and he’s starting to think he’d have better odds dodging punches in a pub than trying to reason with her. So instead, he slouches deeper and deeper, chewing the inside of his cheek, and pretending he’s somewhere else.

The remnants of their party littered their flat: empty champagne bottles, half-drunk glasses of wine, plates of untouched cucumber tea sandwiches, and fancy crumpled paper napkins. Mina bustles through the mess like one particularly passive aggressive hurricane, leaving behind a trail of judgment for Louis sit with, like the mess is his and his alone.

Since being pulled from the terrace, Mina's fury had been obvious—not just to him, but everyone else—the party’s mood sinking the second she reappeared with Louis in tow, cowering behind with his pathetic attempt at a smile to ease the awkward tension. Thing about Mina is she's always happy. So when she isn't, it becomes suffocatingly uncomfortable. Everyone had known Louis fucked up somehow, evident by how their eyes kept darting them as the silence grew longer until she practically shoved them all out the door.

Now he finds himself sitting here like a scolded child for something he didn't even start.

Harry looked properly pleased with himself too, pulling Mina into a tight hug right before he left, those eyes locked onto Louis' the entire time. He only wishes he had punched Harry when he had the chance. At least then, all of this aftermath would've been worth it.

“Just thought I’d give you some space." Louis mutters, knee bouncing anxiously as Mina hurls empty glasses into the sink, each clank hitting him like a punch to the head.

Yanking a bin bag from under the sink, Mina spins around, "Space?" She scoffs, narrowing her eyes. "I don't need space, Lewis. I need you to tell me what the hell that was all about."

“Not sure what you mean.” He knows exactly what she means.

He just doesn't want to get into it. Not right now. Especially when he already knows this will end like it always does: her right, him wrong, and neither of them feeling any better for it. The whiskey's done nothing but settle in his stomach weird, making his mouth as bitter as his conscience.

She pauses over the bin, knuckles white. “Don’t fucking do that, Lewis. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Can you stop calling me that?” Louis groans, bringing his fingers up to his temples. She knows he hates being called Lewis. Knows it. Which is exactly why she's doing it.

Mina shakes her head, muttering under her breath, "You're unbelievable, really."

“Me?” He slaps his hands down to his thighs, straightening up. "Me? Are you taking the piss?"

“Yes, you.” She grits through her teeth, smile saccharine as ever. "You always do this, especially when you're drinking. You have no idea how to handle yourself, do you?"

And there it fucking goes.

Louis gapes as Mina whips the bag into the air with three intentionally loud cracks before stuffing it into the bin. The tight pressure building in his chest pushes up through his throat, but if he starts to yell, then that's another thing for her to be right about. So he pulls back, biting down on the words before they can escape.

“I don't understand why you're so cross with me." There’s a tremble beneath his words, barely holding together, "I was just finishing what he started.”

Mina rolls her eyes, walking over to the sink to wash her hands, letting the splattering water overpower the silence in the room. Then she shakes her head, confirming every single thought plowing through his. "I just don't know where you get off starting a row with my friend, Lou."

"Friend?” A laugh escapes him, but there's no humor. Just disbelief. "Is that what you call a friend? I've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and he's been nothing but a miserable dick."

Twenty-four hours shouldn't be enough time to develop this kind of dislike for someone, and yet here they are.

“You’ve had nothing nice to say since meeting him." She turns around again, hands dripping in suds as she wipes them on her trousers." Maybe it’s you, Lou."

He drops his head to his chest, silently laughing to himself. Because maybe he's gone mental. That has to be it—he's finally fucking cracked, imagining slights where there aren't any. She can't be serious, can she? She can't be this blind to his behavior. Or worse, maybe she sees it and just doesn't care that it's Louis who's uncomfortable. Louis who has to sit there and take it, Louis who has to watch his girlfriend fawn over someone who seems to get off on making him small.

"He's not what you think," She keeps saying, "If you'd just stop fighting whatever this is—" she gestures vaguely at Louis' rigid posture, "—you might actually like him."

It's pathetic. He's pathetic, sitting here right now trying to make her understand something she clearly has no interest in seeing.

“I don't want to like him," Louis concludes, chin tilted, shoulders lifting in a petulant shrug. He knows he’s being childish, but— "He's done nothing but take the piss out of me since we met. You just keep defending him.”

Mina throws her arms up, fingers landing to rub at her temples. She looks at him with exhaustion. "Harry’s not out to get you, Louis." She says as forcibly calm as she can, "He’s just complicated."

"Complicated." Louis' eyes sweep to the ceiling and back down into his drink, "Is that what were calling it?" He mutters, swishing around the liquid. Because that's a term used for some teenager still trying to find their way. Not a grown man who shows utter contempt for everyone around him. He wants to say this, but doesn't.

Mina folds her arms tight across her chest, huffing out an impatient breath. Nothing makes sense anymore and it's not because Louis is drunk. It's Mina's relentless defense of Harry, Harry's constant nettling, and the way Louis can't seem to stop thinking about any of it, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I, Mina?” Louis throws back immediately, still not daring eye contact.

"What exactly are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." Louis takes the last sip of his whiskey. "You just seem awfully protective of him."

"Protective?" Mina spits, crossing the room before he can blink. "I care about him because he's my friend." 

Friend. Louis lets out a sharp exhale, holding back ten better comebacks.

The word echoes in his head again, taking on new meanings with each repetition. He latches onto it desperately because this he can understand. The logic is easy. It’s the feeling that won’t sit right.

He thinks about the way she looks at Harry, searching for evidence that isn't there. The almost soft smiles, the inside jokes, the way she keeps making excuses for him in ways she won't do for Louis. The way she seems to understand Harry in a way Louis can't—or won't. Won't, because there's something about Harry that makes him feel off-balance and uneasy. Something that makes him want to look away and stare all at once.

"You sure about that?" He quips, his pulse speeding when Mina takes another careful step forward, squinting her eyes to look at him properly.

Neither of them say anything, the weight of the accusation hanging between them and the distant drone of late-night traffic.

“What the hell are you trying to say?” She finally says, daring him to back up whatever nonsense he’s hinting at.

And he doesn't know why he says it. Maybe he just wants to hurt her back or needs a reason to make all of the frustration from the past two nights make sense, “Just makes me wonder if there's something you're not telling me about him.” Louis sets his glass aside on the coffee table with finality.

Mina's expression flickers from anger to rage within a second, her eyes starting to fill with hurt. "Sorry?" she scoffs.

Louis swallows, but he doesn't back down. "I don't know, maybe there's a reason you're so quick to take his side.”

Something snaps in Mina then, tipping her head back as she lets out an incredulous laugh, "You think that what?" Her voice cracks, catching Louis' eyes with wounded challenge, "That Harry and I have some sort of sexual history? That I'm defending him because we used to fuck?"

Louis' gut turns harshly, but he doesn't deny it.

He knows that even he doesn't believe that, still desperately latching on to anything he can find to make any of this add up. Jesus, it's not like she'd been flirting with him at any point of the night. But still, he sits there blinking slowly at her, as if that truth would somehow bend to his will.

"God, you are so fucking unbelievable!"  Mina doesn't wait for his response. She spins around on her heel, moving across their flat like she can't stand to be near him anymore.

Fuck. Louis panics when he sees her snatch her coat off the rack, carelessly throwing it over her shoulders.

Shit.

He pushes himself up, legs unsteady as they carry him over to reach out for her arm.

“Mina.”

“No.” She shakes her head, trying to shake him off completely.

“Mina, wait, hold on—” He catches her wrist gently, desperate now. The motion brings them close enough that he can see the tears gathering in her eyes. "I didn't mean—"

“No, Lou! How could you ever insinuate anything like that?" She holds his glare, daring him to continue.

Louis parts his lips to answer, but all that comes out is a weak breath. The guilt is already suffocating, but he can't stop himself. "I just don't understand why he gets special treatment. Why he gets all these passes when I—'"

She yanks roughly from his grip, "Harry's gay, Louis."

Her palms slam against his chest, forcing him to stumble backward, but the words are the final strike in their fight, leaving Louis completely winded. The force of her shove comes second, almost an afterthought.

Mina cuts through his stupor, snatching her keys off the hook. The door crashes shut with a bang that reverberates through his bones. But Louis barely registers it. He's stuck on the revelation, on the way they've somehow shifted everything sideways.

The flat feels suddenly too quiet, too empty, leaving his ears to ring.

What.

He stands there in their half-cleaned flat, surrounded by evidence of a party gone wrong, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Harry's gay?

He swallows hard, suddenly unsure what expression is on his face.

The relief he expects doesn't come. Instead, there's this strange fucking pressure erupting in his chest. What the hell is wrong with him? He should be apologizing to Mina, should be running after her to take it all back. But his feet are planted in place, as if learning this about Harry has somehow made everything more complicated rather than less.

But why does it matter? Why does this new information make him feel like he's missing something obvious? It doesn't really change anything, does it? Harry's still an arrogant prick who's got it out for him. Being gay doesn't excuse that.

But Harry couldn’t possibly be. He acts so... well, you know. Like a bloke.

Like Louis.

Or any of the lads.

The back of Louis' neck tingles, though he's not sure if it's from anger or what. He catches his reflection in the small kitchen window, flushed cheeks, bright eyes, mouth twisted in confusion. He looks away quickly.

What does any of that even fucking mean?

That Harry can't like guys because he's a tosser?

"Fuck's sake," Louis mutters, grabbing an empty beer bottle off the counter. He needs to clean. Anything to stop his mind from spinning in circles he doesn't understand.

Then he remembers the club.

Oh.

The bloke Harry had been with, the purpling love-bites on his neck Louis had pointedly tried not to notice, telling himself his fixation was just about gathering ammunition against someone he already didn't like. But now...

They'd left together.

He felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

Nausea swells through him. Not because—no, he's not like that. He's got nothing against it. It's just... unexpected. That's all. It doesn't fit with the image of Harry he's made in his head.

Louis slams another bottle into the recycling, the crash satisfyingly loud in the empty flat. He's drunk. That's what this is. Just drunk and angry and confused about why Harry seems determined to make his life difficult.

Tomorrow, this won't matter.

Tomorrow, he'll apologize to Mina, and everything will go back to normal. He'll still hate Harry, Harry will still be a dick, and this odd, unexplainable feeling will go away.

It has to.

Because the alternative... well, there is no alternative. There can't be.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The third botched order of his morning shift. Louis stares at the burning plate headed his way, watching his hands shake like he's coming down from something. He's not, but he wishes he were. At least then he'd have an excuse for being hung-over and anxious twice in two days.

"Table six wants French toast, not eggs Benedict!" Jeanine barks, swooping past to shove the untouched meal into his arms. "Sort it, Lou."

"Right, sorry." He turns back toward the kitchen, phone a dead weight in his pocket. Still no word from Mina. No vibration. No ping. Nothing.

The Sunday rush swirls around him in a haze of metal clanging and oil spitting and desperation reeking through the air.

Louis just barely dodges his coworker swinging out of the other side of the door, a distant "Watch it" somewhere trailing behind him.

None of it quite reaches him. He's still stuck in last night’s argument, Mina's words looping in his head like a self-inflicted broken record.

Harry is gay, Louis.

Four hours down, five more to go, and Louis hasn’t managed to stop thinking about it for more than maybe ten minutes total, if he's lucky. He fumbled a fork this morning, nearly upending a glass of lemonade reaching down to catch it. His regular at table four watched him with concerned eyes as he recited her usual order back to her completely wrong. He mumbled an apology, but it didn’t do anything for the heat rising on his cheeks as he fumbled away.

"Jerm," Louis croaks out, tossing the useless plate aside. "Table six needs a rush on French toast—rang in eggs benny by mistake."

Jeremy's response is a withering look. "Bloody hell, Lou. You're really killing me today." He huffs, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a rag.

Louis doesn't respond, fingers already slipping into his back pocket and scambling for his phone when it vibrates:

A notification from his bank.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

He groans.

Mina's absence has been weighing on his mind all day. The last time she went this long without contact was when he forgot about a planned dinner with her parents. But this feels different. This feels like standing on the edge of something much bigger than a missed date or a thoughtless comment.

There are times when he pushes his luck and she storms off to Georgia’s and spends the night there. But usually, by now, Georgia would have sent him an entire dissertation on why he's the biggest twat in the city. Even then, nothing. Not a single word. Should he be worried?

"Lou," Jeanine's shout causes him to jump, "Table twelve has been waiting on tea for fifteen minutes. Get your arse moving."

Fuck. Right, tea. He can do that. It's just hot water and leaves.

Forcing air back into his lungs, Louis shoves his phone deep into his pocket along with thoughts of Mina, last night, and Harry.

"Don't look at me like that, Jerm." He mutters, stumbling over to the kettle.

Jeremy's got his lips pressed together in that way that makes Louis want to scream. "You're a mess, mate," he says, effortlessly flipping eggs on a pan.

"M'fine." Louis shrugs, tossing two packets of tea into the mugs, focusing very hard on not spilling scalding water everywhere. His mind still wanders though. If Georgia hasn't texted him, then maybe Mina didn't go back to her place after their row. But where else could she be?

He chews the inside of his cheek, grabbing onto the ceramics.

Any of her friends would easily tell him where she's gone. It isn't like this hasn't happened with them before. Unless she’s gone somewhere he wouldn’t think to check. She wouldn’t actually do that, would she?

His stomach drops, breath coming quicker as the thought settles—Oh fuck.

What if she's at Harry’s!

The image hits him hard like a freight train. Harry would be loving this, wouldn't he? Probably sat there with that stupid smirk on his face, all "Poor Louis can't keep his girlfriend happy." It's all too easy to imagine him pretending to be the comforting friend, gathering his weapons for the next time they're forced to interact. The thought of them together twists Louis’ insides, and suddenly, everything feels like it’s slipping away.

"Behind you!" Niall calls.

"What?" Louis startles, grip tightening around the mugs.

"Mate, I said behind—"

"Lou, table four needs their bill," another server cuts in then and Louis spins around to glance at her, crashing right into Niall and sending an armful of plates and the two mugs to the ground with a deafening smash.

"For fuck sake!" Niall cries out. The two boys jerk back as hot tea splashes back at them. "I said behind!" He smears his hands against his apron, now painted with egg yolk and avocado spread, shooting Louis a look of grief.

"Fuck, Ni.” Louis sighs, kicking a pile of mush off his shoe, “I’m sorry, mate."

Tea seeps through the grimy grout lines on the floor, and Louis stares at the spreading puddle, his ragged breathing the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. He can feel everyone's eyes on him, their judgment pressing down harder than the mess at his feet. But he doesn't look up, or move, his anxiety pooling into every corner of his body.

Niall definitely notices because he waves his yolky-hand around in the air, “Alright, everyone piss off. Show’s over.” He tries to capture Louis' gaze.

When the kitchen slowly returns to its usual chaos, Louis fumbles for the broom.

"Leave it." Niall's voice is firm, but there's that same underlying concern in his authority that only comes when Louis' truly losing it. The same tone that got Louis through his first panic attack during finals week when Louis worked three doubles in a row without rest. "You really need to take five, mate."

Louis glances up, and Niall nods his head towards the back door as suggestion.

"I can't, we're swamped out there—”

"I'll cover it."

"But—"

"I said, I’ll cover it. I've got your section. Just like you covered mine when Katie dumped me, yeah?"  Niall leaves no room for argument, already gently grabbing at the broom in Louis' shaking hands. He starts sweeping ceramic shards, his eyes saying everything his mouth doesn't. Louis knows that Niall is right. His nerves are a proper mess, and the thought of going back out there makes his chest feel like it's caving in.

“Thanks.” Louis murmurs reluctantly, and then he's carefully leaping over his giant fucking mess, ignoring the piercing stares from the others in the kitchen as he breezes past them toward the back exit into the car park.

His hands continue to shake at his sides as he leans against the brick wall, the texture catching weird and hard on his skin as he slides down to sit on the gravel. But he doesn't care for the scratches, because nothing feels right anyway. He lets out a long and heavy sigh that's more of a wounded sound than anything, watching his breath cloud in front of his face.

Maybe if he checks his phone again, there'll be something there this time. Anything. Even an angry text would be better than this silence. This not knowing.

But he can't bring himself to look. Can't face another empty notification screen. Can't stomach seeing his last message to her still sitting there, unread, mocking him with those little grey ticks.

At this point, his phone might as well burn a hole straight through his trousers and also his leg. It would hurt less than this waiting. Than this gnawing certainty that he's proper fucked everything up this time.

He should text her. Apologize. Check if she's okay.

But what would he even say?

hey love, sorry I accused you of sleeping with your apparently gay friend that I also hate. (not because he's gay btw) Also did you spend the night at his place? xx

He bangs his head back against the wall, once, then twice. The dull thud matching the rhythm of thoughts circling his brain: She's with Harry. She's with Harry. She has to be with Harry.

Ugh.

Louis can almost feel his sneer. Harry would absolutely relish the opportunity to have Mina at his place, indulging his ego with all the things he likely already believes about Louis. Because Louis is one hundred percent certain now that Harry was brought into this world solely to piss him off.

Just then, the door swings open, forcing him to look up. Jeanine stands in the doorway with her arms crossed, her grey-streaked hair fallen loose from its neat bun. He already knows what's coming, "Lou." She says softly, "What the hell is going on with you today?"

And he considers letting it all spill out of him then. The fight. The fear. The fucking mess in his head.

But Instead: "Nothing, Jean. Just tired." He reaches in his apron pocket for his loose cigarette.

She sighs, not at all buying it. "Alright," She tilts her head as if she's considering it, "But tired doesn't explain three wrong orders and a floor full of broken crockery."

Louis shoulders slump, bracing for the inevitable speech. He lets his head rest on the wall, placing his cigarette between his lips. "I know, I'm sorry, I'll get it together, Jean. Promise." He shuts his eyes, "Just need a few minutes."

"No." She shakes her head. "Go home."

Louis' eyes shoot back open, "Jeanine, I can't—" Because, really. He can't afford it.

“This isn’t me firing you, Lou." Jeanine reassures delicately, "But if you don’t get your head on straight, you’re gonna end up with second-degree burns or a lawsuit." She rubs at her temples, leveling him with a stare that feels forgiving. "Sort your shit out and come back Tuesday. You're one of my best, Lou. Three years, and I've never seen you drop a single plate."

"Jean, we’re so busy, I'm really fine—"

"Niall can handle your section." She holds up a hand as he starts to protest. "And before you argue about the tips, I’ll make sure you don’t lose out."

He holds her stare in silence, weighing his options. There's a familiar stubbornness that's kept him working through fevers and family emergencies, through heartbreaks and hangovers, creeping up because work keeps his hands moving so his mind can’t wander into darker places. His jaw works as he considers arguing back, ready to keep insisting that he's fine like he always does.

But for once, the fight drains out of him. Whether it's the sympathy in Jeanine's voice, or the fact that he's proper exhausted, he stops pushing back and fiddles with his apron ties. Maybe she's right. Every minute here is another minute wasted worrying. Mina. Harry. Mina. Harry.

"Alright," he manages, pulling the apron up over his head and crumpling it in his lap.

"Get some sleep." Jeanine points a finger at him. She's got that look in her eye, the one his mum gets when she knows he's lying about being fine. She turns to open the door, stopping with her hand on the handle. "And Louis. Whatever it is—talk to someone about it, yeah? Whatever's got you this twisted up, it's not worth losing yourself over." She pauses, then adds quietly, "And don't make me regret letting you off easy."

He nods because that's what people do when they're being given advice they have absolutely no intention of following. Some things are better left buried deep in the pit of your stomach where they belong, because once you pull them out, there’s no telling what you’ll find festering underneath.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The walk home clears Louis' head enough to draft about twenty messages to Mina.

Twenty drafted. Twenty deleted. Each one more pathetic than the last, each word feeling hollow and wrong.

He's really just fucking nailing this boyfriend thing. The girls would have a field day with these. Harry would probably frame them.

Settling for a quick message, Louis types out:

please call me when you get a chance x

But when he gets back to the flat, she's already there.

The kitchen is quiet except for the fan, whirring away and stirring the stale air that's still lingering with resentment. Mina's perched on the bar stool, one leg tucked beneath her, wearing yesterday's clothes. Her coat and bag are thrown carelessly aside, scrolling through her phone with his pathetic text left unread.

Louis takes in a deep breath, letting out a small "Hey…" on the exhale, preparing himself to say the words he’s been turning over all day.

Mina barely glances up, just a quick flash of eyes at him before they're back on her phone. "You're home early," she says, using one finger to swipe and brush him off with it. Louis slowly kicks off his trainers, nudging them over to the wall with his left foot.

"And you're home." He mutters, emptying the contents from his pockets onto the counter, watching her carefully and searching for any traces of Harry in her expression.

The question he wants to ask is right on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out at any moment. But doing that would only ignite the match that's been left smoldering and he knows he should just be grateful she hasn't packed his bags and left them outside.

Shuffling on socked feet, Louis busies himself with starting the kettle, "Tea?" He asks, trying to remain nonchalant.

No answer. Just a narrowed gaze that seems to follow his every move. Maybe acting normal is the wrong choice, but fuck if he knows the right one. Every possible route in starting this conversation feels like a carefully laid trap.

"Why are you home so early?" Mina presses, finally putting her phone down. "Did you get cut again?"

"Overstaffed," Louis lies, quickly reaching for the chamomile. He doesn't bother looking over his shoulder, not quite ready to meet the daggers currently digging into his back. He pauses at the mug Mina bought him for their second Christmas together last year, the "World's Best Boyfriend" mocking him in huge font and chipped ceramic. Terribly ironic for the moment, he thinks, setting it aside.

"Lou," Mina sighs heavily, "If they keep cutting your hours—"

"They're not," He cuts in quickly, dumping two teabags into each, probably too aggressive for what it's worth, "It's just… slow season."

"It's been 'slow season' for months now."

Louis clamps his eyes shut, gripping onto the edge of the counter. If he doesn't pivot now, this will all turn back to the original starting point of why they're even in this situation to begin with. All of it revolving around his job. None of it what actually matters.

"Hey, can we not?" Louis tries as gently as he can manage, even as the frustation chokes on the way out. He finally turns around, meeting her displeasure head-on, "Not right now. Please."

Mina leans back in the stool with an exasperated huff, grabbing for her phone to shut him out again. Her long nails tap rapidly against the screen as Louis gnaws on his bottom lip. His mind races with all of the things she could be thinking about right now, wondering if any of the worst ones were force-fed to her by a particuarly stubborn splinter refusing to dislodge from under his skin.

The kettle whistles, breaking their silence. Louis pours two cups, adding milk to Mina's just how she likes, sliding it over to her delicately. The steam rises between them like a barrier, the tea an offering in place of an apology he doesn’t know how to start.

"Mina…" He ventures, anxious fingers drumming against the hot mug. Playing poised doesn't really work when looks from across the kitchen island could kill. Mina crosses her arms on the marble, arching a brow pointedly sweet. Louis knows he has to do what he can to save this, even if it means surrendering.

"About last night…" He trails off, trying to find the right words. Or rather, the right tone. "I shouldn't have acted that way at the party."

Lie number one.

"It wasn't...right."

Lie number two.

"No, it wasn't." Mina agrees, pursing her lips.

Louis raises his mug for a wary sip. The question of where she spent the night burns in his throat worse than the tea, but if he can just get around this, maybe then she'll give him the answers he's looking for.

"About you and—" Harry's name tastes bitter on his tongue. Louis takes another sip, desperately trying to wash away the feeling. "About you…two. I shouldn't have implied—"

"That I fucked him?" Mina ticks her head, eyes flashing dark and dangerous. Louis feels the blood drain from his face, the carefully constructed apology he'd just come up with crumbling right to dust.

"Mina," He nearly chokes, gripping onto his mug tighter, "You know that's not what I meant, I just—"

"You just, what?" She laughs, glaring at him. "I'd love to hear your reasoning this time." 

This cutting edge is something he deserves from Mina, Louis knows that. He's never really been the type to get possessive or jealous. He's never pointed a finger at her before or given any reason for her to believe he would second-guess her intentions. But how can he possibly explain that his accusations weren't born from either and only from the way Harry looks at him?

Mina wouldn't hear it. She hasn't. And now Louis knows she won't ever listen again, not when she's got Harry propped up on this pedestal of childhood memories. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath of chamomile, hoping it might somehow save him or give him the strength to fix this mess he's made.

"I was drunk," He says slowly, calmly. "And frustrated—"

"That's not an excuse, Lewis." Mina shakes her head. "That's not even close to one."

The kitchen clock on the wall mocks his cowardice, each tick another question caught behind his teeth.

Where did you go last night?

Who were you with?

Was it Harry?

His mind snags on that last one, Mina's words from before. Harry's gay.

Is he really—

"Love," he tries again, impatience wearing thin. "I know Harry's your mate, and I respect that. I just feel like—"

"Do you?" She cuts him off with another hollow laugh.

"Of course I do."

And there's number three.

"He's just not really making it easy, darling." He continues, that last part catching rough in his throat, "But I know he's your friend, and I'm sorry. I should've tried to be more welcoming." God, he really hoped the tight-lipped grin cracking his skin is convincing enough or else he’s going to lose whatever grip he’s got left.

Mina's features soften briefly as she glances down to the counter, readjusting to sit in a position that doesn't seem as guarded. Louis' shoulders relax when her eyes catch his again with a tiny look of reluctant understanding. It's enough to breathe again, but not enough to forget how far from okay they still are. But still, Louis sees his opening, a chance to finally patch up the ends, so he swallows down whatevers left of his pride and slides in.

"I know he means a lot to you," He wraps both hands around his mug, "And I know there's... history there. I can see it every time you look at him." Louis pauses, forcing himself to stay diplomatic despite all his instinct screaming otherwise, "But I just feel like there's something I'm missing here. Like I'm only getting half the story, you know?"

Choosing his next words carefully, Louis sets his mug down, noting how something soft flickers in Mina's expression. "And maybe... maybe if I understood more, I wouldn't be such a prick about it all." Every muscle in his body is itching to say what he really thinks, to drag up every insufferable thing about Harry and lay it bare. To list every smirk, every remark, every time Harry's made him feel imcompetent with just one look. But he can't. Not if he wants to fix this.

Mina deflates then, and for the first time since Louis' known her, she seems to fold in on herself in a way that sets off warning bells in his head.

"What is it?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

She shrugs then, resting her head in her hands. "It's complicated."

Complicated. Right. Louis refrains from rolling his eyes, trying—really trying—to understand what's making her retreat this way, "Try me." He shrugs, leaning over the counter to give her his undivided attention.

Mina parts her lips to speak, but pauses, lifting her head up slowly to meet him again. She exhales heavily, blowing away the strands of her hair falling over her face. "Harry's just always been like that, Lou." She shakes her head, "Even when we were younger."

Louis bites back the urge to ask if that's supposed to make things better. If always been like that is somehow meant to excuse all of his behavior. Harry being cruel just because he's always been cruel. His fingers tap against the counter, a restless rhythm of things he wants to say but can't. Choosing not to press it, he simply nods, offering silence as invitation and waiting for her to explain.

"I mean Harry's always been shy," She says softly, almost to herself. "Used to be quite sweet, actually."

He doesn’t buy it—not for a second—but tilts his head and asks, "And how long have you known him again?" anyway, watching Mina start to toy with her leggings.

"Since secondary." She smiles slightly, "He lived just down the street from us. He'd come round for tea almost every day after school. Mum adored him, always said he was too skinny, kept trying to feed him up."

Harry, the sharp-tongued bastard from the club, sitting cross-legged at Mina's childhood dining table, letting her mum fuss over him? Something's not adding up. Louis thinks back to the dinner party, when Mina had mentioned they were meant to attend sixth form together and Harry's vague and dismissive answer that revealed nothing, "What happened?" He murmurs, "You said you hadn't seen him in years."

Mina's eyes flutter shut, her long lashes touching the tops of her cheek. "I don't know." She sighs, voice falling barely above a whisper, "He had a habit of running off."

"Running off?" Louis repeats immediately, face scrunching together. Of course, Harry was the type to disappear. It fits perfectly with his whole…insufferable mysterious bastard routine.

Mina lifts her shoulder, staring off. "He'd done it before. Take off for a few days when things got rough at home. But he always came back." She lifts her sleeve to her eyes, blinking rapidly and fighting against the glimmer that's threatening to form, "I kept waiting. Kept thinking, this time will be like the others. He'll turn up with that stupid grin, acting like nothing happened.'" She swallows hard. "Except he didn't. And after a while, I had to accept that maybe he wasn't coming back."

The weight of the memory seems to drape over the room, pulling everything else into hush. Louis finds himself even more irritated at the idea of Harry dropping people like they meant nothing, leaving Mina to piece together the aftermath. Even now, years later, he's still making her defend him, still making her carry the burden of his choices. 

But watching her blink back tears, Louis keeps those thoughts to himself. Because this isn't about Harry. It's about Mina, who lost her best friend without warning or explanation.

"I'm sorry," he offers quietly, meaning it for her sake alone. "That must have been...hard."

She lifts her gaze to meet his, hand reaching across the counter, fingers stopping just short of his, "Lou, I know he's not exactly sunshine." She starts, "He's quiet and maybe a bit sharp. But he's still Harry, underneath it all. It means everything to me to have him back in my life. Can’t you just... try to be happy for me?”

The broken plea in her voice forces him to look away, unsure of how to respond. That Harry she knows—this left behind memory of her childhood friend—was long gone, replaced by someone that takes pleasure in hurting others and making life difficult. Louis can tell she's clinging onto this idea, refusing to let go even when the signs say otherwise.

He can't fight this, especially when Mina's looking at him with fragile hope. Hope Harry doesn’t fucking deserve.

But Louis swallows his doubts for now, about Harry not being worth this effort, about Mina deserving better than whatever broken version of her friend has crawled back into their lives, keeping his unapproving thoughts tucked away for another time.

"I'll try harder with him." He nods.

It's more of an empty gesture, a concession to end the conversation. Like when he nods along when asked if he's happy at the restaurant, or if he really wants that job at Mina's father's firm. Another compromise to add to his growing collection.

Mina's smile is bright but brittle as she squeezes his hand. "Thank you."

Louis forces himself to smile back, even as something cold settles in his chest. He's good at saying what people want to hear, being who they need him to be. But as he watches Mina finally relax, he can't shake the feeling that he's just made a promise he won't be able to keep.

He takes another sip of tea, letting the scalding liquid burn away the truth trying to force its way up his throat.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It's 10pm and Louis has his arm draped over Mina, trying his best to look like he's enjoying himself. Trying being the operative word here.

The small room rattles with a heavy rock and roll bass, the air foggy with cigarette smoke and the bitter scent of spilled beer. There are neon signs of naked women clinging to sticky walls, littered in tattered flyers and vintage band stickers. The sickly green bleeds across the entire space, casting heavy shadows over almost everything, making everyone look all that more dangerous.

Oscar's is pretty sparse for a pub on a main road, still managing to be louder than any club Louis' used to. This isn’t a place Mina would normally find herself. She belongs in some fancy rooftop bar with £15 cocktails and pristine velvet couches, not here where her lavender sundress stands painfully out of place among all the leather and boots, a delicate flower trying desperately to take root in Harry's world.

Harry's world.

Louis crinkles his nose at the thought. He only wishes he felt more drunk than he actually is, the alcohol’s done nothing but make his mouth taste sour of metal and draw a very permanent, very judgmental scowl on his face despite all of his efforts. He can barely hear what Mina's saying, her mouth moving, but the words not catching, lost somewhere between the blaring guitars and the hot blood rushing through his ears.

“What?” Louis leans in again, cupping his right ear.

“I said this isn't so bad!”

Except it really is. Nothing good ever comes from being in the same space as him. Mina beams up at Louis, tugging supportively on his wrist with one hand while she sips her tequila sunrise with the other, smiling in futile attempt to drag him into her good mood. All Louis can do is force a tight lipped grin, nodding away his discomfort. Because what else can he do? He's the one who made that stupid promise to try to be coridal. To pretend Harry's very existence doesn't make him all sorts of unexplainably ill.

"The Strokes, really?"

Louis holds his breath, all of the muscles in his body tensing before his brain even registers why.

Strolling in from another cigarette break, Harry moves through the dark with commanding ease. Head held high, one lazy foot in front of the other, the entire world bends around his gravitational pull. Louis hates how his eyes automatically track him as he weaves between strangers, long ringed fingers trailing across shoulders blades and lower waists as he passes by. Everyone lets him through per usual, practically falling towards him and smiling, vying for his attention.

Not that Louis' counting each touch. He's not.

"Frankie, I told you to stop letting Jay pick the music," Harry shakes his head, tossing his sunglasses aside on a dirty table, "Always picks the worst of the worst. At least let me queue something worth listening to." He smirks, dropping one heavy arm around the smaller woman perched on a barstool.

She spins around in his hold, knocking her knees into his taller ones, "Always complaining, aren't you?" Frankie chuckles, already surrending the phone connected to the speakers, "If you play that seven-minute piano shit again, I’m pulling the plug, trust."

"You wouldn't dare," Harry straightens up, absently chewing on gum as he punches in another song, "I'm the reason people stay here."

"Wrong," Frankie rolls her eyes, snatching the phone back, "You're the reason people leave halfway through their pint."

Harry squeezed her again in his hold before striding over the corner of the bar where Mina and Louis are tucked away, “Another round, Jay,” He says, leaning over the bartop and slapping his hand twice on the marble. “And none of that watered-down shit you serve yanks.”

"You'll get what you get," Jay flips him off in response, pulling another amused smirk from Harry.

From here, Louis catches the glassy sheen in his eyes, the lazy way his words slur together, properly smashed. He's different here, that much is obvious. Louder, chattier in a way that puts Louis on edge. Harry's casual banter and wild demeanor has been the most jarring part of the night so far. It's almost like the bastard has an actual personality. One that people seem to enjoy, for some god forsaken reason.

“Oh, and another one of those sunrises for Mins,” Harry adds with a shout, turning back over to Mina with a loose, lopsided grin—something Louis' never seen from him before. Something he didn't even know he could possess.

“Oh, no, Harry. It's alright, really—” Mina starts, waving her hands around in silent protest.

“Yes,” Harry insists, leaning in close, “God awful, those shits are though. Don't know how you drink them." He nudges her, catching Louis' eyes for a moment too long.

Jay slides two drinks over, placing an extra shot of whiskey for Harry like he did the last two times before. Without any hesitation, Harry downs the shot in one fluid motion. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Louis realizes he's still staring. When Harry catches him looking again, his eyes are darker than before, pupils blown wide in the dim light.

Louis quickly glances away, swallowing the heat rising in his chest, trying to push down the irritation that flickers there whenever Harry looks at him.

“Christ, some of us like to pace ourselves, H.” Mina delicately sips, scrunching her nose.

“Boring,” He drawls with no real bite. “Are you going to let me show you how to have real fun tonight, or what?”

The question is directed at Mina, but his eyes stay locked on Louis side profile, almost daring him to object. Louis feels her lean forward in his arms, drawn in by whatever bullshit challenge Harry's trying to throw their way, and something hot and uncomfortable twists in Louis' gut.

“And what exactly does that kind of fun consist of?” Mina teases back, oblivious to the tension.

Before Harry can answer, some tall dark-haired bloke brushes through the small gap between them, towering over Mina to whisper something in Harry's ear, almost pretending she isn't standing there. Louis' fingers twitch with the urge to shove him right out of her space.

The exchange is quick enough to go unnoticed by anyone lingering. Something small passes between hands, disappearing into pockets faster than Louis can track. But he sees it, the way Harry's energy changes immediately, his body language more fidgety now than before.

“Zayn...” Harry says simply, as if nothing happened. His voice drops lower, thrumming with new energy. “This is Mina, old mate of mine.”

When Zayn pulls away, his eyes drag over her slowly, then briefly over Louis, "Old mate." His lip curls slightly, "Didn't know you had those."

Those. Like friendship is a foreign concept where Harry's concerned. Louis finds himself wondering, not for the first time tonight, just how much Mina really knows about the version of Harry that exists in places like this. Still, Louis offers his best fuck-you smile as polite introduction, fingers unconsciously digging into Mina's shoulder.

“Neither did I,” There's something off in Harry's laugh. His weight shifts from foot to foot, fingers tapping an agitated rhythm against his upper thigh, “Pool?”

Zayn's eyes flick back down to Harry's hands, "Bit risky," He says, pulling a cigarette out from the pack in his pocket and resting it behind his ear, "considering what you still owe from last time." 

Harry says nothing, shouldering past Zayn to grab a cue stick, the subtle clash saying more than words could. Louis watches silently, noting how Mina's smile slightly wavers at their interaction. She's clearly never seen this side of Harry before—the shift in demeanor, the restless energy. Louis knows exactly what this is, even if she doesn't.

“You break." Zayn offers, rolling the cue ball slowly and letting it stop dead center. He smirks, running a careful hand over his jaw while Harry takes place on the opposite side of the table.

He doesn’t argue, lining up his shot and sliding his fingers against the rough wood of the cue. Harry's leopard print shirt hangs loosely around his torso as he bends over the felt, Louis' eyes betraying him as they fall to the space where the buttons aren't done up properly. A silver cross swings from his neck while he pulls his arm back, catching on the neon light as it dangles wildly against bare skin.

The crack of the break shot splits the air and Harry straightens up, satisfaction written across his features, "Fucking beautiful," He crows, already prowling around for his next shot. His movements are getting looser with each passing minute, that restless energy manifesting and spreading through him like poison.

“Tell you what, mate,” Zayn tips his beer up, a mischevious glint in his eyes, “Same game, higher stakes.”

Harry exhales a laugh that sounds nothing like amusement, “Always got to push it, don’t you?” He angles himself again, tilting his head side to side similar to a boxer before a fight. Sweaty curls fall over his face as he lines up the cue, his tongue poking out in concentration.

 “Two hundred quid says I beat you in the next five shots.”

Mina's eyebrows shoot up at that, turning to look at Louis as if she's expecting him to be the voice of reason. He tries to look away from the train wreck unfolding before them. He really does.

Harry smirks, bringing his arm back before throwing it forward. The solid red drops into the pocket with a satisfying thunk, "Two hundred quid," He hums, "Adorable, how about three?"

Zayn chuckles, wetting his lips, "Big fucking shot." Then his eyes slide over to Louis and Mina, "You lot want to get in on this?"

Louis tenses, mouth parting to speak. Part of him wants to wipe that smug look off Harry's face. Show him he's not the only one who can—

“No,” Mina cuts in firmly, whipping around again. “Absolutely not.”

“I—”

“No, Lou,” she shakes her head, turning back to Zayn. “We’re fine.”

Harry's lips twitch as he sinks another ball, and Louis can practically feel the bastard's silent laughter. He downs the rest of his drink, trying to ignore the way his ears burn hot.

The entire room is hypnotized by Harry's play around the table, smooth and cocky like everything else about him. He jeers each time Zayn misses, balling his fists whenever he pockets.

He's careful and determined, until he isn't.

Surprise flickers across Harry's face as the cue ball rolls lazily into a corner pocket, his jawline sharpening, throat bobbing as he throws back another shot of whiskey.

Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen.

Zayn sinks the final shot with ease, stepping back with a pleased expression, “Ah, guess luck’s just not on your side tonight,” He flattens out his palm, waiting.

Harry’s grip tightens around his cue stick and Louis can pinpoint the exact moment defeat settles over him. He sees it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes darken from playful to dangerous. Harry hesitates for a moment, fingers twitching on the table before he slowly pulls out his leather wallet.

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” He slaps two notes down onto the felt. His smile is tight, thin, barely there.

Zayn snatches the money, eyes flashing around the room in great pride. “Cheers, boys. Drinks on me, yeah?” He smooths out the notes between his fingers, putting on a full show before leaning in close to Harry's ear.

Whatever Zayn whispers must cut deep. Without warning, Harry shoves him backward, an explosive force that sends him crashing into a nearby table, sending empty glasses to the floor with a smash. The playful atmosphere shatters, Louis' stomach dropping as he instinctively grabs Mina, shielding her while she gasps.

All Zayn does is laugh, brushing himself off like it's nothing but a casual exchange. Like he expected it., “Aw, don’t get all pissy on me now, Styles.” He coos, straightening off his jacket.

"Alright, you two, piss off now." Frankie leaps out of her barstool, "Sick of you both causing a bloody circus in my pub." She stands between them, holding her arms out in the space.

“Harry, come on. Let’s get some air.” Mina panics, forcing herself from Louis’ grip. She reaches for his arm, but Harry jerks away from her. His eyes are still locked on Zayn, chest rising and falling almost too heavily. His fingers curl in at his sides, and for a moment, Louis thinks he might actually throw a punch.

What a fucking mess.

“It’s just a game, H." Mina tries again, her voice too soft for a place like this. Too soft for someone like him.

“Need to take a piss,” Harry mutters, turning sharply before deliberately ramming his shoulder into Zayn's as he passes.

The impact sends Zayn stumbling back a step again, “Proper dickhead tonight, isn’t he?” Zayn calls out, his laughter following Harry down the corridor toward the toilets. 

Louis catches a glimpse of Harry’s face as he passes. There is something new there, something that doesn’t match his usual carefully constructed facade. It's unsettling to see that crack in his armor, even if just for a second.

Mina squeezes Louis’ arm gently, “I should check on him.”

“Don’t,” Louis says, surprising himself with how quickly the word comes out. “Give him a minute.”

She looks torn, but stays put, her fingers still lingering on his arm like she isn't quite convinced. He can tell she wants to follow him, to try to make everything better the way she always does, but it's not worth it. Not with how quickly he seemed to burst.

Across the room, Zayn has already turned his attention elsewhere, lazily swirling his drink and chatting up some girl at the bar.

As the tension from Harry’s departure hangs in the air, Louis returns his focus back to Mina, sliding his arms around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He wants to support her, but a part of him wishes the night would just end. Preferably three hours ago.

“Hey, maybe we should head home? It’s been a long night.” He suggests, peering down at the worry in her eyes.

Mina keeps her gaze fixed on the hallway, a slight furrow forming on her brow as she ignores his suggestion, “He’s been gone a while."

Louis resists rolling his eyes, “Mina, come on. Let's just—”

“What if something's wrong?” she cuts him off, shaking her head. “He seemed really upset.”

More like a sore loser throwing a strop.

“I’m sure he’s fine, darling,” Louis tries to reassure her, gently guiding her chin back to him.

“I can't just leave without knowing he's alright.”

“Darling," Louis sighs, "He's a big boy. He can handle himself.”

“You don't understand,” She checks the corridor again, “He's not usually like this.”

Louis finds that hard to believe. It’s hardly out of character for someone who thrives on being aggravating. But Mina seems to live in her own rose-colored world when it comes to Harry.

“He will be alright," He repeats, sliding his hand into hers and tugging toward the door, "Let's get going,”

Mina digs her heels in, stopping him from moving. “Lou,” she whines, squeezing his hand.

He already knows where this is going.

No.

No, no, no.

“No,” he shakes his head vehemently. “I'm not going to—”

“Please?”

Her lips pull into a pout, the one she knows he can't resist, and the pit in his stomach grows deeper. He would rather take a punch from the hulking bloke next to them than deal with checking on Harry.

“Mina." Louis huffs, "He hates me, you know that.”

“He doesn't hate you,” she insists “And you promised you'd try.”

That stupid fucking promise. He glances over to the corridor where Harry has slipped away, silently praying that long curls will emerge from the shadows. His fingers drum along his thigh as he fights against his instinct to follow her order.

“Please, Lou,” she tugs on his shirt, her voice softening. “Just let me know he's alright, and then we can go home.”

He doesn’t want to. He really, really doesnt want to. 

But Mina's looking at him with those pleading eyes and he's running out of excuses. Running out of ways to explain why being near Harry makes him feel like he's standing too close to an open flame.

With a reluctant sigh, he nods. What other choice does he have? He's already trapped himself in this web of trying to please everyone while slowly suffocating himself.

"Alright," he concedes, stalking off toward the hallway with his stomach in knots.

This better not become a fucking habit.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The corridor is a long, long tunnel, stretching out until the bathroom door beckons at the end of it.

The bass from the music thumps loudly, making Louis’ head throb in sync. He's still not nearly drunk enough to deal with this. Promising Mina he’d make an effort never meant becoming Harry's bloody keeper. It meant hanging in this cesspit of a bar for three hours for her sake, faking a laugh, and then going home. She clearly has some misguided notion that he should give a shit about Harry.

He doesn't.

Just go in, make sure he's alive and leave. 

Anxious fingers trail along the walls as he walks, amping himself up for another unwanted interaction that'll probably end with him more pissed off than he started. It's just nerves, Louis tells himself. Any normal person would be on edge dealing with someone as unpredictable as him. But there's something else there too, a pressure that makes Louis brace himself every time they’re in the same room.

Louis hadn’t put up a fight when Mina suggested they come tonight. He clenched his teeth, swallowed his pride, and showed up with his temper in check. She said this was something they needed to do, a step toward smoothing over what happened at the dinner party. As if Harry's some wounded bird that needs tending to and they’ll all be best mates by the end of it.

But Harry's just as irritated by their forced closeness as Louis is, if not more. He's made that obvious by ignoring Louis' existence once again while throwing subtle jabs and glances designed to rile him up and keep him just irritated enough to stay off balance.

Mina can be his best mate all she bloody wants. They can braid each others hair and twirl around holding hands if that tickles their fancy. But why does Louis have to be dragged into this? The last thing he wants is to be stuck anywhere near that prick. Especially after whatever the fuck that was.

When his hands meet the door, he hesitates, considering turning back and telling Mina he couldn’t find him. That he must’ve left the pub, so they could just go home.

And for a second, he almost does.

But then her worried face flashes in his mind, and Louis knows that he can't.

With a deep, remorseful inhale, Louis pushes past the swinging door and steps inside.

He's instantly met with a deep green light hitting him square in the eyes, along with an obnoxious amount of bad graffiti on each wall. Louis spots Harry bent over the impossibly small sink, curls tipping over his head and meeting the porcelain. At the sound of the door closing, his head snaps up, their eyes meeting in the scratchy mirror.

“Shit,” he murmurs, straightening abruptly with one hand swooping directly to his nose. Embarrassingly enough, Louis lets out a gasp, halting on his toes.

"Oh." It falls out without thought, the syllable completely awkward and useless. His eyes fall to Harry's fingers, tugging at the hem of his blouse and pulling it taut.

And he should leave. He's done his job, hasn't he? Confirmed Harry's alive and breathing. But he doesn't. Louis just stands there, frozen like a proper idiot as Harry glares at him like he wasn't just caught sniffing coke off a sink in a filthy bathroom.

"Staring’s a bit rude, don’t you think?" Harry wipes at his nose again. His nose scrunches in that stupid way it always does again, a natural instinct Louis finally understands.

Louis tears his eyes from the sight, suddenly aware of the grime on the floor. "Just checking on you,” he murmurs under his breath. Shit. Maybe he should've mentioned Mina.

Harry’s brow cocks slightly, lips already pulling into an infuriating smirk, “How touching." He sniffs, "Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone." 

Louis rolls his eyes at Harry's back as he turns over to the mirror, pushing stray curls away from his face with a lazy flick of fingers.

“Mina’s worried.”

“About me?"  He glances over his shoulder, gaze sweeping to Louis' feet. "Sweet of her. You two talk about me over dinner? Light some candles, make a night of it?" Harry's smile is all teeth, sharp and mean.

Louis’ fists involuntarily ball against his sides. Every conversation with this bastard is dragging feet through wet cement. He knows he shouldn't retaliate. God knows he wants to. 

"She just asked me to check," Louis grits out, "That's all."

Harry's eyes rake over him slowly again, trying to peel Louis apart layer by layer. Louis forces himself to stay still under the scrutiny, though his skin prickles heavy with unease. There's something truly unnerving about the way Harry looks at people, almost as if hunting for weak spots, memorizing where to stick the knife. Fucking creep.

After an excruciating second, Louis inhales slowly, "Right. So, if you could just—"

"Want some?" Harry interrupts whatever Louis was about to say, there's a tiny ziplock baggie pinched between his index and thumb. He wags around the white powder in the air, casual as anything and taunting. Louis has interacted with Harry an unfortunate amount of times now to know that nothing is ever just an offering, it's always a game.

"Not interested." Louis voice is firm, meeting Harry’s gaze steadily.

The corner of Harry's mouth quirks and he pushes off from the sink, taking a deliberate step closer, "You sure?" He ticks his head with a wink, "Might help you loosen that stick up your arse."

Now would be the perfect time for Louis to get the fuck out of here, warning signs blaring loud in his head. But just like his feet— Louis’ jaw locks in place. He knows Harry's just setting his bait, trying to get him to budge and give him the reaction he so desperately craves. Maybe Louis isn’t going to let him push today.

He clears his throat, standing firm.

"Mina—"

"Mina," Harry mocks, shoving the coke back into his pocket and taking another lazy step forward. A single, hard heartbeat rattles in Louis’ ribs as he gets closer, forcing him back until his shoulders hit the door, "Always hiding behind her, aren't you?" His pupils were wide, too fucking wide, like black holes that swallowed all of the color, leaving only a small sliver of jade around the edges, "Must get exhausting. Doesn't it, Louis?"

Louis.

His name falls from Harry's lips for the first time as a threat, sending shivers up his spine in waves. Louis jerks his head to the side as Harry crowds closer, desperate to escape the furnace of his body heat. But it's useless, it's everywhere. He's everywhere.

"Pretending all of the time," Harry's continues, voice rough as gravel, "Standing around, waiting for orders like some fucking lapdog."

Louis’ throat constricts, speaking suddenly impossible, "I'm not a fucking—" His voice cracks. "I'm not—"

Harry hums, one side of his mouth lifting as Louis' fingers curl and uncurl in fists, planning all of the different ways to get out of this in his head. He could hit Harry. Right now. Just rear back and crack his fist against that jawline. But Harry would hit back harder though, wouldn't he? He's taller, broader, a lot more violent. He'd leave Louis with more than just bruised pride. Mina would be livid. Would she even believe him?

"I'm not pretending," Louis spits out, "I care about Mina. Unlike you." He tries to hold eye contact, but holy fuck, Harry’s blown-out pupils make it nearly impossible. It's almost frightening.

"Really?" Harry challenges. "You're not?"

"No."

"No?" The slam of Harry's hand against the doorframe sends Louis' heart right to his throat, "Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Louis' eyes snap to where Harry's arm meets the side of his head, realizing he's caged him in completely.

"Like what?" He swallows, and Harry grins.

"Like you're trying really fucking hard not to."

He drops his gaze to Louis' lips and suddenly Louis can't breathe anymore. All of the air around him burns, every breath dragging in that intoxicating spice Harry always leaves behind. Louis' pulse is practically vibrating off the walls, he's certain Harry can see it. Can see how his presence alone makes Louis feel like he's being torn apart from the inside out.

"I don't—"

"What, you think I don't notice?" Harry wets his lips, tongue darting out like an invitation. Heat pools low in Louis’ stomach—an unwelcome, traitorous, response. His fingers twitch against the doorframe, desperate for something to grip onto. Every muscle in his body screams at him to move, to run, to fight. But he's frozen under Harry's gaze.

"You're fucking high." is all Louis manages to say, his voice embarrassingly weak.

That gets a loud laugh from Harry, tossing his head back to show the long line of his throat. His cackle rings out over the muffled music, drenched in nothing but cruel sarcasm and bitterness. Louis hates this bastard. He really, really fucking hates—

"Bet you tell yourself you hate me." Harry clicks his teeth, like he somehow knew, "Bet you lie in bed at night, all wound up, thinking about how much I piss you off." 

“That’s not—” Louis starts, but his voice dies when Harry dips his head closer. For a terrifying moment, his mouth hovers dangerously, whiskey-hot breath fanning across Louis' cheek. He can't stop the shaky inhale that betrays him, and he prays Harry doesn't notice, even though he knows he probably did.

"I'm sure that’s not all you think about me at night, is it?" Harry tutts menacingly, “Because you really are terrible at hiding it.”

All of the words Louis could say in response get buried beneath his panic, a mortifying flush surging from his neck to his cheeks. He's undeniably squirming under Harry's hold, their faces still separated by an agonizing inch. Harry's eyes dart around him, unapologetic as they settle on his lips, then his throat, over the pulse jumping in his neck.

"Fuck you," Louis tries to snarl, but it comes out breathless. 

Harry's smirk only stretches wider, "Oh, I'm sure you'd like to," He shrugs, gaze still drifting like he's already imagined it, "But submissive was never really my type."

“Get the fuck off me,” Louis shoves at Harry’s chest. The taller boy barely budges, but drops his arm with a laugh that makes Louis see red. This was obviously another match he never agreed to play, but somehow still managed to lose

"Alight, go on then," Harry gestures lazily toward the door, "Go be a good boy, Louis. Fetch."

The words hit their mark.

Louis' chest heaves as his vision starts to blur, sweaty fists clenched tight and ready to finally wipe that self-satisfied grin off Harry's face. But he stops himself before he even makes the decision to lunge.

Mina.

Louis exhales sharply through his nose, turning without another word. He refuses to give Harry the satisfication of a response, stumbling out of the bathroom and colliding into the wall , his breath catching in a harsh, frustrated gasps.

What the fuck just happened.

Louis swipes a hand across his sweaty face, pleading for his heart to stop racing. His skin still burns from where Harry's breath touched it, a brand he can't wipe away. He hates that the scent of Harry's cologne still lingers on him, settling deep in his lungs until he can taste it. He wants to scrub it all off, wants to forget the way Harry looked at him, the way his own body betrayed him. But the memory sits heavy in his bones, refusing to let go.

He scans the crowd for Mina’s familiar silhouette, needing something to ground him, to remind him why he's here, why he agreed to any of this bullshit in the first place. Relief washes over him as soon as he sees her, but alongside it, a wave of guilt.

He had to keep what just happened to himself.

When she spots him, she smiles, completely unaware. His hands are still shaking as he shoves them deep into his pockets.

"All good, let's go," he mutters, moving past her without a glance. He can't look her in the eye.

Mina ticks her head, creasing her brow. "What about Harry?"

"He's fine. Didn’t want to leave." 

"Oh." She trails off, looking over his shoulder. She glances back to him, taking in his restless movements, "You alright, babes? You look a bit pale."

Louis cups the back of his neck with his hand, the moisture seeping onto his palms, "Perfectly fine, love." He gives his best rehearsed grin, hoping it's convincing enough for her to just let it go.

Mina thinks about it for a moment, flicking her eyes between his before slowly nodding and leaning up for a kiss, "Alright, we'll go," She allows, her eyes still lingering just past him.

She isn't fully convinced by the reassurance, and honestly, Louis can't bring himself to care. Harry could fall into the River Medlock tomorrow, and Louis wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.

This is it, he thought. This is the last fucking time he’ll ever let himself be anywhere near him again. The last time he’d let Harry get under his skin.

He tells himself that.

He almost believed it.

Chapter Text

I'm sure that’s not all you think about me at night.

Ten days since that night at the Oscars. Ten fucking days of Louis trying to convince himself that it all meant nothing. He can't escape it— Harry's voice, that taunting low drawl curling itself into the soft folds of his brain, creeping up when he least expects it. And just when he thinks he's got his head on straight, those words snake back into his mind, tightening around his thoughts like a serpent, following him everywhere.

They drown out Mina's father droning about his 'bright future' over steaks worth a week's wages, distracting him at work until he burns his hand on hot plates and slices his fingers on dull knives. It’s almost a relief. Something sharp and real, instead of that goddamn voice.

It's even worse because he does exactly that.

He thinks about it at night.

About Harry's cruel cackle, the glint in his eyes when he'd said it, and the way his voice dipped rough at the end, dragging Louis down like it wanted him to go to hell with it.

But Louis was only watching Harry because he’s malicious. An arrogant bastard, fraught with deviance, void of shame. He doesn't belong anywhere near Mina's life. That's the only reason he kept his eyes on Harry.

The only reason.

Harry was high out of his mind, pupils blown like a full moon, movements erratic. That’s all it was, right? Just another twisted match, wanting to take his pathetic losses out on whoever caught him after. Louis just happened to be the unlucky victim, sacrificed by Mina's caring heart.

He can’t possibly think Louis would look at him that way. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t.

He’s not—Well, fuck, he’s just not.

Louis' stomach lurches, glancing down at the fizzy drink stuck in his left hand. He decided against drinking tonight, although he could probably use it, his legs a nonstop jitter that makes the ice cubes rattle hard against the glass.

Somewhere in the distance, Niall is off massacring another round of Shania Twain, his out-of-tune singing competing against the clinking of pints and loud drunken laughter surrounding him. Being sober at late-night karaoke with drunk coworkers is pure fucking torture when someone not even in the room still manages to fuck up his entire night with one single sentence.

“He’s awful, isn’t he?” Sara's gentle hand on his shoulder yanks Louis clean out of his thoughts.

She's Niall's latest, a girl he met running a table at brunch last weekend. Usually, he's a natural flirt on the job, using all his Irish charm to coax a tip and a number from any bird that looked his way. But with Sara, he'd actually been nervous—cheeks pink each time he came to the kitchen for more lemonade refills. He'd eventually wooed her over eggs Benedict and two free mimosas, making her laugh so hard she snorted right into her champagne flute. That simple, yet oddly effective Niall way that always seems to work.

"Yeah, absolutely tragic." Louis winces, watching Niall butcher another chorus, "Suppose the alcohol helps. Blind confidence and all that."

Sara gives him a light chuckle and a nod, eyes drifting down to his Pepsi, "Not drinking tonight?"

"Antibiotics." He lies with a wink. It’s easier than explaining that Tequila doesn't particularly pair well with spiraling.

"So I take it that you're not singing then?"

"Me?" Louis furrows his brows while Niall falls to his knees for his grand finale, one fist in the air like he's auditioning for Britain's Got Talent. It's the kind of uninhibited joy Louis usually lives for, the kind he'd normally be right there participating in. But tonight, everything feels slightly off-kilter, like he's watching the world through a warped glass, leaving Louis half a beat behind, watching the moment instead of living in it.

"That'd require being drunk," He deflects with a smirk. "And also shame-free."

"Oh, come on," Sara chirps, nudging his arm playfully. "You can't be any worse than that."

Just then, Niall stumbles back over to their table, drunkenly bowing to scattered applause and laughter, "Killed it," he announces proudly, plopping down next to Sara and throwing a heavy arm over her shoulders, "Did you see the way I held that last note?"

"Yeah, well, you sure murdered something, mate," Louis mutters into his drink, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

"Yeah, if they ever need someone to clear a room, you’ve definitely got that covered!” Sara claps exaggeratedly before leaning closer into him, "I think I might've lost some part of my eardrums just then."

"Oi!" Niall laughs, pointing an accusing finger at them. "Let's see you lot do Shania better than me.”

Louis shakes his head as Sara giggles, "Not happening."

"Why not?" Niall's eyes gleam with challenge, “Scared you might have to follow this?" He wiggles his brows.

"Mmm, no." Louis shakes his head with a shrug, "I'd just rather keep my dignity intact, thanks."

"Since when do you care about dignity?" Niall scoffs. "The last time we were here, you on that stage absolutely—"

"Alright," Louis cuts him off quickly, not really needing Sara to hear about his drunken rendition of My Heart Will Go On. Some memories—like crying over Celine Dion three drinks deep at a New Year's Eve Party—are better left buried, "I just don't feel like it tonight."

Niall's expression shifts at that, an irritatingly familiar look of suspicion Louis has been dodging since Uni. It's the same look Niall gives him across the kitchen at work when Louis zones out mid-conversation, or when he catches Louis staring blankly at his phone, thumb hovering over Mina's unread messages. That bastard has always been more perceptive than people give him credit for, especially when it comes to Louis' moods.

And Louis could lie before the investigation even starts. Could dig up the same old excuse he's been throwing around for the past week, that he's just tired and needs to sleep for double that. It wouldn't even be too far from the truth, he is exhausted—but not from carrying plates or dealing with shitty customers. He's tired of his thoughts constantly circling back to that grimy bathroom. To green eyes, sweet spice, and needling words that won't seem to leave him alone.

Niall studies him for a beat longer before his attention diverts back over to Sara, who's pointing at the karaoke songbook now, grinning mischievously at her next choice. Louis pours all of his focus into his best attempt at normal, silently thankful that the girl on Niall's arm is enough to deter him from digging any further.

He watches the two over his drink, briefly wondering if he’ll ever feel that easy, that connected. Sara is funny and sweet in a way that sends sparkles to Niall's eyes, stretching a stupid grin on his face that only gets bigger as they go back and forth debating which song they can hold the entire room hostage with. They laugh together so easily, that newfound, easy joy radiating between them in a way that makes his chest squeeze uncomfortably tight. He'd never seen Niall this carefree with anyone, not since they'd first became mates, at least.

Louis should be happy for him, and he is, but there's an intimacy to their banter that Louis can't quite stomach right now, too aware of his own walls, the ones he’s built so carefully around himself.

"Think I'm gonna call it a night." Louis blows air from his cheeks, forcing the two to untangle their limbs. Niall's brows crease, then shoot up in disbelief just as quick, mouth already forming a protest.

"What? No!" Sara beats him to it, "You haven't even sung anything!"

"Wasn't planning on it, to be fair." Louis shrugs, setting his barely touched drink aside, "Plus, I'm knackered."

"Oh, piss off." Niall rolls his eyes, his accent thickening from the booze, "You're never too tired for karaoke."

"First time for everything." Louis forces a grin, "Got a long shift tomorrow. You know we both have to be there, right?”

"Come on, just one song?" Sara smirks, her hand resting on Niall's knee. "We could do a trio."

"As tempting as torturing Freddie Mercury sounds..." Louis stands, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'll have to pass."

"You're proper boring tonight." Niall huffs, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly, "What happened to my mate? I promised this one you were fun." He gestures toward Sara, who nods enthusiastically.

"One of us has to be responsible." Louis zips up his jacket, though the night’s not really that cold. “We can’t all spend the night face down in the bin.”

"Never thought I'd see the day." Niall sighs dramatically, his eyes following Louis' movements, "You sure you're alright, mate?"

He suddenly wonders if everyone in this room can see the confusion written across his face. If the words Harry and help are somehow visible in his eyes.

"Peachy." Louis gives a mock salute, then claps Niall on the back. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That list gets shorter by the day," Niall quips back, his face falling back to that quiet, earnest concern Louis has never quite known how to accept.

"Nice meeting you properly, Sara." Louis nods toward her, "Try to keep this one from climbing onto any tables, yeah?”

"No promises, we might do it together." She winks, and Louis can see why Niall likes her.

"Whatever. See you tomorrow, twat. ” Niall groans, flipping Louis off half-heartedly.

Louis throws a thumbs-up without turning around, weaving through the crowd of drunk singers toward the exit. The cool night air hits his face and he inhales deeply, trying to clear his head of everything but the sound of his footsteps against the pavement.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Louis' car sulks lonely under a streetlamp, looking as pathetic as he feels with its dented side mirror and flaking red paint.

For a moment, he considers leaving it parked on the street overnight, letting his feet buy him more time to think. But Mina's voice is already in his head, nattering on about carjackers and safety as if there’s a black market demand for a 2003 Fiat Punto with a dodgy clutch and temperamental radio.

He takes the long way back home instead, circling the fronts of Sackville Gardens twice just because he can. A nice loop around the city lets him float between destinations, a gentle in-between where nothing is expected of him.

His fingers drum absently against the steering wheel as he fills in the silence, letting the soft tick of his blinkers oddly soothe him. At least in here, alone in his mobile heap of junk, he can drop the fucking act. Can let his face settle into whatever type of grimace it wants.

You really are terrible at hiding it.

Fuck.

They haven't even talked about it—him. Mina's mentioned Harry exactly twice since that night: once to say he wasn't answering her calls when trying to catch up, and again last night when he finally rang. Louis half listened with a trained smile on his face, just as he always did when he didn’t want to say what he was really thinking.

He wants to shove that night with Harry so far down his mind it rots with useless shit like Mina's preferred washing powder or long division. But instead, it claws its way back up every time he blinks, leaving Louis to wonder briefly if lobotomies are still a thing.

Louis rounds the corner onto Richmond, the big neon sign from Oscar's casting an eerie glow across the wet pavement. Not really where he wants to be, especially right now, but it's the only way he can get to Oxford without joining the pub crawl that’s already spilling into the streets.

As he pulls his tiny car through the narrow road, Louis can't help but notice the rowdy crowd that's gathered outside of the pub. And it's definitely not the fun kind, it's more like the someone's-about-to-get-punched kind, with girls gawking on the outskirts and blokes shouting over one another, spilling out more beer than brains, from the looks of it.

Still, he can't help himself as his foot eases off the accelerator, watching the unraveling mess. He winces as two burly bouncers toss some drunk twat right out the door, sending the person stumbling and nearly face-planting onto concrete before catching onto a parking meter with loose arms.

And the cosmos clearly has a grand sense of humor because even in the harsh streetlight, Louis recognizes a very familiar set of long curls.

Harry.

Of course it's fucking Harry.

Louis' stomach plummets to his feet, quickly averting his gaze to pretend he didn’t just see Harry struggle to hold up his own head. He idles awkwardly behind a grey Volkswagen, praying that the streets clear before a very vindictive someone clocks him sitting here, waiting.

Daring another side glance, Louis watches Harry straighten up, his long legs wobbling like they might give out beneath him at any second. The bouncers, along with the group of men, are all still shouting nonsense, but Harry just raises two fingers in response, almost toppling over again in the process.

"Not my fucking problem," Louis mutters, pressing down on the accelerator once the traffic gives way. He slaps on his broken radio, cranking up the static as if it might drown out his conscience, keeping his eyes peeled straight ahead. Serves the bastard right to get knocked down a peg or two. Maybe a humble fall from his throne would shatter that oversized ego of his.

Louis makes it halfway down the next street before the image of Harry's unsteady legs pops back into his mind again. He tightens his grip on the wheel with his jaw clenched, trying to shake it off and make it disappear.

He doesn't care.

He really doesn't.

Harry probably deserved exactly whatever was handed to him tonight, finally ran that smart mouth at someone less patient than Louis. Probably cornered them in the bathroom with that sick little smirk of his, thinking he was untouchable like always.

Still, Louis rolls his shoulders with unease. Just because someone deserves something doesn’t mean they should be left half-conscious on the pavement.

And it's definitely not helping that his brain is supplying all the ways this night could go terribly wrong for him.

Still not his problem, Louis thinks firmly.

Except.

If something happened to Harry and Mina found out Louis just left him there, discarded like rubbish, he'd never hear the end of it. She'd give him that look, the one that makes him feel about two inches tall and he’d have to live with knowing he could’ve prevented whatever horrible tragedy befell her oldest friend.

"Fuck's sake," Louis groans, turning onto Oxford. He stops just before the red light, whipping the steering wheel in a swift U-turn, already hating himself for what he's about to do.

After everything—the club, the dinner party, that fucking bathroom—he should just drive away and let Harry deal with his own self-inflicted mess. But he can't seem to lift his foot off the pedal, his tired, old Fiat protesting with a rattle as he pulls back onto the over-packed side street, like even it knows this is a bad idea.

He stops along the kerb opposite the pub, carefully watching Harry through the fog of his windscreen. The once disorderly crowd has dispersed now, leaving Harry alone as he fights to snag something from inside his pocket. His face is entirely hidden behind frizzing hair, but his shoulders are still tense, defensive.

Louis inhales a deep breath, warring with himself as Harry stumbles down again, this time actually falling to one knee.

He should be glad to see Harry brought low like this, shouldn't he? Getting hit with the karma he so righteously deserves. Yet something pulls uncomfortably tight in his chest at the sight of Harry so incapacitated, something that feels too much like concern and not enough like the hatred he's been clinging to for the past ten days.

"Fuck me…" Louis sighs, dropping his forehead to the steering wheel. Every nerve ending in his body pleads for him not to get involved, but his fingers are already pushing down the seatbelt release, the loud click almost too final in its echo.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he's stepping out into the drizzling rain, pulse thrumming and drowning out the distant traffic along with the last remnants of his common sense.

"Y'alright, mate?" Louis shouts tentatively, dodging carefully between moving bumpers on the street.

Harry manages to prop himself against the wall with one hand, resting his forehead against the brick like it’s too heavy to settle on his neck. Even from the safe distance on the pavement, Louis can smell the whiskey wafting off him, strong enough to make him wrinkle his nose.

"Harry.” Louis takes another hesitant step forward, wincing as Harry slowly guides himself onto his back, slouching his long, wobbling legs in front of his body. He lets out a heavy, dismissive breath as he scrubs at his face, loose curls parting to reveal one heavy-lidded eye and a bleeding nose.

Louis forces down a lump in his throat, "…Y'alright?" He repeats stupidly, though the answer is obvious.

Harry just chuckles, a lopsided grin spreading across his face, showing off his slightly-too-long front teeth, "Whas' it look like?" he slurs, arms flopping out to either side, "Havin’ the time of my life. Care to join?"

And oh, good. Even barely conscious, he's still a complete prick.

Louis' jaw tightens slightly, actively reminding himself that he's just trying to help, "You look pissed." He says, despite himself, "You can barely stand."

"Brillian' observation." Harry bites, readjusting himself upright again. "Any other gems of…of wisdom?” His voice is sloppier, slower than normal, but still cutting—sending that familiar shudder down Louis' spine.

Louis huffs out a frustrated breath, running both hands through his fringe. What the fuck is he even doing here? Out in the rain trying to help someone who's been nothing but cruel to him since they met. Someone who mocks every single word that comes out of his mouth and doesn’t deserve a single ounce of sympathy or time.

All of that, even now, and Louis' still standing here like some brainless git, always playing good guy when the smart move would’ve been to just go home like he’d originally planned. 

He rolls his eyes, giving a curt, "Alright, mate," before starting to turn around, already regretting the moments he's wasted trying to do the right thing.

But as he starts to walk away, the jingle of keys coming from behind him pierces through the air, forcing Louis to stop in his tracks. He spins around just in time to catch Harry pushing himself off the wall, staggering forward with purpose and heading straight towards disaster.

"No. No, no, no." Louis’ feet are already moving.

He speeds along the pavement, eyes locked on Harry's swaying form, with blood rushing through his skull. He already knew Harry was stupid, but getting behind the wheel while pissed takes the fucking cake.

"Hold on now," Louis lunges for the keys in Harry's hands, but his longer arms keep them just out of reach. Even completely fucking drunk, the bastard still has the advantage of height over him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Harry grimaces, his body tensing as he jerks his arm away.

Louis hops up on his toes, swatting at the metal being held up over his head, "Give me the keys." He tries to sound firm, "You're not driving like this."

Harry's laugh is loud, echoing off the pavement as he furrows his brows and starts to walk away again, "Since when d'you care what I do?" He swings his arms around defiantly.

"I don't," Louis grits between his teeth, springing for another grab and failing. "But I'm not letting you drive off a bridge because you're a fucking idiot."

"Letting me?" Harry stumbles as he whips around, nearly falling over Louis. His eyes are wild and unfocused, but unmistakably angry, "You don't let me do anything."

They're too close again, sharing the same whiskey-scented air. Louis' throat constricts as his eyes drift back up to Harry's, his stomach tugging at the sight of dried blood oozing under his nose, the fresh bruise on his jaw starting to mottle into a light purple.

"What happened to your face?" The question escapes Louis without thought.

"What happened to your leash?" Harry sneers, knowing exactly how to get under his skin.

He tries to shoulder past Louis then, but his unsteady legs tangle beneath his large frame, tripping him over his own clumsy feet in his pursuit. Out of sheer reflex, Louis catches him just in time, his hands gripping onto either side of Harry's biceps.

And for a moment too long, they freeze in that position, the warmth of Harry's skin burning Louis' palms through his sheer blouse.

"Get your hands off me," Harry snaps through clenched teeth. “Now."

"No." Louis protests, tightening his grip. His heart's pounding so hard he's certain Harry can feel it through his fingertips. "Not until you give me the bloody keys."

Louis should be alarmed by the way Harry's eyes darken at the order, or how his chest heaves in silent warning to not to teeter any further. But Louis holds steady, too stubborn to back down now.

"Keys," Louis repeats, louder this time.

Harry exhales an amused breath, dropping his gaze down to where Louis' fingers are digging into his arms. And just when Louis thinks he might have to wrestle the damn things out from his clenched fists, Harry's shoulders finally slump and the keys hit the pavement with a small clatter.

He yanks himself roughly from Louis' grip, leaving the skin still tingling where they'd touched.

"Wonderful," Louis mutters, trying to swallow whatever's currently sticking to the back of his throat. He bends over to scramble up the keys, pocketing them quickly before Harry can change his mind. "Alright, where's your car?"

Harry's lips curl into a small, mean little smile, "Don’t have one." He shrugs, eyes glinting with spite, “Those are my flat keys."

Louis just gapes at the drunk mess standing in front of him, pausing before pressing his fingers deep into his eye sockets to keep from fucking strangling him.

"Right," He breathes out sharply through his nose, hands slapping down to his sides. "And where do you live?"

"Why? Got a habit of stalking?"

"I'm offering you a lift home, you absolute twat." Louis snaps, regretting every single poorly thought-out life decision that's led him to deal with fucking this.

Harry stumbles back two steps, considering Louis' offer while his glassy eyes slowly roam around his face.

Louis forcefully looks away.

"Don' need your charity." Harry decides, nodding resolutely, "I can 'andle myself." He extends his hand out, nearly smacking Louis in the face with his fingers, "Keys."

"It's not fucking charity," Louis squints at his outstretched hand, smacking it out of his face, "It's basic human decency. Something you clearly wouldn't understand."

"Sure," Harry lets out a sloppy sound of a laugh, leaning a bit too forward for Louis’ liking, "If that's what makes you feel better 'bout yourself."

Louis inhales deeply, squeezing his eyes shut in one last futile attempt at keeping himself from lunging at Harry. He reminds himself that he’s just drunk, counting backward from ten in his head slowly, just like his mum taught him when he was little. But the numbers all blur together, offering little to nothing for his already dwindling patience.

"Last chance," he says evenly. "Either tell me where you live, or I'll leave you here to crawl home on your hands and knees. Your choice."

Harry stares at him blankly, bobbing stupidly from foot to foot, and after what feels like forever, he finally mutters something that sounds like an address, not  bothering to say thank you as Louis guides him over to the car.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The rain patters hard against the hood, each drop a reminder of how spectacularly shit this night has become.

Louis has been driving in circles for thirty-five minutes. What should have been a fifteen-minute drive turned into three wrong turns and a dead end.

As it turns out, having a completely obliterated prat in the passenger—who swears he knows where his flat is—and a dead phone doesn’t exactly make for a smooth ride. But after a few more mumbled directions, Louis manages to get both of them to Green Quarter in one piece. A miracle, really, considering Louis didn’t shove Harry straight out of the moving vehicle like he wanted to.

This part of the city, Louis never frequents, and for good reason. It's nothing but trendy, expensive, industrial flats with overpriced avocado toast and yoga studios. It's exactly the sort of neighborhood Louis imagined someone like Harry would live in, costing a fortune for the privilege of exposed brick and proximity to the heart of Manchester.

Even in the dark, through sheets of rain, he can make out the pretentious wine bars and artisanal coffee shops dotting the streets while the tires of his car rattle over wet cobblestone.

Pulling up on the unfamiliar street near a back road, Louis eyes a six-story complex made of weathered brick. Another one of those dingy old warehouses-turned-posh-apartments type things. Fitting, he thinks.

"Okay then," He blows air out of his cheeks, pulling back the clutch. "Here we are."

He just wants this part to be over, do his good deed for the year, and call it a night. But after waiting for a second or two, the rain is the only sound breaking the silence.

Louis glances over at Harry, whose head is tucked uncomfortably onto his shoulder, his mouth slightly parted with his chest rising and falling in the soft rhythm of sleep.

Did this prick really—

"Oi." Louis waits for any form of movement.

Nothing.

He inhales steadily through his nose, gripping tight against the steering wheel.

"Harry," He tries again, firmer this time.

Still nothing.

The bastard is properly out, dead to the entire world like he hadn't just derailed Louis' entire evening, forcing him to play designated driver to someone he already can't stand. It doesn't help that Harry absolutely reeks of whiskey that’s probably seeping deep into the fabric of his seats, adding another layer of regret to an already miserable night.

"Fantastic,” He rolls his eyes. Louis' fingers tap along to the drum of the rain while he contemplates his best options.

He starts by shaking Harry's shoulder, hand hesitant to touch as if approaching a wild bear.

"Come on," He treads lightly, "You can't sleep here, mate."

His frustration only grows when he's met with a soft grumble of complaint. Harry's brows pull together like he has the right to be annoyed right now when he’s the one passed out in Louis’ fucking car.

"Harry," Louis shakes him harder this time, Harry's arm flopping around in his hold, "I swear to fucking god—"

But Harry just burrows deeper into the seat, nose scrunching unconsciously at Louis' apparent pestering.

Louis throws his head back against the headrest with a surrendering thump and a heavy groan, his knee starting to bounce irritably.

He’d thought—hoped, prayed, fucking begged—that the dinner party would be the last time he'd have to deal with this absolute fucking nightmare. That he could spend the rest of his life making excuses and dodging plans whenever Mina tried to drag him along to anything Harry-adjacent.

But somehow he's found himself trapped in some sort of fucked up maze where every turn he takes leads to a pair of green eyes at the end of it.

This time, they just happened to be shut.

Louis needs Harry out. Out of his car, out of his night, out of his fucking life. And for a split second, he debates just leaving him here, opening the passenger door and letting gravity do all the work.

But then he catches on the dried blood at the edge of Harry's nose, the bruise on his jaw already deepening to a darker shade of purple, and despite his internal seething, Louis finds himself wondering what the hell happened—who had Harry pissed off this time.

He tears his gaze away. Not his problem.

"This is fucking stupid," Louis kills the engine.

Begrudgingly releasing his seatbelt, Louis swings his door open with a wild force, the slam shut doing little to stir the sleeping menace left of him.

Rain immediately soaks through his jacket while he stomps around to the passenger side, sending mental bullets through Harry's skull as he sinks even lower in his seat, completely unbothered and utterly incapable of being anything but a bloody nuisance.

"For fuck’s sake, get up." Louis' hands hover uncertainly before gripping onto Harry's forearm, trying to maneuver six feet of dead weight out of the car. Harry's limbs flail around uselessly, and Louis almost drops him twice before glassy eyes finally flutter open.

"Don't fucking touch me," Harry mutters as he slowly registers what's happening. He swats at Louis' hands harshly, nearly toppling out of the car and face-first onto the pavement.

"You can barely stand, idiot," Louis says through clenched teeth, watching Harry's legs wobble around like a newborn deer trying—and horrendously failing—to find its feet. He catches Harry by his shoulders, somehow managing to steady him upright again with his back pinned up against the car.

"M'fine." Harry slurs, trying to shoulder Louis off with purpose, "Just need sleep."

"Yeah, well," Louis grunts as he pushes Harry back against the window with determination, "You're not sleeping in my fucking car."

With one hand holding steady against Harry's chest, Louis reaches into his jacket pocket for the set of keys he'd snagged earlier. A small collection with one FOB attached to it, labeled 4B.

Harry tries to snatch them back but misses entirely, "Give those—"

"Shut up and walk," Louis fists the keys in his palm, turning around awkwardly to throw Harry's massive fucking arm over his shoulders. He grimaces at both the touch and the height difference, practically bent double, as Harry's weight threatens to crush him while they stumble to the entrance.

"Don' need your fucking help," Harry mumbles into Louis' hair, still weakly trying to pull away.

"Yeah, because you're doing such a brilliant job on your own." Louis bites, suppressing a shiver at the hot breath fanning against his ear. He tightens his arm anyway, securing a better grip around Harry's waist to keep him from slipping.

At the entrance, Louis fumbles with the FOB in one hand while balancing drunk Harry with the other. It slips out of his grip once, then again, because his hand is slightly shaking from the rain and Harry’s head won’t stop bobbing into his.

Louis swallows hard as he tries to swipe it again, ignoring the way Harry’s wet curls brush against his cheek, rolling down onto his neck, or how the heat of his body keeps pressing in closer and closer.

When the doors finally open, Louis sighs in relief, instantly furrowing his brows when he’s met with nothing but a narrow corridor lined bare with exposed brick and rusty industrial piping.

There's no doorman, not even a light bright enough to see where the hell he's going. Just a small directory board pinned haphazardly on the wall listing various businesses.

"This isn't—" He starts, but Harry's dead weight nearly sends them both crashing into a wall, "This isn't a flat." He says again, yanking Harry's arm higher onto his shoulder.

"Lift," Harry's voice is heavy with sleep, still commanding, of course, like he's stating the most obvious thing in the world, "Fourth floor."

Louis exhales sharply but obliges anyway, his confusion only deepening as he drags them further down the hall towards the service elevator. The metal doors are covered in layers of stickers and graffiti, giving the whole place an underground feel that makes his head spin. He jabs the button repeatedly, praying that the damn thing actually works.

The last thing he needs right now is to haul these non-working limbs up four flights of stairs.

"Don't you dare fall asleep again," Louis warns while they wait. "I swear I'll leave you right here."

Harry just hums, head lolling against Louis' neck in desperate search of a pillow.

Before he can react, the elevator arrives with a concerning screech, only one side of the doors opening wide enough to reveal the inside. Three mirrors line the cramped space, multiplying their reflection back to them infinitely.

Louis catches a glimpse from every unwanted angle, Harry draped over him with his eyes half-shut and his own face red with irritation, merely seconds from exploding.

"Get inside."

Louis pulls Harry into the death trap, and Harry starts sliding down again almost immediately. "Jesus Christ, would you just—" He grunts, hauling Harry upright. "Stand still for two fucking seconds."

"Stop touching me," Harry murmurs in complaint, making no real attempt to separate.

"Gladly," Louis blows a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. He chooses not to acknowledge how Harry's fingers have somehow twisted into his jacket.

The elevator jolts to a stop at the fourth floor, making Harry's knees buckle in his grasp. Louis drags them out to another corridor, this one stark with tall white walls reeking of fresh paint, and harsh fluorescent lights that make Louis' eyes strain.

"What the fuck…" He whispers, blinking down the sterile hallway for an explanation, adjusting Harry's weight again as if the motion might somehow make sense of it all. But none comes, just black, peeling lettering falling off the walls labeled: Studios 4A–4D.

Louis decides to follow it anyway, his shoulders starting to ache from Harry’s considerable weight. It's then that he starts to notice all the different brass nameplates on the doors. Some belonging to photographers, others sculptors, and a few painters.

A studio building?

"You're an artist?" Louis arches a brow, gaze lingering on one that reads "S. Blu- Mixed Media" with a small painting of a bird beneath it.

Harry doesn't answer, the clunk of his boots bouncing off the quiet.

"Is that why we're here? Is this your studio?" He tries again, curiosity getting the better of him.

Another unintelligible grumble is all he gets in response.

Harry seems more interested in using Louis as a human crutch than answering any kind of questions.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Studio 4B's nameplate is conspicuously blank compared to its neighbors.

Three attempts with the key and one well-aimed kick later, Louis shoulders the door open, dragging Harry's body in with him.

Darkness stretches out before them, broken only by the dim light filtering from the hallway. There’s an instant smell of leathery spice and wood, tangled with an overwhelming hint of bitter chemicals and paint in it.

Harry. 

So overwhelmingly Harry it makes Louis' stomach ache.

"Where's the lights?" His hand finds the switch, sputtering fluorescents to life, casting a blinding white over the room that makes Louis wince and Harry groan.

Louis pauses in the doorway.

The studio, if you can call it that, is barely the size of his and Mina's bedroom, yet somehow contains what looks like an entire life cramped into four walls. It's messy, littered in thick, markered writing half-hidden beneath collages of overlapping poster paper and charcoal sketches. There are books stacked everywhere, not just on shelves, but serving as actual furniture, and newspapers carpeting the floor, smothered in acrylics and wrinkled.

In the far corner of the room, a mattress lies directly on the floor, sheets twisted and unmade as if Harry left in a hurry, or maybe never bothered making them at all. The only hint of order comes from a clothing rack nearby, perfectly lined with flowing blouses, black jeans, and leather-heeled boots that probably cost more than everything else in the space combined.

It dawns on him then that this isn't just Harry's studio.

This is where he lives.

But how would that make any sense? There isn't even a proper kitchen. Just a pathetic-looking couch against one wall, a wobbly table, and a utility sink slathered in ink.

"You…live here?" The judgment in Louis' voice is immediate and unintentional, but Harry doesn't seem to notice or care, making a great attempt to peel himself from Louis' support again.

The movement sends him forward, grasping blindly for the table with a clatter of empty mugs and paintbrushes. Louis' arms instinctively shoot out, trying to catch him at either side before he can fall, but Harry elbows off his touch with a grunt and a scowl.

"You ask too many fuckin' questions." He mumbles in one unintelligible slur.

Louis lets him go, unable to do anything but gawk. His eyes sweep over every unexplainable corner of the room, catching on half-finished canvases and squeezed-out tubes of paint crushed underfoot, leaking onto scraped wood.

No fridge, no bathroom.

There had to be another place. Living under these conditions doesn’t make sense for anyone, much less a pretentious sod like Harry.

He carefully watches as Harry manages the few steps to his bed on his own, collapsing face-first into a pillow with a defeated groan. His feet get caught in a crossfire collection of bottles lining the bed along the way, accidentally kicking and sending them down to the floor.

"Jesus," Louis flinches at the sound, eyes drifting to bottles rolling out in every direction. There are at least seven bottles of whiskey there, all different shapes and sizes—some ancient, others fresh enough to spill some of the liquid out of their uncapped mouths and pool beneath it.

Suddenly, things start clicking into place like a particularly unpleasant puzzle that makes Louis’ stomach knot. The perpetual smell of whiskey on his breath, the bruises, the lines of powder in that bathroom. It's not just tonight, and it's not just at parties.

Does Mina know about this?

About her friend sleeping on a mattress on the ground in what's essentially a glorified closet? About the bottles he's keeping as trophies? She’s had to have been here before, right?

He should probably tell her. She'd want to help. She'd probably insist on it.

Louis shifts his weight awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck. When he glances back up, Harry's struggling to toe off his boots, his impossibly long legs wrapping themselves in the fight. He doesn't know whether or not to assist, so he stays perfectly put until each heel hits the floor with a loud thunk.

And maybe it's the way he stubbornly refuses to be helped, or the way all of this makes him look smaller. Almost human.

Whatever it is, Louis knows this isn't his secret to tell. Not yet, anyway.

"O-kay," he says in a resigned breath, mostly to himself. "Time to go." He's seen too much already.

Louis takes a step back, ready to slip out quietly and pretend this night never fucking happened when a small, barely audible mumble comes from the pillow.

"Sugarcube.”

Louis stops, hand frozen on the doorframe. He turns around with his brow furrowed, "…What?" He asks, staring at the disheveled head of hair that's miles away from any coherent sense.

Harry turns his face then, just enough to free his mouth, cheek properly smushed against the fabric, "Sugarcube." He repeats with one arm lifting lazily into the air, pointing at nothing in particular.

As if that means anything to Louis.

Louis just nods with a tight smile on his face, like he understands any of this gibberish. It's the kind of smile you give a small child when they hand you a page full of scribbles.

"Cat," Harry continues with a bit more bite this time, and then: "Water."

"You're literally just naming nouns,” Louis scrunches his face, weighing if Harry’s messing with him or just too far gone for this to even be a joke.

When Harry doesn't elaborate, Louis turns every which way, scanning the cluttered space for an answer. Surely enough, tucked in the far corner behind a stack of empty canvases, sits a pair of small metal bowls and a litterbox. One bowl full of kibble, the other empty.

"Ah, cat.” Louis murmurs under his breath, “Of course, there’s a fucking cat.” No sign of the thing itself, though. Probably hiding from its trainwreck of an owner. Smart animal.

He sighs, shoulders dropping as he runs a hand through his hair. He's done more than enough already, but something about the small request tugs at him more than it should.

"Bloody Uber and a pet-sitter," Louis rolls his eyes, padding carefully around cups of paint over to the sink.

The tap sputters when he flips it on, rust-colored water spewing out before it runs clear. He grabs the metal bowl and fills it carefully, trying not to spill as he navigates it back to where it belongs.

Then a ceramic mug catches his eye, perched on a stack of books to his right, half-hidden beneath a pile of sketches he deliberately doesn't look at. 

His teeth worry at his bottom lip as he looks back over to Harry, lying flat and still as a stone on his stomach.

Louis groans, snatching the mug and rinsing it thoroughly before filling it to the brim with fresh water. The floorboards creak under his feet as he approaches Harry's bed quietly, setting the mug down close enough that, even in his current state, he should be able to find it.

The bruise on his cheek sports darker in this light, purple as a plum and spreading toward his eye. “Water's here,” Louis winces, but doesn't look away. "Try not to drown in it."

Harry doesn't respond, already passed out. Good.

Louis hovers over the bed for a moment longer than necessary, eyes tracing over the wreckage of bottles, the rumpled sheets, and the sleeping boy sprawled across them.

It's completely pathetic and somehow infuriating all at once. Louis doesn't want to feel anything about this, certainly not the unwelcome twinge of concern that's crept its way up to his lungs and nested.

"You're fucking welcome, by the way." He says to the silence, leaping over the cluttered mess on his way back to the door.

He flicks off the light, blanketing the studio back to its darkness before pulling the door firmly shut behind him. 

All he wants is to get back home to Mina, shower off this night, and never step foot into this place again.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The radio blinks 1:45 AM when Louis finally pulls around the corner of his flat.

For a long while, he sits parked in his car, staring out as the rain continues slamming against the windscreen. He lets out a deep exhale, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to shake off both the dull ache settling there and the heavier weight sinking beneath it.

Both exhausting. Both because of Harry.

But neither works.

Nothing seems to work when it comes to Harry, does it? The bastard's cologne is everywhere. Spicy and annoying, circulating in the unmoving air, suffocating Louis, drenched in his t-shirt until he has to crack open a window just to breathe.

So many fucking questions—none of which he’d ever get proper answers to, and now he has to sit here, unpacking whatever the hell became of this night, hoping the unexpected feeling that came with it would eventually disappear too. 

Louis had been so sure he had Harry all figured out. The posh twat with his expensive clothes and pretentious attitude, another one of Mina's mates living off daddy's money in some trendy flat. But now that image sits all wrong in his head, unraveling at the edges the longer he stares at it. Everything he's seen tonight tells a completely different story. One that makes Louis uncomfortable in ways he can't explain.

Still doesn't make Harry any less of an insufferable prick, though.

Louis shakes his head, as if that could make the thoughts slip away, then reaches for the pack of Marlboros he's got hiding in his glovebox, when suddenly something catches his eye under the amber beam of the streetlight: a small metallic glint peeking out between the passenger seat and center console.

Furrowing his brows, Louis fishes out whatever it could be, pulling out the mysterious silver between his fingers, closing his palm around the weight.

A lighter.

He purses his lips, turning it over in his hand. It's heavy and expensive, definitely not one of his shitty cheap plastic ones from Tesco. The silver is smooth around the edges but worn, as if it's been carried around for years. He pauses his thumb when it runs over something rough carved out on the front of it, tilting it up toward the dim interior light.

The letters are faded, clearly traced over countless times by someone's fingers, but still legible:

To H,

Forever yours,

S.

Louis' stomach does an odd little flip. He instantly recognizes the zippo now, paired with initials. 

Fuck. 

Fuck.  

He must’ve dropped it somewhere between passing out and being hauled around like a drunk ragdoll. Louis reads the engraving over once and then twice again, ignoring the way his palms start to sweat beneath the metal. 

He needs to toss this, or shove it deep into the center console, locked away with the memory of the rest of tonight’s events. But this feels…private.

Definitely something Louis shouldn't toss. Something he definitely shouldn’t have. Like a diary. A love letter never meant to be read.

Slumping his shoulders, Louis lets his head fall hard against the headrest, realizing that Harry will more than likely want this thing back. He'll have to return it, there's no way around that. Another stupid reason to see Harry, another dreadful conversation he doesn't want to have.

With a sigh that fogs up the window, Louis slips the zippo into his jacket pocket and pulls out his own plastic lighter instead. That's a problem for another day, he decides. Right now, he just needs to get inside and forget any of this ever happened.

When Louis gets back to the flat, the lights are already on.

He hadn’t expected Mina to still be awake, but he should have known better.

Before he even makes it past the door, she’s already there. Hair rumpled from failed attempts at sleep, her face pulled into a mix of relief and something harder. A look that makes Louis want to turn right back around and brave the rain again.

"Jesus, Lou." She's pushing off the counter with her arms crossed. "Where the hell have you been?"

He freezes halfway through sliding off his soggy vans, trying to muster up something casual, but all he manages is a very unconvincing, "Sorry, love. Phone died."

"I know." Her words are clipped, eyes narrowed in accusation, "Tried ringing you. Multiple times."

Louis kicks his shoes off to the side, taking his time to hang up his jacket. Partly because he's still dripping, partly to avoid her eyes, "Sorry," is all he murmurs again, shifting his legs to free them from how his jeans have gone stiff from drying weird in the rain. 

Their flat is warm, bright in a way that should be comforting, the kind of comforting Louis desperately needs right now, with the familiar scent of Mina's vanilla candles lingering with the sweetness of her evening tea. Everything is so perfectly homey, so perfectly clean. A thought that makes Louis suddenly aware of all the dirt on his shoes and the tiny crack in his chest.

"I even rang Niall," Mina continues, trailing behind him through the kitchen now. Her bare feet pad softly against the tile, the sound deceptively light for the situation, "Said you left the bar ages ago."

Shit.

Of course she'd call him. She probably would have rang the entire Manchester police force if he'd been any later. It's not like Louis to up and disappear without warning, unless he's doing a late-night at the KettlePot and crashing at Niall’s, but even then, Mina always knows about it beforehand.

Louis fills an empty glass with water, keeping his back to her while his mind races. For a moment, he thinks about just telling her everything. About Harry's bloodied face, the zippo, the state of his flat, about how wrong it all felt.

And though he isn't entirely sure why he does it, the lie tumbles from his lips faster than he can process it, "Yeah, walked home tonight." He says with his eyes fixed on the tap, the stream steady and his heartbeat anything but.

"You walked? " Mina's unconvinced, "From Retro's? That's a bit far of a walk, isn't it?"

"I mean, wet as a dog aren't I?" Louis shrugs, giving a half-hearted chuckle. He quickly brings the cup to his face, forcing down two chugs of water.

He's never actually lied to Mina before, not about anything that really matters. This doesn’t matter. Not really. But the truth sort of feels impossible to explain. That he spent his night hauling around her drunk, beaten-up mate into his shoebox of a flat he isn't even sure she even knows about.

He's almost certain that if this was something she was aware of, she would've made it her problem from the start, she’d have dragged it into their perfect little bubble and tried to fix it all herself.

Mina's eyes rake over him suspiciously as he focuses on another desperate chug, "And what about your car?" She glowers, taking another step forward.

"Had a few," he says to his half-empty glass, "I'll grab it in the morning." Louis chucks it in the sink before turning over to her with an uneasy grin.

He watches as Mina chews on her bottom lip, still trying to make sense of it all. But his clothes are wet and his hair is dripping. The evidence backs up his story even if his conscience doesn't.

She studies his face for what feels like eternity before her shoulders finally relax. The worry lines smooth from her forehead as she wraps her arms around his middle, "You did the right thing, babes," she murmurs against his chest. "Not driving, I mean."

Louis feels nauseous, but smiles into her hair anyway, hooking his damp arms to complete the hug. Here she is, proud of him for being responsible when he's just fed her complete and utter bullshit. The embrace feels wrong against his clothes, like he doesn't deserve the comfort.

"Yeah," he swallows, peering down at her gentle face. His hands are clumsy as he runs them through her hair, trying to ground himself in the familiar gesture.

"Though next time, ring me, yeah?" She presses a kiss to his collarbone. "I would've come picked you up."

He nods, offering faux-understanding. It's so fucking stupid. He should just tell her about Harry, but something had stopped him, some inexplicable need to keep that fucked-up moment private.

The Harry he'd seen tonight is so far removed from the one Mina seems to miss all the time—the memory of her smaller, shyer, childhood friend that she's still clinging onto, the one she's been trying to convince Louis still exists. This Harry lives in chaos, surrounded by half-finished paintings and a secret drinking problem. He fights in dirty pubs and keeps love letters disguised as lighters. It's unsettling and real in a way that frightens him.

Telling Mina feels like betraying that reality, reducing all of it down to just another story about Harry being difficult. And somehow, Louis knows it's more than that. It has to be.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the image of Harry collapsed on that sad excuse of a mattress, "Course," he forces a smile, "Sorry again for worrying you."

Mina yawns against him then, crisis apparently averted, "Come on, you're soaked through. Let's get you warmed up."

As she tugs him toward their bedroom, the heaviness presses against his ribs. They tell each other everything. Yet here he is, holding back this strange night with Harry as though it's something precious. It doesn't make sense. He hates Harry. Or at least, he thought—

No.

He definitely hates Harry. A sad, broken story won't change that about him.

Still, as she helps him peel off his wet shirt, her touch gentle and caring, the lie squeezes around his heart. He tells himself it doesn't matter, that it's just one small omission.

One lie.

Such a tiny thing, really. Microscopic. It barely even counts.

But deep down, he knows there's a fracture there, and Harry’s somewhere in the middle of it, most annoyingly, in how his mind keeps wandering back to that cramped studio where he's probably still passed out from drinking himself stupid.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

He couldn't stop touching it.

Every few hours, while floating through tables, Louis' fingers would find the engraving of the metal zippo tucked safely in his back pocket, dragging his thumb along scratched letters until it dulled beneath his skin. By now, he's memorized every single groove and ridge, an old, weathered map he never wanted to learn.

The thought of seeing Harry again, facing him when he might not even remember losing this thing in the first place, is enough to make his palms sweat with dread. It shouldn't be this difficult—it's a simple drive. Turn left at the lights, straight past the shops, yet he sits here, engine idling outside in The KettlePot car park with his knee rapidly bouncing just below the wheel.

"In and out," he mutters to himself, pulling back the clutch. He knows where Harry lives now, that's the problem. He can't just lie to himself about distance or difficulty when the building's only twenty minutes away.

But all he needs to do is drop it off and leave, finally washing his hands clean of this whole fucking thing. Then he can focus on more pressing matters, like not lying to his girlfriend, and doing what any decent boyfriend would’ve done in the first place.

Louis takes the long way over to Harry's studio, purposefully avoiding the main streets and giving ample time to rehearse exactly what he'd say to Harry if he cornered him about it. Something brisk, neutral, careless. Something that masks the knot of nerves he’s been carrying around with him since that night in the bathroom, doubled now since discovering just how deep Harry’s mess really runs.

Not that it matters. This isn't about checking up on Harry or making sure he's alright. This is about getting rid of the evidence burning a hole in Louis' pocket so he can go back to his perfectly normal life with his perfectly lovely girlfriend, who doesn't need to know about any of this.

Harry can sort out his own mess. Not Louis' problem if the idiot's determined to self-destruct. He's just returning a stupid lighter, that's all.

When Louis pulls up to Harry's building, he parks on the kerb opposite, killing the engine and staring out at the peeling green paint on the doors and the long-gone rusted gutters, trying to find some valid excuse to just turn around and go home.

He sighs reluctantly, peeling himself from the seat and kicking open the car door, granting himself one last second to curse under his breath.

Louis pats his back pocket twice before crossing the street, jogging up the steps to give the door two firm tugs on instinct. When it doesn’t budge, he sighs quietly—right, FOB access. He really should’ve remembered that.

"Shit," He turns around, hoping nobody notices him standing there. His gaze drifts over to the ancient buzzer system mounted on the brick, beyond ancient with exposed wiring, sun-bleached, illegible writing, held together by what looks like hope and a bit of duct tape.

Might as well fucking try, he rolls his eyes, pressing the one marked '4B' twice, then a third time just to be thorough. It surprisingly rings for a few minutes, ultimately leading to nothing. Just the hollow echo of static running back at him through the beat-up old speaker.

"Of course he's not home," Louis mutters to himself. That would be too fucking easy, wouldn't it? And there's not even a mailbox or a half-potted plant where he can throw it in and pretend he hadn’t just wasted the last half hour psyching himself up.

There's only one other place he's likely to find him at this hour, and the thought makes his stomach turn harshly, remembering the state he'd found Harry in just over 24 hours ago. Bloodied and drunk in that same god awful pub.

He's already in the car, starting the ignition with nothing but anxiety-fueled purpose. He knows where Harry will be. Has known all along, really. He just hoped he wouldn't have to go back there.

Twenty minutes later, Louis' pacing anxiously along the front of Oscar's, hands busy and nervous with a cigarette. The big neon sign feels more of a spotlight than a welcome, blinking like it's trying to draw attention to him on purpose.

He's already wasted enough time pretending this isn't a bad idea, all he had to do was hope the bastard was inside, hand him the light, and walk the hell away. He hasn't really thought through how to explain it, just silently pray that Harry either remembers or won't ask any questions.

Louis takes a deep breath, then tosses the cigarette to the pavement, killing the embers with just two stomps.

The pub is just as smoky as he remembers, the heavy bass immediately rattling around his lungs when he swings open the door. It's packed for an early evening, filled wall-to-wall with the kind of crowd that makes Louis' skin itch. His vans peel from the floor with each hesitant step as he weaves through a sea of leather jackets and raised pool cues, searching for a particular head of unruly curls.

And just his luck, there he is, standing fully upright this time. Seemingly sober and much more composed.

Louis ducks behind a larger bloke by the bar, heart lunging stupidly with nothing but nerves and no game plan. He watches from his perch, trying to convince himself he’s just waiting for the right moment, and definitely not stalling.

Harry's leaning casually over a round table tucked away in the far corner of the bar, eyes sharp beneath the green lights, and busy, with one ringed hand wrapped around a full glass of whiskey, the other fiddling with the finger of whoever is standing next to him.

Louis shifts slightly, craning his neck around to get a better view.

A man, much older, with perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair, has one hand tugging on the belt loops of Harry's jeans, very flirtatiously. He didn't match the rest of the people in this pub. Didn't even seem to match Harry, sticking out like a pretentious tosser in a navy blue suit.

He had to be at least in his forties, with a leathery tan that matches the shiny, arrogant glint in his badly done veneers. Old enough to be Harry's father, Louis thinks with a grimace, noticing how his fingers slip gently inside the waistband now, tugging Harry two steps forward and into his space.

It's possessive and fucking weird, especially when Harry leans into the motion with a smile brighter than Louis has ever seen from him. No cruelness, no bitter bite. Just Harry, tilting his head forward with interest and laughing, letting that same hand slip back toward his hip with a deliberate grab.

There's a small sourness building in Louis' chest as he idles, shifting in place, and not really knowing what to do next. This man could more than likely be the ‘S’ etched on the lighter, reminding Louis just how little he knows about Harry. Maybe he's into old blokes, which, great, good for him—it's really none of his concern, but he’d be lying if he said it doesn't leave a nasty taste lingering in his mouth.

And just as Louis makes the active decision to walk away, the man's hand raises up to Harry's jaw, fingers pressing into the soft, bruised skin until his pink lips part between his demanding fingers. The gesture is enough to make Harry's grin falter for just a fraction of a second before it's right back in it's place, but Louis catches it. Sees the way Harry tries to maintain distance, using both of his hands to lower the mans touch even as he starts to crowd him against the table.

The man pulls Harry closer, right between his legs, but doesn't ease on the painful grip that's making Harry wince or flinch, visible discomfort that Louis just can’t ignore. And when the man tries to forcefully pull Harry’s head down toward him for what looks like a kiss, Louis' already on his feet, striding over because Harry, the volatile prick who'd nearly started a brawl over a game of pool, would never let anyone manhandle him like this. Something has to be wrong here.

"Harry, there you are, mate!" Louis clears his throat, injecting false cheer into his wavering voice. His heart is pounding about a mile a minute, adrenaline spiking as his feet carry him toward the table without rational thought, "Been looking everywhere for you."

He pulls together a tight-lipped grin as Harry's head snaps up to meet his, eyes widening in recognition before narrowing dangerously. The older man's hands loosen their grip on his jaw before slightly turning in his seat, assessing Louis with a cold calculation that lingers long enough to make Louis regret opening his mouth.

"Sorry to, uh, interrupt," Louis continues despite the fact he has no fucking clue what he’s doing. He takes one deliberate step closer into their already confined space, "But Mina's asking for you," His eyes dart back over to Harry's, "Something about a thing tomorrow? Said it was urgent."

Harry and Louis hold each other's gaze as the man sweeps his eyes over Louis from his fringe to his battered trainers, his expression falling into something similar to disdain, "And you are?" He murmurs, placing his hand back to Harry's hip with purpose, thumb brushing over the waistband with claim.

"Louis," He swallows, glancing down to the man despite the urge to look away, "Harry's mate. Pretty sure I just said that about five seconds ago."

The man just hums, not at all amused, "Well, I wasn't aware we were expecting company tonight." He turns back around to Harry, hand sliding higher up his waist, "Were you, darling?"

Harry's jaw clenches at that, "No." His eyes never leave Louis', an unclear warning flickering behind them, "I wasn't."

"Look," Louis says, almost too quickly, trying to grasp onto whatever he can to get Harry out of this, "I wouldn't interrupt if it wasn't important—"

"Then don't," Harry grits between his teeth. "Tell Mina I'll call her later."

The older man's lip curls into something ugly, refocusing back on Louis with a sleazy, self-satisfied wink, "You heard him." He dismisses Louis with his free hand, "We're busy. Run along now."

Louis scoffs, staring down at his hand with disbelief. He's heard that sort of tone before, the kind that either makes you want to run or fight. And despite the nausea rolling through his stomach, Louis plants his feet harder into the floor, refusing to budge.

"Actually," he says, glancing back up to Harry with another smug grin, "I promised I wouldn't leave without you." He shrugs, clicking his teeth and cocking his head. "Proper pest, Mina can be sometimes. Won't take no for an answer."

Harry's eyes flash dangerously at him, clenching one fist tight at his side, "You really can't take a fucking hint, can you?"

 Louis' lips twitch despite himself, "Not one of my better qualities, no."

"Alright, this is becoming tedious, doll." The older man huffs, pressing his fingers into Harry's waist. The pet-name makes Louis want to fucking gag. Gross.

"It doesn't have to be," Louis shoots back, though his mouth has gone dry now from the tension, "Harry can just come with me, and sort out whatever..." he waves his hand vaguely around them, "this is another time."

The man stares blankly between Harry and Louis, before exhaling and shaking his head in thinly veiled contempt. When he finally frees his grip from Harry's side and stands up from his chair, Harry's shoulders go rigid.

He blinks himself quickly out of his heated stare, "Wait, James, hold on—"

"No, no." The man— James then, not 'S'—steps back with detached indifference, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve, "Think I've lost my appetite for the evening." He declares with a sneer, "We'll continue this discussion when you've sorted out your... interference problem." He gives one last look at Louis before turning around.

"W-wait," Harry says quickly, reaching out for his arm. "Just—give me five minutes to sort this, I promise I can—"

"I'll call you." James cuts him off, one hand raised in the air with finality that drains all of the color in Harry's face. His mouth hangs open in stuttered protests, eyes wide and unblinking, fully locked into stunned silence.

The moment James is swallowed by the crowd, Harry slowly turns over to Louis. His mouth is still slack, nostrils flaring with each heavy breath catching in short bursts, betraying his already ice-thin composure.

The fear in his eyes has crystallized into something worse, something dark that burns and makes his entire body tense with silent fury, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Harry nearly shouts. He raises both of his hands to his head to pull himself together, though it only makes him more agitated, "Who the fuck asked you to get involved?"

"What? I was just trying to—" Louis starts to explain, but the rage radiating off Harry and the stares from the people around them make the words die right in his throat.

Harry laughs, staring at Louis incredulously, almost daring him to say something stupid. "You have no idea what you've just fucking done," His voice shakes as he takes a step forward, "No fucking idea."

Louis can only stand there with his mouth hanging uselessly now, as Harry turns quickly and shoulders through the crowd with a force that makes people stumble out of his way, sending drinks sloshing and curses flying in the aftermath.

And for some idiotic reason, probably the same one that got him into this fucking mess, Louis follows on instinct because some stupid part of his brain thinks he can fix this with his need to understand.

He knows he's probably making everything worse, but he can't stop the feeling that letting Harry walk away right now would be the bigger mistake. Not when he looked more scared than angry.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Louis stumbles on the way out of the pub, eyes tracking leather boots as the boy in them storms frantically along the pavement.

The street buzzes around them with drunk students staggering between crowded pubs, late-night shoppers, and taxi drivers honking impatiently. None of them seemed to notice the hurricane of anger sweeping through.

Harry doesn't look back as he whips around the corner with a fist clutched tight in his hair, almost strong enough to pull out some strands, and Louis scrambles to keep up, his untied shoelaces smacking relentlessly with each step.

There's a very loud and obvious desperation in Harry's anger, emitting off his body in a sweltering heat that Louis feels even from a distance. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand why Harry is so bothered when anyone with a working pair of eyes could've seen that he was uncomfortable with that predatory twat's hands all over him. Anyone with half a brain would've done the same thing to stop it. At least he hopes.

"Hey!" Louis cuts between a group of people waiting in line for a club, their heads all turning around at his shout, "Harry, wait—hang on!" He tries to match Harry's stride, but can't, his feet slamming so hard they might crack the pavement.

It's both tragically ironic and utterly humiliating how Louis found himself in this position. A week ago, if you'd told him he'd be willingly chasing this prick down the middle of Oxford for no other reason than to help him, he'd have assumed he was either drunk or severely concussed. But here he is, lungs burning and pride left somewhere back near Oscar's, desperately calling out to Harry as he ducks beneath an underpass, too far to reach but too close to give up on.

"Harry, Jesus fucking—wait," Louis repeats, cheeks burning with heat, "Just slow down a fucking minute." He huffs, gaze darting between Harry's rigid shoulders and his white laces, careful not to lose his footing.

Harry stops abruptly in his march, whirling around with a sharp force that nearly sends Louis crashing into his chest. He jumps back, halting on his toes before he gets the chance.

"What the fuck do you want!" Harry's voice ricochets loudly off the tunnel walls, arms swinging wildly at his sides, "Haven't you done enough?" He exhales a sharp breath, lungs working overtime in the cool air while Louis tries to catch his own, hands finding his hips as he bends slightly at the waist, breath rasping out of him like he’s just been punched.

"What is your problem?" He manages with a heavy sigh, wiping some sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I was trying to help you. That guy, he—"

"Help?" Harry's eyes widen, his voice pitching up an octave. He pulls his lips into a disbelieving smile, raising both of his fists in the air, "You just cost me three hundred quid, you absolute fucking moron." His fingers curl around in a strangling motion like he's mere seconds from throttling Louis right there on the pavement.

Louis drops his brow, not at all understanding, "Three hundred quid?" he asks, "What are you on about?"

Harry takes a step back then, properly laughing to himself as he drops his head to his chest. After a moment, he glances back up to Louis, eyes venomous despite his soft voice, "You just love getting involved in things that aren't your business, don't you?"

And maybe he was right, but the signs were all there. Louis had seen the way that man made Harry visibly uncomfortable, clear as day. Even if Harry hadn’t said anything loud, his entire body had, and what was Louis to do? Let him?

"That bloke was all over you," He argues, shaking his head, "He was—"

"He was what?" Harry's eyes flash between Louis', "Being friendly? Buying me drinks? What exactly did you think was fucking happening in a pub at nine o'clock on a Thursday?"

"I-I don't know, alright?" Louis throws his hands up, already frustrated and defeated. "You looked uncomfortable. I was just trying to—"

"To what? Save me?" Harry's scoff is cruel, "From the big bad man at the pub?" He inhales deeply before running an agitated hand through his hair, "Christ, you're really more stupid than I thought."

Louis bristles, taking a step forward, "I'm not fucking stupid, Harry. I saw the way he was touching you. He was pulling you around some like fucking—" He stops, swallowing the rest of the words because, honestly, what’s the fucking point? Harry’s too far gone for anyone’s good intentions to even matter.

"No, don't stop now," Harry shakes his head, signaling with his hand for Louis to continue, "Since you're so invested in my personal life, please tell me exactly what you think you saw." He points with a faux-smile plastered on his face, a grin that's full of teeth, completely void of trust, "Go on."

And Louis wants to laugh, out of nothing but pure frustration that he’s even wasting his breath on this prick. Still, he can't help the stubborn part of him that worries even for the worst types of people, "You know what he was doing. He was being a fucking creep," He bites, "He could've hurt you. Those kinds of men they—"

"Those kinds of men?" Harry's eyes narrow dangerously. "And what kinds of men would those be, Louis?"

"The ones who don't take no for an answer." Louis clenches his jaw, remembering the way the man's fingers had dug into Harry's skin, "Thinking they can do whatever the hell they want just because they've got money."

A quick, amused little breath escapes Harry, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he smirks like it’s funny. He bites on his top lip, curls shaking sideways as he thinks hard on what to say next. Then he steps closer.

"Well, not all of us can afford to live in fancy flats, now can we?" He shrugs dismissively, "Some of us have to make do with what we’ve got.”

He holds onto Louis' gaze then, daring him to understand exactly what it is that he's not saying. It takes about a second before Louis' expression falters, something cold and hard settling in his stomach as the pieces slowly start clicking together.

"That's not—" Louis starts, then pauses, blinking blankly, "You can't be serious?"

But Harry just huffs, rolling his eyes like Louis was the problem here. Not this heavily loaded, unspoken confession.

Louis swallows, furrowing his brows, "Harry, you can't be serious. There are other ways you can—"

"Other ways?" Harry's expression hardens, his jaw ticking like he’s winding up to bite. His voice flat now, deadly calm in the way that makes Louis' stomach turn, "Yeah, I'm sure you'd like to share some of that serving wisdom of yours. Tips on how to survive on minimum wage?"

Louis holds his hands out, placating. "Look, I'm just saying it's not safe."

"And where does it concern you?" Harry takes another step forward, looming over Louis, "At least those types of men are honest about what they want. Unlike those who pretend they're happy playing house, riding off their girlfriend’s father's income."

The jab lands exactly where Harry intended, low in his gut.

Louis feels his face rush hot with heat, "Shut up, that's not—"

"What, struck a nerve?" Harry presses, sensing weakness. "Everyone can see how miserable you are. I'm just the only one calling it how it is."

Biting back on his cheek, Louis' chest heaves as Harry leans forward, jabbing the knife where he knows it fits best. His lips part like he's about to say something, but the words don't come.

"You want to know what I really think, Louis?" Harry's voice drops lower, each word precise and cutting. "I think you're too much of a fucking coward to stand on your own, so you let everyone else make your decisions for you."

Each syllable rips through a different artery, setting a blaze through Louis' lungs as he lunges forward with a hiss, "Why are you so fucking awful?" He grabs a fistful of Harry's t-shirt, "What the fuck made you such a shitty person?"

With the last shred of patience he has left, Louis slams Harry against the grimy underpass wall, the impact making a dull thud that echoes around them.

"Is this what you want?" His forearm presses hard into the divet of Harry's throat. "To be so fucking miserable that no one can stand to be near you?"

But the reaction Louis gets isn't what he expects.

Instead of fighting back or shouting, Harry's lips part with a soft gasp that sounds nothing like anger. His eyes flutter shut, just for a second, as his body falls pliant against the wall. When Harry's eyes open again, they're dark with something that makes Louis' stomach flip.

He freezes, suddenly aware of where every part of their bodies connect. Harry's rapid pulse beating on his arm, the heat of Harry's chest against his own, the way Harry's hips press firmly against his stomach. Neither of them move, both caught off guard by whatever the fuck this is.

Harry's breath comes in short, shallow pants against Louis' face, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey. There's a look there. A weird fucking look Louis is certain he's only imagining. And it makes his heart race even faster.

The moment lingers with the sounds of cars passing through the tunnel until Harry seems to remember himself, slamming his walls back up so fast Louis almost gets whiplash. Harry shoves him off with enough force to make him stumble back into a tree, the bark snagging on his jacket.

"Congratulations, you've really helped, Louis." His voice is just as sharp as before, dripping with bitter disdain, "Now I get to figure out how the fuck I'm going to eat this week."

He straightens his wrinkled t-shirt roughly over his hips before pushing past Louis and disappearing into the night, leaving Louis standing there wide-eyed, with trembling hands and the warmth of Harry's body still stuck on his.

The metal zippo long forgotten in his pocket.

Chapter Text

Sleep is starting to feel like karma’s sick idea of a joke, taunting Louis from just beyond his reach.

He tosses and turns on Egyptian cotton—Mina's choice, of course—nearly sliding off them every other minute, kicking and stretching his sweaty legs out for the perfect position that might finally drag him under. But it never comes.

Even the whirring fan is useless against Louis' body heat, now wrapping around him and trying to strangle his conscience. And all because of that curly-haired parasite, squatting in his mind where actual important things should be.

He just can't get over what he saw, what he found out.

James. The whole mess. That fucking look. Harry's job?

Even calling it that feels wrong for what it is.

Now it's nearly two in the morning, and he’s still wide awake, stewing in sheets that feel too expensive and a room that feels too small, his stomach aching every time his mind drifts back to that underpass. Which is constantly, apparently. Because that’s exactly what he needs, isn’t it? To suddenly give a shit about Harry, of all people, out of the 8 billion on the planet.

In a fit of frustration, he flops onto his belly, clamping his eyes with a huff like that might shut off his brain completely. When it doesn't work, he rolls onto his back, blowing out a resigned breath through his cheeks, kicking his heels deep into the mattress.

Three. Hundred. Quid.

Louis tries to swallow down his guilt, staring up at the dark ceiling and watching the shadows of passing cars dance along the moulding. That's how much money Harry would've… made… if Louis hadn't intervened. And though, it's really none of his business what Harry chooses to do with his life—or, um, body—the idea makes him feel like crawling right out of his skin.

Somehow this knowledge alone overpowers all of the horrible shit he'd spewed at Louis from the start; about himself, Mina, his job, his life. He now feels entirely responsible for taking away Harry's means of survival, and there’s no un-hearing it, no pretending it doesn’t matter.

Maybe he should have minded his own business. Should've kept walking, kept his mouth shut, kept his nose out of things that don't belong to him. Should've let that lighter fall straight through his pocket until it fell out somewhere between here and never. Harry probably already has a collection of them from god knows where anyway, from god knows who .

Maybe Louis should have... what? Just watched? Let whatever he thought was happening just happen? He never meant to get in the way of Harry's personal finances. For fucks sake, he just thought he was helping. He was trying to do the right thing. He was just—

"Lewis! For Christ’s sake, stay still."

Mina's groan spits him right out of his looping spiral, suddenly aware of the hole he's been gnawing in his bottom lip. He releases it quickly from his teeth, blinking at her wild hair as she turns to look at him over her shoulder, eyes sunken and irritated, "You've been moving around for ages, babes. I'm exhausted."

"Sorry…" He winces, reaching out to brush the strand that's fallen over her mouth, "It's just, um, too hot in here."

She sighs, readjusting so that she's facing him now, hand reaching up to cup over his flushed cheek, "You've got to try and get some rest, love." She softens her impatient tone, running a gentle thumb over some stubble, "You know we've got brunch in the morning and you've got that suit fitting right after. I need you to be present, okay? Especially if daddy's going to be there."

"Your father's coming?" Louis wrinkles his brow. He tries not to sound too strained, though he can’t really stop the faint edge of dread creeping in.

"I've told you this twice already," Mina drops her hand back between them with a pointed thump, "He's paying for the suit, remember?" She props up on one elbow then, eyeing him like he’s about to forget again, "And please, try not to mention the restaurant this time. You know how he feels about—"

"Me being a server?" Louis says, a little exasperated, having heard this cautionary warning several times before and not really needing another one in the midst of his restless guilt. Their last dinner had been bad enough—her father's subtle jabs about wasted potential wrapped in careful pleasantries, while Mina squeezed his thigh under the table in silent warning. "Yeah, I'm well aware, Mins." He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to erase the tired tension that lives there.

"Lou," She warns softly, "He just wants what's best for us, alright?" Her hand finds his chest in the dark, "He means well, and all I want is for you two to get along, so—"

"I know, I know." Louis catches her hand, squeezing it twice to hopefully stop wherever this conversation is headed. Rules set out for him, perpetually on display, with every movement judged whenever her dad is near. Always forced to keep his cheeky remarks aside with his collar propped correctly, sitting all polite and composed, like a proper knobhead does or whatever, "I'll behave." He adds lightly, kissing her hand so she'll let it go.

He stares just past her at the wall as she goes on, mentally cataloguing tomorrow's expectations while the image of him keeps intruding, painfully uninvited, at every single turn.

"…and you know how important this is," Mina continues through a yawn, plopping her head back onto the pillow with eyes drooping shut. "Anna's counting on everything being perfect, and daddy's already paid for the deposit."

He nods along in the darkness, though inside he'd rather do literally anything else than spend hours being prodded and pinned while discussing wedding details. He'd rather work a double shift at the restaurant. Hell, he'd rather clean the entire flat with just his toothbrush.

But Mina cares deeply about impressions, even half-unconscious, she's still trying to shape him into something her father might approve of. His fingers twitch with familiar urgency at the thought, Louis knowing exactly what might help to distract him from the weight of everything he can’t fix about himself overnight.

So carefully, he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, craving the sharp rush of cold air and nicotine to cut through the ache in his chest.

"Where are you going?" Mina mumbles, her words muffled and drawn-out from sleep.

"Just need some air," Louis runs his tongue over the sore spot he's been biting on his bottom lip, soothing over the faint taste of copper. "Thought I'd have a quick smoke."

Mina sighs heavily again, but rolls around with her back facing toward him, muttering something about 'needing to quit' and how he should 'really start thinking about his health', her words trailing off as she buries her face in the pillow.

Louis says nothing as he quickly grabs his grey jumper off the bedpost, pulling the rough fabric over his bare chest and sliding up the hood. His movements are rushed but careful, trying not to give away how badly he needs to get out of the room.

Quietly, he slips out of the bedroom, padding through the living room and over to their small terrace. The air is an immediate reprieve, damp and cool, clinging hard enough to bite, and carrying the heavy scent of rain, smoke, and distant petrol. He lets the late-night sounds of the city busy his ears instead of the nagging thoughts that fill his head, latching on to distant sirens, the rumble of late buses, and someone's music floating up from a few floors below.

But of course, nothing seems to work.

Not even a cigarette can ease the way his leg bounces with crisis, that god-awful nested ache spreading throughout his body with speed.

Louis' learned more about Harry in the past twenty-four hours than Mina probably knows after years of friendship. It's all sitting wrong in his chest. These aren't his secrets to know.

Mina talks about Harry like he's wandered off into some sort of self-imposed exile and just needs coaxing back out. If she only knew. If she had any idea what her childhood best mate was actually up to, what he's become, and Louis can't tell her, can't ever tell her, can't even look her in the eye when she mentions Harry's name without a sour taste rising in his throat.

He's stumbled into something much darker than anyone realizes, trapped with knowledge he never wanted and now that stupid fucking number keeps echoing in his head. While Louis worries about having enough tips for a round at the pub or taking Mina out on a date, Harry's stuck wondering how he'll eat this week. Finding dangerous ways to figure it out.

Three hundred quid. He doesn't even spend that much on groceries in a month, does he? Not with Mina splitting the cost, not with his staff meals at The KettlePot. A whole week's worth of food, bills, and however much it costs to sleep in that closet he calls a home. And Louis waltzed in that grimy pub, trying to play hero in a story he had no right being part of, thinking he knew better, thinking he was helping.

He snags his phone from his sleep shorts, staring at the bright screen and scrolling through apps until his eyes burn, trying to find any which way he can to distract himself. But before he swipes away from his homescreen, his thumbs hover over a delivery app he'd downloaded ages ago but rarely uses. He almost forgot he had it. They usually cook at home—or rather, Mina usually cooks. It's healthier, she always says. More grown-up.

The cherry of his cigarette glows orange in the darkness as he hesitantly taps on the screen. His heart kicking up at his mind drifting back over to Harry's cluttered space and that painful lack of kitchen. That silver cat bowl filled with more food than Harry probably has.

He takes another drag, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him this is a terrible idea. But what's the alternative? Let the guilt eat at him instead?

Groceries & Essentials, the app helpfully suggests.

Louis clicks through, frantically adding items as if his thumbs could outsmart his brain:

• Protein bars (the good kind, not the chalky ones that taste shit.)

• Ready meals (actual proper ones, no pot noodles.)

• Fresh fruit (stuff that won't go off too quickly without refrigeration.)

• Bottled water (because who knows if that janky tap is even safe.)

• Cat food (the expensive kind, because why not.)

Each item an apology he can't say out loud.

£74.83. The cost makes him audibly groan, resting his sweaty forehead into the palm of his hand. This is really fucking stupid. The dumbest, most idiotic idea he's ever had about Harry yet. Harry would absolutely, without a doubt, be furious if he knew what Louis was doing.

If he knew.

Louis quickly switches to the delivery instructions: Leave at door, buzz Studio 4B. Then, he clicks the 'Send as gift' option. For anonymous purposes, he's not a complete idiot. And before he can change his mind, he hits confirm with a force that nearly punches all of the air out from his lungs, feeling like he just might throw up over the railing.

His phone screen blinks back at him with the confirmation:

Estimated delivery: 10am-12pm today.

He sighs, starting out at the city that stretches out before him, a maze of twinkling lights and shadows. Somewhere in there, Harry is probably still awake. Still angry. Gone the night hungry.

Louis runs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. He should feel better about this, shouldn't he? Like he's done something good? But he doesn't. Instead, he just feels like he's making everything worse and worse the more he tries. Digging himself a grave when nobody even asked him to. Maybe this would all be easier to handle if Harry was the one with the shovel. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

"Just a few more minutes, Mr. Tomlinson."

Sweat pools beneath Louis' collar as he attempts the impossible, standing perfectly still while tiny silver needles hover menacingly near his inseam, each one daring him to flinch. He feels absolutely stupid standing here, arms stretched out like a marionette, wearing a slim-fit burgundy Burberry suit, all while desperately watching his phone light-up over on the table for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.

He has to mentally curb the violent urge to snag it, the last time he tried, his hands were swatted by the man threatening his skin with pins.

"Mr. Tomlinson, please," the tailor sighs again, glaring up at him through his tiny glasses. "We're nearly done."

Louis glances over to his reflection in the three-sided mirror, the way-too-expensive suit pulled taut around his thighs. He nearly groans at how good it looks on him. Because of course, it does—it's meant to. Mina will love it, which means he’ll owe every crease and stitch to daddy dearest, grinning like a good boy when giving all his overly formal, sugar-coated gratitude and thanks.

His phone buzzes again, three quick successions that nearly make him choke on his tongue. When he glances over, he can see the familiar tracking bar gleaming bright and clear.

The delivery.

Harry's groceries.

He'd been fidgeting around all day, sneaking glances at his phone beneath the table at brunch to monitor the order's progress, popping his head back up with a sheepish smile whenever Mina angrily nudged him to pay attention to her parents.

He'd even sent a bloody thumbs up emoji in the bathroom when the shopper asked him about substituting nectarines for peaches. Promptly followed by an urgent google search: What the fuck is a nectarine?

As if Harry would actually give a shit about what kind of unexpected fruit showed up at his door.

Wait, shit, fuck, his door!

"Sorry, I—I just need to—" He points hesitantly, scrambling off the velvet platform for his phone and ignoring the tailor's exasperated scoff. Quickly stepping back on, Louis shields the screen from view, heart thudding loud as he frantically swipes to unlock it.

He squints at the red little dot hovering near Harry's building for a few agonizing seconds. And then:

Delivered: No answer. Left outside front door.

With a photo attached of plastic bags propped outside the lobby's door.

"Shit..." Louis whispers, then louder to the tailor, "Sorry, work thing."

His stomach churns as he stares helplessly at the photo, the bags sitting exposed on hot concrete with the contents painfully visible through translucent plastic. Anyone can nick them, or worse, Harry might see them and think they're rubbish, left out by some tosser who couldn't be arsed to find a bin. He can already picture them ending up in a skip before Harry even knows that they're meant for him.

The tailor clears his throat pointedly, and Louis forces his arms back out to his sides with a tight smile, though his fingers are wrapped firmly around his phone with enough force to crush it. He manages the rest of the fitting without glancing at the photo, even as that sad image keeps materializing in his mind, like protein bars and fancy kibble has been burned through his retinas.

By the time he's changed back into his jeans, the afternoon sun is blazing over his car, those nectarines probably already starting to rot, abandoned and sitting out there like some sort of failed peace offering.

At least he tried. That's what matters, right? He did his part, eased his conscience. Now he can just let it go.

He quickly deletes the delivery app from his phone.

Except three days later, Louis can't stop staring at his screen, thumb hovering over the "Place Order" button, hesitating, knowing he really shouldn’t. The first delivery had been a complete and utter disaster, he'd driven past Harry's building before his shift, just to check, and there they sat, bags still pathetically wilting in the spring heat.

This time, he's fully thought it through, though.

Early morning delivery when Harry's more likely to be home and he'd requested his name written on the bags so that he can properly find it. Instructions so specific even a moron like him can't mess it up.

"Guess whose got another remake?" Niall slams a perfectly untouched plate of Carrot Cake French Toast onto the counter, making Louis jump. He scoffs, roughly yanking a pen cap off with his teeth, "Too carrot-y, apparently." He mumbles, glancing over to Louis with a nudge of his elbow before grabbing a fresh ticket, "You'd reckon if I told her carrots help with vision, she'd be able to read a fucking menu properly?"

Louis lets out a breathy laugh, though he's not really paying attention to whatever it is Niall's complaining about, his usual banter about stupid customers doing nothing to pull Louis out of his catatonic state, eyes glued to his screen, shamelessly hypnotized by the big, red taunting 'order' button.

His fingers hover over it, wanting to do something, anything, even if there's a chance that something will end up rotting on the pavement again.

"Oi," Niall whistles, snapping his fingers in front of his face. "What's up with you lately?"

"Just checking something," Louis mutters, rescrolling through the cart for the hundredth time—bananas, canned soups, granola bars. Nothing too weird. Nothing that screams 'I'm incredibly sorry for sticking my nose in your business, here's some groceries about it.' You know, just basic necessities.

Maybe Harry wasn't home the first go around. Maybe he was…working, or passed out somewhere after another late night. The order couldn't have just sat outside for three days without him or anyone noticing. Unless… fuck, what if he'd been using another entrance or something?

"Checking what, your horoscope?" Niall laughs, trying to peer over his shoulder, but Louis angles the phone away quickly, kicking his foot out to stop him from getting too close, "What's it say 'bout Virgos?"

"Piss off," Louis says without heat, swiping back to add in extra cat treats. He glances over the phone, narrowing his eyes. "Don't you have tables to wait?"

"Don't you?" Niall counters, grinning wide as he slaps the new order on the ticket counter.

Louis ignores him, focusing on the delivery instructions instead.

'Leave by door of Studio 4B. Not lobby' he types into the notes section, shaking his head and immediately deleting it. Too obvious he knows the flat, can't get in without a proper key. He opts for 'Please make sure to deliver directly to recipient,' clicking the anonymous gift option with finality.

"Alrighty then," Niall sings, pinching Louis' side before turning around to head back into the dining area, "Whatever weird shit you're doing, just know I told you so!" His voice trails off between the swinging kitchen doors, leaving Louis surrounded by the clatter of cutlery and the warm scent of fresh bread.

"Shut up," Louis mutters to himself, quickly confirming the order before he can fully change his mind.

£76.45.

He groans, shoving his phone deep into the pocket of his apron. That's one dinner shift's worth of tips gone in a single click. At this rate, he'd have to pick up extra hours just to cover his portion of the rent this month.

"Table six needs their bill, Lou." Jeanine rounds the corner with a brow raised. She stops, waiting for him to notice her standing there. "Unless you're too busy with your phone?"

Louis forces a nod, pushing off the prep counter with a hurried spring, "On it, Jean." He salutes, tumbling back onto the floor and forcing thoughts of Harry and delivery apps somewhere far out from his mind.

A week passes before Louis caves again, the last delivery his latest defeat. Another 'Delivered: No answer. Left outside front door.' notification.

£155.28 washed down the drain and nothing to show for it except his own mounting frustration and lack of sleep. He didn't even bother checking if the bags were still there this time, just pictured Harry walking right past them with his nose in the air, bananas probably rotting away along with whatever's left of his dignity.

He's done. Really fucking done this time.

But now, Louis' staring at the takeaway container that's gone cold in front of him, pushing around udon noodles with plastic chopsticks while Mina fills him in on the latest office drama. He's barely registering her words until Harry's name catches his attention, eyes snapping up to meet hers.

"…and he said he couldn't make it again," She says through a sip of wine, pouting slightly, "Babes, that's like the second time this month." She pauses, glancing down into the red liquid. "I know he gets busy with his art sometimes, but I miss him, you know?"

Louis' chopsticks freeze mid-twirl, doing his best to train his face neutral, "He declined dinner?" He asks slowly, masking his concern.

"Yeah," Mina shrugs, seemingly unbothered that he's suddenly interested. "Said he's got loads of projects to finish." She takes another long chug before rolling her eyes, unknowingly, "Getting him out is torture these days. He was never like this in secondary. He loved going out, was always up for anything."

She says it like she's talking about a lazy friend rather than someone struggling to make rent, and Louis has to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her. She's got no clue, blindly believing that he's too caught up in a hobby to carve out time for her, completely unaware that Harry’s life has drastically changed since their days at school. Louis' silent as she pokes around at some broccoli, chattering about trying to get him out for brunch sometime instead.

Projects.

He takes an irritated bite of noodles. More like he's avoiding spending money he doesn't have. Louis knows exactly how much it costs to dine out with Mina and her mates, he's got the credit card statements to prove it. All those rounds of drinks and shared appetizers that somehow always end up split equally, as if that makes any fucking sense when half the table orders cocktails and the other half nurses tap water.

Maybe Harry was ignoring the deliveries, but Louis knows this means he clearly needs them.

As he shovels more noodles into his mouth, he's pulling his phone out with one hand under the table, opening that stupid fucking app and pretending to check on work messages.

"You alright?" Mina asks carefully, glancing up over her bowl.

"Yeah, just Jeanine about tomorrow's shift," he lies smoothly, adding quick items to his cart. More substantial things this time: bread, jams, canned goods, things that won't spoil.

£70.50.

Louis barely blinks when he presses the check-out button, then shoves his phone away like it burns.

"You sure you're alright?" Mina arches her brow, reaching across to touch his hand.

"Perfect," he says, forcing a smile. "Tell me more about work?"

The fourth attempt happens by accident, he swears.

He’d almost forgotten about it, that small metal zippo buried somewhere deep in his jeans, rediscovered two weeks after that night at Oscar’s while sorting through laundry. It shouldn’t even matter, Harry probably hadn’t even noticed it missing, but once it’s in Louis’ hand again, the tiny 'H' catches the light like it's trying to get his attention, and suddenly his chest feels too tight again.

He tosses it deep into the drawer of his nightstand, right below the the clutter of old birthday cards and dog-eared photostrips of him and Mina at the fair, trying to rid of the evidence and the gnawing weight of it pressing on him, but the feeling still follows as he paces through his bedroom, phone already in his hand with that damn app staring back at him.

£78.22

Last time, he reasons with himself, painfully aware of just how ludicrous this all seems. Charity case, stalker, or idiot. He’s not sure which one fits best at the moment, but it's merely so he can balance out the karmic debt ledger he’s apparently keeping.

Two hours later, he's sprawled out on Niall's beer-stained couch, three matches into the latest FIFA, finally regaining some sense of normalcy. Louis' team is leading, but just barely, thumbs moving absent mindedly over the controller while Niall shouts incoherent nonsense at the screen.

"Somebody better ring Southgate," He cackles, lining up his next shot. "Tell him I’m wasting my talents sittin' here with you."

Louis' scoffs, mouth opening to counter when his phone buzzes twice against his thighs. He jumps slightly, using one hand to fish it out of his jeans.

And the words that flash on his screen are big, bright, and bold:

Delivery: Handed to H. STYLES.

Oh, fuck.

Louis blinks at the screen, raising his phone just centimeters from his face to read the notification over and over again, squinting and double-tapping the screen to refresh the page, not fully convinced.

"And that's how it's fucking done!" Niall hops off the couch with a wild arm swinging in the air, his victory lost somewhere behind Louis' sky-rocketing pulse. "That's what happens when you're checking your phone mid-game, you muppet!" He taunts, tossing the controller aside to grab another Guinness from the fridge.

Louis swallows nervously, glancing back up with a weary smile before reading those words again, hoping if he stares long enough, the letters might rearrange themselves into something a lot less dreadful.

Harry had taken the fucking groceries.

After weeks of failed attempts and wasted money, he'd actually received it, signed off for it and everything.

Does he fucking know?

The knot in Louis' stomach twists harder, forming into violent nausea. He can picture it with horrible clarity: Harry standing outside his studio right now, surrounded by mysterious, unsolicited bags of groceries, that familiar furrow pulling between his brows as he tries to piece it all together.

"Alright, new match, let's go." Niall places another pint in front of Louis on his coffee table, too pleased with himself to notice the color draining out of Louis' face. He throws himself back on the couch, kicking both feet up with a lazy stretch, already clicking through the menu to restart the game.

Louis says nothing, shoving his phone back into his pocket, trying to understand why his brain feels so out of control. He wanted Harry to get the groceries, didn't he? So why the fuck does he feel like he's about to flat-line in the middle of Niall's apartment?

"Oh, um, sorry—actually can't, mate," Louis mumbles awkwardly, tossing the controller aside with an unsure thud. He's already on his feet, forcibly shoving them back into his Vans before Niall can try to convince him to stay, ignoring the obvious, disappointed slump in his shoulders when he quickly rushes in one word, "Minasjusttextedgottogo." before snatching his hoodie and fleeing out the door.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Seventeen days is more than enough time for any lingering trepidation to finally fade. At least, that's what Louis keeps telling himself as he absent-mindedly wipes down tables.

He's gotten good at pretending everything is normal. Better than normal, even. He laughs at all the right moments during dinner, remembers to text Mina during his breaks, and keeps his voice steady when Harry's name comes up in conversation. And now the weather is warmer, the sun's out later, and Louis' apprehension of being caught out has supposedly flown away with the spring breeze.

The good news is he can finally fucking focus on the things that truly matter again, like picking up his slack at work or spending more time on figuring out what to buy his girlfriend for her birthday. He's already worked enough doubles to make up for what the deliveries cost him, shredding every bit of evidence that came along with it: switching from mailed credit card statements to paperless.

Long gone are green eyes and curly hair from the depths of his mind, tucked somewhere behind all the other things Louis refuses to think about. Mina happily reserved her Friday night out for him, sharing fancy cocktails and bite-sized appetizers, fully buzzing when she came home about how nice it was to just spend some time with him, which should mean everything's done and settled.

Louis has done more than enough with making weird, secretive amends; he can finally let himself breathe.

Wednesday brings a chaos Louis welcomes with open arms, bringing the kind of distracted energy he secretly thrives on. He floats through his late evening tables with his finest charm on autopilot, the aching muscles in his legs protesting twelve hours without a break. The rowdy party of twelve that's been running him ragged all night leaves a hefty tip though, which he'll take as another win despite having to toss a single mum’s number, scribbled underneath her very mortified daughter’s bill.

Left alone with his mop and the quiet, Louis quickly finishes his corner when Jeanine locks up her office, the sound of her keys jingling as she slips them into her bag.

"Almost done?" She pauses, watching him squeeze the last bit of dirty water into the bucket.

He takes his headphones out, surprised to see her standing in front of him now, leaning back against the hostess stand with something soft in her expression. "Oh—um, yeah." Louis nods, wiping some sweat from his brow. He curses their broken thermostat for its inability to keep the restaurant cool. "Just about."

Jeanine smiles, not her usual cheeky grin but a different one, warmer, almost approving, "Brilliant work today, Lou." She says, clearly impressed. "Stepping in for Niall and all, working another double."

Louis' brows shoot up involuntarily, then he glances at the floor, giving the mop another vigorous wring, "Just doing my job, Jean." He says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

He'd cover for Niall at almost any time, but lately, keeping on his feet lets him focus on real, tangible tasks instead of the endless burdens piling in his head. He doesn't say any of that as he swishes around the mop again, not really knowing what to do with the sudden praise.

"No, Lou." Jeanine says with a firm headshake, "You've really stepped up these past few weeks, and I've noticed. Just wanted you to know that, alright?" She tries to catch his eye, but eventually straightens up, patting him on the shoulder as she starts to leave.

The gesture is unexpectedly meaningful, so all Louis can offer is a small, "Thanks, Jeanine. Means a lot," paired with the tiniest, grateful smile, almost embarrassed by how good it feels.

"Don't forget to set the code when you leave," She reminds him, heading toward the door. "And don't stay too late, whatever's left can wait till tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure, alright." He murmurs, still pretending to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain on the hardwood.

When she leaves, he takes his time finishing up, enjoying his little slice of peace, leaving the dining room so spotless, the dimmed lights reflect off the tables like polished glass.

Tossing his apron aside, he starts the wash and punches in the security code, the alarm counting down from sixty. He does one final sweep, checking the front door's locks twice before shouldering his way out the back exit.

Stepping out into the empty car park, Louis lets the cool air wash over him as he fumbles around his pockets for his keys, half-smiling at the thought of his after-shift cigarette, the tiny ritual that always seals the day shut. His feet carry him thoughtlessly, the way they always do, along with the music blaring in his headphones, humming along and savoring the way his brain always feels like calm static after a particularly busy night.

He's barely made it halfway across the lot, maybe twenty feet at most, when he looks up and spots someone slouched against his Fiat, almost casually, waiting for him.

Louis' feet stop moving.

Squinting into the blur of streetlights, he slowly pulls out his headphones, heart stuttering with the sinking realization that someone’s about to fucking nick his car.

Or his phone.

Or the loose change in his wallet. Maybe all three.

He swallows, gauging how much time he has left to book it and run like hell itself is on his heels when his gaze drifts to the floating embers of a lit cigarette, catching the small glint of the ringed fingers holding it. The motion is slow, too deliberate, and the drop in Louis' stomach doesn't ease when he realizes he knows exactly who that cigarette belongs to.

Jesus fucking Christ. He'd rather get mugged.

Louis mutters under his breath, restarting careful steps until Harry's features slowly come way beneath the flickering street lamp, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw and the smug curve of his mouth, lifting high when he finally sees Louis heading his way.

He wasn't aware that Harry knew where he worked, let alone anticipate that he'd ever be waiting outside for him, like some way, some-fucking-how he knew the precise moment Louis would clock out and walk out the door.

When he's about a foot away, Louis stops again, unsure of how to proceed, heart dropping from his throat, "What the fuck are you doing here?" He blurts, and to be honest, it's the kindest possible thing he could say in the moment.

Harry just shrugs, uncrossing his ankle and taking another painfully exaggerated drag, before glancing away from the restaurant and letting his eyes flick lazily over Louis, "Looked pretty busy in there tonight." He says, hoarse voice too calm in its echo.

Louis pulls his brows together, lips parting slightly as he watches smoke curl into the night air, irritated nerves bubbling at how composed Harry looks while Louis feels ready to bolt.

And clearly, he has god awful survival tactics since all he can do is stare at Harry like he’s gone fucking insane, "You've been, what, watching me or something?" He asks defensively, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

Harry scoffs lightly, flicking some ash off the cherry with growing amusement, "I was in the area." His brow lifts, a teasing glint in his eye, "Don't flatter yourself."

"You don't even live around here."

"Do I have to?"

Louis shifts awkwardly, car keys pressing deep into the center of his sweaty palm. Okay, whatever, maybe he's right. Still doesn't make sense why he's standing here, outside Louis' job. Leaning against his car.

"Bit weird, isn't it?" He glances around at the darkness looming over stretches of gravel, the street beyond eerily silent at nearly eleven at night except for the faint hum of a passing bus, then he looks back over at Harry. "Lurking outside someone's work?"

"Is it?” Harry mumbles around the filter, another slow inhale, dragging out the words, "Kinda thought that was your thing."

Jesus.

Glancing away, Louis slouches his shoulders in a way he thinks seems most relaxed, “What’s that supposed to mean?” He keeps his gaze fixed on the broken handle of his car, not wanting to look at him directly.

Harry doesn't let up his stare, humming a bored sound of a sigh, as if none of this is strange, "Nothing." And heat rises to Louis' cheeks at how he lingers with that calm, knowing look that makes his thoughts scatter.

There’s an undeniable something beneath that 'nothing', Louis knows exactly what it means, his stomach twisting hard with sudden understanding, followed by a cold sweep of dread. Harry’s toying with him, baiting him like he always fucking does, waiting to see if Louis is stupid enough to fall for it. Infuriatingly good at it, too, giving just enough of a hint to drive Louis mad while maintaining plausible deniability.

Because, unlike anyone sane, Harry insists on hiding trap doors in every punchline.

When Louis tries to take another side step toward his car, Harry continues, not letting him move too quickly, "You know, they do this decent veggie burger in there," He points his chin toward the restaurant, "Bit overpriced, but not terrible. Have you tried it?"

Louis pauses, frowning, "Are—" He stammers slightly, caught off guard again, "Are you asking me about the menu?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, a thick curl falling over his forehead when he slides around the hood and in front of the driver's side door, blocking Louis' ability to flee.

"Sure, why not?" He drawls carelessly, "We're mates now, aren't we? Since you're so..." Harry pauses, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. "…invested in my wellbeing."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Louis blinks, eyes shooting wider than intended. Warning signs are flashing wildly in front of his face, begging him to take his feet out of dangerous territory. Something he'd felt with Harry before, though never quite this strong.

"…Right…" Louis forces out, betrayed by the redness of his own face. He runs his tongue over his teeth, his pulse beating thick against the metal of his keys. "Well, this reunion was lovely and all, but I've got to get going. So, if you could just..." He gestures weakly at his car, daring another microscopic side step.

A huge wave of relief floods through him when Harry actually listens, pushing off the Fiat without a fight, clearing a path with a polite arm extending out, wry little smile still loud on his face.

Louis tries not to think about the goosebumps speeding up his arms, the night suddenly ten degrees colder and reaching under his hoodie. He especially doesn't think about the way his throat constricts when he fumbles his keys, almost slipping from his grip when he steps towards the car.

"Oh, that was a nice touch, by the way," Harry says, just off the side of him.

Louis' hand pauses over the key lock, meeting his own glance in the window reflection.

"The fruit, I mean." He leans in just enough where Louis can smell the cigarette trailing off his breath. He pulls back just as quick, draping his arm comfortably over Louis' side mirror, "Bananas aren't really my favorite, but I do like nectarines, especially in the summer. The organic kinds are juiciest around August."

"Kiwis are the best fruits, though," He adds lightly, drumming his fingers twice against the glass, "If you were curious what I really like."

When Louis finally turns his head, Harry is staring at him with slow, unreadable blinks, an unwanted counterpoint to his bewildered ones. For a second—just a breath—Harry's glare softens, scanning Louis’ face like he might actually be grateful. But then it’s gone, swallowed by that same sardonic calm.

He knows.

Louis is, without a doubt, irrevocably fucked.

He swallows, wetting his dry mouth as his heart threatens to punch out of his chest. "…What are you talking about?" He goes the playing dumb route, as if that's ever helped him before, but he needs more time to think, hoping to hide just how truly rattled he feels.

"Oh! And the protein bars." Harry ignores him, wagging a menacing finger in the air like he's remembering the taste, "The small crunchy peanut butter ones? " He nods approvingly, "Perfect for after I've gone for a run. How'd you know?"

Louis' feet might as well be glued to the pavement with how they refuse to move, trapped in Harry's soul-sucking orbit—always fucking trapped when it comes to him—while every safety plan he's made in his head crumbles right at his feet.

"You think…that…what…" Louis scratches at his ear, trying to play it cool. "I've been testing your taste in fruit? Trying to buy your groceries or something?"

Harry tilts his head, and there might as well be a big, bright, red neon arrow pointing directly at Louis' forehead that screams: 'stupid fucking idiot'. Any successful attempt he had at playing nonchalance is instantly ruined by how his voice cracks on 'groceries'.

He might as well have just blurted everything out right there.

Louis quickly averts his attention back to the keys in his hands, starting to sift through the rings for the one that unlocks his car door.

"So, you didn't?" Harry asks pointedly, one brow lifting like he’s already got his confession in writing.

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Louis mutters under his breath, shoving the wrong key into the lock, trying to keep his hands busy.

"Hm..." Harry hums with a loose shrug, "Four deliveries…around seventy quid each…” He takes another long inhale, letting the smoke burn slow in his chest before exhaling through his teeth, eyes sweeping up toward the sky like he's thinking deeply, "Want to do the maths with me, Louis?"

When Louis doesn't answer, Harry snubs out his cigarette with his heeled boot, the grip he has around his keys tightening until it almost bites.

All those nights spent checking that stupid fucking delivery app, curating a pantry that was sustainable, effective for someone like him, imagining Harry having enough to eat without hating himself for getting involved in the first place. It wasn't supposed to come back to him like this.

He was just trying to right his wrongs, hoping it was done well enough to get Harry off his back, but now the car park is spinning around his peripheral, his pulse skittering with a cold sweat gathering at the nape of his neck.

"That's what—two hundred and eighty pounds total?" Harry's face darkens, "Or what? Like, three hundred quid?"

Louis knits his brows, shaking his head a fraction too late, "That doesn't mean anything." He says with a short, nervous laugh.

"Same card each time…not a single name attached." Harry takes one step closer, and Louis has to stop himself from stepping back. He lets his hands fall to his side, straightening up to face Harry. "You know that they leave receipts in the bags, right?"

"Okay, well, anyone could have—"

"You're the only one," Harry folds his arms, laughing a deep, low thing that ricochets off the car park. The corner of his lip lifts to meet his malicious dimple, making Louis’ chest cave with the plunge of his heart. "The only one who knows exactly what I lost that night. Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?"

 "Look…" Louis says through a steady breath, wanting all of this back and forth to just be over with, “I really don't know what you're on about, and I've got to get back before Mina thinks—"  

"You're a terrible liar." 

"And you're fucking mental!" It's louder than Louis would've liked, but his nerves are too frayed right now to care about volume anymore. The streetlight above them flickers in the quiet that follows, catching on Harry's ticked jaw as he waits, very patiently for Louis to say something else.

Another bus surges down the street, the sound of its screeching brakes making Louis startle, but he glances back at Harry, pulse thudding harder when he finds him still staring.

"Am I?" Harry finally says with a taunting lilt, enjoying watching Louis squirm over those two very words, "Why'd you do it?"

"I didn't—" The denial comes automatically, pathetically weak.

Harry takes another step forward, then one more, trudging unbearably close until the tips of his leather boots are pressed up against the front of Louis' battered vans, "Wanna try that again?" He asks, leaving only an inch of space between his forearms and Louis’ chest, the leather of his jacket brushing rough when he exhales.

"Three hundred quid, Louis." His voice softens, just a bit, the gentleness somehow feeling more dangerous than anger. "That’s a lot of sympathy for someone you don’t even like." He leans in again, the air between them charged, locking onto Louis with an infuriating mix of challenge and amusement. "Unless it’s not about sympathy at all."

Harry's too close now, making the sweat that's trickling down Louis' neck bleed into his hoodie, slipping fast down his spine as every detail of Harry's face sharpens into painful focus.

He swallows thickly, tracing over the tiny bits of stubble poking along Harry's parted lips, the heady scent of winter fresh and cigarettes still warm on his breath, making Louis dizzy with frustration.

And when Harry lets out another small, knowing laugh, something deep snaps inside Louis, exhausted from letting Harry continuously fuck with his head.

"Because I couldn't fucking sleep!" The words rip out of him, tearing from Louis’ throat like shards of glass, scraping raw and honest.

It’s impossible to take back now, bleeding truth all over the pavement.

"Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you standing there with nothing but expired fucking beans and—" He cuts himself off, chest heaving, realizing he's said far too much.

Harry leans back, eyes narrowing slightly, "I don’t need your fucking pity, Louis. I can take care of myself."

"I don't pity—Jesus," Louis grabs a fistful of his fringe, tugging until it nearly hurts. He runs his palms down his face, his head threatening to combust if Harry keeps looking at him like that. "Stop fucking twisting it, Harry. Not everything is a game!"

"Then what is it?"

The question forces Louis back a step, creating an unsuffocating distance between them. His mind goes completely blank, heart beating in time with his anger, because how can he explain something he doesn't even understand himself? How can he put words to this thing that's been gnawing at him, this uncomfortable pull he's been fighting since the moment they met?

“Well, you’re not exactly the easiest fucking person to help, Harry." Louis' voice cracks slightly, pointing out the obvious, "I knew you’d react just like this, and I still did it."

"Yeah?" Harry follows Louis' step, reinforcing the tension between them. "You always do decent things in secret, or just when Mina isn’t around to see it?

Louis laughs incredulously, shaking his head. “Don’t talk about her—"

"Why? Doesn't she know?" Harry pouts out his bottom lip, voice dripping in mockery, "That her boyfriend's been spending his hard-earned tip money on her poor, poor, best mate?"

"You're fucking insufferable." The words come out more breathless than angry, Harry's proximity making it impossible for Louis to think straight, “I don’t even know why I bothered."

“Yeah, so why did you?” Harry sneers, probing as though he already knows the answer but wants to watch Louis choke on saying it.

Louis opens his mouth, then closes it, biting back hard on his molars.

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one that would make sense—not to himself, not to Harry, and definitely not if Mina ever asked.

So instead, he runs his hands over his face again, muttering, “Just fucking forget it.” Please. Just let this go.

But of course:

“No, why do you care, Louis?”

“I don’t,” He groans loudly, temples throbbing near explosion. He drops his hands to his sides, eyes starting to sting with each angry blink. “You’re right. You’re always fucking right, aren’t you? Just some pathetic act of guilt, that's all it was.”

“Bullshit, you care." Harry laughs, “And you hate that you care, because if you didn't, you would've left me to rot on the curb instead of driving me home that night."

Louis doesn’t answer, he can't, taking deep, shuddering inhales through his nose as his vision swims in colors of red. He glances away, finding the chipped paint of the parking lines to focus on, ignoring how his hands are starting to shake.

“And you wouldn’t still be standing here, trying to prove yourself,” He continues, "Could've driven away ages ago, Louis."

Still, silence.

Harry takes a final step in, pulling back Louis' attention, towering over him with squared shoulders. Louis holds steady in his feeble defiance, though the curl of Harry's lip dares him to crack first.

“And you wouldn’t look at me like that.” His voice drops a notch, barely a whisper.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Louis bites out, nostrils flaring. "Get over yourself."

"Really?" Harry's eyes drop to Louis' mouth for a fraction of a second, "Because you look like you want to hit me."

He's awful.

Extremely fucking awful, but he's right. Louis doesn't know why he's still standing here, doesn't understand why he's trying to make Harry understand his motives when all he does is take genuine concern and twist it into something ugly, something worth mocking.

 "I do," Louis mutters.

He wants to wipe that smug look right off his face. Wants to grab him by his stupid leather jacket and shake him until he understands that not everything is a fucking competition. That sometimes, people do nice things without expecting anything in return.

“Go on,” Harry shrugs one careless shoulder, the challenge in his tone making Louis’ stomach flip. His eyes are all pupil now, watching Louis like he's counting the seconds down until he finally snaps. "Come on, Louis. We both know you want to."

And then:

"Hit me."

Louis' eyes flash with an unmistakable anger. 

Here's Harry, only centimeters from his face, practically begging Louis to do what he's wanted since the day they first met, but Louis finds himself just glaring.

The shake of his heart reverberates through the emptiness of the car park, stirring up a storm of heat. Torn between violence and something else entirely, his focus pinned on Harry's parting lips, watching them form words he barely hears over the sound of blood rushing through his head.

The urge to hit him is there, but now it's morphed into a confusing, volatile, reckless pull that makes Louis' fingers itch to grab rather than punch. His gaze darts between Harry's eyes and then follows the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat moves when he swallows between words, and the slight pink of his tongue.

Louis can't stop staring at his mouth, that infuriating smirk stretching wider with each passing second, like Harry knows exactly what he's doing to Louis' self-control right now. The longer he keeps talking, the harder it becomes to focus on anything else.

Not the thud of his heart, or the faint rustling of wind. Just Harry, egging Louis on, twisting his restraint into danger.

And instead of clenching his fists, launching them square into Harry's nose like he should, like he fucking wants to, Louis finds himself trapped in the whirlwind of Harry's gravitational pull, transforming violence into a desperate need to close the distance, to shut Harry up in the only way his scrambled brain can think of.

Before Louis even realizes, he's surging forward—not to hit, but to kiss him, his last thread of self-preservation snapping in a blink.

His hands grab at either side of Harry's face with enough force to startle him, his fingers diving into the long knots of his curly hair, palms hooking just beneath his jaw.

The kiss isn’t gentle.

It can't be, not with them, but Harry's lips are unexpectedly soft beneath his, warm where Louis always imagined they'd be frigid, cold like the rest of him.

The aggressive clash ignites Louis, lighting sparks through every single vein, until a small, unexpected moan passes through Harry's lips.

And oh, fuck—

Louis rips his face from Harry's, stumbling backward over his feet until his spine hits the streetlamp.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

The impact forces him to bounce forward, nearly knocking all the air he has left in him.

Harry.

He raises a trembling hand to wipe the burn off his lips, reality meeting him like ice water.

He just fucking kissed Harry.

Scrambling for his keys, Louis struggles to keep upright while he frantically tries to slot them into the lock.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." The words tumble out in quick, breathless successions, like maybe if he says them enough times, he can undo what just happened. His chest constricts painfully, panic flooding in, making every new breath feel shorter than the last.

He can't breathe. He can't look up. Can't bear to see Harry's reaction. Can't process what he's just done.

Louis practically trips into the driver's seat when he rips the door open, slamming it shut with a sound loud enough to drown out whatever Harry's saying on the other side. The engine roars to life, and he's already reversing before he's even properly settled, tires screeching against the pavement, accelerating fast and far, skidding from the car park.

His grip is deathly against the steering wheel, still feeling the ghost of Harry's lips pressed on his own, the aching warmth of Harry's cheeks under his palms, and a softness he never expected to—

"No, no, no, no." Louis gasps, shaking his head vehemently as if to physically dislodge the thoughts. 

Street lights and shop signs blur past him in waves of blue and orange, Louis dangerously weaving between scattered traffic in wild desperation to get home. He can't be thinking like this. He's barely even thinking at all, every possible thought crashing louder than the next.

He presses his foot harder against the pedal, wheels creaking with protest when he corners a bit too sharply. His poor, small Fiat rocks violently, cutting fast across lanes, other drivers blaring their horns in his wake.

He barely registers the red light, vision tunneling as fear takes over.

Mina.

Oh god, Mina.

The thought of her waiting up for him on their couch sends another wave of panic through his body.

He kissed Harry.

He kissed his girlfriend's best friend.

He kissed Harry.

Chapter Text

Louis is staring at the front door to his flat.

Still sitting inside his Fiat, parked right out front, he's got his fingernails dug deep into the leather of his steering wheel. He's not exactly sure how long he's been idling here with the engine off, but he's merely an observer to the rot that's starting to bloom under his skin anyway, growing something horrible and irreversible that all started with a kiss.

At some point between fleeing The KettlePot and trying to remember how to breathe, he'd been ripped straight from his own body, lungs pumping mechanically while his hands somehow steered the car home. His brain was too busy tunneling inward, locked in on the single, three-second glimpse he caught of Harry’s face after forcing himself to pull away.

His mouth is still tingling, which is absolutely ridiculous because it wasn't even that kind of—it wasn't even anything. Just a momentary lapse in judgment. A cross in the wires of his brain that made him think putting his mouth against Harry's would be the most ideal, sane solution to his problem.

"Fuck," he says to his empty car, then again even louder, slamming his hands against the horn. "Fuck! "

He glances at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, immediately wishing he hadn't. He looks as shell-shocked as he feels, pupils wide with a horror he's never experienced, cheeks flushed dark red, and fringe unruly from running worried hands through it. He looks exactly like someone who's just had their entire world flipped upside down by a kiss that should have never, ever, fucking happened.

The worst part of it all is he can't exactly tell whether or not he's hallucinating the potent taste of smoke and boy resting on his lips. The taste of Harry's smoke. From Harry's cigarette. That was in Harry's mouth. Which was then on his mouth. He put it there, Harry's mouth.

Harry's fucking mouth.

"This isn't real," He tells his reflection firmly, though the nausea slicing through his stomach is entirely unconvinced.

His ass has gone numb from sitting in the same position for so long, and there's a small taunting ache in the center of his chest. Still, he can't get his body to move, not ready to face what's waiting for him inside.

He fumbles for his phone, desperate for any sort of distraction, only to find three unread texts from Mina. His girlfriend. His actual, real girlfriend, who he loves dearly and lives with and is probably sitting on their couch waiting up for him, watching Love Island, completely unaware that her boyfriend's just fucked everything up.

Mina: Running late? x

He sighs at her text, shutting his eyes tight as if he could wish it gone.

It meant nothing, Louis thinks desperately. Nothing. It was nothing. It was nothing.

But even as he thinks it, his traitorous mind replays the way Harry had fucking moaned against his mouth for whatever reason—a quiet, low sound that rumbled through his entire body like a freight train ready to flatten him, shaking his body all the way down to his toes. The unexpectedness haunts him, echoing through his brain with an unrecognizable heat rushing through his veins, making his hands tremble where they grip his phone.

It's maddening, how clearly he can feel the press of Harry's body, the tautness of his muscles, warm against—

"Stop." Louis whines, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, "Stop it."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The next ninety-six hours are near excruciating. Each minute bleeding right into the next until Louis can't tell what day it is anymore.

He calls in sick to work after Mina leaves in the morning. Jeanine doesn't question it since he rarely does, even on his worst days, he still manages to drag himself in, late or not. He mumbles some sort of pathetic excuse about running a fever and Jeanine wishes him well, though the genuine concern in her voice makes him shove his face right into his pillow until he can't breathe.

Every time he closes his eyes, he's gambling with his subconscious. Sometimes he wins, blessed with darkness—static—nothing else. But mostly, he loses, and losing means dreaming of pink curved lips that don't belong to Mina. Of large hands that might've grabbed his waist, he can't really tell if he made that part up or not. And a small, breathy gasp that startles him awake, leaving him feeling guilty, furious.

And hard.

The first time it happens, he lies there staring wide-eyed at the ceiling,  heart racing, praying for the ache to disappear. He has to force himself to think about other things until it physically hurts him, his imagination running wild against his will, curious in spite of himself.

The second time it happens, he's in the shower before he's even fully awake, one hand braced against the shower wall, the other firmly wrapped around himself. The water's hot enough to burn his skin raw, and Louis tells himself that's the only reason he can't breathe properly.

He presses his forehead against cool tile, desperate for any friction that might save him. But even with his eyes shut tight, he can't stop remembering the way Harry's lips parted against his, that low moan that shot straight through his bones. His hand moves without permission, betraying every single promise he's made to himself.

It's just release.

Just his body being confused. Has nothing to do with the memory of Harry's cologne bleeding into his skin or the idea of ringed fingers touching him or the way those obscene pink lips would feel trailing down to his—

"Fuck," he gasps, hating how his cock twitches at just the thought. This isn't right. He has a girlfriend. A beautiful, loving girlfriend sleeping just down the hall. But it's not her face he sees when he comes with a strangled groan, biting his lip swollen to keep from making noise.

He stays under the spray until his skin prunes, until the water runs cold, but he can't seem to feel clean.

It's not even about that. He's not—he doesn't—this isn't about liking fucking men. It can't be. He likes women. He's always liked women.

Twenty-four years of liking women can't just disappear because of one idiotic, self-defense kiss.

That alone makes his chest constrict, a weight pressing down until he's suffocating. He paces their bedroom at night while Mina sleeps, trying to make sense of what's happening to him. There has to be an explanation. The stress, maybe. The late shifts. The fact that he hasn't been sleeping properly. This isn't him. It can't be him.

Every time Mina's phone buzzes, Louis' heart stops, expecting to see Harry's name flash across the screen with a lengthy, descriptive confession of everything Louis' been hiding. The worry is starting to make him physically ill, glancing at her phone obsessively, jumping at every notification, though he's not sure what terrifies him more: Harry reaching out or Harry's complete silence.

What if Harry's told someone? What if he's laughing about it with his mates right now, mocking Louis' desperate attempt at... at what? Louis doesn't even know what he was trying to do. The possibility that Harry might be just as shaken, just as affected, never crosses his mind. It can't. He can't let himself think about Harry at all.

Mina's starting to notice something's wrong. Of course she is, he's never been quite good at hiding his emotions. She catches him staring at nothing during odd hours of the day, his vacant stare transfixed just past the telly, past their flat, past the walls he's trying to build around his guilt. She watches how his leg bounces in a mindless rhythm, chewing on the ends of his nails during their weekly movie night. Lost in memories he shouldn't be replaying.

"Lou?" Mina's hand lands on his thigh, "You're bouncing off the walls today, you alright?"

He blinks hard, forcing his face back to normal, though his leg seems to have a mind of its own, a frantic, nervous energy he can't fucking contain. His throat closes up when she leans in closer, her perfume enveloping his senses. When she kisses his cheek, he has to fight the urge to flinch away, terrified she might somehow taste the lingering evidence of conflict on his skin.

"Yeah, finally trying to quit smoking," He tells her, and she believes him because why wouldn't she? She has no reason to assume her boyfriend's been kissing boys in dark carparks after work.

Later that night, he's standing on their balcony at three in the morning, cigarette trembling between his fingers. Louis adds sneaking late-night drags when Mina's asleep to the ever-growing pile of ways he's been lying to her.

No more, he thinks, throwing himself into planning her birthday party with the desperation of a drowning man. He researches venues, throwing together an organized spreadsheet of guest lists, budgets, and color-coded timelines, shopping for a bunch of expensive gifts he'll spend years paying off because he needs to be better.

He needs to be the kind of boyfriend who plans a dream birthday. The type that definitely does not beg to cancel it all for a private dinner with just the two of them instead, after seeing Harry’s name neatly written on her 'to-be-invited list.' God, he's stupid to have thought otherwise. But every detail has to be perfect, has to prove… something. To someone. To himself, maybe.

Louis takes the long way to everywhere, avoiding Oxford Street entirely. Can't drive down there. Can't pass Oscar's. Can't make it to The KettlePot without feeling disgusted with himself. When he accidentally turns down the wrong street on Sunday, he makes a U-turn so sharp, he nearly takes out a street lamp. He calls Jeanine from the Tesco car park instead, voice shaking as he lies about still feeling sick. Well, it's at least half the truth.

When Mina kisses him now, he kisses back like he's trying to erase the memory of other lips. Lips paired with stubble, a masculine wrongness that shouldn't have him this fucking rattled. The performance is futile anyway because he painfully remembers everything. The press of Harry's mouth, the heat of his breath, that fucking moan that haunts his dreams.

He doesn’t want to.

God, he doesn’t want to.

Louis sits on the edge of the bed, knuckles white, staring at the wall for a reprieve that never comes.

He gets off in the shower again, pretending he's not thinking about drawing more of those sounds from Harry's throat. Pretending he's not wondering what other noises he could possibly pull from him with just his lips and hands.

"I love you." He tells Mina over breakfast, the words catching like thorns in his throat.

She smiles, beautiful and trusting, and says it back.

He's never hated himself more than in this moment, watching her butter her toast with complete faith in him. Complete trust. He doesn't deserve any of it, but she looks at him like he does.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Two weeks of planning and all Louis can think about is him.

He'd thrown himself into every single detail: securing the perfect venue, gathering the perfect decorations, crafting the perfect cocktail menu, and throwing together the perfect playlist, like maybe if he made everything perfect enough it'd somehow make up for what he'd done. He even went as far as shelling out a few hundred more he doesn't have for a three-tiered cake, as if white chocolate and raspberry swirl would fix the aching rot in his chest.

But the party did turn out perfect, everything Mina could've ever asked for, wrapped neatly in a nice, big 'I have the most perfect boyfriend' bow for all of her mates to take pictures and fawn over, and yet, Louis' anxiety keeps climbing higher and higher the more the night goes on, every laugh, every forced conversation landing painfully wrong.

Perfection is exhausting. But guilt?

Guilt never seems to tire.

The Juniper is Mina's favorite cocktail bar in the city, eight stories above the heart of Manchester with ceiling-to-floor windows casting panoramic views. It's the kind of bar that smells like dirty martinis and old money, definitely out of Louis' price range, and his element, but he'd somehow managed to secure the private back room last minute, complete with a horseshoe leather booth and raised platforms meant for dancing.

Orange lights dim over their table, already littered with empty champagne flutes, confetti poppers, and half-eaten cake slices abandoned on paper plates. Louis stalls the rest of his socializing while bubblegum pop blares from the DJ booth, vibrating through the floorboards and settling right in the soles of his suddenly too-tight dress shoes.

He shouldn't be wasting the night like this, hiding from his own fucking girlfriend during her birthday party, shifting around in his seat like some proper twat who can't even wear a suit right, his collar unbearably tight, blazer too itchy.

It's not even his first time wearing it, he'd bought the damn thing specifically for Mina's fancy dinners and cocktail parties, the ones where he has to pretend to know his wines and laugh at stupid law-related jokes, but wearing it tonight feels suffocatingly different, heavier, making him squirm and tug at his sleeves every few seconds.

It has nothing to do with Mina and everything to do with the perfectly vacant seat that's been staring back at him for the past hour at the far end of the booth.

Empty. Still.

"Louis!"

Georgia appears at his elbow, and he forces his blurry gaze back up.

"You've truly outdone yourself. This is incredible." She gestures around at all of the balloons with her glass, some of the pink dribbling over the rim, "Mina's so lucky, I can't believe how lush this is!"

Mina's so lucky.

His chest tightens at that. Louis just grins back, tipping his glass up at Georgia before quickly chugging, shaking the memory that tastes like cigarette smoke and winter-fresh gum, because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Thanks, I'm actually the worst boyfriend in Manchester?

Peering around the room, he catches Mina in the corner, looking absolutely stunning, weaving through the crowd in her brand new gold mini dress, her smile flashing like glitter in the dark room as she shares celebratory hugs with all of her mates. The sight of her happiness makes him uneasy, too aware of the dreadful anticipation lingering under his skin and looming.

This bar is nothing like the crowded club he first met Harry in a few months ago. No sticky floors or flashing blue lights, but somehow, Louis finds himself in the same exact position—watching the dance floor, drink in hand, except this time his mind is the one drifting over to the door, wondering if Harry will even show up, hoping he won't, hoping he will, hating himself for hoping or expecting anything at all.

"Come on," Georgia pokes at his shoulder, dragging him back to the present. "You clearly need more shots, you've barely moved from this spot."

Louis blinks down at his now-empty glass, rattling melting ice cubes around before hastily agreeing that, yes, more alcohol is definitely the answer to all his problems for once.

By 10 pm, he finds himself three tequila sunrises deep, hand clutching his fourth, and what's two more shots of gin between him and Niall? It's an absolutely fucking vile mix, but the numbing works in all the ways Louis needs it to, settling somewhere far and fuzzy, right at the part of his brain that's responsible for thinking.

And seeing.

Louis stumbles out of the bathroom, the checkered tile doubling and tripling beneath his feet until it hits red plush carpet. A blur of hands and feet part and forms around him like water as he attempts to make his way back to their booth. His shin accidentally clips something solid. A chair, maybe? Or was it one of Mina's mates? He doesn't really care, lost in the smog of his tequila-induced haze.

"Shit, sorry." He murmurs to the chair anyway, using the bars' marbled surface to guide himself forward. The room tilts and spins, but that empty fucking booth stays clear in focus, like it's the only real thing in the room.

Emmy and Georgia had claimed Mina for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, pulling her onto the dance floor in a fit of squeals and drunken giggles. Which, good, he thinks. As long as she's having fun. As long as she's happy, distracted, and not noticing how many times his unfocused eyes keep scanning the crowd for long, unruly curls.

Louis' about a step or two away from the booth when Niall's arms loop around his shoulders, yanking him sideways with a force that jostles his brain around in his head like a small rowboat.

"Drink up, birthday boy!" Sara giggles beside them, shoving a full shot glass right into Louis' hands, clearly having lost track of whose party this actually is.

Louis squints at the clear liquid, not really caring to know what's in it before he slurps it down, barely feeling the burn at this point.

"Hm, close..." Niall sways slightly with a lopsided grin, hands steadying around her waist. He wrinkles his nose fondly, pressing a kiss into her cheek, "Not his birthday, love."

"Oh, oops." She laughs over the music, whipping around in his arms to face Louis again, "This party is mental, Louis. Everyone's having such a good time!"

"Yeah, yeah." Louis coughs out, gripping onto a bar stool to keep upright, "Proper mental."

"Babes!"

Warm arms wrap around him from behind, Mina's vanilla perfume enveloping him first before the soft press of her body against his back, "I miss you so much," she murmurs against his neck, "Haven't seen you all night, darling. Where have you been?"

Louis' hands find hers, squeezing them tight as guilt weighs in his stomach, "M sorry. " He slurs, shaking his head affirmatively, sloppily. "Jus' been busy making sure everything's running smooth."

Mina nuzzles in closer, sighing happily with a gentle kiss to his skin, "Always taking care of me, you."

He opens his mouth to garble some sort of coherent response, but every overwhelming sound in the room seems to fade into a dull, arrhythmic beat, Louis' vision narrowing to a single tall figure scooting in late, right past sliding wooden doors.

Louis blinks one eye at a time, not entirely trusting his observations, but then, through the murk, he makes out the long hair, paired with a set of dark brows that are drawn tight together, furrowed like he's always one second away from being pissed off. Whether he knows it or not.

Fuck.

The shot settling in his stomach rolls right back up his throat.

No one else seems to notice him yet, all too drunk, caught up in the music and celebration. Louis can't tear his eyes away though, watching Harry weave through the crowd slowly with his shoulders set back, craning his neck around the maze of bodies in search of a particular birthday girl.

He's wearing his usual black, the color that always seems to stretch him taller than he actually is. His black trousers blend seamlessly into his black dress shirt, both pieces perfectly tailored to his lean frame, masquerading as some dark angel or model from a pretentious magazine.

Louis' eyes trail from his face to his collar, where a yellow rose is tied around his neck, soft petals a jarring splash of bright against dark. The flower looks completely out of place on him, too delicate in contrast to Harry's sharp features, among the many others.

When they catch eyes, Louis quickly ducks his head, heart starting to kick up in the center of his chest.

"Oh my goodness, Harry!" Mina shouts in his ear, peeling herself off Louis' back. Harry's eyes lock onto Mina immediately, his stoic expression warming into an easy smile, pushing right past Louis in a trail of musky cologne, bicep brushing against him ever so slightly, with not a flicker of acknowledgment.

"Happy birthday, Mins." Harry's drawl carries over the music, dropping one arm over her with the yellow rose pressing down against her shoulder.

Louis shifts his weight between his feet as she squeals in delight, suddenly aware that his hands are still gripping the barstool. He straightens up, unsure what to do with them. Should he stuff them in his pockets? Cross his arms? Fuck. Everything feels wrong as he idles awkwardly, completely obliterated and completely invisible.

"I got you a little something," Harry says then, grabbing a small package that's tucked in the band of his trousers, presenting it with a wink and a smirk. The brown paper wrapping is tied elegantly with a delicate gold ribbon, forcing Louis to roll his eyes as he sneaks a peek from his peripheral.

"Oh, H," Mina gushes, "You didn't have to!" but she's already ripping it open with her hands, eyes widening as her gasp pierces through the clamor. She holds up a turquoise antique-looking leather-bound book in the light, mouth practically falling open at the sight of it.

"Know how much you love Austen," Harry explains while Mina clutches it tightly to her chest, pouting out her bottom lip at him. "Found it at that bookshop you love over in London."

Louis hovers as they fall into conversation about the gift, Harry's body angled just enough to exclude him from their little best-friend bubble. Every drop of alcohol Louis' had tonight keeps him swaying as he stands there like an idiot, trapped between stepping away and staying put, neither option feeling right.

Harry continues chatting with Mina about the book, about his recent visit to London, about everything and nothing, his eyes never once straying in Louis' direction. It's as if Louis doesn't even exist in Harry's world or vision, and somehow that feels worse than any heated row they've ever had.

Everything after is just an overlapping montage of blurry moments and waning memories. Louis loses count of how many tequila-gin-something's Niall keeps shoving into his hands, each one another desperate attempt to excuse the way his eyes keep landing on Harry. Again. And again. And again.

Tracking how many times his hands gently press against mid-backs as he passes through the crowd, how his fingers get lost in the tops of his curls when he’s thinking, charming Mina's mates with that stupid, dimpled smile, and telling stories that have Georgia doubled over with laughter.

When the fuck did he get so bloody social?

Louis' not watching.

He just happens to keep noticing these things. How Harry's leaning over the booth now on the opposite side of the room, chatting with Mina's old Uni mate, Charlie, who's got Harry's full fucking attention. The way his hands wrap around the stem of his glass, head tilted to the side, drinking in every single word being spoken. That fucking yellow rose bobbing every time he laughs. Proper laughs too, not the cruel ones Louis usually gets.

Charlie's hand lands on Harry's upper arm and stays there. He lets it stay there, even shifts closer, smiling, flirting. Louis finds himself wondering what it takes to pull a smile like that from Harry, and his stomach churns violently, swishing with something that feels dangerously close to want.

Shit.

His glass nearly slips from his grip as he stumbles forward.

"Whoa, there…" Sara's voice warps somewhere to the left of him, sounding a lot like they're both underwater. She laughs, hands waving in front of his face. Two of them, then four, then two again. The room can't seem to make up its mind how many there should be. "Had enough to drink, yeah? You look so...wobbly."

"Mhm," He nods absently, not really hearing what she said. "Yeah. More drink." He shakes his empty glass in the air.

"Maybe try some water?" Sara tries, but Louis' already pushing himself away from their spot in the corner, dragging one foot in front of the other with purpose. He needs something stronger than whatever the fuck's making him think he cares about Harry's indifference. He knows he deserves this. And he's the one who wants this, right? For Harry to stay far, far away. He's the one who kissed him. He's the one with a fucking girlfriend.

He decides that if he drinks enough, he'll stop seeing the way Charlie's fingers are tugging at Harry's collar now, leaning in to get a closer look at that rose like it's the most interesting thing in the goddamn world.

News flash.

It's really fucking not.

Louis finds his way back to Mina, heavily wrapping liquid arms around her hips and pressing his sweaty forehead against hers.

"Dance?" He asks, shutting his eyes in hopes of keeping them in one place.

"Lou, you smell like a distillery," Mina scoffs, pulling away from the contact, "You're going to mess up my makeup with your sweat."

"Dance." The word comes out like a plea. Maybe if he holds her close enough, moves with her long enough, everything confusing will just fade away. Louis fits his chin right into the crook of her neck, "Please."

Mina's arms find him, hand nestling into the back of his fringe like she always does, giving him a gentle scratch. The two of them move together slowly against the beat of a fast-paced song, wobbling in small, measured circles on the dance floor. Wrong rhythm. Wrong tempo. Wrong everything. But he keeps moving anyway, keeps pretending this is enough to pull him out of his circling thoughts.

"Having fun, love?" She asks, rubbing her other along his back.

"So good," He lies, nodding against her skin, "So drunk."

Well, he is drunk. Properly smashed, actually. But that's not why his chest feels like it's caving in. That's not why he can't stop his eyes from drifting back to Harry every time Mina spins them around.

Still at the booth. Still laughing. Still never looking at Louis.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

 Louis stops feeling his face sometime after midnight.

The heat of the room drowns him as he slumps against a wall, just right of the dance floor. His thumbs fumble with the buttons of his white shirt, yanking the collar loose when he can't quite get them undone. He'd been dancing with Mina for hours, drinking far more vodka than he'd ever like sober. Anything to keep his mind off of—

Well.

He desperately wants out. Wants home. His room. His bed. And maybe a bin to throw up in. And three slices of pizza. In that exact fucking order. The alcohol in his system has made everything dangerously abstract, even Mina's smile when he'd last seen her, twirling around somewhere with Georgia.

Louis groans, knowing he won't get relief until well past three in the morning, when the bar staff are angrily sweeping confetti off the ground and he has to somehow drag both him and Mina back to their flat with half a functioning brain.

Using both palms to brace against the wall, Louis guides himself back towards the bathroom, dreaming of ice-cold water splashing against his skin. He totters down a long stretch of hallway, where it's much cooler and far away from the sardine press of sweaty bodies. His shirt is disgustingly damp, clinging to his back beneath his blazer, mouth oddly dry.

He pushes through another door that is definitely not the bathroom, shoulder hitting the wall of a service corridor that feels like stepping into another world. When the door slams shut, the party becomes a distant muffle through concrete, and the bright fluorescents overhead make Louis wince, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

At least here, the air is different, less suffocating and more air-conditioned. He resolutely decides that standing in this creepy corridor is much better than being sandwiched between Niall's terrible dancing and the counter to the bar.

"Oops," his hiccup echoes in the quiet, legs shuffling forward.

He doesn't mean to find Harry here, he really fucking doesn't.

But there he is at the end of the hall, one leg stretched out, the other bent up, sitting on the tile floor with his head in his hands. His shirt's gone wrinkled where it's untucked, curls all frizzy from the heat with loose pieces sticking across his forehead. Next to him is the yellow rose, now untied and resting by his hip. He looks tired, obviously seeking solace from the dance floor, much like Louis.

Something irrationally hot and angry surges through him at the sight of Harry sitting there, so he takes another heavy step forward.

The sound of his stumbling makes Harry's head snap up, green eyes meeting his animosity with exhaustion. For a moment, neither of them say anything, letting a faint ringing fill the distance.

Louis lets out a messy laugh that sounds bitter, "Isn't that jus' fucking great?" he mumbles to himself, dragging both hands down his face, "Just fuckin' brilliant."

Harry stares at him through woven brows, eyes trailing from his wobbling feet to his flushed face. Then he huffs a derisive breath, shutting his eyes to tune out the babbling.

Rolling his eyes, Louis takes another step forward, stretching out his hand. "Aren' you goin' say something?" He demands immediately, the slur in his accent much louder out here.

It's not like Harry to keep quiet, given all their other pleasant encounters. He usually makes a sport of getting off on Louis' discomfort, practically thrives on it. By now, he'd already be weaponizing that insufferable smirk of his, eyes sparkling with joy watching Louis trip over himself. But now, he's just sitting there, silent and stone-faced, busy lurking alone instead of taking the piss.

"Nice party…" Harry's slow cadence edges into a question rather than a statement.

Louis narrows his eyes, barking out a harsher laugh this time, "Thas it?" He asks, throwing out his hands in exaggerated disappointment, "All you got to fucking say tonight? What, cat's got your tongue then? No clever words?"

Harry arches a brow, peering at Louis through a very confused side-eye, "What else is there to say?" he says pointedly, "Want me to ask if you're enjoying yourself? Having a grand ole' time? Clearly, you're properly gone, don't really need to ask to know that."

"You're a fucking prick," Louis spits, his left foot catches over his right, tripping him forward. He extends a jellied arm out to balance against the wall, but misses first before he can fully grab onto it, "Why do you always do this shit?"

"Do… what, exactly?" Harry tilts his head, eyes narrowing as Louis' fingers slip for a second time.

"That!—exactly that!" Louis hiccups again, waving his free hand vaguely in the air around him, "Act above it all, like you’re too fucking good for anythin'."

Harry's lip finally pulls into a smirk, and Louis' eyes fall straight to that idiotic dimple, "Above what? Your drunken rambling?"

Louis scoffs, trying to straighten himself up to appear dignified, "No, above this," he gestures between them, growing more agitated. "Like nothing happened. Like you didn't—like we didn't—" he cuts himself off, taking a deep, frustrated breath.

He can't find the right way to put it, not when his brain is spinning, the wall keeps moving, and Harry's staring at him like that.

"Didn't what, Louis?" He sounds infuriatingly calm, which only aggravates Louis more.

"You know what I'm talkin' 'bout, arsehole."

"I really don't." Harry purses his lips, "You should use your words—"

"You kissed me!" Louis practically shouts, the confession he's been swallowing down for the past two weeks finally breaking free. They echo down the empty corridor, bouncing right back at his face to mock him, his sweaty hand slipping from the wall for a third time as the memory floods back, "You kissed me and—and then you just—you act like this, like a fucking dick."

He watches Harry's face scrunch at that, glaring at Louis like he's gone completely mental, and god, Louis wants this to haunt Harry as much as this has been haunting him so he fucking understands. But he's not the least bit unsettled, Harry remaining just as unperturbed and cold as ever.

"If I remember correctly, Louis," Harry says slowly, unblinking, "You kissed me. Then you almost ran me over with your car."

"And you kissed back!" Louis throws his arms out erratically, despising the whine in his voice. He grips at his fringe, knotting at the strands and pulling, "You fucking kissed me back and then you made that sound and then—you just..." The words get jumbled and tangled the faster he tries to spew them out. "You mess with my head—you—"

The smirk on Harry's face falters as soon as Louis' voice cracks, carefully watching how he sways his back violently into the wall, "Louis—"

"No!" He cuts him off, jabbing a wild finger in his direction, "You fuckin' do this shit all the time—you fuck with my 'ead, and then you—you fucking laugh like it's funny. Like it's all a joke to you, like the heartless, selfish, fucking bastard that you are."

Louis' cheeks flush red with vexation, every single cruel word and memory flooding to the forefront of his mind. Despite his embarassingly intoxicated state, he's well aware of how loud he's being, he just doesn't care about who's listening. Maybe he'll regret that later, but right now the world deserves to know the absolute misery and torment Harry’s been putting him through since the start.

Harry blinks at him a few times, the outburst seeming to catch him off guard for once, "Christ," he mutters, pushing himself up from the floor, "How much have you actually had to drink?"

"Doesn't matter," Louis tries to step back, legs not getting the memo. "S'not like you—you can't just—" It's all garbled, emotions and alcohol sloshing together in an overwhelming mix, overriding any common sense, "You can't even say thank you. Can't fucking appreciate when someone's tryin' to help you. Can't even fucking—"

"Louis, okay, enough." Harry says, unexpectedly soft, "You need to sit down, alright? Take a breath."

"Don't tell me what to fucking do," He snaps, trying to step forward but slamming right back into place, "Don't act like you give a shit now." Louis shakes his head, shutting his eyes. "S'not fair. You can't just—can't kiss someone and then—"

"Lou," Harry interrupts gently, the nickname falling strange and quiet in the air.

When Louis opens his eyes again, Harry's doubling in front of him at the opposite side of the hall, still clear enough to make his heart skip a beat. Gone between them is the cruel twist that lives on his mouth, replaced by a very unfamiliar expression. Either bewilderment or concern, something Louis can't really decipher but feels.

He watches as Harry approaches him steadily, hands slightly raised in the air like he's surrendering to his own game. 

"You're drunk…" He continues, the careful shift in his tone keeping Louis frozen in place. "You need to sit down and drink some water. We can't talk about this at Mina's birthday, alright?"

"Mina, right," Louis lets out a loud sound that's half a swallow, half a laugh, "Whatever Mina fuckin' wants, I follow, yeah? That's what you said. You—"

"Hey, stop," Harry says firmly, without cruelty. "You're upset, I understand that, but—" He runs a hand through his curls, the genuine distress only adding to Louis' deepening confusion and anger. "You're way too drunk right now. You need to go back to the party. Find Mina, go home."

"No," Louis shakes his head vehemently, his entire body moving with the motion. He isn't going to let this be another thing Harry gets to sweep under the rug, "I don' need to go home. I wan’ to know why you’re doing this to me.”

It's desperate, but he can't control what comes out of his mouth anymore anyway, drunk defiance taking over him whether he wants it to or not. There's no way in hell he's getting back to Mina without a proper explanation. He'll sit here all night if he has to, waiting for it, staring Harry down until he gives.

Harry sighs heavily, a slight hint of—something?—crossing his face, vanishing just as fast as it came. He bores into Louis with that probing green stare, fully convincing him for a moment that Harry can, without a doubt, see straight through to his core.

He shifts uncomfortably under the weight of that look, skin vibrating with an endless, agitated energy, unsure of what to do next, until Harry's jaw sets in that stubborn line that usually means he's about to say something Louis won't really like.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harry holds out his hand in front of him. "Give me your phone." He finally says, a quiet, low command.

"What?" Louis sneers despite himself, already braced for impact, "No. For fuckin' what?"

"Your phone, Louis," Harry repeats, not as patient this time. "Give it to me. Now."

And he isn't sure why he listens, but he does, Louis reluctantly fumbling around his back pocket, almost dropping the damn thing when he pulls it out with an underestimated force.

He swallows when Harry steps forward, too close in the narrow space, fingers brushing warm against his as he snatches the phone. The touch sends electricity surging through Louis’ arm, and suddenly, he's unable to ask any more stupid questions.

"Code." Harry's eyes flick back up to his, still soft in their formidable authority.

Louis recites his password with his heart in his throat as those clunky rings clack against his screen.

Harry's bottom lip worries between his teeth while he types, a gesture so unconsciously tender, Louis has to force himself to look away before he gets lost trying to study it. When he hands back the phone, their fingers tangle awkwardly again, but Louis catches the way Harry retracts them, almost imperceptibly.

"There. My number," he says roughly, "For when you're sober and not making a fool of yourself at your girlfriend's birthday party."

Louis glances down at the screen in his hand, open to the new contact now living in it. The simple "H." stares up at him, innocently devastating all at once. Such a small thing to make his stomach twist into such complicated knots.

"Oh." He says lamely, all of the alcohol making everything feel a bit too much right now. The guilt about Mina, the weird fucking unexplainable drunk wanting in his chest, the memory of Harry's lips against his. He stumbles slightly, unsure whether to step forward or run away, between what he wants and should want.

When he looks up, Harry's still observing him. Louis thinks he might see his own secret conflict mirrored there, but that's just the drunk talking. He really needs to go home.

"Now, please." Harry whispers, gesturing towards the door, "Go back inside. Mina's going to be looking for you if you’re gone too long."

"Harry—"

"Tomorrow." He cuts Louis off gently, raising a single finger to his lips. He shakes his head with his eyes shut, lashes touching the tops of his cheeks, "If you still want to talk about this tomorrow, we will. I promise."

I promise?

I promise.

I promise. I promise. I promise.

It echoes around in Louis' head like the bass of the next song pulsing through the walls.

The distant, excited cheers seeping through remind him of where he should be and who he should be with. But for just a second more, he lets himself wobble there, under the too-bright lights, memorizing the foreignly tender look in Harry's expression. One he's never seen. Or maybe one he's never let himself see.

Chapter Text

He hasn't gone in yet. Not a lie if he turns around now. Not a mistake if he doesn't follow through.

Louis has his forehead pressed against his steering wheel, staring at the untouched paracetamol resting in his cupholder. He'd rather suffer than risk throwing up again. Once in the taxi on the way home. Then again, in the hallway of his flat. And a third and fourth time in his own bathroom was quite enough for one night, thanks.

His phone buzzes in his pocket again, and he groans loudly. Third time in an hour. He knows it's Mina without looking.

He doesn't need to check. Mina's fury had been clear enough this morning when she'd yanked him from unconsciousness, already dressed and glossed and ready for her post-party birthday brunch. Without him.

"You know, I didn’t even get one photo with you?" She said it with the tight-lipped grin that means she's trying not to care but does. Louis knows she does, and even after everything—the endless bar tab, her favorite songs, those matching pink paper crowns, the gifts—he'd still manage to fuck everything up by making her take care of him on her birthday. Can't handle his drink. Can't be what she deserves. Can't even look her in the eye this morning.

But that's not why he's out here right now, is it?

His sore eyes slowly trail the weathered brick of the six-story building, each floor making his stomach rock a little harder. He hasn't looked at his phone since leaving his flat, not even after Mina slammed the door behind her. Not even after he saw it.

A text he'd sent.

To H.

Burned into his screen, timestamped 3:47 AM. Just sitting there between Niall and Mum like his contact had always fucking been there.

m a teriblke fuckign perosn becuase of u

God, what did he even mean by that? Louis had stared at those words for twenty minutes straight this morning, willing them to make sense, to disappear, to be anything other than what they were: drunk and fucking stupid. He was absolutely terrified of what else he might find if he kept scrolling, thumb hovering over the text thread with his heart stuck in his throat.

There's a worrying gap between midnight and when he got home. Hours where he could have said anything. To anyone. Written down every single guilty thought he's been harboring. Confessed to a kiss in a car park. Or dirty thoughts that have plagued his mind. Ones he can't even grapple with himself.

What kind of idiot sends texts in the middle of the night to the last person he should be fucking thinking about? The kind who corners people in service corridors at their girlfriend's birthday party, apparently. The kind who can't stop thinking about a kiss with a man that shouldn't have happened in the first place.

Harry’s response had come instantly, infuriatingly simple:

H: I'll be at the studio all day. If you still want to talk.

If you still want to talk.

As if Louis has any fucking clue what he wants to say. Like he hasn't spent the entire morning alternating between being tortured by an agonizing headache and every stupid, idiotic decision he’s made in his life.

And yet here he is, parked outside that same studio like some sort of masochist, one second away from face-planting right into a conversation he doesn’t want to have.

The night comes back in fragments, but Harry's expression burns perfectly, his usually lacerating glare softening after god knows what Louis had said. He barely remembers talking to him, let alone getting his fucking phone number and then texting him.

Lately, his body seems to have its own ideas when it comes to Harry. Terrible fucking ideas that lead him to places like this. Exhausted, remorseful, and still somehow reaching for the door handle, like a half-winged moth drawn to a particularly dangerous flame, already singed but stupid enough to keep flying closer and closer.

So much for trying to stay away.

The lobby doors are propped open this time, hallways stuffed and spilling over with people attending some mid-day gallery event. Louis winces as he shoulders through with his head down, wondering if everyone can see that he doesn’t belong here. At least this saves him the embarrassment of having to be buzzed in. Or worse, having to call Harry to let him know he's actually decided to show up. 

His legs still wobble beneath him, but they know where they're headed. Into that janky lift. Up four flights. To Studio 4B. To Harry.

The fourth floor is a soundless, vacant stretch that leaves Harry’s door feeling more like a precipice than a destination, as most things do with him anyway. There are no buzzing artists up here, no loud chatter, just the distant sound of Louis' footsteps echoing off the hardwood floors until a soft, faint hum of music reaches him from beneath the door of 4B.

It's something slow and melancholic that makes Louis’ palms sweat. He shivers off the ache, staring at the empty nameplate like it’s the mouth of something about to swallow him whole.

Louis raises his fist, then drops it, only to raise it again with a painful, hesitant grimace. Unfortunately, the door decides for him first, swinging open fast and leaving his curled fingers hanging stupidly in the air. 

Harry freezes mid-step, hands still wrapped around the handle. For a moment, they just stare at each other with wide, unsure eyes.

And what the fuck—

This isn’t the Harry that lives in Louis’ head.

That Harry doesn’t wear paint-stained t-shirts or soft grey joggers that hang low on his hips. That Harry doesn't have blue acrylic pressed in messy thumbprints against his cheek. And that Harry definitely doesn't have his long curls swept up into a messy bun, leaving his bare face exposed, forcing Louis' hungover brain to malfunction.

It's like seeing someone without glasses for the first time, how it changes absolutely everything. Louis finds himself, very quickly, noticing all the things he'd never had the chance to before. Like how the sharp cut of Harry’s jaw leads to a small pair of ears that stick out just slightly at the sides of his head, flushed pink at the very tips.

His mouth has gone dry, tracking all the short pieces of curls that’ve escaped their hold, flipping wildly around his temples and then behind his neck. It's jarring. Off-putting. Fucking strange. Harry looks softer like this almost, boyish.

Every second seems to shift in Harry's expression, the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips, that Harry-like crease settling right between his brows as he takes in Louis' pitiful, disheveled state.

He's been staring for far too long, he realizes, only snapped out of it when Harry clears his throat.

"…Louis?" His voice scrapes rough, as if Louis caught him in some private moment he wasn't meant to see. Which, given the paint and the joggers and that fucking bun, yeah, maybe he has.

Louis tugs at his Adidas hoodie, brutally aware of how shit he must look in comparison with his hood pulled over his unwashed fringe, probably still reeking of last night’s ungodly mix of spirits. He threw on whatever wrinkled pair of trackies he could find without keeling over, presenting an awful lot like someone efficient in terrible decisions.

"Yeah, um," he coughs out, wincing at the painful, scratchy sound of his own voice. "Sorry, I should've—I should've texted to let you know I was coming." Though he knew he wouldn't have, even five minutes ago, he'd been severely unsure about knocking.

Harry stares at him for a beat, completely unreadable. Louis can't tell if he's pissed off or not, despite being the one who'd invited him in the first place. Maybe it was one of those empty invites, like promising someone to catch up over coffee. Fuck. Maybe Louis shouldn't have come.

He scratches his head before finally stepping back, pulling the door open wider. "Uh, it's alright." Harry nods, gesturing vaguely inside. "Do you want to…"

"Right, yeah." Louis nods with a wince, every word feeling like a mistake he can't stop making. "If that's—I mean, if you're not busy." He looks at the paint on Harry's hands, wondering if he's interrupted something important.

"Was just going for a smoke." He wipes his wet hands on his joggers, leaving a blue smear across the fabric. Harry catches himself doing it and grimaces. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a mess this morning."

Louis almost laughs at that, but doesn't. Between the two of them, he's definitely the bigger fucking mess right now. And they both know it.

"Come in," Harry says quietly, already turning away. "Just...mind the wet canvas by the door."

Daylight doesn’t make Harry’s studio any less suffocating, littered with scattered supplies and half buckets of paints. Louis hesitantly follows him inside, extra careful to avoid bumping into the painting he’d mentioned, propped delicately by the door. He hops around a row of plastic cups, the sour scent of oil paints and acrylics making his nose crinkle. 

The last time he was here, he’d basically half-carried Harry right into his messy bed. It's painfully ironic how the situation had flipped entirely, Harry steady on his feet last night, while Louis could barely keep upright, mumbling some insensate nonsense only one person in this room can fully remember. That thought alone makes his stomach roll worse than any hangover.

Harry's hoarse voice pulls him from his observations. Clearly, missing a question.

Louis blinks, shifting on his feet, "Oh—um, sorry, what?" He fidgets with his fingers, nerves obvious in his restlessness.

"I said…would you like some tea?" The question is far kinder than Louis expects, Harry's tone almost cautious. He's standing uncertainly in front of what he assumes is some sort of makeshift kitchen—really just an electric kettle propped fire-hazardously on a stack of art books, looking ready to burn the entire place down in just one flick.

His gentle offer throws Louis off completely, brows raising as he hovers by the door, "Oh…" He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets. "No, I'm alright, thanks. Unless you've got something stronger."

Harry purses his lips, arching a brow, "Bit early for that, don't you think?" He asks, a slight edge of seriousness there.

Bit early for jokes, it seems.

"Some of us had a long night," Louis shrugs defensively, crossing his arms in need of something to do with all the uneasy adrenaline. He watches as Harry turns to fill the kettle anyway, the old rusty tap only making his nausea roil unpleasantly.

"Hm, I remember," Harry hums with a nod, setting it back on the kettleplate, "Though I doubt you do."

And there it is, that subtle hint of cruel Louis has been waiting for. Familiar territory he knows how to navigate, territory he shouldn't admit actually makes him feel a bit more comfortable in the moment despite it all. Still, he breathes in sharply through his nose, shoulders slumping, "Can we just…skip whatever this is?" 

Harry doesn't glance over as he sorts through an orange milk crate on the floor, fingers drifting over a colorful assortment of ceramic mugs. "Skip what?" 

Louis rolls his eyes at Harry's back, "You acting like you've got me all figured out."

Harry shrugs, picking out a sage-green one and carefully inspecting it in the air, "Maybe I do.” He says simply, grabbing a second mug and looping the handle around the same finger.

"Right," Louis scoffs at his unbothered tone, "Because you're so bloody enlightened."

"Not particularly." He stands back up, reaching for two tea bags now. "You're just not as complicated as you think."

Louis scowls at that, tensing back up. "Fuck you."

"See?" Harry turns slightly, his lips pulled into an annoyingly smug smirk. "Predictable." 

So is that, Louis thinks, but doesn't say.

Harry's eyes fall to Louis' hand, balancing on the door handle now, trying to keep himself steady in the slightly swaying room. "You can sit down, you know?" He tilts his chin towards his two-seater, "Before you fall on your face."

Glancing over to the dingy couch, Louis flinches, not really wanting to give Harry the satisfaction of knowing just how badly he's suffering, "M'fine." He lies, even as he steps over cups on his way to sit.

He wants to argue, but his head is pounding too hard to form a proper retort, and he's about one second away from collapsing entirely. Louis settles for sinking into the ripping cushions instead, begrudingly, but quietly watching Harry's back muscles through his sheer t-shirt as he returns to methodically making tea.

His leg bounces mindlessly as he tugs on the ends of his hoodie strings, closing the hood tight around his head until just his nose and mouth peek out of the opening. If only he’d had common sense and thoroughly thought this whole thing through, conducting some sort of marvelous plan beyond just showing up at Harry's door like some brainless git in headlights.

But there's no hiding behind it anymore, is there? Not with one uncomfortably unasked-for kiss still hanging between them like a loaded gun.

The silence is almost unbearable, Louis forced to sit with his mortifying thoughts through the clanking and stirring of spoons and ceramic. He tries to focus on literally anything besides the way it all makes his ribs ache, coming out of his cocoon to search for a distraction: the old-timey music, the whirr of the kettle, the collection of whiskey bottles still lining the edge of Harry's bed.

Louis wonders if Harry would've hidden those had he known Louis was coming. Then he briefly wonders about whatever else Harry might be hiding in this room.

After another doleful song, Harry finally crosses the room, holding out the mug Louis hadn't asked for but takes anyway, if only to have something to do with his hands. The ceramic burns against his skin, but he doesn't mind it. Anything to keep him from sinking further and further into the seams of this couch until it finally drags him under.

"Sugar?" Harry's standing too close, long legs barely a foot from Louis' knees.

"Uh," Louis readjusts in his seat, shifting over to create an unsuffocating distance. "I'm alright." He keeps his eyes fixed on the mug, too afraid to look up. "Don't take sugar."

Harry nods, settling onto the wooden stool across from him with one knee pulled up to his chest. His hair's already escaping from its bun, short bits flopping around his face. When he reaches up to loosen and retie it, Louis catches himself following the fluid motions of his hands brushing all the wisps out the way, a slight flush starting to creep down his neck.

Because it's these moments. 

These tiny, innocent fucking moments that he doesn't know what to do with.

"So, um, your painting—" he hurries out, desperate to break his own flustered tension. Louis stares at the wet canvas by the door, smothered in one boring shade of dark blue. Then he realizes he doesn't have one fucking clue what to say about art. Especially not Harry’s—or with Harry. 

"Not finished," Harry nips that conversation right in the bud, setting his mug down hard enough to make Louis flinch. "Louis," He calls his attention with an unyielding stare.

And right, yeah. They should probably talk about what Louis came here to figure out.

Avoiding Harry's eyes, Louis shifts uncomfortably, fingers curling tighter around the ceramic handle, "Look—" he stammers, tongue coated in all the defenses he's about to spill. "Last night…Whatever I said, whatever I did, I was off my face, yeah? Didn't mean any of it." It's a half-truth, even if he can't quite recall the full picture.

A soft exhale escapes Harry. It might be a laugh, maybe something else, but Louis can't tell, and that makes him nervous. It's the exact opposite of what he wants to hear right now.

"You mean everything besides cornering me in the corridor?" Harry's deceptively light, pausing to take a small sip from his mug, "Shouting about how I mess with your head?"

Louis winces in humiliation, "I wasn't shouting." Wait, was he?

"No?" Harry pouts out his bottom lip, tilting his head. "What would you call it?"

"I was pissed," Louis shrugs matter-of-factly. "Enough to not make any clear sense."

"Obviously." Harry's eyes don't leave Louis' face, forcing him to look away again. "Though you seemed quite passionate about calling me a heartless bastard."

"Okay, well, you are," Louis mutters petulantly, sinking further into the couch.

"And is that why you texted me at nearly four in the morning, then?"

Louis' heart drops. He pauses, still not glancing over as he stares at the cat glaring at him on the opposite side of the room. He was hoping they'd just ignore that part of the night altogether, but he should've known better by now. Harry always knows exactly when to pull the trigger, each word thought out carefully and placed like a ruthlessly vindictive grenade.

"Like I said…" He says quietly, cheeks tinting red, "I was off my face."

"Sure." Harry shrugs, "But that doesn't answer my question."

The loveseat creaks as Louis shifts again, "What question?"

"Why you're here."

"You invited me," he throws back defensively, "Said I could come if I wanted to talk."

"And do you?" Harry leans forward on his knees, maddeningly calm. “Want to talk? Or did you just come here to dance around the fact that kissing me makes you hate yourself?"

The accusation swings like a metal bat to his chest, knocking all the air Louis had left in his lungs.

Because trust Harry to cut straight through his bullshit, to drag out every truth Louis' been trying to bury beneath alcohol and blinding denial. That's just the uncanny thing about Harry. He sees too fucking much. Understands too well. Reads Louis like an open book when Louis can barely read himself, and it’s excruciating to have to sit through.

It would be a lot easier if he were actually the heartless bastard Louis pretends he is.

"I-I don't..." Louis starts, then stops, blowing a trembling breath from his burning cheeks. He sets his mug down carefully, buying time he doesn't have. "That's not what I said."

"Not in those exact words, no." Harry's face is too exposed with his hair pulled back like this. Louis can't look at him. "But you did say I make you a terrible person. Same difference, isn't it?"

"Okay, can you not—" Louis groans, pressing his palms to his face from the overwhelm. "Do that while I'm literally dying?"

"Dramatic," Harry mumbles with an eyeroll, "No one forced you to drink that much."

"Yeah, well," Louis sighs through his fingers, refusing to drop them. "Mina's birthday and all that." He'd rather blame it on the party itself than his own deliberate choices.

"Right, Mina." Harry watches him carefully, "How is she?"

That question feels severely loaded. Louis should lie, but—"Furious. Left for her birthday brunch without me this morning."

Harry nods slowly, as if this confirms something for him. "And you're here instead of solving things with her because…"

"What?" The rebuttal is immediate, Louis finally dropping his hands to glare at Harry. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what is it about, Louis?” Harry slaps a hand to his thigh, straightening back up. “Because I've got work to do, and if you came here just to tell me you were too drunk to remember what you said, or that you didn't mean it, then you should probably stop wasting my time."

They stare at each other for a breath, Harry's eyes pinned dangerously on Louis while he gnaws at his bottom lip. Maybe Louis is dancing around the subject, but some truths don't come out easily. Especially when he's not even sure what that truth is.

When Harry rolls his eyes and starts to stand, Louis takes a deep inhale and whines on the exhale, "Can't we just be normal for like five fucking minutes?"

"Normal?" Harry’s scoff is sharp, reaching for her mug. "And what's normal for us, Louis?"

"I don't know!" He surges forward to sit up, immediately regretting how the motion makes him nearly heave. "I just don't understand why you always have to act like this" his hand waves wildly in the air,  "It's fucking exhausting."

"I'm just being myself." Harry shrugs.

"Bullshit," Louis watches him move over to the sink, following the tense line of his shoulders. "With everyone else you're—"

"What, nice?" Harry dumps out his full tea with a clatter. "Sorry to disappoint."

"No, that's not—" Louis sighs again, anger pounding against his temples. "You're like a real person with them. But with me it's like...It's like you—"

"I, what? Please, keep telling me what I’m doing.”

"Harry, it’s like you're trying to make me hate you on purpose!" Louis exasperates.

God, he's fucking exhausted. Exhausted of Harry and his constant push-pull. The way he delights in rattling him. And only him. How Harry will show the rest of the world these tiny glimpses of something human, something real beneath his arrogance, only to snap shut the moment Louis reaches for it, like a bear trap clamping around his arm. Every. Single. Time.

He's seen the way Harry exists with others. How he laughs with Mina and charms her friends. Even that practiced fucking smile with Charlie. Or James.

Even here, in this cramped space, there's so much Harry he doesn't understand, exploding from the walls in form of oil-painted canvases and watercolor prints. Because with Louis, every word feels weaponized. Every interaction is calculated like Harry's working overtime to keep him at an arm's length. He doesn't understand why.

Harry remains unconcerned, staring at Louis while he crosses his arms and cocks his hip against the sink. Louis tries to match his rigidity, but it never works.

"When people hate you, they leave you alone," he says simply, as if that response hadn’t just proved Louis right. "Was working perfectly fine until you started buying me fucking groceries."

The groceries.

Louis had almost forgotten that particular disaster in the wreckage of everything else. "Alright," his leg won't stop bouncing. "Forgive me for not wanting you to fucking starve."

"I was doing fine before you, Louis. I keep telling you this.”

"Right," He glances over at the too-short mattress and silk blouses drying off the pipes on the ceiling. All of it making him ache. "Sure seems like it."

Harry's eyes narrow at that, going dangerously still. "You don't get to judge how I live my life."

"I'm not trying to." Louis lies. He is judging. He can't stop judging. Can't stop caring for some god forsaken reason.

"You sure?" Harry slowly rakes over Louis in the way that makes his pulse take off, "Because you seem to spend an awful lot of time thinking about how I live for someone that keeps claiming to hate me."

The silence is deafening. Because that's exactly it— Harry won’t vacate Louis’ fucking mind no matter how hard he tries. No matter how many eviction notices he telepathically sends, Harry’s presence just echoes louder, suffocating every single one of his thoughts until he can't breathe.

"That's the fucking problem, isn't it?" Louis mutters bitterly, hating himself instantly for giving Harry even that much ground.

Harry just ticks his jaw, "And that means...what exactly?" He says it with an outstretched hand, like he’s waiting for Louis to catch up.

"You know what it means," Louis swallows hard, ducking his head. "You were there."

Rolling his eyes, Harry laughs mockingly, turning around to finally pause the music coming from his phone. He shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes to perch one between his lips. Louis tries not to glance over as he starts to light it. Partly because he really wants one. Mostly to avoid looking at his mouth.

"So, we're finally talking about that, then?" He mumbles, flicking the striker.

Louis shrugs dismissively, staring at his shoes. "You're the one who brought it up."

"And you're the one who cornered me," Harry bites, a trail of smoke following his words. "Drunk. Looking for what, absolution? "

"I don't know what I'm looking for, alright?" Louis nearly shouts, and it’s the first honest thing he's said all morning. But Harry is relentless, nostrils flaring with eyes full of venom.

"I think you do know," He takes a careful step closer, waving the cigarette in front of Louis' face. "I think that's exactly why you're sitting here instead of apologizing to your fucking girlfriend."

The mention of Mina makes Louis' shoulders lock tight, absently digging his nails into the edges of the couch. "Stop talking about—"

"What, your girlfriend?" Harry repeats in a searing challenge, "Or, what, the kiss? How you can't seem to stay the fuck away like I keep asking you to?" His voice drops an octave as he keeps stepping forward, cutting all of the distance until Louis can't ignore him. "Why'd you kiss me, Louis?"

Uncomfortable silence dominates the space between them, Louis' heart stuttering erratically in his chest, and he grips the couch tighter, brain scrambling for an excuse, any excuse that won't make him sound like an absolute moron. But he can't find anything to say. Because an absolute moron is what he is.

He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, starting to feel the panic inside him rapidly building.

"Why'd you let me?" Louis deflects, a weak attempt at turning the knife back.

Harry huffs, "That's not an answer."

"Neither is that."

Louis' hands are visibly trembling. He carefully tucks them between his knees, trying to hide the tremors even as his anxiety unforgivably shakes the rest of him. Suddenly, the collar of his hoodie feels too constricting, but he can't bring himself to adjust it, afraid Harry might notice how quickly he's starting to unravel.

The familiar crease between Harry's brows appears, but then something else flickers across his face. He takes two agonizingly slow drags of his cigarette, extra torment for Louis, who can already barely breathe, before scrubbing a hand over his face, like he's preparing for what he's about to say next.

"Maybe I wanted you to," Harry admits, too calmly in contrast to everything else. "That's why I let you."

Louis' shoulders deflate, lungs squeezing helplessly once he registers what Harry's just said. The room starts to tilt sideways, his hangover mixing with something much more terrifying. Because Harry can't possibly mean—

"But you're with Mina," he quickly adds, reinforcing space again as he moves to tap some ash off into the sink. "And I don't do that. Not anymore."

Blinking rapidly, Louis' mouth falls open, sputtering absolute nonsense as he tries to keep up with the violent turbulence, "W-wait—sorry, hang on—do what?" He turns to Harry, squinting in confusion.

Harry pauses, finally breaking eye contact to glance away, "Get involved with people who aren't free to want me back." He murmurs, finishing off his cigarette.

Wait, what?

Back?

Louis' mind whites-out completely, blistering static flooding every corner where coherent thoughts used to live, now consumed by one singular word.

Harry wanted this? 

Harry wanted him?

The revelation leaves him speechless, Louis still staring at Harry with his head pulsing in waves, body reaching a full state of panicked numbness. When Harry finally meets his eyes again, intent on finding something Louis can't offer, Louis nearly chokes on air trying to speak. Because admitting that Harry might not be alone in this, that Louis might maybe—

No.

He fucking doesn't. He doesn't.

The room suddenly feels impossibly small, every sound from the outside that much louder.

"Who says I want you?" His defense wavers, brittle and weak.

Harry just breathes out a hollow laugh, scratching at his chin smugly, "You're here, aren't you?" Like that's all the proof he needs.

Louis clenches his jaw then, so tight the vein in his temple bulges, completely over Harry's insistent need to relentlessly provoke him. "Harry, you can’t—" he stands abruptly, startling Sugarcube under the bed. "You can't just say shit like that!"

"What? Because it's true?"

"Because you don't know anything about what I fucking want!" Louis' grits out, curling in his fingers, "You can't keep doing that—"

"Yeah?" Harry cuts him off, "Well, neither do you." His eyes follow Louis' frustrated movements, trying to maneuver around the army of paint-cups to make a great escape toward the door. "You came here, Louis. Not to Mina. Here." He points accusingly at the floor.

"To fucking apologize!" Louis throws his arms out frantically, "For whatever shit I said last night, that's all."

"Yeah, right." Harry's voice empties out. His fingers drum once against his crossed arm. "And the kiss, then?"

Louis stops moving, his throat constricting in the dense and suffocating air.

His hangover pounds behind his eyes in time with his heartbeat, and he's terrified he might throw up again if Harry keeps pushing. "That was—"

"A mistake?" Harry tilts his chin up, daring Louis to keep lying to both of them. "Is that what you're going to say, Louis?"

"Yes." 

"See, you keep saying what this isn't." He takes a step closer, voice dropping low enough that Louis has to strain to hear it. "But you've yet to tell me what it is."

"I don't—" Louis stumbles backward, desperate for air, for space, for anything that isn't Harry's eyes seeing straight through him. His trainers catch on something—a paint cup, maybe—and suddenly white paint is bleeding across newspaper, seeping into his Vans like some kind of fucked up metaphor for everything he can't contain. "Jesus—fuck—I can't do this."

Harry scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course you can't."

Louis turns swiftly on his heel, clammy hands slipping from the door handle, trying to save himself from the walls that are closing in on him. He can barely turn it when he finally gets a shaky grip on it, nearly knocking over the wet canvas in his haste.

"Louis," Harry says from behind him, but he doesn't dare respond. "Next time you want to fucking talk, try being honest with yourself first."

He doesn't look back. Can't look back. Because if he does, he might see something in Harry's eyes that makes him want to stay and explain. And he can't stay. He can't.

His sticky trainers squeak against the floor as he yanks the door open, practically falling into the hallway, the sound of it shutting behind him allowing him to gasp for a full sweep of oxygen. The fluorescents flicker mockingly as he tries to steady himself against the wall, chest heaving with panicked breaths.

Through the door, he can hear Harry moving around again, the slow shuffle of footsteps, the soft music starting up, the world spinning on its normal.

But normal died somewhere between Harry's confession and Louis' cowardice. The moment Harry said, "Maybe I wanted you to," Louis realized the version of himself that thought he didn't want Harry had never existed at all.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

She'd been trying for fifteen minutes to no avail.

Mina sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The gesture was distinctly unsexy, which was probably fair considering the circumstances. "Lou, where are you?" She patted her fingers against his thigh, desperately trying to get his attention.

But Louis wasn't listening.

And neither was his body, remaining stubbornly uninterested. His gaze was glued to the ceiling, fingers digging into the fabric of the mattress, trying to will his dick back to life. Green eyes and pink lips flash unbidden through his mind, which was exactly the kind of thought that shouldn't be occurring while his girlfriend's mouth was on his cock.

"Sorry, babe." He muttered with a wince, "I think it's stress."

Mina was already over it, sighing as she stood up with noticeable force and stomping off into the bathroom. Louis could feel the weight of her eyeroll behind the loud slam of the door, leaving him with the thick, uncomfortable, burden of sitting in his shame. Without pants.

That was Sunday.

Louis' trainers slap loud against wet pavement, each hit nettling through his bones. The early morning air bites on his skin as he squints through the rain, the longer bits of his fringe flopping hard against his eyes. He's never been one for running, except footy—that at least has purpose—but lately, his head has been feeling too hot, skin pulled too taut with frenetic need. And maybe, just maybe, if he runs fast enough, he can outpace the mess he's made of everything.

Maybe I wanted you to.

Each step pounds Harry's words deeper into his skull, forcing him to run faster and harder, the burn in his lungs better than any cigarette could ever satisfy him. It a lot better than remembering the look on Mina's face when came back from brunch on Saturday, trying to makeup with a kiss, and he'd fucking turned his head like an idiot, starting a spark of arguments that haven't stopped since.

On Thursday morning, he runs again, not long after he and Mina share clipped conversations over bitter coffee. He'd forgotten to buy the sugar like she'd asked him to, three times this week, apparently. Though Louis is certain she never mentioned it at all. She barely took a sip before abandoning her mug, not bothering to kiss him goodbye this time as she headed off to work, putting him in one of the sourest moods he's been in since he was seventeen.

Harry's confession is bleeding into every corner of Louis' life, making him undeniably angry over how it changes everything and nothing all at once, making it all infinitely more complicated. Because Louis can't pretend this is one-sided anymore, he can't write off that kiss as a moment of frustration or blame it on Harry's manipulative games. Harry's truth is stripped bare: he wants Louis, or at least some part of him does. And Louis had no fucking idea what to do with that information.

After finishing his run off with a smoke, Louis turns on autopilot—weaving between tables at work without really seeing anyone, just going through the motions. He can't even bring himself to plaster that fake robotic smile today, offering his usuals nothing more than tight glances and few empty, bored mhm's .

Back in the kitchen, he leans against the prep counter, stealing a quick sip of water. His legs ache but at least moving around keeps his mind busy.

"Table four's been waiting ten minutes for their bill," Niall murmurs, shouldering past Louis to grab a pot of coffee. He sets it down with a heavy clank, not bothering to glance over, lips stretched into a thin line.

Louis doesn't look up from his thermal, a dribble of cold water spilling from the sides of his mouth, "Okay, then you get it." He mutters with a crease in his brow, wiping his mouth.

Niall scoffs, shaking his head, "I've got six tables of my own, mate," He grabs a few ceramic mugs from the pass, lining them carefully. "And that old bird at twelve keeps asking for you specifically."

"Well, they can fucking wait a few minutes, can't they? I'm busy."

His tone is clearly a lot sharper and louder than he intended it to be, given the funny glances thrown his way from their other co-workers, but Louis doesn't take it back, refocusing on chugging back water with a defensive shrug.

Niall stills beside him, coffee pot frozen mid-pour. Slowly, he sets it down, turning toward Louis, eyes narrowing, "You've been standing here for five minutes."

Louis rolls his, throwing him a look that says he can’t be serious, "It's called a break, ever heard of it?"

"Break room's in the back," Niall gestures with the pot gripped tight in his hand. "And you didn't clock out."

"What are you, the fucking time police?" Louis shoots back.

That's a ridiculous statement, coming from Niall, who's been stealing time since forever, never once clocking out for his fifteen minute smoke breaks or when he's off being a nuisance, flirting with the hostess on her break.

"No, I'm just the one covering your slack while you sulk by the coffee station all bloody day."

Twisting the cap back on his bottle roughly, Louis shoves it aside, straightening up. He turns to meet Niall directly, voice low but edged with defiance, "I'm pretty sure I'm the one who filled your sugar caddies this morning."

"Yeah," Niall snatches one of the containters, holding it up high, "And you did a shit job of it." He rattles it around, making a show of it, "They're all half empty."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Louis sneers, yanking it from his hand. "Is this not up to your exacting standards?"

"Just do your fucking job—"

"What, like you?" Louis shoves him back, not hard, but enough to make Niall stumble, "Maybe learn to time your orders correctly so your shit service stops losing us tables."

The entire kitchen falls silent as they press chest to chest, Louis' fingers white-knuckling around the sugar caddy, Niall's face flushed red.

"What is your fucking problem?" He spits, shoving Louis back with harder force, "Why're you acting like such a bitch lately?"

"Hey!" Jeanine's voice shouts from behind, wedging her small frame between them. She uses her elbows to barricade, pushing the two apart, "What on earth is going on here?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing—"

"No, absolutely not," Jeanine offers no time for explanation, shaking her head in disbelief. "My office, boys," She grits out. "Now."

Louis doesn't peel his glare off Niall, even as he takes a careful step back, fingers still tight around the plastic, jaw set. The bewildered stares from his coworkers might as well drill a fucking hole through the side of his head, but he couldn’t care less, he's over it. Over Niall, over this, over all the bullshit.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, Louis gets sent home early, let off with another scornful warning from Jeanine. Niall doesn't look at Louis when he passes him outside of the office, roughly knocking into his shoulder when she calls him in next. Louis tosses his apron in the bin angrily, ready to leave before he does something else he’ll regret.

He only has one drink at the pub. Fine, alright, maybe three. But they're only pints and Louis is undoubtedly stressed with his head ready to roll off his shoulders at any point. By the time he makes it back to his flat on foot that evening, he's already an hour late for dinner, the smell of something burnt lingering in the air, clinging stubbornly to the walls.

"You couldn't have texted?" He stares at Mina's back from where she's scraping blackened pasta into the bin. Her shoulders are tense, like she's been holding them that way for hours, waiting for him.

"Phone died." It falls from his mouth instantly, flat as ever.

Louis shrugs off his jacket, tossing it on the coat rack and marching over to flop onto the couch. He grabs the ceramic bowl of mints resting perfectly on their coffee table, resting it on his belly.

"Maybe you should start charging it," She scrapes harder at the pan, glaring while he struggles to peel open the tiny plastic. "Seems to die a lot these days."

Popping a mint into his mouth, Louis shrugs, "What do you want me to say, Mina?" He mumbles 'I'm trying' between a crunch.

"I want you to stop lying to me," The pan clatters in the sink as she tosses it, "I want you to tell me what's going on with you."

"Nothing's going on," Louis crinkles his brow, setting the bowl aside. "Just lost track of time."

"At the pub?" She turns to face him, arms crossed. "I can smell it on you."

"Don't start."

"What, caring? " Mina scoffs. She grabs the sponge from the sink, waving it around at him until the suds start to fly. "Because that's what people in relationships do, they care when their partner starts acting like—"

"Christ, I'm not acting like anything, Mina."

"You are!" Her voice cracks slightly, "You're acting like you're looking for an excuse to be anywhere else but here!"

Louis takes a deep breath in, letting his head fall into his palms, because it’s true but he can’t say that. Between his early morning runs turned into late night jogs turned into their flat becoming a revolving door with someone always storming out of it. He's barely been here. Here, here Mind elsewhere, seething over five simple words.

"Dad rang, you know?" Mina continues, scrubbing through dishes viciously, "About the position. Wants to know if you're getting prepared for your interview—"

"I told you I needed more time," Louis sighs, cheeks properly smushed between the heels of his hands.

"It's May," She points out, "The interviews late June, how much more time do you need?"

"I don't know, Mina!" He springs off the couch, voice rising louder than he'd like. He starts pacing around the room, lungs already clawing for his next cigarette. "Maybe until everyone stops trying to plan out my whole fucking life for me."

"No one's planning your life." Mina shuts off the tap, matching his volume. "We're trying to help you build one! A real one, Lou. Not serving coffee and living paycheck to paycheck."

"There's nothing fucking wrong with my job!"

"You got sent home today!" She throws her hands up, "Niall texted me—"

"Of course he fucking did." Louis barks out a laugh, running his hands through his hair. "What, are you two keeping tabs on me now?"

"Someone has to! You barely talk to me, you're out all hours, you show up drunk—"

"I'm not drunk." He mutters, still pacing.

"That's not the point!" She moves from the sink and steps in front of him, blocking his path. "The point is you're throwing everything away. This opportunity, us—"

"An opportunity I never even asked for." He laughs bitterly, holding her gaze. "Has anyone even bothered asking what I want?"

"Alright, fine." She purses her lips, arms crossed dangerously. "What do you want, Lewis?"

Louis exhales deeply, dragging his hands over his face in exasperation. All he wants is to be left alone, some space to think without being yelled at, to disappear for a while without anyone breathing down his neck.

"That's what I thought." Mina says too quickly, "You don't even know, do you?"

"I know that I don't want to be your father's fucking pity project!" The truth erupts from somewhere deep in his core, "I know I don't want to spend the rest of my life behind a desk just because you think serving is beneath me."

Mina shakes her head, "I don't think that."

"You do! You do think that, Mina! Just be fucking honest." He's properly shouting now, chest starting to heave. "Poor Louis, can't sort his life out. Better have daddy fix it for him so all my posh friends won't think I'm dating a fucking loser."

From the second they started dating Mina was never impressed by the things Louis spent his time doing. Behind every gentle suggestion and well-meaning plan, there had always been that subtle undercurrent of disappointment—a quiet disdain for the life he'd chosen, the simple pleasures he found at The KettlePot, the way he lived without grand fucking ambitions or dreams of rotting away for something bigger.

And from that very first look of judgement, Louis had always tried so desperately to be what she needed, to reshape himself into someone worthy of her vision. Because deep down he wanted to fit in with her life. He wanted so badly to stop feeling embarrassed when he was forced to sit in a room full of well off lawyers and soon-to-be paralegals with nothing to show for himself but an underpaid job and wasted Sociology degree.

Now, watching her face crumple at his words, Louis realizes he's finally about to break.

"Stop it, Louis." Her bottom lip quivers slightly, "You're being cruel."

"No, you want me to be honest, don't you?" He spits, "For once, I'm actually saying what I think instead of nodding along to whatever you tell me to do."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"It means that I'm fucking tired!" He kicks the bin, sending it clattering across the floor. "Goddamn it, Mina. I'm tired of you trying to fix me. Tired of not being enough for you. Tired of you planning my future like I'm some project you can perfect—"

"I'm trying to help you!"

"I never asked for your help!" His throat scrapes raw, eyes wild from the pressure building in his temples. "I never asked for any of this! The job, the pressure, this whole fucking relationship—"

He can hear his own heart beating rapidly in the silence that follows, the quiet tick of their kitchen clock, the moment Mina's breath catches. When he looks at her, really looks at her, she's got one hand pressed against her mouth like she's trying to hold something in, eyes brimming with tears.

For a moment, Louis sees her the way she used to be. The girl who'd laugh too loud at his jokes, who'd dance around carelessly in his kitchen at midnight, who looked at him like he could do no wrong. Now she's staring at him like she's seeing a stranger.

"Get out," Her voice shakes, and Louis thinks about all the ways they've broken each other trying to make this work.

"Wait, hang on, Mina—"

"No," She wipes at her cheeks with her sleeve. "I said get out. Stay at Niall's, do whatever. Just get out."

He doesn't argue. Because what would that do? They've been heading here for weeks, maybe months.

"Fine." He murmurs, already rushing out the door before she can stop him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Louis runs until everything burns—his lungs, his legs, the pressure behind his ribs—but it's still not far enough away.

Maybe jogging in black jeans and slip on Vans isn't the best idea he's ever had, but wouldn't that be the fucking theme? Each slap to the ground sends another round of piercing stings through his soles, surging straight to the center of his chest, where his heart feels ready to explode.

He's so fucking angry.

The kind of angry that settles somewhere deep beneath your bones and festers, growing into something grievous with each passing day, like a poison that doesn’t kill you, just makes you wish it would.

He nearly rolls his ankle when he skids to a halt in the middle of an empty park, doubling over while his lungs practically scream out for air. His hands find his knees, trying to keep steady, but everything around him starts to blur and fade, sirens becoming distant, voices starting to echo. He recognizes what's happening even as it overtakes him.

"Fuck," he chokes out, clutching at his chest.

It's been years since Louis' had a panic attack like this, not since Uni, when deadlines and late nights made his mind spin out of control. The tightness in his throat curls around his windpipe, squeezing with every breath he doesn’t take.

He staggers to a nearby bench, but can't bring himself to sit. Instead, he paces in tight circles, one hand pressed against his sternum as if he could physically force his lungs to work properly, the other hand tangling in his sweat-damp hair.

What the fuck is he doing?

Everything he's worked so hard to build slowly feels like it's crumbling around him and now his own body is betraying him too.

Refusing to let him run from it any longer—the careful walls, the forced smiles, the yes, love and whatever you want and of course I'll be there. The constant fucking pressure to meet Mina's expectations, to mould himself into someone he's not. To squeeze himself into the perfect-shaped boyfriend box she's created just for him.

She'll never understand that the harder he tries to fit, the more pieces of himself he has to chip away, and he's tired of watching them fall.

So fucking tired.

Louis drops to his knees in a wet patch of grass, pressing his forehead to the ground in search of relief. He forces himself to focus on anything else, but not even the cool breeze that rolls over his back is enough to calm him.

For the first time in years, he allows himself to acknowledge just how fucking lost he feels. How tired he is of pretending. How much it hurts to realize that sometimes loving someone isn't enough. Not when loving them means losing yourself in the process. He can barely even remember what he's like when he's just him, by himself.

His lungs are absolutely fucking useless right now, completely, utterly useless, stuttering out of control like they've forgotten their one job is to keep him alive.

And when Louis finally gets a small grasp, sitting back on his heels, exhaustion hits heavy, making his eyelids drag down, as if pinned by a two-ton weight. The small park he's found himself in is completely empty, silent except for the swaying sounds of the trees mixed with his own ragged breathing.

He doesn't know where to go from here. He knows he can't go back to their flat, not right now. But he also can't stay in this park forever, running without direction.

Louis fumbles for his phone, needing something—anything—to bring him back. The bright screen blurs in and out of focus as he tries to steady himself, searching for a contact.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

Niall would know what to do, but they're not speaking right now, are they? His mum would talk him through it, but she'd ask too many questions. His sisters would worry. Mina—

That makes his chest seize up again. Fuck.

His thumb moves across the screen without conscious thought, pulling up a different conversation entirely.

are you hoem,e?

He types hurriedly, fingers hovering over the small blue arrow that'd simply ruin everything.

Wrong person to text. Last person on earth who'd ever fucking help him. But Louis presses send anyway, helpless and overwhelmed.

Three dots appear and disappear twice so quickly, it nearly startles him.

And then:

H: Not if you're drunk.

Four simple words that shouldn't feel like an invitation, but somehow do.

Louis pockets his phone without responding, clamping his eyes shut as he brings shaky hands to his face. He sits there for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what he's about to do, but at least the worst of the panic slowly ebbs away, leaving his mind numb, heavy and strangely empty.

He knows he should go anywhere else except for where his feet are already carrying him towards.

But for once, Louis doesn't fight it. Doesn't second-guess or overthink or calculate the consequences. He just starts walking, letting muscle memory guide him through the empty streets like it's been waiting for this moment.

For when the sun's gone down and he's standing outside Harry's building, slipping in through the lobby doors like a force he can no longer hold back from. Harry's probably not even home, despite what his text implied, but Louis' already halfway in the stairwell, skipping the lift and slowly dragging his tingling body up four flights of stairs.

Barely blinking. Barely thinking.

A few thoughtless minutes later, he's knocking on the door of studio 4B. Once, then twice, more insistently.

When Harry tenatively opens the door—just a crack—Louis is still heaving, though the dread has long left his body now, transforming into something much darker.

Annoyance immediately falls over his face when he sees Louis standing there, slumping his shoulders with an eye roll, "What're you doing here—"

"Tell me to leave," Louis swallows through a breath, eyes dancing between Harry's. His damp curls peek through the narrow gap in the doorway, barely letting Louis catch a proper glimpse. But he can track every water droplet that trails slowly from his temples, down onto his neck.

Harry just blinks at him, eyes narrowing with confusion, "What?"

"Tell me to leave," Louis is desperate, taking a closer step in the nonexistent distance. His command is wavering, but he keeps his gaze locked on Harry, focused, "Or I'm going to kiss you again."

Harry stills then, his brows twitching for only a second before he's pulling his face together again, watching Louis very carefully, "Louis, I told you if you're fucking drunk—"

"I'm not drunk," Louis shakes his head violently, hands trembling at his sides, "I need you to tell me to leave."

He’s almost thankful he can’t fully see Harry's face, petrified of what might cross there. A look of recognition, a hint of want, something Louis knows can and will pull him under right now and never let him come back up. He’s already staggering on a tenuous line, he just needs Harry to do absolutely nothing, because one more step, one more faltering glance, and Louis will fall. Irreparably.

It's fucked up that he's here right now, outside Harry's door, when he should be fixing things with Mina. But that's the issue that's got him here in the first place, isn't it? Everything with Mina needs fixing. Needs adjusting, tweaking, perfecting. While Harry sees right through Louis, has always seen him, in a way Louis can’t hide from or control.

Even though he swears he fucking hates him, at least it's something real and honest.

"Louis,” Harry finally says, his slow rasp making Louis’ eyes drop to his throat, then back up to his lips. He studies every piece of Harry that he can, hunting for anything close to rejection, "You shouldn’t be doing—"

"That's not the same as telling me to leave."

Their eyes lock then, and Louis tilts his head, waiting.

Harry clenches his jaw, glancing away. "We can't—"

"Can't what?" Louis staggers forward, leaning closer into the tiny space between the door. "Just tell me to leave, Harry. That's all you have to do."

And Louis might be making it up, but he swears that Harry's breathing has gone shallow, pink lips slightly parted as he stands there frozen, actually considering it. For once, Louis is the one making Harry visibly nervous, which is dangerous.

More dangerous than any temptation Louis has ever known. 

"You have a girlfriend..." He says slowly, quietly, barely heard.

"I know," Louis' voice cracks. "So, tell me to leave."

But Harry doesn't say anything. Instead, he steps backward, just slightly. It's not an invitation, not quite, but the door opens wider.

The small action is far more overwhelming than he expects, Harry breaking the invisible threshold that had been keeping Louis safely intact on the other side. He can see now, where he usually can't, that Harry is caught in a flicker of indecision, watching through slow, uncertain blinks while Louis drifts closer and closer, pushing the door recklessly close to the point of no return.

He approaches cautiously, barely leaving an inch between them, the words just tell me to leave still hanging heavy in the air.

"Louis..." Harry warns, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "You need to think about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it," Louis nods, "I've thought about nothing else."

"This isn't—" Harry takes a shuddering breath, hands clenching at his sides. "This isn't some game, okay? You need to—"

"Does it look like I'm playing?"

"You're upset," He searches Louis face for answers. "Whatever happened with Mina—"

"Don't," Louis cuts him off before he can say another word.

Harry's jaw works as he struggles internally, "You're going to regret doing this."

"Maybe," Louis reaches up, fingers hovering just shy of touching Harry's jaw, "You can tell me to stop."

He can practically see the conflict warring in Harry's eyes, the wheels turning furiously and it scares him. That Louis is the one doing this to him, making him second-guess. He's never seen Harry anything but cocky and sure of himself, but here he is, the quietest he's ever fucking been—fingers toying with each other, eyes dropping down to Louis' mouth.

Louis closes the final distance, his shoes slotting between Harry's bare feet. His heart hammers wildly and uneven in his chest as Harry stays perfectly still, looking down at him with darkened eyes that give him away completely.

And suddenly, he can't take it anymore.

Cupping a trembling hand to Harry's cheek, Louis' fingers slide into damp curls. He pulls Harry down to meet him, pressing their lips together in a desperate kiss that makes his whole body ignite.

Harry makes that sound again.

That breathy fucking moan that comes from the back of his throat. The one that's been haunting all of Louis' dreams and unbidden fantasies, sending shivers down his spine in ripples and waves. The second Louis hears it, he becomes weak, overcome with the kind of urgency and recklessness that makes him forget about anything—and anyone—else.

His fingers tighten in Harry's wet hair, drawing him impossibly close. He tastes fresh, like mint toothpaste, and a heady mix of boy and something sweeter underneath that makes Louis lightheaded. Harry's skin is still warm and slightly damp from the shower, the lingering scent of his coconut shampoo overpowering all five senses.

Harry finds Louis' waist, gripping tight enough to bruise as he backs them fully into the studio, kicking the door shut behind them. The slam echoes in Louis' ears but he barely registers it, too consumed by the frantic slide of Harry's tongue against his own. It's unfair, really, how good he is at this. How his hands seem to know exactly where to touch, tongue knows exactly where to lick.

Louis ignores the clutter around them, the half-finished canvases propped against the walls, paintbrushes scattered across every surface, the sting of turpentine and oils that would usually make him nauseous. He's too focused on Harry, feet moving through the small space like he's got the floorplan mapped out in his head, sending a jar of brushes clattering to the ground when he crashes them both into a wall.

The impact forces a gasp from Harry's lips that Louis swallows hungrily,

Rough hands burn through Louis' shirt, Harry's thigh sliding between his legs. It's intoxicating in the best way, pouring weeks of pent-up want into every forbidden touch.

Louis breaks away to catch his breath but Harry chases his lips, refusing to let him retreat. He welcomes it, surrendering to the kiss with a sound that would embarrass him if he had any capacity left to feel shame.

This kiss is nothing like their first.

That had been brief and shocking. This is raw need, months of tension finally snapping. Louis knows he needs to stop, needs to pull away and leave before they cross another line they can't come back from. But Harry's mouth is addictive and his hands are fucking everywhere.

Some distant part of his brain tries to remind him of Mina, of promises made and trust given. But it's drowned out by the press of Harry's lips, each one of his little moans going straight to his cock. He should feel guilty—knows he'll hate himself for this later—but right now, with Harry this unusually needy beneath him, Louis can't remember why he ever tried to resist this in the first place.

"Fuck—Louis," Harry breathes, chest heaving when Louis drags his lips right over his jaw, scraping at his throat. He sounds absolutley wrecked, and fuck, that's Louis doing that to him. He feels wild, powerful almost, dragging his teeth across Harry's throat, nipping just enough to make him whine.

"We should st—fuck, " Harry pants between Louis' bites, "We really should stop."

But even as he says it, Harry's hands slide up to cup Louis' face, drawing him back in for another searing kiss that makes Louis' knees weak. There's something exhilarating about having Harry like this, pliant and wanting beneath his hands when he's usually so insufferable and controlled.

"Should we?" Louis pants against Harry's mouth, sliding his thigh higher between Harry's legs. The loud and broken moan he gets in response is enough to keep him pressing. He has absolutely no idea what he's doing but he wants to do it again, wants to make Harry fall apart, strip him bare from his facade, and see what other sounds he can draw from that perfect mouth.

"Yeah, we should—oh" Harry gasps, head falling back against the wall. He clamps his eyes as Louis takes advantage of the angle, trailing hot kisses down his exposed throat. "Louis, we can't—ohmyfuckinggod."

The last word comes out as a whimper because Louis has discovered that the spot just below Harry's ear makes him absolutely melt, and well, that's information worth having, isn't it?

"I'll stop if you want me to," Louis breathes, fingers sliding under the hem of Harry's shirt, tracing the warm skin there, "Just tell me when."

Harry's hips roll forward involuntarily then, seeking deeper friction while he captures Louis' mouth, kissing him with a force that takes Louis' breath away. Harry's hands roam all over his body, without limits, like he's been dying to know what Louis feels like, like he can't get enough.

Every touch feels electric, setting Louis' nerves alight. He's never seen Harry so fucking undone, so willing to let Louis take control. It's addictive.

"Please," Harry whines when Louis pulls back slightly, "Want you—want to taste you."

Something in Harry's urgent tone makes Louis pause, the realization of what he's doing snapping him right out of his lust-filled daze.

Harry must feel him tense because his hands stop moving, loosening from where they grip on Louis' hips. When Louis pulls away, Harry’s eyes are blown wide, lips parted and bitten red, looking like pure sex in skin and sin. He has to close his eyes against the sight. It's too fucking much.

He can feel his cock painfully throbbing against his thigh and god—he wants to give in so fucking bad. But instead, he lets out a shaky breath, leaning forward to press his forehead against Harry's shoulder.

"Harry—"

"I know," Harry's breath hitches.

They stay like that for moment, both trying to calm down. Harry's pulse races where Louis' fingers rest against his throat, the air charged and catastrophically intense.

"I should—I should go," Louis whispers, but he doesn't move. He can't really bring himself to dislodge from Harry's warmth.

"Yeah," Harry's voice is rough. His fingers flex against Louis' sides like he's fighting the urge to pull him closer again, "You should."

Neither of them move.

"This…isn't—" Louis stops, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence. This isn't what? A mistake? Because it definitely is. Just physical? Because it definitely isn't.

"Yeah, I know." Harry says again, softer this time. His thumbs pat once on Louis' hip, the touch unbearably gentle. "You're with Mina."

Fuck.

Louis steps back abruptly, running shaky hands through his hair.

What the fuck has he just done?

Harry starts saying something that sounds far and distant, muffling beneath the ringing in Louis' ears, fear starting to come back in full force. He holds up his hand, needing some space to think, but his lips still fucking tingle from Harry's kisses and he can't—he just really fucking can't.

"What the fuck," He stammers, staring vacantly at the floor, "I shouldn't have—”

This time he actually moves, not before catching a glimpse of Harry's face staring at him with something unreadable. Louis stumbles even further, putting as much distance between himself and Harry as possible, “I shouldn't have come here."

His lungs squeeze tight, burning with every shallow inhale. He's proper fucked everything up now, hasn't he? Crossed a line he can't uncross. Broken something that can't be fixed.

How can he face Mina after this?

How can he walk back into their flat and look her in the eye? He has nowhere else to go—can't face Niall after their fight, can't explain this mess to his family. He's completely adrift.

"Fuck, I can't—" Louis' voice cracks, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees spots. "I can't go back there tonight. I-I don't know what to do."

Harry says nothing for a while, something shifting in his expression. He opens and closes his mouth like he's holding back words, and after a few moments, Louis thinks he might throw him out anyway. But then Harry just exhales slowly, pushing off the wall and moving toward his bed. His movements are rigid again, less fluid than before. He grabs a blanket, tosses it onto the couch without meeting Louis' eyes.

"Take the couch," he says quietly, careful in a way that tightens his jaw with it.

The simple gesture and the lack of questions makes Louis' throat tight. He stands there awkwardly, trying to come back down from his anxiety as Harry moves around the studio, gathering a few extra pillows from his bed and tossing them into a messy pile. 

Harry's become unreadable, his movements mechanical as he starts the kettle up across the room, refusing to meet Louis' gaze.

It takes about twenty minutes for Louis to properly settle, and when he finally calms down, Harry silently hands him a cup of tea, disappearing into his bed without another word.

Later, in the dark, Louis listens to Harry's steady breathing from across the room, eyes wide and unblinking, terrified of what's to come.

The worn out, scratchy couch digs deep into his back, but it's better than the alternative, going home to a too-quiet flat and the wreckage of his relationship. Here, at least, in this paint-scented darkness with Harry's presence just feet away, he can pretend tomorrow isn't coming.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The first thing he smells is turpentine.

Louis crinkles his nose, the sharp chemical scent mixing unpleasantly with sandalwood incense and hints of spicy cologne that make his stomach flip. He shifts against the scratchy fabric beneath him, consciousness slowly creeping in with a faint trickle of sunlight pressing right against his eye.

He squints into the early morning, birds starting to chirp somewhere in the distance. His mouth is cotton-dry and he's pretty sure he's sweated through his t-shirt, his entire body aching as if he'd spent the night on medieval torture devices rather than actual cushioning.

And that's when reality hits him with brutal clarity.

Harry's studio.

Harry's couch.

Harry.

He springs forward on the two-seater, phone clattering right onto the floor as memories from last night flash flood right through his mind. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The evidence of what he's done is everywhere: the paintbrushes still scattered on the ground from where they'd knocked it over, his vans carelessly thrown by the door, and Harry—Christ—Harry is just a foot away, breathing softly under the sound of Louis' thundering pulse, reminding him just how monumentally he's fucked everything up.

When Louis fully turns with a sore neck, he can just barely make out Harry sprawled out in his bed beneath the light. A matted mess of dark curls against stark white sheets, one arm thrown unguardedly above his head, and those soft, pink lips slightly parted.

Louis swallows hard against the ache spreading through his chest, swirling in and confusing the worry, a terrifying feeling that's starting to feel less like panic and more like fondness with each passing second.

He needs to leave. Now. Before Harry wakes up and they’re forced to talk about whatever the fuck last night was. Before the guilt currently scraping hard at his insides consumes him. Before he does something unbelievably stupid like crawl right into that bed and press his lips to the tender spot beneath Harry's jaw just to hear that sound again.

No.

He has to go.

He can't be thinking like this.

Louis scrambles for his phone, silently cursing when he realizes it won't turn on, the drained battery signal flashing mockingly in his eyes. It must've died some point overnight and now he can't even check the time or see if Mina's texted.

His stomach turns at the thought of her calling everyone she knows, finding out he never stayed at Niall’s, forcing him to come up with a brand new list of complicated lies he doesn’t have the energy for right now. Quickly, he stacks up Harry's pillows, neatly folding the blanket he'd borrowed, and quietly slips on his vans, extra careful not to stir him awake.

He doesn’t look back as he sneaks out the door, leaving everything behind, along with the sleeping boy, desperately trying to swim out of the maelstrom.

Louis makes it about three blocks before he needs to stop.

Stumbling to the rivers edge, his hands still shake as he lights up a cigarette, watching early morning joggers pass him by over the cherry, all oblivious to his unmistakable offense. The sun's barely risen, but his thoughts are already suffocating, a noise he can’t muffle, no matter how much smoke he swallows down.

His mind won't stop, won't let him forget a single fucking detail. Of Harry's hands roaming his body. The way his mouth tasted. The way his tongue felt.

This doesn't make any sense. This isn't who he fucking is. He's not—

But.

It's not the first time, is it? 

Not the first time his eyes have lingered too long on broad shoulders in locker rooms, just checking out the competition. Not the first time a smile across a crowded pub forced him to look away, just being polite. He's gotten so fucking good at the excuses, hasn't he? Drowning everything in another pint. In Mina's curves. In careful lies.

Too drunk to remember.

Too tired to mean it.

Too straight to want it.

But this?

He's got no explanation for this.

Louis can't blame it on alcohol when he was stone cold sober, he can't pretend it was just curiosity when he's the one who showed up at Harry's door, and he can't convince himself it meant nothing when his body is still burning from those kisses, when his fingers still itch to touch and grab at warm skin.

He wanted this.

Wants this.

Fuck. Maybe he's having a mental breakdown or something, a quarter-life crisis before he's even turned twenty-five. That would explain everything, wouldn't it? The way his chest gets tight whenever Harry looks at him, or doesn't. Why sometimes he catches himself admiring the curve of his smirk, thumb curious to know the depth of his dimple. Why kissing him felt like—

Louis turns abruptly, starting to head west.

Home.

He needs to get home, needs to shower, apologize to mina, and then sleep for a week, forgetting the way Harry had whimpered his name like it was his, not belonging to anyone else.

Each step carries him further and further away from the studio, from questions he's not ready to answer, from truths he's been running from for longer than he cares to admit.

Not yet.

Louis deletes Harry's number exactly twenty-seven hours after leaving the studio.

Or at least, he tries to.

The same way he tries to find another excuse as to why he can't go out with Mina and her mates three times in one week, terrified that Harry might show up. The same way he tries to think of anything but the sounds Harry made when Louis was kissing him, even while he's having sex with Mina. And the same way he tries to convince himself he's only running because he's focusing on his health, not to punish himself for wanting someone he shouldn’t.

Some days, it almost works and he's seconds from just blocking his number entirely. Other days, he's already drafting a message before he can stop himself, fingers hovering over the send button with some half-pathetic excuse to reach out and apologize. He even tries to delete the entire text thread, sparing himself the torture of reading the old messages over and over and over again, always silently hoping that Harry will be the first to break.

But he never does, and Louis can’t delete the messages.

The rest of May is a mindless blur of avoidance and every day routine, but Louis doesn't mind it. If there's one thing he's good at, it's pretending everything is alright.

Double shifts at The KettlePot keep him busy, even if they can't quiet his mind. The silence with Niall is almost unbearable though, their usual banter turned into nothing more than muttering, "behind" and "corner," every now and then, neither wanting to discuss their fight or the real reason Louis' can't look him in the eye.

Things with Mina almost look like forgiveness, but only because Louis throws himself into proving he can be better. She manages to push the interview date to late August, and he thanks her with expensive dinner reservations at her favorite restaurants, watching her smile soften just slightly at the edges. He starts leaving sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, brings her coffee in bed, suggests weekend trips they never take. But beneath every gentle touch and careful promise, there's still all the things they should be saying to each other, secrets that sit heavy between kisses that feel more like penance than passion.

The harder Louis tries—booking couples' cooking classes, remembering to send her mum flowers on her birthday, actually reading the law books she's bought for him—the more the guilt claws at his chest. Sometimes he thinks she sees right through it, catching the way her eyes linger too long when he suggests another date night, like she's trying to figure out exactly what he's making up for.

Those are the moments that force Louis to keep pushing. To run faster. To work harder. Do anything to keep his mind from wandering.

But it doesn't matter how many dinner reservations he makes or how many love notes he leaves.

His mind always circles back to the same night.

The same person.

The same question he's still too scared to answer.

Chapter Text

Louis hates these fucking events.

He's been fixing his stupid bow tie in the staff bathroom for ages, trying to get it to sit right on his collar. These new uniform shirts make him itch, feeling uncomfortably stiff and tight around his shoulders. He takes a step back to admire the proper knob he looks like in the mirror, wearing an over starched white button down and tight black trousers, ready to spend his friday night serving an assortment of canapes to a bunch of posh twats.

He rolls his eyes.

"Oi." Niall barely peeks through the door, "Jeanine's running final checks."

Their eyes meet briefly in the small crack and Louis nods without saying anything. That's as far as they've gotten these days. Four weeks full of awkward exchanges and dancing around each other in the kitchen. Louis swears he'll get around to sorting things out with him, he just doesn't know how yet.

This event is not any different than the others. It's the same events where he's merely an object, balancing silver trays on his palms to Manchester's self-proclaimed elites who are shamelessly allergic to 'Please' and 'Thank you’. It's the same events where Jeanine has to pep talk him five minutes longer than the rest of the team, giving her sharp-glared-pointed-finger lessons on 'not talking back' and 'checking his attitude’.

He’s worked this particular gallery before. Once a year, actually. Same painful white walls, same low-adjusted lights that make him sleepy, same boring rotating gang of rich old donors funding art, or maybe just funding the idea of funding art. He never pays enough attention to care, he's just here for the tips.

Last year was something about climate change. The year before that, mental health and sculpture. This year? 

He eyes the row of glossy red pamphlets lining the entry table as he drifts over to the bar area.

Viscera: New Voices from the Margins.

Whatever the fuck that means.

"Alright." a clipped voice announces as Louis shuffles alongside the rest of the staff. "Final checks."

A woman, who is not Jeanine , stands in the center of their small circle. Her blonde hair is pulled back so tight it almost looks painful and she’s clutching an iPad to her chest like it holds classified information, long red nails tapping impatiently against the back.

"I'm Victoria, tonight's event coordinator." She sweeps around the room, somehow managing to look down at everyone despite being shorter than most. "Tonight's event will feature several prominent artists and collectors…"

Louis shifts his weight, already tuning out her speech on discretion and professionalism. He’s heard it one thousand times and these events always leave him agonizingly bored with aching feet and shoulders. Considering how wound up he's felt lately, he has no idea how he'll make it through eight hours of this.

"…You are to be," Victoria continues, eyes landing right on Louis as if she can smell the defiance on him, "completely invisible tonight. Clear paths between tables and guests. Absolutely no lingering, talking, or engagement unless directly addressed. I want you to think of yourselves as extensions of your serving trays. Silent, efficient, and most importantly, out of the way. Any questions?"

Lovely.

His life long dream of being reduced to nothing more than a piece of kitchenware has come true. Louis would scoff if he could, but judging by the glare Jeanine is shooting him from across the room, it's best to keep the eye roll imaginary.

The awkward silence stretches until Victoria claps her hands together.

"Excellent. Positions in five."

As she spins away, Louis catches Niall's eye across the room. For a small moment, they share that mutual look of grief, and Louis almost makes a face at him before remembering they're not doing that anymore. He quickly looks away, straightening his bow tie one more time.

Invisible. He can do invisible. He's got four weeks of practice avoiding people, after all.

The gallery starts to fill right after 5pm, and Louis does his charming song-and-dance of floating around the section he's assigned to, offering nothing more than tight lipped smiles and small clusters of bacon wrapped scallops as waves of people crash through the archways. Oscar-worthy stuff, really.

Low lights cast over a series of abstract paintings lining the small room, each one a muddy mess of shapes and colors he doesn't quite understand. Or care to. The crowd mills about in sleek dresses and gaudy suits while Louis weaves between their air kisses and art speak, extra careful not to clip pricey elbows or crumb over any Jimmy Choo's.

Being invisible isn't that hard these days, especially in a crowd like this. He's gotten quite good at it actually, at work, at home, in his own skin. He doesn't even have to say much tonight, people just grab and glance away, saying words like 'derivative' and 'liminality' to each other with a stupid straight face.

At least the jazz is soothing, and he can sneak away to down a few flutes of champagne between corridors whenever he switches trays. But mostly, he keeps his head low and drinks high, ignoring the god awful conversations about negative space and brushstrokes, or people trying to decipher what a blank canvas with one painted dot 'truly means'. Half of the room clearly guessing. The other half pretending they aren’t.

He slips past a small group of people debating whether a painting is genius or garbage, and resists the urge to vote for garbage just to stir the pot.

"You."

Louis hears a snap of fingers coming from behind him and Victoria practically materializes at this side, making him almost drop his tray.

"Take this tray and head to the main gallery. We need more hands." Her eyes narrow at his bow tie and she pauses, "Fix that first. Then go."

Louis bites his tongue, following her glare to his bow-tie gone slightly askew. He manages a quick, practiced "Yes, ma'am." under his breath that’s more of a curse than compliance. 

The main gallery lies beneath a glass dome ceiling, rain fogging up and pattering hard against the panels. The white walls stretch taller here, interrupted by smaller archways that lead to even more, impossibly small viewing rooms. It's a lot more crowded than the others with some modern monstrosity of twisted metal forcing everyone shoulder to shoulder, making slipping between people more strenuous than effortless.

Louis can barely see anything in the dim space, squinting his way around a group of older men that pull at his wrist for more champagne. And then somehow he ends up trapped between two massive canvases that loom over him, one a bunch of red crayoned scribbles, the other a simple blue streak, both somehow priced higher than his weekly paycheck.

His tray is getting lighter by the minute, people grabbing without acknowledging and leaving no room to move. Maybe being invisible isn't all it's cracked up to be. He'd kill to be back working the bar right now, even with Niall's cold shoulder. He just needs to be somewhere he can breathe.

"Bit amateur, dont you think?" A man in an expensive grey suit says, snatching a flute right from Louis' hand as he’s adjusting it. He tries really hard not to actually scowl. "All that rage and violence on one canvas. It's a bit... undergraduate."

"Well, that's what happens when you let these street rat artists in," another man agrees, "No technique, just angst. Though I hear he's got other techniques to make up for it."

"Oh, we've heard." a third man joins in, lowering his voice. "Did you see him working the room earlier? Practically climbing into Thompson's lap."

Louis stares down at the drinks, resisting the huge eyeroll he's been fighting against all night. He tries to look busy rearranging champagne flutes like they’re in need of feng shui, desperate for any entertainment that's not just listening to the smug drawl of whatever bullshit's happening inches away. But something in their suggestive tone makes his skin prickle.

He doesn't want to listen, really—he's trying so hard not to—but he's practically stuck standing here, hemmed in by bad art and greedy vultures.

"Desperate times," Expensive Suit chuckles darkly. "Though I suppose that's what happens when your art doesn't sell itself. Have to try for something else."

"He knows what he's doing," the second man leans in with a mutter, "Pretty thing like that knows exactly how to close a deal."

Pretty thing.

Louis’ ears perk up, his grip tightening instinctively on the tray.

"Speaking of..." The third man nods toward the far corner.

And Louis feels it first, before he even turns.

Something sour and knowing unfurls in his stomach, resting heavy at the bottom like spoiled wine. The men's low chuckles scrape against his ears, and he has to beg himself not to look—just to check. Just in case the sick feeling is paranoia and not truth. He white-knuckles his platter, eyes locked on the faint wet rings from condensation, as if staring hard enough might keep him in place.

But when they all turn to look, he does too.

Just for a second.

He should've fucking known. 

Four weeks is not long enough to build the distance he needs.

Harry stands at the opposite side of the room, his long frame bobbing in and out of focus over broad shoulders and bodies. Now that Louis sees him, it's impossible to look away, dread slicing fast and sharp through his gut. He looks absolutely devastating in that black and red pinstriped suit, hair sitting inches shorter than he remembers it. Curlier than normal. 

The shorter strands are tucked delicately behind one ear, exposing the sharp line of his jaw as he laughs at something an older man is saying in his ear. Practiced. Performative . Like everything else in this room, except this time Louis understands the script.

"Watch this," Expensive Suit mutters, "He'll have a sale by midnight. Thompson is fucking weak."

Louis eyes fall to the older man's hand resting on Harry's lower back, his fingers now going numb from where they grip on the silver.

"Quite the show, isn't it?" The second man chuckles, "Though I'm sure the private viewings are even better."

"More intimate appreciation of the arts," the third man agrees with a smirk. "Very... hands on."

"How much do you think he's selling for tonight?"

"What, for the art or the artist?"

God, his throat is unbearably tight, the bow tie suddenly strangling. Louis’ pretty sure he's not even breathing anymore, completely consumed by some wild, inexplicable rage crawling beneath his skin. Harry's hand is on Thompson's arm now, thumb brushing back and forth as he leans in closer, speaking low enough for only them to hear.

He’d spent four fucking weeks planning exactly how he'd avoid this very moment. How he’d find a way to steer clear from Harry if they’d managed  to run into each other, but right now, hearing all of these twats take turns appraising Harry like a piece of meat, all Louis can think about is shutting them up. He can barely hold the flutes still anymore, the glasses clinking and trembling together in a line.

He needs to leave.

Before his hands decide for him and he's hurling an entire tray of top-shelf prosecco at Expensive Suit's thick fucking skull. But Louis can't look away, even if he tried. All of the air in the room has been sucked out and replaced with something deeper, a heavier kind of ache Louis doesn't know how to handle.

Their eyes meet briefly as Thompson starts to gesture over to the group of men still muttering and making comments about him and Harry's careful smile falters when he finally sees Louis standing there. But only for a second, gone and replaced by an even brighter, faker laugh as the older man starts to guide them over.

Louis looks away first. Has to.

And then he's shouldering through the crowd, ignoring the exaggerated gasps from the group of women he almost knocks into, desperate to put as much distance between himself and those blood-thirsty sharks as possible. Because the fury surging through his veins might make him do something completely unforgivable, like burn this whole fucking gallery to the ground.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

There is something particularly cruel about the way art shows end. The once lively buzz of the room now a silent and tired hum where the click of expensive heels and pretentious laughter slowly fade away.

Red dots line the walls beneath canvases priced twice the amount of what the crew sweeping the floor take home and bright eyed young artists cash in to the posh lot that will hang months of hard work above their fancy pool tables and forgotten entry ways, just to say they've got it.

But some walls stay bare. No dots. No buyers. Just silence.

Louis spent most of the night keeping away from Harry, doing a surprisingly good job of it too. If staying away meant counting the seconds between glances or silently mapping paths in the gallery that would keep him just outside Harry's orbit while maintaining perfect sightline to his corner. Just to make sure he was still there.

Still standing.

Still safe.

Even though he knows Harry can manage his own. Or so he says .

He's pretty much drilled it in his head by now that he doesn't need any help or much less want it. But Louis can't help himself per fucking usual. Especially not after overhearing those men in their pressed suits, speaking about Harry like he's something to be acquired rather than a serious artist trying to make his way.

And fuck—the way their eyes had raked over him as if they were browsing a catalogue instead of looking at a person. The memory keeps tugging hard at Louis, no matter how many times he tells himself to forget about it.

Later in the night, when Louis and Niall are taking turns hauling the leftover load back to the restaurant van, he realizes Harry's still here. Still lingering in the main gallery long after everyone else has started bubble-wrapping canvases and peeling frames off the walls.

He walks around slowly, both hands behind his back, quietly observing whatever’s left. 

And when Louis makes his second round, he's standing motionless in his corner—staring at his own work, still hung on the wall, with his fingers in his mouth.

Louis tries to focus on his tasks: wrapping leftover trays of hors d'oeuvres, stuffing half empty bottles of champagne back into their boxes, and folding down plastic tables. The work he's meant to do, getting paid for, the kind that should be keeping his mind occupied.

But Harry's stillness keeps forcing Louis to glance over his shoulder, like the one painting tonight he can't stop coming back to, taking note of how his feet quickly tap against the floor, how he’s still biting at the ends of his nails.

It's all wrong.

Harry’s shoulders don't curve inward like that. He doesn't fidget. And he never looks uncertain.

Louis stops packing for a moment, allowing himself to take a better look at Harry's section of the gallery.

From here, he can see the full display, three rows of medium-sized canvases painted in swirling blues and blacks that form into abstract limbs and figures. They're all so undeniably Harry. Moody, raw and dark, but intimate in a way that makes Louis a bit uncomfortable, like stumbling across pages from his diary.

His breath catches in his throat when he drops down another row, realizing every single wall is freckled red.

Except for Harrys.

There’s no dots under his work.

Not a single one.

All of those idiots with their champagne breath and fake compliments, preying on him all fucking night, and not one of them actually bought anything?

Christ.

Louis' lungs deflate, knowing exactly what this means for him. Knows the severity of it more than anyone else. Probably more than he should. 

He needs to leave Harry alone. That's what he's been telling himself for weeks now, in the shower, during his runs, lying awake at night with Mina sleeping beside him. But watching Harry shrink into himself makes Louis' heart crumple right in his chest. Despite all his careful distance, here he is again. Powerless as ever.

When has Louis ever been any good at doing what he should?

He gently sets down the box he's holding, sliding it aside with the others before making his way through the corridor. With each step closer, the air fills thicker, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of one addictive kiss Louis' been building armed walls around.

Louis can still taste it sometimes, late at night when his defenses are down. Still feel the press of Harry's fingers digging into his hips. His body remembers exactly how it felt to be pressed up right against him, and despite everything, he finds himself wanting to feel that same warmth again.

But this isn't about that.

This is about Harry looking small in a room full of people who don't see him. This is about all of those unsold paintings, the money he's missing out on, and the reckless ways he'll chase it because there's no other option.

This is about Louis being physically incapable of walking away from Harry when he needs someone, even if he'd never fucking admit it.

Even if it means confronting everything he's been running from.

The loud squeak of his trainers makes Harry turn around when he’s only halfway through the room. When their eyes meet Louis feels his throat closing up again.  Every carefully prepared word evaporates right into thin air, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open, nothing compelling to say.

"I— um." Louis swallows. "You, uh, cut your hair." He points at Harry like a fucking tosspot.

And.. what the fuck is wrong with him.

He talks a lot of shit, doesn't he?

Harry just stares at him in the heavy quiet of the room, the intensity flushing heat up Louis' neck. And then, without a word, he turns back to his paintings and rips one down, his movements impatient and tired. Done pretending not to be.

Louis presses his thumbs together, searching for something to say, anything that might make this better. But the silence is a very physical and crushing thing. 

"Do you...need any help with those?" He asks, watching carefully.

"No." Harry’s voice is flat. The back of his suit wrinkles as he continues tearing down his art, each piece falling with a hollow thud at his feet.

He doesn't say anything else, moving fast like packing up in disappointment is muscle memory to him. And maybe it is. Louis doesn't know. But the careless way he handles his work, like it's absolute rubbish, is pretty telling.

The thing is, Harry's work is incredible . Phenomenal, really. Better than half the smudged and pretentious bullshit Louis has seen all night. He doesn't understand why no one’s buying. He might not get a single thing about art, but he knows talent when he sees it. He's not fucking blind.

"The ones with…all the smoke…they're…nice." Louis ventures, gesturing vaguely at the pile. "The way you painted the light, it's—"

"Don't." Harry doesn't turn around.

Louis pauses with his hand still in the air. "Don't what?"

"Don't stand there trying to make small talk about my work." Harry yanks the last canvas with force, placing a thumbnail between his teeth. "We both know you're not here for that.”

Louis’ eyes widen slightly like someone’s pulled the rug out from under him. The heat from his neck spreads to his cheeks, feeling caught out. He fumbles for a response, but all that comes out is a small and tiny, “Right.” Like that explains any of his behavior from the past few weeks.

Harry ignores him. He crouches down to gather his canvases, arms straining to hold them all at once. When he stands back up, a few slip through his grip and scatter across the floor.

"Fuck's sake," He mutters, more to himself than Louis. He crouches down again and stays there for a moment, staring at the pile like he can't quite remember how he got here.

Louis moves without thinking, bending down to pick up a fallen canvas. "Here, let me just—"

"Leave it," Harry snaps, snatching the painting back from Louis' hands. It bounces when he tosses it along with the others. Louis’ jaw tightens, ignoring the way his hand tingles where Harry’s fingers touched.

"You can't carry all of these yourself," He points out after watching Harry struggle to gather them again.

"Watch me." Harry doesn't look up. Not once and it sort of burns weird through Louis' body.

This is how it always fucking goes with them. Harry deep in his defenses, Louis desperately searching for cracks to slip through. He's used to this dance by now but there's something sharper in the way Harry's moving tonight, Louis’ almost hyper-aware of it. The hard set of his jaw, the way he’s dodging eye contact, how he keeps himself busy to cover the slight shake in his hands.

"It's raining." Louis tries again, hating how soft it sounds.

"Fantastic,” Harry mutters sarcastically.  “Thank you for the weather report." 

Louis sighs. "At least let me help you with a taxi. You can't walk like this."

Harry straightens up, holding the stack of paintings more securely against his chest. "I don't need a taxi. I can manage fine." he spits, "Don't you have a job you should be doing?"

"I'm just trying to help."

Harry laughs, but it's harsh. "Yeah, we've all learned you're so good at that."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

Louis scoffs, already flustered from the back and forth. "Harry, It's pissing down outside and you've got nowhere to put these." He's almost desperate now. "The least I can do is drive you home. You're not too far from here."

Harry shakes his head, a bitter smile on his lips. "I'm fine. Got plans."

Plans.

The implication makes Louis' stomach drop. Whether true or not or just to get him to go away, he knows exactly what kind of plans he might mean.

"No, don't—" Louis starts, but the words catch in his throat. How can he possibly convince him not to chase oblivion in all the wrong places?

"Look, it's no trouble." He tries again, slowly this time. "My car's already out front, I've got a blanket in my backseat. We can wrap the canvases in it to keep them dry."

Harry finally looks at him, or maybe he's looking through him. 

"Just go home, Louis." He says quietly, already walking away. 

Louis runs a hand through his hair as he watches Harry struggle to maintain his balance. He can't let him leave like this in good conscience. Can't watch him disappear into the night, knowing the path he's about to go down.

"Harry," His plead bounces loud off the walls with an echo. "Please, just... let me help, alright? I'll drop you off to your studio and then I'll leave you alone. I won't talk or ask any questions. I promise."

Harry stops cold, his shoulders much more tense than they were before. Louis braces himself for the brutal impact of his pride winning over practicality. Waiting for the sharp retort, the usual fight, the hit that always lands somewhere deep in his gut.

He turns around slowly, unreadable as ever. "Fine." Harry grits out. "But I'm not sitting around and waiting for you all night. If you're not out front in five minutes, I'm walking."

With that, he slips out of the room, the thunk of his dress shoes hitting hard against the floor like a countdown that beats through Louis’ bones.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The drive is silent and cold.

Not from the rain, but because Harry is sitting an impossibly small distance from Louis, and still manages to feel miles away. His long legs are tucked toward the passenger door, arms curled tight around his canvases like they’re the only thing keeping him together.

He didn't even take the fucking blanket. It's still folded neatly in the backseat, like his dignity is worth more than accepting something as simple as protection from Louis. He knows better by now. Harry will never accept a scrap of warmth or kindness from anyone, not if it means actually admitting he needs something. But that doesn’t mean Louis is going to stop offering.

And he wants to argue, toss the stupid blanket right onto Harry's lap and force him to use the damn thing so he can finally rest his arms. But he made a promise to shut up for once in his life, and that was proving to be more difficult than he anticipated. Shocker.

Still, blanket or not, Louis finds a loophole of protecting him anyway. He'll take the awkward twenty minute drive back to his studio, the dull knife carving an ache through his chest, and his broken windshield wipers squeaking in an irritating rythmn. Because if the choice is this or watching Harry walk out of that gallery with one of those sick fucking bastards.

Yeah, he'll fucking drive.

Even if Harry will never involuntarily ask. Even if he acts like he doesn’t want it. At least with this rain, Louis knows he'll stay inside once he gets home. One less thing to worry about tonight. Tomorrow is another story.

The rain gets heavier as the minutes go by, throwing a thick coat of noise and blur over the car. Harry has his head leaning against the passenger window, eyes unfocused as the city passes him by. The streetlights catch softly on his cheeks and Louis tries not to look, but his eyes keep betraying him, drawn by some stupid, restless need to know what Harry’s thinking.

He also can't help but notice how much curlier his hair looks cut this way. It's not that much shorter—where it used to lay past his collarbones, now rests softly above his shoulders—but the ringlets are looser. More unruly at the ends, coiling wildly around his jaw. It somehow makes him look even softer and younger than when he has it pulled back.

When their eyes meet in the window reflection, Louis’ stomach flips. He whips his head forward, yanking his gaze back to the road. Right. Focus.

He takes the corner onto Harry's street with careful precision, hyperaware of the fragile cargo both beside him and cradled in Harry's arms. The last thing he needs is to damage Harry's work any further. He kills the engine just as the rain starts to come down in sheets, pounding against the roof as if the whole sky's fell at once.

Neither move.

Harry white-knuckles his canvases, staring out into the madness like he's trying to figure out how to get inside without ruining them completely. Louis knows he'd rather drown first than swallow his pride, but fuck it.

He's already breaking his promise of silence when he snatches the blanket from the back seat and kicks open his door. His dress shirt is completely soaked before he's even rounding the car, squinting into the downpour as water pelts against his face in yet another series of Harry-related deja vu.

Harry's window rolls down when he approaches, his expression angry and confused.

"What are you—"

Louis doesn't let him finish, swinging open his door and holding the blanket up like a makeshift umbrella. "Give me the paintings."

Harry looks up at him incredulously, brows pulling together. His mouth’s already moving in the way Louis knows is fighting a protest,  but then, slowly, he stops. And like it physically pains him, he hands them over to Louis, letting him wrap them carefully in the blanket, tucking the corners in to keep out the rain.

The ride up to Harry's floor is just as silent as the car, except for the distant rumble of thunder rattling through the walls. Louis follows behind Harry’s wet loafers down the corridor he's memorized by now, making sure not to slip in his own waterlogged shoes. He holds his half of the paintings securely, handling them with the same care he would a bomb.

At the studio door, Harry fumbles around with his keys. His hands are still slightly shaking, whether from the cold or something else now, Louis can't tell. When the lock finally gives, Harry shoulders in without a word, revealing a cluttered room that still holds the kiss Louis had slipped away from just four weeks ago.

Louis' stomach tightens when the lights turn on and he hesitates in the doorway, unsure if his invitation extends beyond the threshold. But Harry doesn't look back or close the door behind him, just moves further into space, leaving it open like a question for Louis to answer.

He moves through the room quickly, keeping his eyes trained to the floor while he props the stack of canvases against the only free space on the wall. He doesn't look back up when he spins around, already heading for the door.

"Thanks." Harry's voice stops him.

It's barely above a whisper, rough like he had to drag it up from somewhere deep. When Louis turns back around, Harry’s not looking at him. He's staring at the bundle of paintings, almost like he’s asking them why they weren’t enough.

Before Louis can even think about forming a response, Harry’s moving across the studio and reaching for the brand new bottle of whiskey resting by his bed  along with the others, seal still intact.

His hands are steadier now as he pops it open, but there's something desperate in the way he does it. Louis thinks it might be the one thing he's been looking forward to all night.

"Stay," He doesn't look up. "Until the rain stops."

Harry crouches in front of his orange milkcrate, gently sorting out two ceramic mugs from it as if he already knew Louis would. And Louis’ heart starts to pound.

They both know it's an excuse.

The storm isn't going anywhere, and neither is that bottle once Harry starts. 

Whether Louis stays or not.

He pulls out his phone in one rushed motion:

Event running over. Be home late x

He stares at it before he deletes the kiss, then adds it back for good measure. Mina doesn't respond anyway, probably still at dinner with the girls. He tries not to think too much about the lying aspect of it, the only thing that matters right now is making sure Harry's okay.

He’s already poured two generous amounts of whiskey when Louis looks back up, holding one mug out like a peace offering. Their fingers brush as Louis takes it, and he tries not to linger. He knows this is probably a terrible fucking idea. Yet he mumbles “Thanks.” anyway.

"You're dripping on my floor." Harry finally says, still just as flat. Still looking anywhere but at Louis.

Louis glances down at his dress shirt, soaked and transparent against his skin. "Good thing your art is dry, then." He shrugs.

Harry says nothing, turning away to settle on the small ledge over by his window. The winds outside are growing heavier and violent, but the silence is somehow worse. 

Shifting uncomfortably in his spot, Louis watches as Harry takes a long sip. He wonders how many paintings he'd hoped to sell tonight, how many times he's had to do this before.

He shivers as water droplets roll off his fringe and sink into his collar, not exactly sure of what to do with himself. Whether to sit or stand or politely disintergrate. Whether to keep his promise of staying quiet or break it to gently remind Harry that he’s not alone.

"So…your hair," Louis tries, because someone has to start somewhere. "When did you, uh, cut it?"

Harry doesn’t look over, watching the rain with his mug balanced delicately between his kneecaps. "This is the second time you've mentioned this."

Louis lifts his own up to his nose, getting a brutal whiff of the whiskey. The fumes nearly burn through his brain, but he takes a drink anyway.

"Just a question." He mutters, wincing. “Christ.”

"Tuesday." Harry says between a sip. "Needed a change."

"Has it always been that long?"

"No." His fingers drift, lightly pulling on the end of a curl. It softly bounces against his shoulder when he lets go. "Used to keep it short, started growing it sometime after secondary." 

Then, Harry finally turns to look at louis, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you asking me about my hair?"

Louis says nothing at first, desperate to keep the conversation going now that Harry is actually responding. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, heart thudding loud enough to be annoying, “Just wondering.”

After a few painfully awkward minutes, Louis decides to move, wandering around the cramped room in search of something—anything—to grab onto or fucking talk about. The space looks exactly the same, but it feels different. Like walking through some wistful memory he doesn't deserve to have, every scattered canvas or coffee-stained sketchbook whispering reminders of Harry's mouth on his, and how he ran from it.

"Lots of books..." He says lamely, eyes landing on a red and green one that reads The Book of Tea.

"Your observational skills are truly something else." Harry says dryly, tracking Louis' movements over the rim of his mug.

"Do you actually read all of these?" He continues, running his fingers along the spines, "Or just stack them up to seem clever?"

"I am clever."

Debatable, Louis thinks but doesn't say.

He crouches near an uneven stack of books thrown carelessly by a paint-stained easel, setting his mug aside on the floor. A few of them jut out haphazardly, threatening to topple over like they’ve been rifled through one hundred times and never quite put back properly.

Tilting his head, Louis scans the sun-faded titles, getting a closer look at all of the mess. Most are thick spined art books, serious looking things about post-modernism, deconstruction, or abstract form. Stuff Louis would never choose to read willingly, or even care about.

His search stops at the fifth or sixth book resting at the top.

Entre les Pages et les Pâtes.

He scrunches his nose. " This one is in... French."

"Yes." Harry says simply, not offering an explanation.

Louis carefully de-jangas the book from the stack, holding the small blue book firm in his hands. He turns it around slowly, examining it like he'll somehow gain the magic ability of understanding foreign languages.

"You read French?" He raises a brow, glancing over to Harry.

"You're incredibly nosey."

Louis ignores that, shrugging. "Should've guessed you're the pretentious French poetry type.”

"Bold of you to assume it’s poetry."

"What else would it be?"

Harry takes another sip of whiskey before Louis catches the slight twitch of his lips. "It's a cookbook."

"A cookbook." Louis repeats, thumbing through the pages.

There's a few annotations in the old vintage margins and a couple of dog-eared bookmarks. Louis wonders if Harry's actually used any of these recipes or if he just likes the way the words look on yellowed pages. Maybe he did make one of these meals, sometime long ago, when he lived somewhere with a proper kitchen.

"Quite good at French cooking." Harry takes the thought right from his head. "Guess that makes me pretentious."

"Right," Louis says slowly. Then he gestures to the rooms obvious lack of stove. "And where exactly are you making all of these French meals?"

"Pot Noodles count if you eat them with a baguette." Harry says with a straight face.

And then—with some kind of weird fucking miracle—Harry's composure finally breaks. And Louis watches the whole thing unfurl in slow motion.

It starts off hesitant, a tiny twitch he's fighting against at the corner of his mouth, sudden and lopsided, sneaking up on him until he can't hold back.

Then, the smallest fucking laugh escapes, soft, breathy and completely ridiculous, scrunching up his entire face before he can stifle it.

His hand comes up quick to clap over his mouth, like the noise might give too much of him away. But it's too late. Louis' already memorizing the sound, forgetting how to breathe over an impossible softness coming from someone who never lets his guard down.

Holy fucking shit.

Louis doesn't laugh with him.

He can't. He's too busy frozen where he's crouching, eyes fixed on the boy across the room who's hiding his smile in a mug, laughing at his own painfully unfunny joke. It’s like watching light pour into a room he didn’t realize was dark.

And when the silence stretches for too long, all he can do is let out a breath.

"You're so full of shit." He swallows, forcing himself to look away.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Louis doesn't know how it happened, but they end up on the floor somehow, backs pressed uncomfortably against Harry's scratchy couch, legs stretched out awkwardly in the cramped space with the bottle resting between them, getting emptier by the hour.

He can't exactly pinpoint when the silence broke or when they decided to stop dancing around each other and actually start talking. Maybe it was after the second or third drink, when Louis carefully brought up Sugarcube, just testing the waters. Or maybe it was when Louis asked if one of Harry's painting was meant to be painted upside down, making Harry laugh for the second time that night.

The sound left Louis quietly determined to find as many ways as he could to make that happen again.

And again and again and again.

Now they're two hours deep into conversations about nothing and everything. About Harry's favorite record shop down on Newton Street, where he miraculously found his favorite Rolling Stones album one day. Then, as if that memory alone unlocked a floodgate, he dug through another milk crate buried in his clutter just to show Louis his collection.

They talked about the music that they liked, Harry leaning more 70's rock and Louis more 90's punk, which seemed to surprise Harry, but Louis won't take offense to that. 

They also argued about the best place to get curry at 3AM, settled on agreeing that the other is simply stupid and wrong.

It should be really fucking weird. This isn’t what they do. They don't sit around trading life facts or funny anecdotes. They don't exchange shy smiles and stuttered laughs. But the whiskey's made everything all warm and fuzzy, softening that careful distance they used to cling to.

"How can you hate vodka?" Harry asks, passing the bottle back to Louis, “Tequila is so much worse.”

Louis sips before answering, "Just hate it." He crinkles his nose. "It's disgusting, tastes like petrol."

"Well, that's because you're drinking it wrong." Harry rolls his eyes with a smirk.

"How can someone drink vodka wrong?" Louis scoffs, "It either goes down or it doesn't."

Harry reaches for the whiskey, fingers sliding over Louis' when he takes it. "Well, have you tried it in a White Russian?"

"What the fuck is that?" Louis watches Harry tip the bottle back slowly. His hairs dried all frizzy from the rain, curls flipping wild in every direction, and his cheeks are flushed pink—maybe from the whiskey, maybe from the warmth in the room—but Louis catches himself staring.

He notices everything. The way Harry blinks a little slower when he’s tipsy, how his tongue pokes between his teeth when he slurs, and how his voice dips a little softer than usual like he's sleepy. He doesn’t mean to savor every flutter or blink. But he does. Because he's fucking selfish. And he can't look away.

"You pour in enough cream and coffee liqueur, and suddenly the vodka is bearable," Harry explains, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb. "Ever had an espresso martini?"

Louis' eyes fall to the small dribble that's still resting at the other corner of Harry's mouth, he's missed it entirely and the sight makes his own mouth go dry.

"No." He blinks, trying to refocus, "What, are you some sort of cocktail connoisseur?"

"Worked at a pub for a bit." Harry shrugs, "Learned a few things."

"Pub?" Louis raises a brow, reaching for another drink. "Well, why'd you stop doing that? Seems a lot better than what you're…" He trails off, suddenly realizing what he's about to say.

Their eyes meet then, and Louis' stomach drops. There’s a small flicker crossing Harry's face that suggests he's moments from rebuilding those concrete walls, brick by painful brick. And Louis knows, if he does, it’ll all be his fault.

"Shit, I'm sorry," He backtracks quickly, "That was… I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine." Harry says, but there's a tightness to his voice that suggests otherwise. He takes the bottle back along with another sip of whiskey, eyes fixed on the floor.

Heat flushes all the way down to Louis’ socked feet, unsure of what to say now. Everything falls uncomfortably quiet, only the faint sounds of the storm still rumbling through the room. He almost wants to apologize again, but he's not sure if that will make things better or worse. So instead, he stays quiet, gently toeing the newspaper beneath him.

He glances over at their shoulders, nearly brushing, when Harry takes another long drink. He’s staring off at the pile of unsold paintings against the wall. And Louis gets it. Knows exactly what it feels like to pour yourself into something and still feel like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough.

"Your art is really…incredible," Louis says sheepishly. "Those twats don't know what they're missing."

Harry laughs at that, but it’s empty. "Doesn't really matter, does it? Can't pay rent with compliments."

"I know," Louis shifts so he's facing Harry properly, "But that doesn't make it right. The way they were treating you…you deserve better than that."

Harry looks at him then, really looks at him, and there's something there that Louis can't quite decipher. Surprise, maybe. Or shame.

"Why do you care so much?" He asks what he's asked Louis plenty times before, but this time there's gentle curiosity where there'd be heat.

Louis swallows, his heart starting to pound in his chest because he's not exactly sure how to put it into words. "Because." He says simply.

Because he just does. Because, for some reason, he can't stand seeing Harry this hurt. Because some part of him wants to hold all that pain and make it easier, even though he doesn't know how or why or have any sane reason to.

Just… because.

Harry's still looking at him, his gaze intense and searching. And then, before Louis can second-guess himself, he leans in and kisses him.

It's soft at first, tentative. Just a small brush of lips that sparks under his skin, sending goosebumps up the sides of Louis' arms. But then Harry makes a small noise in the back of his throat and surges forward, one hand coming up to cup Louis' jaw as he deepens the kiss.

Louis gasps into it, his own hands finding their way into Harry's hair, fingers tangling in the soft short curls and refusing to let go.

They break apart after a moment, both breathing heavily. Harry rests his forehead against Louis', eyes closed.

"Louis—" He warns gently.

"It's alright." Louis shakes his head, just as quiet. "Don't."

Harry nods hesitantly, breath warm against his face, "Okay,” He swallows, "Okay."

And then Louis is kissing him again.

Harry tastes like whiskey this time, and Louis is starting to realize he likes all the different ways Harry tastes. Whether it’s winter-fresh gum or stale cigarettes, he’d take it every time, just for the chance to taste him.

It's different from kissing Mina—from kissing any girl, really. Where they were all safe and easy, Harry is both a fatal risk and an anomaly. The slight scratch of stubble against his chin should feel wrong, should make him want to pull away. Instead, it sets his blood on fire, making him want to chase the burn.

He's never felt anything like this before, never willingly plunged into dark waters, where the pressure aches, but he still doesn't care to breathe.

He didn't even realize he's been waiting for this all night. He was actually starting to like talking to Harry, was enjoying getting to know what kind of person hides underneath that shell, but the soft moan that slips from Harry when their tongues meet and the way he melts right into Louis' palms as they find the nape of his neck, makes him think maybe Harry’s been waiting too.

"Your bow tie," Harry murmurs against his lips, and Louis thinks he might feel a smile there. "It's crooked."

"What?" He furrows his brows, panting between kisses.

"All night." Harry fingers find the collar of Louis' dress shirt, pulling him close. "It's been crooked."

Whatever Louis tries to say in response dies on his tongue the very moment Harry’s lips leave his, drifting lower to drag a trail of warm, wet kisses down the side of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, tilting his head to give Harry better access, hands still buried in those curls with fingers twisting and winding as he struggles to catch his breath.

Harry drags his tongue in a wet stripe from the base of Louis’ neck to his jawline, pressing a soft kiss into the tender spot just beneath it. Louis shivers at the contact, his hand tightening instinctively.

And Jesus—the fucking noise Harry makes when Louis tugs on his hair is indescribable. Other-fucking-worldly. Ripped from somewhere deep inside his chest before it could decide whether it was a gasp or a plea.

"Fucking hell." Louis shudders when Harry starts to suck on that very same spot. His fingers tighten in his curls again, yanking Harry’s head back with just enough force to rip another moan from him.

That’s when Louis’ desire finally gets the best of him, when he catches Harry looking up, eyes dark and half-lidded, heavy with obvious lust. His hand drops to Harry’s back, dragging him in, capturing his mouth again just as Harry shifts over, sliding a thigh between his legs.

Without really thinking about it, Louis hooks a hand under that same thigh, pulling Harry fully onto his lap in the cramped space between the couch and the coffee table.

Harry seems startled by the sudden change in position, hands instantly gripping onto Louis' shoulders for balance.

But neither of them say anything.

They stare at each other for a moment, breaths completely uneven with their chests heaving like it all comes down to this.

The solid weight of Harry in his lap brings him back down, but there's no pretending this is anything other than what it is. A man straddling him, wanting him, Harry's thighs bracketing his hips with a strength that makes Louis' head fucking spin all the way around. He should be afraid of how much he loves this, how right it feels. But the only fear he has left is that Harry might stop this.

Louis watches Harry's tongue dart out to wet his lips, then swallows thickly. Beneath the want in his eyes is that same flicker of fear Louis has been carrying in his own for weeks, maybe months. Because they both know, there’s no coming back from this. No more running away.

Louis has always felt too big for his skin and too small for the world, every moment too much for him to handle. But right now, all he wants is to tear it all off and offer himself up to Harry, bare it all in skin and secrets.

He always needed an anchor. And maybe it's the rough, warm hands digging into his shoulders. Maybe it's Harry, pliant, wanting, and straddling his fucking lap. Everything else seems to slip away then—the whiskey, the gallery, Harry's paintings, Mina, his fear. Overtaken by every nerve in his body, thrumming with the need for more, more, more, more.

So he gives in.

"Please." is all that Louis can say before Harry's mouth crashes down on his again.

Louis' hands roam over Harry's sides, fingers tracing along the muscles beneath the fabric of his dress shirt while the boy moans softly into his mouth, grinding down on him slowly. Fuck, Louis can feel everything —feel him, hard through the thin linen of his trousers, making his brain forget the ability to form any coherent words.

With each roll of Harry's hips, his cock presses right up against Louis' lower abdomen. The sensation so foreign, it knocks all of the air right from his chest. Still, Louis chases it, tilting his hips up and holding Harry tighter, desperate to know what it feels like again, to lose himself in it. To drown in the perfect way Harry fits.

"God," Louis pants against Harry's mouth. He's completely overwhelmed by the feel of him, the heat of him, everything. The grind of Harry against his lap sends electrical currents down his spine, making Louis' fingers press deep into Harry's arm.

But what he still can't get over is how Harry responds to his touch.

Handing over his control, piece by piece, and trusting Louis to do something with it. To take care of it. Of him. In all the ways Louis' been trying to for months. And fuck, Louis didn’t know he could crave something like that, this quiet surrender written in every small whine and plead that leaves Harry's mouth. It's nothing like the Harry he's come to know.

Harry drops his head to Louis' neck again, breath hot and ragged against his skin. The sound he makes when Louis rocks up to meet him is obscene, a needy, broken thing that breaks something loose in Louis too.

"Want you," He breathes, the admission spilling out before he can make sense of it. "Fuck, Harry, I want you—have done for—" 

He gasps when Harry grinds harder, clutching at his back. "Ages. Tried not to, but I—”

Harry just makes another wrecked sound, hips stuttering as Louis fists his dress shirt. "Let me." He exhales, pressing more open-mouthed kisses onto Louis' neck, “Please, Louis.”

Louis doesn't know exactly what Harry's asking for, but he finds himself nodding vigorously anyway, "Yeah." he manages, because whatever the fuck Harry wants to do to him right now, he wants it too. Very badly. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

Harry slides back slowly at that, shifting off Louis' lap into the narrow space between his legs, mouth never leaving his skin once. His fingers move quickly, slightly trembling where they fumble with Louis' bow-tie, then over to the buttons of his dress shirt, lips following in a succession of sloppy kisses and licks down Louis' chest with each one he manages to undo.

"Ssshit." Louis' head tips back against the couch cushions, chest heaving when Harry's mouth finds his stomach. He anchors his hand deep into the curls that tickle against his skin, unable to focus on anything else except the heat of Harry's mouth and fuck—that ungodly flick of his tongue.

"This okay?" He suddenly stops, nosing right above the waistband of Louis' trousers.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

All Louis can do is nod fervently. His entire body is burning, caught between wanting to watch and needing to close his eyes against the overwhelming sight of Harry between his legs, looking up at him through dilated pupils and dark lashes.

Those plush lips dip back down obediently, continuing their path along the soft hairs that trail beneath the wool fabric, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through Louis that squeezes tight in his stomach, making his cock ache with need.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth the second Harry slips the clasp open, releasing the tension that's begging to be touched. And then there’s a hand dipping beneath the loosened waistband, carefully running fingers along Louis' length, mapping and memorizing every inch before daring to claim it.

“F-fuck,” Louis stammers, hips twitching into the warm palm that's pressing down. Harry's fingers are curled just enough to make his mouth open with sounds he’s never made before in his life. “Jesus, Harry—”

Without any more hesitation, Harry hooks his fingers onto Louis' belt loops, gently tugging at them with a soft, "Off. " escaping his lips.

Louis lifts himself to help, too far gone to care about anything but the boy on his knees, pushing the coffee table back with his spine as he drags the fabric down Louis’ thighs in one swift pull.

Desperation meets recklessness when Harry leans forward again, open-mouth kissing on Louis' cock through the thin fabric of his briefs. If Louis was delirious before, it's nothing compared to now. His entire body arches forward, hissing between his teeth from the shock searing through him with no mercy.

It was taking the force of biting down hard on his molars to not shoot out right there.

When Louis dares to look down again, he can't help the strangled sound that comes from his throat. Harry's still watching him, right there, with his lips parted, tongue pressing into the damp fabric, the barrier not offering nearly enough.

"Still good?" The vibration from Harry's throat makes Louis claw helplessly into the couch cushion, unsure of where else to go.

"Yea—yeah." It's suddenly the only word he knows. But he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. Only that he’s never felt anything quite like this. Never wanted something so badly it made him stupid.

Something shifts in Harry’s expression then, as if Louis has just handed him the world. He kisses the swollen outline one more time and then slips his fingers into the waistband of Louis’ briefs.

Louis lifts automatically, offering himself without question, and the fabric is peeled away. His cock springs free against his stomach, flushed and painfully hard, already leaking at the tip.

Harry stills.

His eyes drag over every inch of him, widening just slightly in genuine surprise. His lips part, but no sound comes out, just a small, breathless exhale that punches straight through Louis’ already-ruined composure.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry says under his breath, the words slipping out uninvited.

Louis doesn’t know whether to feel proud or embarrassed. Maybe both. But then Harry dips his head again, and any self-conscious thought evaporates, chased off by the slow drag of Harry’s flattened tongue.

There's no time to prepare when Harry's already swirling around his tip, sucking up a small bead of precome before chining his way down to the base again. He's selfishly unsparing in the way he moves, one hand slowly working the girth, while the other runs along Louis' thigh. 

"Oh fu—uck—" The deliberately careful touches do unexplainable things to Louis, his hands desperate to maintain their secure hold in Harry's hair for grounding.

It's filthy having him like this. On his knees, hovering over Louis with spit dribbling from those red, bitten lips in a thick trail that lands right on his cock. And the knowing look that comes with it feels like Harry’s found the key to all of Louis' locked away fantasies about it. And now he’s hell-bent on making every single one of them real.

Harry’s hand follows without pause, working the slick into Louis with fervor, eyes on Louis the entire time to savor every second of making him fall apart. Louis takes shuddering breaths through his mouth, zeroing in on the glide of Harry’s fist and the heat that's building low in his stomach.

"Want you, Lou." Harry's voice is rough, "Want you in my mouth so bad."

But he doesn't move. Harry just stays there, glancing up at him with heavy breaths, mouth so close Louis can almost feel it . And for a second, Louis doesn’t understand. Thought he would just go for it. Thought that’s what this was.

But Harry stays put, hand still pumping slowly, but warily. Like he’s waiting for something. Big round doe eyes locked on his.

And when it hits Louis all at once, he nearly comes at the thought.

Harry’s not hesitating because he’s nervous. He’s waiting. Waiting for permission. And not just because he's polite. Not because he's careful.

Because he wants to be told.

Holy—

“Fuuuuck.” Louis rasps.

All this time, he thought Harry liked control. Liked taking whatever he wanted. Christ, how many times had they fucking fought about it? Harry pushing back against every little thing, snarling and snapping whenever Louis tried to take charge. But now Harry was on his knees, waiting. Asking. Begging .

Harry was never fighting against Louis' control. He was fighting for it.

Every heated argument, every defiant glare, every time Harry pushed back. It wasn't rejection, it was invitation. Testing Louis, challenging him, seeing if he was strong enough to take what Harry needed to give. And god, Louis wants to be. Wants to be everything Harry's been silently begging for.

"You—you want me to tell you?” Louis’ fingers cautiously tighten in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck.

When Harry gently nods, he swallows.

“Okay. Then open your pretty mouth for me.”

Harry moans in response, lips falling open as he languidly lowers them over the hard length. Louis' grasp on his hair deepens, the curls the only thing keeping him tethered to both this earth and his soul. Every bit of Harry's mouth envelopes around him, knowing exactly how to take it, sinking all the way down  and trying for every inch.

What his mouth can't reach, his hand takes care of, and Louis was too wrecked in this revelation to decide whether to thrust up or just let himself be ruined. His head tips back with a groan, mouth slack, and eyes fluttering, short-circuiting on the pleasure alone.

"Oh, fuck." Louis' can barely recognize his own voice, "So fucking good, Harry. Holy shit."

His compliment is taken as a reward, Harry humming around him with clear appreciation. The vibration floats right to his toes, and that's when Louis realizes he's not going to last very long.

Not with Harry looking like this between him.

With his hollowed out cheeks, and long lashes fluttering, blinking slow, blissed-out and fucking drunk on this. With his lips wet and swollen with spit glistening in the corners, breathing through his nose as if swallowing air was never an option. It’s fucking spellbinding.

This is what wanting feels like, Louis thinks hazily. Not the gentle drift he'd known with Mina, but a headlong plunge into something vast and consuming.

"Fuck, Harry. I'm not gonna—" He tries to warn but can barely get it out when Harry lets out a small whine and starts to pick up his pace, moving zealously with praise being the drug he needs more of. He knows exactly what he’s doing now, it must be clear in the way Louis' breath hitches erratically and his hips twitch, finally surrendering all his inhibitions.

He can't control it now, the way his hips jerk up to meet the back of Harry's throat. The curses that tear from him come unconsciously, which only encourages Harry to wrap his lips tighter, each quick motion and sloppy sound making Louis' white-out completely.

Everything around him blurs into distant, muffled echoes as the edge of his orgasm threatens to spill out. Harry doesn’t let up, his tongue a relentless, greedy force that tugs Louis deeper. Both hands clamp down in his hair then, holding steady and in place as Louis comes, unloading deep into Harry’s mouth until every last drop is swallowed.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

Louis starts to come down slowly, his heart still pounding wildly as his vision starts to clear. Everything around him is humming, buzzing, the air thick with heat and sweat sticking onto skin with proof of something forbidden. His fingers are still tangled in the curls that are gently working him through the aftershocks, legs now a useless pile of putty. He has to force himself to loosen his grip, letting his hands fall limp to his sides.

Harry pulls off with a syrupy pop and a gasp, sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth. His lips are flushed and sparkling, and there's something overwhelmingly beautiful about how he wears pink cheeks and tousled hair.

“Still with me?” He asks out of breath, voice sounding thoroughly fucked.

All Louis can manage is a tiny, weak nod, trying to slot the what did I do, what does this mean, why did it feel like that thoughts back into place. His eyes slowly drift down to where Harry is sitting, unable to miss the glaring bulge straining against his trousers.

He doesn't mean to stare, but there's a slow build of panic in his chest, bouncing between guilt and awe and the slow realization that this just opened a door he doesn’t know how to walk through. His mind races as he realizes what he should do next, what Harry probably expects.

The anxiety must be loud on his face because Harry's expression softens immediately. "Hey," he murmurs, reaching up to squeeze Louis' knee. "It's alright. I know this is… a lot right now."

Louis still can’t speak, blinking slowly at Harry like he's just surfaced from underwater.

"Don't worry about it," Harry adds, and there's no disappointment or frustration or underlying challenge or bite. Just sincere understanding. "Really, Lou. We don't have to do anything else."

Lou.

The nickname catches weird in his chest. It's the one everyone in Louis' life has always used for him, but for some reason, it feels different every time it falls from Harry's mouth. Rarely, but painfully special. A secret he wants to keep tucked tight between his ribs, where no one else can reach.

"I just..." Louis starts, then stops, not exactly sure how to gather the swirling thoughts inside his brain.

"I know, it's okay." Harry says simply, seeming to understand exactly what Louis needs before he can even voice it.

He leans back on his hands then, standing up to give him space, and for once doesn’t push.

And it’s the gentleness, that, that undoes Louis more than anything else.

Chapter Text

Three days of silence feel like three years when waiting for a text is a new kind of starvation.

Louis stares at the little 'H.' at the top of the thread, thumbs swiping through their first and last exchange from over four weeks ago. Long before that night. When the idea of a second kiss already felt like too much and Louis still pretended the car park would be the end of it.

After typing and deleting about fifteen different variations of the same message, Louis finally swipes out the whole thing. Because really, what do you even say to the one person you weren’t supposed to want after they’ve had their mouth around your cock?

Thank you?

Sorry about that?

When can we do that again?

No, really when—

He sighs, locking his phone, then immediately unlocks it again, as if he’s not lying in bed right next to his fucking girlfriend, debating how to text the boy who undid him with a mouth that rewrote every single rule he thought he knew about himself. Mina shifts gently in her sleep as if she knows exactly what he's up stirring about, pressing her warm back into his side. The sudden contact causes Louis to jolt, the phone slipping from his guilty palms and cracking right into his nose.

"Jesus—Fuck—" Louis whisper-shouts, clamping a hand over the throbbing.

He's been too jumpy lately, like his body hasn’t quite figured out how to recover from the exhilirating high of doing something so wildly stupid, so wildly disastrous, it rewired him completely from the inside out, leaving him with a different kind of hunger that doesn’t go away just because its been fed. His body is operating on an entirely new frequency, Harry's touch recalibrating something vital deep inside him.

The memory ambushes him at the worst moments. Mid-shift, while he’s balancing steaming plates, he'll remember the heat of Harry's mouth, the careful way his fingers worked around him, making both his throat and trousers unexplainably tight. Louis thinks he’s taken more bathroom breaks in the past 72 hours than in his entire life, needing the brutal reality of freezing cold water to wash away the want that's planted a home in his veins.

It'd be easier to blame everything else the way he always does. Maybe it was the whiskey. Or the late-night rain. Or the way Harry looked at him like a risk he didn't mind taking. But truthfully, it was none of that at all. It was just Harry. In his cautious whispers and needy touches, how he'd waited for permission, how different this felt from anything Louis had ever done before in his life. Something's shifted, Louis knows this. He feels it in that part of himself he's been trying to outrun.

He doesn't want Harry thinking this was just about getting off or taking advantage of a moment of weakness—god, fuck—no, it was never about that. It was about something else entirely, even if Louis can't quite admit or name exactly what that is yet. Can't quite come around as to why his heart is taking off with speed just thinking about texting him. How his head spins when he remembers how soft Harry's laugh sounds. How gentle his kiss felt on his neck. Why he keeps turning on and off his phone every night, desperate to bridge this gap before it becomes too wide to cross with every second of silence.

Rubbing the sore spot on his nose, Louis watches as Mina starts to settle back into sleep. There's also the looming awareness of her not knowing what reckless things he's been up to that keeps him wide awake through the night, sweat slick at his temples with his stomach turning. But not enough to stop him from opening their texts again. This time, lowering the brightness.

Finally, around 1:15AM, Louis bites the bullet:

Awake?

He sends the message without thinking, immediately cringing at how god-awful and juvenile it sounds. He might as well have just sent 'u up?' Jesus, there should really be classes for this kind of thing. Classes on how to text the man that sucked you off and broke your brain all in one go. There's no time to dwell anyway because in the next five minutes:

H: Always am.

Louis scrambles for his phone, his heart now thumping dangerously. Slinking further into bed, he makes sure not to disturb Mina with his movements, shielding his phone to read the text again. He's battling the urge to spill everything he's been worrying about right there and then, needing to ask Harry if he's doing alright. If he's sold anything since the gallery. If he's done other things to make up for his rent. Instead, Louis swallows hard, fingers shaking as he offers something light:

Cooking pretentious french meals?

The response is immediate, diffusing his anxiety just enough to breathe again:

H: Mmm. Felt more italian these days.

He chews on the ends of his nails as he thinks of a reply, then his thumbs move quickly across the screen:

Let me guess. This weeks beans on croissant?

And then:

H: Wrong. Cold pizza and a j20. Don't insult me.

H: Also, a croissant is still French.

Louis rolls his eyes, unable to resist the tiny grin that grows. He clicks the screen off, resting it flat on his chest and through their window, he can just make out the tops of the skyline in the night. He wonders what actually might be keeping Harry up this late. If he's as restless as him, sitting in a pile of messy canvases with blues and black smeared up his arms and legs or given up painting for the night, curled on that worn-out loveseat with his nose in a ratty old book.

It becomes a thing. The late-night texts.

Neither of them acknowledge how easily they fall into this routine, existing in this tranquil bubble that only forms between midnight and the early mornings where things don't feel so confusing or complicated.

They don't talk about what happened. Instead, Louis starts claiming insomnia and Harry sends photos of Sugarcube knocking over his paint water just before 2AM. Louis responds with his own photo: a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his fingers after escaping his bed with Mina under the guise of needing fresh air. All he really wants is a moment alone, buying himself more time in this borrowed world just to text Harry back.

When Harry finds another vintage cookbook at the thrift, he starts to send Louis these terrible french translations.

On Monday its:

H: Versez délicatement les œufs dans l'étreinte du beurre.

H: Carefully pour the eggs into the butter's waiting embrace.

Louis stifles a laugh, sneaking glances over at Mina asleep beside him between every other message:

bit sensual for scrambled eggs? he texts back.

A day later:

H: Caresser la pâte avec amour, mais fermeté.

H: Caress the dough lovingly. But firmly.

Friday:

H: Fouetter les blancs d'œufs jusqu'à ce qu'ils implorant la pitié.

H: Whip the egg whites until they beg for mercy. That one's my favourite so far.

Louis catches himself smiling stupidly at his phone more often than not these days, waiting for these messages like another game they’re both pretending not to play. The only safe way to say ‘I want to keep talking to you’ without actually saying it. Eagerness overpowers any parts of him that know better, sneaking glances at his phone during his breaks at work, in the bathroom during his showers, even under the dinner table with Mina. The relief from waiting always comes at the end of the night, when he knows exactly what's coming.

Somehow, the guilt stops hitting him as hard as it usually would. It doesn't fester or linger, the feeling sitting somewhere quietly for the first time in months as he pours Mina a glass of wine with one hand and texts Harry back with the other. Perhaps because this thing with Harry feels less like a choice and more like that inevitable pull he couldn't fight even from the start. Or perhaps because when he's all alone, texting Harry in the middle of the night, it feels less like cheating and more like stealing a moment of himself back.

The funny thing about routines is how easily they break if people aren't careful. One text, one decision, and suddenly they're in places they never planned to be. Like when Louis is wiping down his tables at the end of his shift on Wednesday and his phone buzzes in his back pocket. They've barely gotten to text at all that morning, but he already knows who it is without looking, the air shifting in that way it only ever does with him. He's scrambling to swipe it open before he even sets his rag down, heart doing that stupid, nervous stuttering it’s started to do, reserved just for this:

H: Been staring at this painting for too long. Need fresh eyes.

It’s vague, but then again, that’s how Harry always asks for things. Or answers them. Never a real question or an invitation, just an open-to-interpret statement. A cryptic thread Louis can't help but blindly follow.

The response comes way too easily. Such an addictive thing, the way saying yes is faster than reason:

off in twenty...could try. though I'm pretty sure I'm colour blind.

Louis pockets his phone, ignoring the fluttery feeling that goes with it. He's already thinking about what's left over in the kitchen to snag, the abandoned meals he'd usually pack up and bring home to Mina now about to end up on Harry's floor. For, what? A reason. An excuse to make all his emotions seem casual, harmless, or normal?

There's a possibility that Harry hasn't eaten at all today, stuck on another night of Pot Noodles and pizza. He'd probably fancy that new mushroom pasta they recently added to the menu. Though, Louis admits he doesn't really know enough about him to make that decision. Still, he'll bag up the pasta and keep that thought tucked away in his back pocket, too. For another time.

"You've murdered that spot, mate. Think it's clean." He hears Niall through the thoughts. He's standing awkwardly by the door, already out of his uniform with keys in his hands.

Louis blinks, dropping the wet cloth he's clutching tight in a fist. "Oh." It falls flat.

Niall shifts on his weight, obviously torn between wanting to say something or leaving like they've been doing so often lately, having still not gotten around to that talk. His hands half way on the door handle before he starts, "So, uh…" He trails, eyes not quite meeting Louis', "Got the new 2k. If you wanted to… come by, maybe have a pint?"

The offers right there on the table, but Louis hesitates.

Part of him wants to have that pint, patch up whatever bullshits still lying between them, and let things fall back to how they used to be, when Niall was still his best mate he told everything to. Before things got incredibly weird and messy.

But then there's the other part.

The smallest part of him that secretly wants to watch Harry twirl pasta on a plastic fork, sitting maybe a bit too close for comfort. Trying again at coming up with something clever enough to make him laugh without looking away this time.

"Can't tonight. Sorry, mate." He decides, perhaps too quickly. Louis doesn't even use a Mina-related excuse this time, "Maybe later, yeah?"

He watches Niall's face fall slightly and dips his head down to avoid the guilt.

"Right." Niall nods, pressing his lips together, "Another time." He hovers by the door, and for a moment Louis thinks he might say more. Either yell at him or bring up how they haven't properly hung out in months and now barely manage small talk during their shifts. Niall just adjusts his jacket and leaves, the little bell above the door chiming, far too bright for how heavy the room feels now.

Louis forces down that ache when he's sitting in his Fiat, take-out warm against his stomach, now flipping uncontrollably. Because he's already halfway to Harry's. And way past the point of pretending he doesn't want to be.

The studio at sunset is a particular kind of nerve-wrecking he wasn't quite ready to meet, the warm golden light casting a dangerous glow on just about everything. His palms sweat embarrassingly around the plastic bag he's carrying into the lift and he tries to wipe them on his shirt, but all it does is smear moisture into the fabric, making him look even more like a nervous idiot.

Two weeks of texting in the late night about scrambled eggs and shitty French translations hasn’t exactly clarified what happened between them, or why Louis still wakes up hard thinking about it.

It’s casual, he decides.

Just dropping off food. Mates do that.

Is that what they are now? Mates?

Louis gently bangs his head with the palm of his hand.

He’s just hungry, and Harry probably is too, and this is completely detached from the fact that he still thinks about Harry’s mouth at least once every other hour.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, right up until Harry appears in the doorway, that same golden light catching Louis completely off guard with how it swallows the room. The new charcoal sketches pinned sloppily on the walls, the wobbly table littered with used tubes of paint and half-drunk mugs of tea, and the ends of Harry’s curls slipping loose over a green bandana. As if they ever really had a chance of staying put.

His heart is in his throat while Harry stands there with a smothered paint-brush caught between his teeth, brows furrowed in that same permanent scowl he's come to know, like irritation is just his default setting. He doesn't quite say 'Hello' or even smile, stepping back to let the music humming behind him fill the awkward silence.

Louis wants to laugh at himself, really. For the small twinge of disappointment that's tangling in with the mess of nerves in his gut. He feels a little bit stupid for rehearsing this whole greeting in his head the entire ride over, only to be met with a nod and a paintbrush. Like this wasn’t a Big Deal. Like Louis hadn’t been sweating over it since the second he hit send.

Casual. He reminds himself. This is casual.

"Um, brought food," Louis wags the bag in the air. His voice carries loud over the music as he follows Harry in, stepping over paper plates painted in blues and reds.

"Didn't have to," Harry mumbles around the paintbrush, but his eyes flick to the plastic. "Though I won't say no to real food."

Louis half shrugs, "Was going to bin it anyway," He lies through his teeth, trying and failing miserably to mirror Harry's unbothered tone. He sets the take out down in the only clear spot on the table, the rest covered in art supplies and dirty water jars. The room is aggressively Harry today. Like a bomb went off in an art store and spared the boy, "Kitchen's rules and all that."

Harry hums, attention already back on the canvas resting on the opposite side of the room. Louis stands there awkwardly, watching him move, mesmerized by how carefully Harry starts painting, how close he leans in with each delicate brush, as if it's the only place he ever lets himself be gentle.

The silence leaves Louis in an embarrassing state of confusion, making him wonder if he misread all those late-night texts as welcome. He spots the loveseat—the same one Harry had him clawing into just two weeks ago—and heads for it anyway with heated cheeks, before he can start overthinking the basic fundamentals of sitting.

The music on the record player is something dreamy. Melancholic and soothing with soft, airy guitars aching beneath it. Louis lets himself focus on that while Harry works, completely lost in his craft. Each dab feels important and he doesn't want to interrupt. Although, Louis wishes he knew the right words to say, how to tell Harry that watching him create is one of the most impressive things he's ever seen.

After what feels like an agonizing forever, Harry takes a step back, tilting his head and holding his thumb out to the painting, squinting an eye. "It's just the underpainting," he says without turning around, "But I can't tell if the proportions are right."

It takes Louis an entire chorus to realize Harry's asking for his opinion.

"What? Oh—" His brows shoot up as he properly looks at the work. Two hands reaching for each other through what looks like smoke… or maybe, water? Louis can't tell, but it doesn't matter. It's incredible. The way the fingers grasp for each other through the grey, like they're fighting against whatever's keeping them apart. His chest goes tight just looking at it.

"Looks good," is all he manages, immediately wanting to kick himself in the arse. Good? It's fucking brilliant. But he doesn't know how to say that without sounding like a proper idiot. He doesn't know anything about proper proportions or underpaintings or any technical aspects Harry's worried about. He just knows it makes him feel something, and that's got to count, right?

Harry turns around to look at him, and Louis' throat gets tight when he rolls his eyes. "Right." He sighs heavily, running a paint-stained hand through his curls. "Should probably just stop looking at it."

The frustration in his voice makes Louis' heart drop. He wants to explain how the painting does something weird to his stomach. How he can't believe someone can make something so lovely with just their hands. How he thinks Harry might be some kind of artistic genius. But before he can even try, Harry's tossing the bandana to the ground and moving over to his desk. He pulls open a drawer and fiddles around until he fishes out a perfectly rolled joint from a small black tin, holding it low in the air.

"Spliff?" He murmurs, finally looking at Louis now. Properly. His eyes are hung low, full of exhaustion, but there's a hint of something softer in them that wasn't there before. Like he's finally acknowledging that Louis is there.

"Yeah," Louis exhales with relief. Smoking weed is something he definitely knows how to do. "Yeah, alright"

And there goes that stupid stutter in his chest again when Harry half-smirks at him, placing the spliff between his lips. He’s got no clue just how long Louis' been waiting for that.

Time passes after that, along with the spliff between them.

Harry's frustration with his painting seems to melt away with each puff, the stubborn set of his jaw finally relaxing. After a few songs, Louis starts to feel his own nerves relax too, cozying up into something easier, warmer. They smoke while Harry explains to Louis what an underpainting is used for, his voice all lazy and drawn out with Sugarcube resting in his lap.

Louis gets caught up in the way Harrys hands move when he talks about his art, fingers moving deliberately, passionately. Creating invisible lines Louis only wishes to touch.

The food doesn't last long either once the high settles. Harry practically downs his portion, making small pleased noises that Louis pretends not to notice, just like the soft ache in his chest when Harry goes in for seconds. They eat right out of the container, trading it back and forth like this is something they've done multiple times. Except it's the first proper time they've hung out where neither one’s trying to hide how much they want to stay.

"Got a proper stall and everything," Harry licks a bit of sauce from his thumb, "For an art market this weekend down by the Northern Quarter. Could probably get a decent price for these once the rest are done." He gestures towards the stack of canvases resting near Louis' foot, all in various stages of completion. "Better than the last lot, anyway."

Louis nods in response, eyeing the small series of storm clouds and figures trapped in tunnels. All of Harry's work carry the same tune: dark themes, dark places, and the kind of vulnerability he wouldn’t expect from someone like him. He's curious to understand all of the meanings, even the ones Harry might not know he’s put there.

All Louis can do is let his head plop back against the loveseat. The weed has made everything warped and dreamy, his limbs feeling heavier by the minute and falling deeper into the cushions. It's been a while since he's gotten high. Well, this high. He's been telling himself he's taking a tolerance break. But really, it's only because Mina hates it.

His eyes drift around the cramped space, taking in all of the tiny details he's missed before. There's a string of lights hung over by the window, in the shape of tiny yellow stars and a keyboard standing up against the wall, hidden beneath a thin blue blanket. The wall adjacent is covered in small post-it notes muddled in Harry's sloppy handwriting, some to-do lists, others small sketches. It's chaotic, completely disorganized but somehow make sense to him now. Just Harry.

Then his eyes catch on something else—or rather, the loud absence of something that's not just his missing kitchen.

"Where do you shower?"

Louis crinkles his nose, too stoned to care about filtering his thoughts. When he looks over, Harry's got this amused little smirk on his lips.

He arches a brow, narrowing his eyes, "Been thinking about me showering?"

The question catches Louis off guard, heat flooding to his cheeks. Because he wasn't. Really, not like that. But shit, maybe now he is. He glances away quickly, blinking those naughty images right out of his head.

"No—I just," He stutters a nervous laugh, "You know what I meant, prick." Louis waves non-committally around the room.

Harry chuckles at that, a soft fluttery breath. "There's a 24-hour gym around the corner. Got a membership there."

"Smart," Louis says, though his minds now lingering on the thought of Harry in the shower. His long hair flat against his cheeks with hot water and suds rolling off his chest, running down to his—Jesus Christ. He shakes his head, trying to focus on literally anything else. "Bit dodgy though, innit? Those types of places at night?"

Harry shrugs, not at all bothered while he pets the sleeping cat in his lap. "Not really. Usually pretty empty that late." He uses his other hand to take the last hit, "Plus the hot water never runs out."

How proud he sounds of all the little things that keep him going makes the warmth in Louis' stomach soar right to his chest. Or maybe it's just the weed. Everything feels equally heavy and light, like he's floating into the air and sinking into the floor simultaneously.

"Should probably head home," Louis says after another song, making no real attempt to move. Long gone is that beautiful golden sunset pouring in through the window, the room only illuminated by the small antique lamp on Harry's desk and the twinkling string lights. When did night time happen? How long have they been sitting here talking?

Harry nods in response, his eyes half-closed as he stares at nothing in particular. The vinyl he switched over to ages ago is something instrumental, sweet enough to lull Louis right to sleep. He knows that he will if he ends up staying for too long, pulled under by the odd comfort of paint fumes and smoke.

But Mina will start to wonder where he is. And this—whatever this is—isn't something he can explain away with kitchen rules or binned food.

He forces himself off the couch, his legs feeling a little bit wobbly. Harry watches, but doesn't speak, as Louis gathers himself slowly. Neither of them knowing what to say or how to end this.

"Thanks for the, uh," Louis nods, scratching at the back of his neck, "You know."

Harry smiles slightly, "Yeah." He says soft and sleepy, "Sure."

He makes it all the way to the door before Harry speaks again.

"Lou?"

The nickname makes Louis pause with his hand tight around the handle. When he turns around, Harry's readjusted himself to stretch out over the small couch, impossibly long deer legs falling over the armrest Louis was just leaning into.

"Text when you're home?" He closes his eyes.

It's not at all what Louis was expecting him to say. It's better somehow. Worse maybe, making his breath catch.

"Um, yeah." Louis says, swallowing hard. "Sure, I'll text."

He doesn't remember the drive home, only that when he finally crawls into bed beside Mina, his phone is lighting up with a message.

H: Sleep well.

Before he knows it, it’s a regular thing.

Louis showing up after his shifts with takeaway containers full of whatever he snags from the kitchen, Harry's paintbrush between his teeth or sometimes tucked behind an ear when he opens the door without word. The same cheap record player spinning quietly, tucked away in the corner of his bed and soundtracking their newfound peace of coexisting in comfortable silence.

"What's this one then? I like it." Louis asks one night, spliff resting between his lips. He has his knees pulled up to his chest on the couch while Harry sits on the floor across the room with his legs crossed, working on a brand new canvas. The song playing is that same soothing one he's heard many times before. Slow and a little sad but it feels good. Cathartic.

Harry glances over his shoulder, his unruly curls pinned back over his head with a ridiculously large looking clip. Louis would find the sight silly, but somehow Harry makes it look good. He’s been doing that a lot, Louis is noticing.

"Fleetwood Mac." Harry's brow furrows when Louis just blinks at him. "You're joking."

"What?"

"Rumours? One of the greatest albums ever made?" Harry's properly turned around now, dropping his paintbrush to the floor. "You've never heard of—" He pinches his nose as Louis shrugs, letting out a dramatically loud groan, "Oh my god."

He tries not to smile at how properly pissed Harry looks. "I know that one song."

"Dreams?"

"No, the other one. About getting old or something."

"About getting—" Harry scoffs, eyes widening incredulously. He wipes his hands on his jeans, already marching over to his milkcrate of records. "You're culturally ignorant."

"What? It's a good song."

"That's like saying you only know The Beatles because you've heard Here Comes The Sun once."

"I mean—"

"Don't." Harry holds up a warning finger. "Don't finish that sentence."

And that's how Louis ends up with Silver Springs on his playlist. Or rather, abusing Silver Springs on his playlist. It very quickly becomes one of his favorite songs, listening to it multiple times in the day. On his way to work, in the shower, while he's having a morning jog. Sometimes he catches himself humming it under his breath when he's making dinner with Mina. He never quite tells her where he heard it first.

When Louis comes over next, Sugarcube doesn't dart under the bed. He's gotten used to her doing that, slowly emerging from her hiding place only hours later. This time she watches from her perch on Harry's coffee table, orange and black tail swishing slowly as he sets down tonight's stolen meal.

"Weird that she's warming up to you," Harry doesn't look up from where he's painting a hand holding a match.

"Hm, weird, how?" Louis asks, flopping backwards onto his spot on the loveseat.

"Usually takes her months to warm up to anyone. She hates people."

He tries not to read too much into the word months, carefully extending his hand out towards the small calico, letting her sniff his fingers.

"Careful," Harry warns. But Sugarcube gently nudges into Louis' palm, eliciting a series of low purrs.

Louis purses his lips, oddly proud that she didn't scratch. "Jealous?" He asks, moving to scratch the top of her head now.

Harry rolls his eyes and says nothing, but Louis catches the tiny smile that follows.

They still don't talk about that one night, about what happened on the floor next to the very couch Louis' sinking into. Sometimes, though, he catches Harry looking at him like maybe he's thinking about it too.

He doesn’t even think twice now. "Yeah, pulling another double," He tells Mina over the phone when he pulls up to Harry's. "Kitchen's proper slammed tonight." Or "Niall's called in sick, need to cover his close." Sometimes it's 'New menu training' or 'Inventory night.' Each excuse allowing him a few more hours in Harry's studio.

Everything seems to happen so naturally, Louis barely registers the shift. One moment he's watching Harry mix white with blue on his palettes, the next he's pressing him up against his desk, knocking a stack of sketchpads to the floor as their tongues meet. Harry tastes like the weed they just smoked and something sweeter, the last bits of the blueberry pie Louis nicked from the kitchen for them to share.

"Shit, sorry," Louis breathes against his lips, chest heaving rapidly, "Didn't mean to—"

"S'Fine," Harry cuts him off with another desperate kiss, fingers tugging on the belt loops of Louis' jeans. "Don't give a shit," He murmurs, "Please."

Louis' entire body responds to that small whiny plead, suddenly all hands and mouth and yes, fuck, yes. In moments like these, he can barely keep his heart steady in his chest, pulse hammering down to the ends of his fingertips.

The press of Harry's cock thick through his jeans is overwhelming. All Louis can think about is how much he wants more. How badly he wants to touch him. But his hands always stay safely above Harry's waist, shaking even as they slip under his t-shirt to roam over his silky smooth skin. They fully know their way around Harry's stomach now, hypnotized by the soft curves of his waist. Anything lower feels terrifying.

Thrilling, but achingly unfamiliar.

Some days, when they're on the loveseat, Louis lets his hands grab at Harry's thighs, feeling the muscles twitch as Harry grinds down on him. He's very quickly learning all of the different sounds Harry makes when they kiss and what each of them mean. For instance, when he kisses Harry's neck and he moans, Harry wants him to suck hard on the skin, leaving bruises. Or when his hands wander around Harry's thighs, up to his hips and he whimpers, he's getting closer to where Harry really wants them. But Louis always stops himself short. Uncertain and painfully nervous, wanting to make Harry feel good but not knowing how.

Three AM finds Louis pacing around his bathroom with his phone gripped tight in his sweaty hands, incognito tab judging him for every filthy, curious thought he can’t seem to let go. Mina's sound asleep in the bed just on the opposite side of the door as he types how to give a blowjob into Google, immediately deleting it and trying again with cheeks flushed red.

handjob advice

Deletes it. He sighs, running a hand over his face.

straight man with gay man. first time

Delete.

He ends up scrolling on some weird porn site, airbuds in with the volume real low. He's studying rather than enjoying, taking notes. It’s jarringly different from what he and Harry shared. All of their movements so…aggressive. Hard slaps and grunts with—is it even physically possible to bend someone into that position? Jesus. This is nothing like the light attentive touches and quiet breathless stutters that keep him lying awake.

So far, since that night, all they've done is make out and grind on each other a little bit sometimes. Mostly when Louis is trying to figure out how to say goodbye and his fingers accidentally get tangled in the back of Harry's curls. And when Harry's thinking too hard about his work, Louis decides he looks like he needs a distraction.

The feeling is embarrassingly teenager, how afraid Louis is to use his hands. It shouldn't be that difficult when they both have the same parts. Louis knows exactly how a cock works and what feels good on himself. Figuring out how to give that to someone else seems simple enough. But it's not.

Because it's not about learning to like men. It's about learning how to touch Harry the way Harry deserves to be touched.

"Anna's going mental over the wedding," Mina says over dinner the next evening, scrolling through her phone. "Look at these centerpieces she's chosen."

Louis takes a small bite of the chicken in his plainfully dull salad, barely glancing at the flower arrangements she's showing him. The kitchen's the type of warm that makes everything feel sticky, that early summer heat starting to seep deep into everything.

"Can't believe it's the end of June already," She sighs, still scrolling. "Wedding's only seven weeks away. Got your speech sorted, yeah?"

Louis pauses mid-bite.

The speech. The wedding.

Shoved into the back of their closet, probably collecting dust, is the suit he'd bought late April—the same week he first bought Harry groceries. Louis realizes just how distracted he’s been for months, trapped in the whirlwind of Harry and forgetting real life still exists outside of it. He hasn't written a single word.

"Yeah, nearly done," he lies, chasing down leaves with a sip of red. "Just needs a final look over."

"Lovely." Mina smiles, perfectly pleased. She reaches across the table to grab his hand, the touch colder than normal. "Anna's so excited for it. Says us giving speeches will be the highlight of the night."

Louis forces a weak smile, along with the rest of his wine.

Later that night, while Mina's in the shower, his phone buzzes twice:

H: Paintings done.

H: If you want to see it you’ll have to ask nicely.

He closes his eyes, the butterflies in his stomach collapsing heavily under the weight of guilt before they even had the chance to take off. How on earth is he supposed to write about finding 'the one' when the last person he kissed wasn’t his girlfriend, but her oldest mate?

He'd promised Mina to speak about love and commitment, while sneaking off with the boy she calls her best friend. The one she grew up with and spent years wondering about, grieving for.

Louis knows he should absolutely be drowning in remorse, or getting kicked hard with karma every time he lies to sneak off to that studio. He's starting to look forward to this more than he ever should, like the only part left in his life that's entirely his choice. The guilt only comes later, in moments like these, when he's forced to confront the reality of what he's doing. Who he's betraying.

His fingers pause over the text, worrying his bottom lip as the nerves churn harder.

That's the worst part of this all. Knowing exactly how much this will destroy her, but still not being able to stop himself from typing:

how nicely do I have to ask? x

Chapter Text

Half a pitcher in and wearing a comically oversized cowboy hat, Louis can't stop staring at the door, hasn't been able to for the past hour.

Whatever fruity drink's been shoved in his hands is starting to make his teeth ache, though it's strong and sweet enough to smooth over that nervous, fluttery anticipation settling in his stomach, the kind that swallows you right before a rollercoaster drop. He debates whether or not checking his phone is a good idea, sipping down the pink, syrupy slush while his eyes drift inevitably back to the entrance. Again.

The girls have abandoned the table, busy pretending to line-dance over by the bar. The ridiculously twangy country songs are loud enough to drown out his pulse, beating almost too roughly for how still he's pretending to sit. Louis didn't really plan on spending his Friday night at Giddy Up!, but here he was, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his disco-ball shaped cup while readjusting the stupid fucking cowboy hat for the hundredth time.

His laugh kept coming out wrong all night, forced whenever Emmy cracked another joke, shaky when Mina smiled at him for too long. He had to keep reminding himself not to bounce his leg under the table before the whole thing started shaking and someone asked if he was okay.

American-western themed anythings have never been his forte, but the moment he'd heard Harry was coming, suddenly kitschy decor, glittery cowboy hats, and unforgivably overpriced drinks seemed like the smallest price to pay. He doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, but proximity to Harry has become its own kind of addiction, one he's stopped trying to fight.

"You look absolutely ridiculous wearing that, you know," Emmy laugh-shouts in his ear as she tumbles back into the sticky booth beside him, her cheeks tinged red and blonde hair falling out of its ponytail, "I never knew Mina was into cowboys." She wiggles her brows suggestively, tipping down his hat with her fingers.

Mina drops into his lap without warning, wrapping her sweaty arms around his neck. "I guess I do fancy cowboys," She announces, pressing a tequila-sweet kiss to his cheek. "Should we get you sparkling boots to match, then babes? Spurs and everything?"

"Absolutely not," Louis readjusts the hat back into place, gently swatting back Emmy's hands when she tries to dip it over again. "I draw the line at boots." His phone vibrates against his thigh then, sending his heart right to his throat.

"Where the hell have you been hiding lately, Lou?" Georgia scoots in close with a martini spilling over her fingers, "Can't remember the last time you came out with us."

And okay, fuck, getting on with it then. Louis takes a long sip of his drink, working the slush through the miniscule straw he was given. The liquid is thick enough to delay the inevitable, if only for a moment. "Work's been mental," His standard excuse these days. "You know how it is."

"K-Pot keeping you that busy?" Anna asks, arching a brow. "Must be serving a lot of pensioners their afternoon tea."

"Hey now," Louis raises his hands in protest, grateful for the easy way out, "You know I'm dedicated to ensuring Manchester's elderly population gets their proper cream tea service."

Another text. This time he can't help but look, swiping the phone from his front pocket and discreetly checking it beneath the table.

H: Be there in 10.

"Who's that?" Mina asks, leaning in to peek at his screen. Louis' heart stops when he sees Harry's other message sitting right above: Miss your mouth already. He locks the screen with practiced speed, pressing a swift kiss to her temple as distraction.

"Just Niall," He says, shoving the phone away with the ease of someone who's been hiding things for weeks. "Wondering if I'm out."

"Oh, you should've invited him!" Mina brightens. "Harry should be here soon, could've made a big night out of it."

Louis hums noncommittally, just now realizing that he might need to start taking shots soon in order to survive this, "Yeah, maybe next time." He mutters, fighting to slurp down the rest of what's in his cup.

"Oh, Harry's coming?" Georgia's brows lift, popping an olive into her mouth. "Didn't really think this whole thing would be his vibe."

"I convinced him," Mina nods proudly, "He's been working too hard lately, needs a good night out. Plus," She giggles, running a hand along Louis' bicep, not at all soothing, "He needs a proper lay. Maybe we can find him a cowboy of his own tonight!"

And what —the slush goes down the wrong tube.

Louis' eyes widen as he sputters a painful cough into his hand, choking and trying to pass it off with a weak sounding laugh. Just two nights ago, he had Harry mumbling his name in breathy, incoherent whispers while pressed up against the door of his studio, the way he always did when Louis was trying to say goodbye. Now here they were, about to play perfect strangers in an overcrowded bar. And not one single person here had any fucking clue.

Fortunately, Georgia's already launching halfway over the table, ranting about her own most recent dating disaster for anyone to pay mind to Louis' crimson face. He gladly lets the attention shift away from him, eyes drifting over to the door as he rubs hard on his aching chest.

Ten minutes.

He can survive ten more minutes of pretending everything's normal. Until Harry saunters through that door and Louis has to figure out how to breathe properly in a room with both of them.

Just act fucking normal , he tells himself firmly. You can do normal.

Eight minutes.

Louis watches the time change on his phone, each second bringing him closer to the moment he'll have to witness Harry greeting Mina, smiling and pretending he doesn't have Louis' love-bites splayed across his collar, and they haven't been burning through every corner of Harry's room, frantic and reckless and so fucking stupid.

Mina shifts in his lap as she carries on laughing with her friends, fingers dancing absently along his arms and raising goosebumps. Louis wrestles with the urge to flinch away from the touch, and not because of her, but because he might actually start projectile vomiting from apphrension.

When Mina mentioned going out tonight, she didn't even bother asking Louis to join like she usually would. At some point, she'd gotten so used to his rejections, she'd stopped trying. His old secret avoidance and fear of running into Harry now turned into catapulting head-first into invites, excuses. Any excuse to see him.

Her eyes lit up with surprise when he offered to tag along, so clearly taken as a sign things were falling back to normal with them. And Louis, coward that he is, let her believe it.

Four minutes.

The door swings open and Louis stills, frozen in place as another group of girls wearing matching pink sashes for a hen party spills through, their laughter floating and rising above the music. He exhales, rattling his empty glass, ice long melted, and perking up the very second he hears, "We need more shots!" coming from across the table.

"Oh, uh, I'llgetthem— " He barely blinks, straightening up his spine to gently nudge Mina off his thigh, "Shots on me, don't worry about it."

Louis springs from his seat, miscalculating the distance to the table legs and nearly falling in his haste to escape. Behind him, he hears Mina's friends cooing about how he's got 'husband material' written all over him. As if he's not actively running away.

The bar is a sea of sequins and feather boas, three layers deep of gimmicky American excess at its most confused. Louis manages to weave himself between rowdy groups, slipping next to a couple making out and a few girls crowding in on him taking selfies. After waiting through two agonizing songs, he flags down the bartender, ordering twelve tequila shots and absolutely not thinking about how much his wallet hates him for that.

Suddenly, out of nowhere while he's gathering all of the tiny glasses on a wooden tray, he catches the heady whiff of Tom Ford Tuscan Leather wrapping around him. The scent is so intoxicatingly Harry, he doesn't need to turn around to know. Louis feels the heat of him sidling up to the bar, close, but not too close, careful to leave enough distance between them to seem casual.

"Shots for the table?" His voice is low, painfully recognizable under the beat of banjos and drums. Louis keeps his attention fixed on the shots as he rearranges them strategically, afraid his face might give everything away if he looks directly at Harry right now.

"Tequila," Louis swallows down the flurry of panic in his chest and the blooming head-rush tangling alongside it. Even from his periphery, he can see how Harry's white t-shirt pulls tight across his broad shoulders, curls wild from the summer heat and falling over his jaw. Always effortless in that infuriating way of his. "Want one?"

"Tequila…" Harry repeats in a thoughtful hum. He leans over the counter gracefully, sliding his arms just enough for the tip of his elbow to lightly reach Louis'. Purposeful. And it fucking works because Louis shivers through his sweat.

"Sure, I'll do tequila." He settles, "What're you drinking, drinking?"

"Drinking, drinking?" Louis parrots back lightly, fighting the twitch on his lips, "I don't know, it was something awful and pink." He reaches over for some napkins, but only to seperate from the tingling slicing through his tendons. "Need something stronger."

"You need a martini." Harry declares, nodding resolutely.

"I absolutely do not need a martini." Louis lets out a huff of air through his wrinkled nose, "Don't do vodka, remember?"

"Not all martinis have vodka." Harry shifts on his side, angling his body blatantly toward Louis. "Some have gin."

"That's like, so much worse."

"You're insane." Harry scoffs, "Try it."

Louis knows he probably looks absurd standing here, stiff as a board, and refusing to look at Harry while he talks to his side profile. But it's safer this way, he's convinced. Better than proving that he’s not nearly as composed as he’s pretending to be, "I don't really think mixing tequila and whatever else is quite smart."

Harry chuckles at that, "Not like you haven't done that before." And, yeah. Louis winces, tilting his head and weighing the burn against his pride. He's right, "You need to try a Pornstar tonight."

Casting a sideway glance, Louis catches a quick blur of Harry in his vision. "Sorry, uh, a what now?" He furrows his brows.

"Pornstar martini, Lou," Harry clarifies with an eyeroll, "It's tropical and sweet, very much your thing."

Your thing.

Louis rolls his bottom lip, dragging his gaze back over to the bar, "I don't know…." It's not that he doesn't want to try it, it’s the intimacy in how confidently Harry picks that for him that nearly knocks him off balance. He won't let himself think about it too much. Or the way it makes his stomach flip.

"If I'm taking tequila shots tonight, you're trying a martini."

Harry makes the call before Louis can protest, leaning forward to wave down the bartender, who— of course —comes over in a quick second, abandoning all of the other patrons that've been waiting. Because truly, Harry is a magnetic force demanding more than just a glance.

Louis remembers how that used to drive him fucking mad.

Now, he gets it. He really does.

"Two Pornstars." Harry orders simply, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet.

"No—it's alright, I've got it." Louis stops him short, lifting a hand between them, "Put whatever he wants under my tab." The bartender blinks at both of them as the tips of Louis' ears burn red, realizing what he's done only after he's said it, "Um, under Tomlinson."

He'd done it without thinking. Offered to pay like they were on a proper date or something, as if that was a thing he could have, or they're something more than what they are. Louis doesn't even know what they are or what this is, just knows that he needs to remember how to bring the air back into his lungs before he drowns in this stupid, impossible thing he’s not supposed to want.

Harry says nothing for a while, staring at Louis while he drops his head down to his chest, sweating more now than he remembers. The moment hangs awkwardly as the bartender spins away until Louis has to physically stop himself from squirming under the intensity of Harry's gaze.

"Nice hat by the way," He grabs a stick of gum from his pocket instead, popping one into his mouth, "Texas suits you."

Louis' stutters a nervous sounding laugh, letting the anxiety ease from his shoulders. He completely forgot he's still wearing the obnoxious thing on top of this all, "Piss off," He rolls his eyes, daring to risk another side glance.

He immediately regrets doing that when he sees Harry standing there, looking back at him with a sultry smirk.

Louis realizes , very fucking quickly, that he isn't at all ready for what it means to be coexisting with Harry in public, his already wavering confidence combusting into fragile pieces of glass-thin resolve, shattering right at his feet. He's grown too comfortable existing inside their little hideaway.

And now, suddenly, it feels like March all over again and his skin is vibrating in ways he doesn't understand, standing at the bar next to a boy who seems to peel him apart without even trying.

His eyes trail down to Harry's neck where a blue paisley bandana is tied purposefully, hanging over his t-shirt. Louis knows exactly what it's hiding, his own shameless curiosity, fueled by tumultuous desire. A flush creeps across his skin, lips parting as his gaze drifts lower to swallow the rest of him, "Nice bandana." Louis shoots back, "Bit obvious, that."

"Had to find a way to cover someone's art work, didn't I?" Harry's voice dips as he tilts his head closer, pulling another somersault from Louis' gut, "Been feeling inspired lately?"

Jesus. Louis' throat constricts.

Two martini glasses are placed in front of them, breaking the tension, filled to the brim in orange liquid, and topped off with an ornate peel of fruit. Then two more shot glasses are set aside.

"What's that?" Louis points to the golden liquid he doesn't remember ordering.

"Prosecco," Harry explains, "It comes with the drink. You can either pour it in or use it as a chaser. It's more of a palate cleanser, though."

Widening his eyes, Louis mentally counts all of the shot glasses lined up on the bar, slowly accepting his fate.

"Tequila shots or martini first?"

"Um, shots." He adamantly decides.

Louis is undoubtedly and regrettably about to get really fucking drunk, really fucking quick.

They each grab for one, Harry's hand sliding over Louis' when he reaches for a lime wedge. The glasses raise at the same time Harry plucks the gum from his mouth, holding out his shot for Louis to clink, and then they each throw one back. Louis' nose scrunches as he swallows, immediately tossing the lime between his lips, letting small bits of juice dribble down his chin.

"Disgusting." Harry winces, wiping at his mouth. He points over to the orange contraption, "Now try the martini."

Barely recovering, Louis lifts the glass to his nose without hesitation, sniffing the drink suspiciously. Probably terrible to chase tequila with whatever the hell is in this but Harry's watching, and that’s somehow more inebriating than either, "Well, if I die, it’s on you then." He shrugs, ignoring Harry's muttered "Dramatic." while bracing himself for the sip and oh.

Oh, that's delicious.

"Well, shit." Louis licks his lips, going in for another. It's fruity, but not at all in the overly sugary way you'd expect with hints of tangy freshness and a perfect tart to balance out the sweet, "That's pretty fucking good." He tips back the glass for more.

Harry's properly pleased, smiling wide enough to deepen that troublemaking dimple, "See?" He leans forward again, voice wicked as sin, "Can't taste the vodka, now can you?"

Louis' face floods again at the inviting wisp of Harry's breath and the sight of his glistening, plush lips. It really shouldn’t surprise him anymore how undeniably dangerous Harry can be. Still, Louis has to pull himself back, setting down the drink in order to gather himself before glancing back over to their table, long forgotten.

He isn't exactly sure how many minutes have passed since they've been chatting but he knows that they'd better get back before anyone realizes how long Louis' been gone.

It's a terrible kind of comfort how he finds himself not wanting to leave.

"We should probably…" Louis trails off, gesturing vaguely toward the table with his chin, though his feet remain firmly planted on the floor. By now, those tequila shots have probably gone hot, but the thought of walking away from this feels impossible. It's gotten way too easy to lose himself in moments with Harry, and that should probably scare Louis more than it does.

"Suppose we should," Harry grabs onto his drink, body still facing Louis, still existing in their private bubble, "Though I've got about six more drinks I think you'd like."

Louis huffs a laugh, focus falling to Harry's throat when he takes a sip, "Course you do."

"Later." Harry offers quietly. Louis has to look away from the weight of suggestion in his voice, his throat going dry as memories of their other "laters" flash through his mind, full of half-swallowed gasps and fumbling hands.

There's always a later with them.

"Yeah, later." Louis nods. He chugs the rest of the martini he wanted to savor, then downs the prosecco too, for good measure.

Harry straightens up to full height, watching Louis scramble to balance all of the shots on the tray in one hand. The movement pulls him away from Louis' space and reality crashes back in: Garth Brooks flooding through the floors, the loud drunken screaming and chatter, the fact that in about thirty seconds they'll have to pretend they barely know each other again.

"After you, cowboy," Harry smirks, and Louis rolls his eyes even as his chest sinks in and caves, pushing past the crowd that's keeping them hidden and back toward their table.

Time to put on a fucking show.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"There you are!"

Mina screams over the music as Louis approaches with the shots, highly attuned to Harry's presence a few steps behind. The heat of the bar surrounds him in slow motion as he grips the wooden tray, desperate to keep steady.

"Christ, felt like you were gone for ages —oh!" Her eyes widen, darting right above Louis. "H!" She squeals, leaping out of the booth to rush past him.

All of the girls turn then, pink-cheeked and glossy, far too loud for Louis' over-stimulated and not-drunk-enough-yet brain. As they all tumble out of the booth for a group hug that nearly takes Harry down, Louis slips in with the shots intact, letting out a heavy, staggering breath.

He's dangerously aware of how exposed he feels, trapped between the man he can't stop thinking about and his girlfriend, her mates watching them both. There's no version of this where he walks away clean. Not anymore.

"Harry! Sit, sit." Mina starts shooing him, forcing Harry into the other side of the booth across from Louis, scooting all the way until their knees brush under the table. "Oh, goodness, haven't seen you in so long!" She dips next to Louis, her arm brushing against his, "Have you cut your hair? You look so different!"

"You do look so different," Georgia slides next to Harry, reaching to tug on a loose curl, "But good different."

Harry arches a brow, tilting his head slightly, "Good different?"

"It's cute, the shorter look is sexy." She winks, nudging him playfully.

Louis immediately busies himself with taking another shot, not bothering to notice how Harry half-smiles at the compliment. He nearly knocks his hat off when he tips his head back, clumsily reaching to bring it back down before he's even fully swallowed.

"He even dressed for the occasion," Emmy cuts in with a tipsy giggle, bringing everyone's attention to the paisley bandana around Harry's neck. And fuck, Louis' already going to need another, "All he's missing is a pair of assless chaps."

Harry, excruciatingly composed as ever, readjusts the bandana slightly, not even blinking as he says, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" making all of the girls laugh. Louis lets the shot warm through his chest, though it doesn't stop the restlessness. Even as he starts to slowly feel the effects, his knee starts bouncing rapidly.

His eyes drift to Harry's hands, where his thumb is absently twisting and winding the thick ‘H’ ring, turning it over and over, barely realizing that he’s doing it. Louis focuses on the movement, watching the red neon lights catch on them and reflect the color back onto his skin, making his fingers look almost obscene in their grace.

Louis doesn't see them often, not as much as he used to. Harry doesn't wear them when he's painting in the studio, says he can't be arsed to scrub off the flakey bits that dry in the crevices. Harry only dresses his hands up when he's going out, Louis' learned this, and now he can't stop thinking about the fact that Harry chose to wear them tonight. Not just one or two, but all of them. On every single finger.

"I swear you lot are falling off like flies." Georgia pulls Louis from his trance, quickly bringing his eyes up as she glances around the table accusingly, "I miss going out like this, stop being so busy!"

"I know, me too." Anna agrees with a groan, "I'm a bit miffed Tom couldn't make it out though. I'm sure Louis would've liked to not be the only boyfriend here."

He forces down a lump in his throat as they all glance at him now, offering a sheepish smile.

Louis disagrees. In fact, he actually dislikes it even more when the other men are dragged along to outings. It always feels like being dropped off to some weird boyfriend play-date he never asked for, standing around and nodding along to awkward small talk about footie, making weekend pub plans that never really happen.

"You mean fiancé?" Emmy pokes at her, to which Anna rolls her eyes lightly.

"Right, right, fiancé" She laughs, waving her hand around. "Even after all this time, I'm still getting used to the term."

"Speaking of," Georgia's grin is mischievous, staring right at Louis, "We're waiting on you, Lou. Any day now, mister." She points a finger at him, holding his gaze a second too long.

His knee bounces faster now, practically ricocheting off the underside of the table. All he can do is laugh, a nervous, stuttering thing, as his throat starts to tighten up and his chest pulls tighter with it. If only he could shut his body off for five fucking minutes.

Mina throws her delicate arm over his shoulder and squeezes, "We're saving that conversation for after he starts at the firm." She giggles, the weight freezing every muscle in Louis' body, "Right, babes?"

He glances at the tequila shots, wondering if another might save him.

"About time!" Anna pinches Mina's side, leaning over the table to Louis, "How many years has it been again?"

"Two…" He drags up, already regretting speaking because they’re all looking at him again. Well, he doesn't actually know. Doesn't want to find out but he can feel the pull of attention on his skin.

Fuck it. He reaches for the nearest shot, bringing it close in need of something to fidget with.

"More like two long," Emmy jokes, and all of the girls laugh again.

"I've got the perfect idea for rings, look!" Mina excitedly lifts off his shoulder, diving for the phone in her clutch. She holds up the screen in the air, swiping through her pinterest and parading around her visions, none of which he’s ready for yet. Or even considered.

"Two paralegals under one roof, talk about power couple." Emmy grabs the phone from her in awe, showing it off to Georgia who gasps.

This is just as terrible as he anticipated. Worse, even.

Louis stares out at the table as Mina beams about their future, painfully aware of the green eyes across from him witnessing every single word. His vision starts to blur as it goes unfocused, locking onto nothing as everything starts to close in.

God, he's so fucking stupid.

White-static starts to filter through as the conversation washes over him, heart racing so fast it barely feels his own anymore. What was he even expecting from this? To sit across from Harry and be fine? For everything to go over smoothly? Louis had no fucking plan aside from just deciding to come on a whim because he wanted to see Harry, not at all bothering to consider once how idiotic that was.

His jaw aches in salvation for a drink, a joke, a change of subject— anything to numb the panic that's currently overpowering every other sound in the room.

Just as Louis' anxiety starts to approach dangerous levels, he feels a foot hook around his ankle beneath the table, a secret tether pulling him back from disaster.

His eyes fly up to meet the ones looking back at him, dark, but calm, offering something gentle. Harry flutters a slow, unreadable blink then glances away, keeping his boot firmly locked in place.

"What's in these then?" He points to the untouched row of shot glasses, pivoting the conversation as if he already didn't know.

Louis fights the heat surging to his face, grasping onto the lifeline with visceral relief. Swallowing hard, he steadies his voice before answering, "Tequila, yeah." And it's enough for the focus to shift.

"Oh, you're so right, H!" Mina buzzes, reaching over for a shot, "Let's have a toast!"

Arms fling over the table, followed by a blurry, messy chorus of "Cheers!" and shudders. Louis' lips burn as the liquid slides down his throat, tequila hitting his empty stomach hard and mixing in with everything else.

He drifts in and out of conversations as the drunk lulls him in, catching fragments of jokes and stories that fly past like debris in a stream. Mina asks Harry about work, and Harry's lowl drawl explains the new mural he's been comissioned for a new tattoo shop over on Bloom street. Louis already knows, has already seen the sketches for the spread across Harry's floor last week.

The topics switch to holiday plans and family dinners, things Mina answers for him while Louis sits with his shoulders pressed to the leather booth, slouched enough to seem relaxed, not completely hollowed out.

But it's Harry himself that keeps drawing Louis' attention back, even as his mind lingers, sneaking glances from beneath the tilt of his cowboy hat. Louis admires how he's always so chatty after he's had a few, despite his chronic talent for keeping people close with a smile and at arm’s length with everything else. Anyone watching would think he was perfectly at ease, completely unbothered by the situation they've dug themselves in.

Only Louis can still feel the weight of Harry's boot wrapped around his ankle, an anchor keeping him from floating away entirely. He wishes he didn’t want to press harder into it, slowly nudge his ankle along Harry's calf and maybe even pull him closer between the space.

It's a new type of touch they've never shared, and Louis needs it, reckless and greedy as he is, just to feel more.

He keeps nodding, keeps smiling, not actually hearing what anyone's saying, until Harry unhooks from his ankle, the only warmth keeping him grounded slipping away.

"We're getting on that dance floor!" He vaguely hears someone say. Then they're dragged over to the bar where the music is louder and the crowd folds in. Harry is thrown in the opposite direction between Georgia and Anna, leaving Mina to wrap around Louis while Harry slips just out of reach.

Above the dark corner is a red and blue neon sign for 'Bull Riding', pointing to where the shrieks of girls in cowboy boots drown beneath terrible songs about pick-up trucks and tractors. Mina's arms drape over Louis' shoulders as she starts to sway them like they’re the only two people here, and not three steps from the person he can’t stop watching.

He tries to keep his eyes from wandering, but they do—they always do—finding Harry dancing through gaps in the crowd.

He's over with Georgia, his long arm extended in the air, holding one of her fingers while she twirls in place. Even from this distance, Louis can see the sly grin on his face, how he throws his head back when he laughs, each strobing light catching on his careless dimple.

Louis is drunk. Really, he is.

But not drunk enough to witness this.

"Another round?" He murmurs into Mina's ear, pulling back enough to create space between their sweaty press. She instantly lights up, cheeks still rosy from her last, nodding eagerly. "Alright, go have fun then. I'll be back." A tight smile tugs at his lips as he gently nudges her, her hands sliding down his biceps to find his.

"Don't be long." She grips onto his fingers, letting his arms fall limp to his sides as she moves away to dance with Emmy.

Louis fights his way through the queue again, dragging sticky feet until he can get a firm grip on the wooden bartop. Leaning in, he takes a deep breath through his nose and sets the stupid, and honestly irritating, cowboy hat onto the counter before raking a frustrated hand through his damp fringe.

"Alright?" Fingers delicately graze Louis' upper back, causing him to flinch.

His breath catches, "Jesus—" and when he turns over Harry's suddenly there, his low and husky laugh trailing over to the right of him. "Fuck…yeah…" Louis lets out a shaky chuckle, ruffling his sweaty hair back into place, "M'alright."

Harry just watches, eyes roaming over Louis' tell-all face, "Bit jumpy." He points out. When he cocks his hip against the bar, his knee bumps against Louis'.

He pauses, debating whether or not to pull away from the touch, but the room is dark enough for it to go unnoticed, "Well, yeah." Louis breathes, not really needing to explain.

In the far distance, Mina and Emmy spin together, blissfully unaware of anything but the beat and each other.

"Another Pornstar could help." Harry offers, nudging his knee again.

He's drunk, Louis can tell. Sees it in the slow tilt of his head and how his eyes get soft and lazy, voice syrupy sweet. Sometimes when they're drinking back in Harry's studio, Louis pretends not to notice how Harry’s voice slips lower just for him. Just like this.

Pulling his gaze back from the dance floor, Louis knocks his knee back, "What's it with you trying to set me up with Pornstars?" He's also trying really hard not to notice how his heart flutters at the sound of Harry's painfully wrecking laugh.

Harry shrugs, "I've been told I have good taste." His eyes flick down to Louis' mouth, just for a second. "You disagree?"

Louis swallows, darting his tongue out to wet his lips, then quickly readjusts himself, wiping his sweaty hands along his jeans. "Got any other brilliant recommendations then?" He clears his heart out of his throat, "I'm good on the vodka tonight, honestly." It's more nervous sounding than he'd like.

"Hmmm…" Harry hums as he thinks, scrunching his nose, "Well, can you have grapefruit?"

"You asking if I'm allergic to anything?"

"No…well, yes. Sort of." He goes on, leaning forward. "You know how some people can't have grapefruit if they're medicated, like on anti-anxiety medications?"

Louis arches a brow, "And now you're asking for my medical history…" He feigns a wince, clicking his teeth, "Invasive, you are."

Harry laughs again, music to Louis' tipsy ears. He's been counting each one he gets lately, tiny treasures to sneak in his pocket. "I'm just trying to get a better understanding, so I can help you." He explains, rolling his eyes wryly.

"Well, if I was medicated do you really think I'd be downing this many tequila shots tonight?"

"Suppose not." He shrugs, peering over at Louis through his long lashes, "But people can surprise you sometimes and be a bit reckless."

The implication in his tone makes Louis' stomach clench. If anything, Harry's the one being reckless, crowding into Louis' space in a room full of people, voice low enough to feel intimate even over the music.

He's so close it might become a choice Louis makes if he’s not careful. By now, he'd normally be closing the distance, running a hand along that stubborn jaw, and kissing the words right out of his mouth.

But he has to force himself to lean back, creating distance even as the want in his body aches for more.

"You all sorted?" The woman behind the bar breaks the spell, throwing a wet rag over her uniform flannel. Louis shifts awkwardly as Harry turns over with a lazy smile, reaching for the house-special menus of gimmicky drinks and terrible puns, as if he didn't knock Louis flat with just one look.

"Hmmm, I'm feeling…" Harry pokes his tongue out in concentration, using his index finger to scan along drink titles. He stops, raising his brows suggestively, "Two Buck Wilds." He nods, then pauses again, "No, wait —Two Naughty Cowboys." Looking over at Louis with a smirk so filthy it makes Louis’ throat go dry.

This boy.

Is going to be the death of him.

"Wait, hang on—" Louis shakes the dirty thoughts out of his head as the bartender disappears with their order, "Wait, what's in that—"

"Babes!" Mina slams into his side, leaving no room for questions or breath to steady himself from the previous moment, "We're getting in line for the mechanical bull. You have to come!"

That's the exact opposite of what Louis wants. To be tossed around when his vision is swimming and he's barely holding together as is, "Uh…" He chuckles nervously as Harry turns to face them both now with a drink, "I think I'm alright on that," He scratches at the back of his neck, "You go ahead."

Mina throws her head back with a heavy whine, "Come on, Lou. When do you ever get to do this?" She grips tight on his wrists, glancing over to Harry with a pout, "H?"

And if she only knew how Harry's hand brushes Louis' lower back when he leans in to hear her over the music. How his fingers linger just a moment too long, sending a ripple of chills up Louis' sides.

"Sure," Harry says simply, pulling back but leaving his hand, "Let me just finish this drink."

Louis can't move.

He doesn't dare to, knows if he budges even a centimeter more it'll draw attention. Harry lifts the boot-shaped glass in his other hand, sparing the straw, chugging right from the rim.

"Yay!" Mina cheers, letting go of Louis' wrists, "Georgia's already in line, look!" She points.

Harry downs his Naughty Cowboy in three long pulls, smiling with his lips now stained cherry red from the drink, "I've always been great at riding," is all he says before pushing past to meet the girls in line. Louis’ jaw goes slack before he forces it shut.

"Ugh, I'm so glad that you two are finally talking," Mina beams, whipping back around to squeeze Louis' arm. "See, I knew you'd get on if you just gave him a chance. He's fun, isn't he?"

Louis grabs the drink from behind him, taking a long, anxious sip instead of answering. Because what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

He watches dumbly as Harry reaches the mechanical bull queue, getting pulled into Georgia's side with an arm wrapping around his waist.

"Let's go," Mina tugs at the hem of Louis' shirt, oblivious to how his grip tightens around the boot. "At least watch if you're going to be boring." She teases, snatching the abandonded cowboy hat and putting it over her head.

He lets Mina pull him forward, trying not to think about how this night is quickly spiraling out of his control. How watching Harry mount that mechanical bull might actually hospitalize him. How he's not sure which would be worse—Harry falling off immediately or staying on long enough to give Louis a proper show.

Either way, he's absolutely fucked.

Louis ends up pressed up against the small wooden fence surrounding the bull, Mina's excited chattering fading into a dull, muffled hum. Harry borrows a hair band from Georgia, smoothing his hands over his head and pulling his medium locks into a small bun. There's something unfairly provocative about the way he rolls the sleeves of his white t-shirt around his biceps, tattoos flexing subtly, like he’s showing off without trying.

When Georgia mounts the bull, she barely lasts twenty seconds, shrieking and giggling as she tumbles onto the red inflated mat, ginger hair splaying in all directions, laughter echoing over the cheers. Harry's watching too, but his smile is focused, more calculated now. Louis' knows that look. Has been on the receiving end of it too many times to count.

The girls whistle when it's Harry's turn, and Louis switches to chugging the drink that tastes too strong of bourbon to properly get down. Harry walks up to the mat, swinging a long leg over the saddle with ease. He's almost too graceful about it, too confident in the way he settles his hips. Louis has to physically stop himself from making a sound when Harry grips the rope tight with both hands, testing the give.

"You sure you don't want a go?" Mina asks, but Louis can barely hear her over the blood rushing in his ears.

The bull starts off slow, Harry's body rolling with it, hips first. It twists and turns his waist and shoulders, his lean thighs gripping with each one. After a few seconds, he gets into the rhythm of it, matching every jerk and lunge with perfect control.

Louis can't stop watching, a slow-burning heat pooling right in his lower stomach. He's very suddenly, and violently, reminded of all the other times he's seen Harry move his hips like that, the other times he's seen that salacious grin mere inches from his face.

It's torture. Pure, deliberate fucking torture.

Harry stays on longer than anyone else has all night, and Louis knows—he knows —it's just to prove that he can. Just to make Louis suffer through watching him roll his body like that in public, unable to do anything but grip his empty glass and pray no one notices how affected he is. He's only riding with one hand holding onto the rope, the force of the bull barely fazing him.

When Harry finally dismounts, landing solidly on his feet, his bun has lost its hold, curls falling wild over his flushed face. The girls clap and woo excitedly before moving on to hype up Anna, who's next in line. Harry's eyes find Louis' through the crowd, shoving a hand through his hair to brush the damp strands aside.

There's no mistaking the intent in his voice when he shoulders past Louis, saying to no one in particular:

"Going to the loo."

Louis waits all but five minutes before making his own stupid excuse to follow.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Unbound from logic, Louis follows the pull as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, setting down his empty glass onto the bar with a finality of someone daring the night to ruin him.

Distantly behind, Mina and her mates all move on to watching Anna take her shot at riding the bull, cheering loudly with their arms in the air, completely unaware of Louis' absence. He doesn't know if anyone heard his excuse, just continues pushing through the twirling couples and shifting bodies with dizzying footsteps, vodka, bourbon, tequila and need the vessel propelling him towards the memory of Harry's lips.

Sober Louis knows better than to do something so publicly irresponsible. Yet somewhere between the lazy grind of Harry’s hips and the blood rushing through his temples, that thought slipped quietly out the back door of his brain.

He wants to be ruined.

The bathroom signs come into view: Men's, Women's, and a single Gender Neutral Family unit tucked away in the far corner. Louis hesitates, his heart pounding as he glances between the doors. In that fleeting moment, tenacity hardens and doubt fades to silence. Without any more delay, he reaches for the handle of the single unit, too far gone to turn back now.

He holds his breath, only half hoping Harry won't be there, fully desperate to find him waiting. And when he pushes the door open, there he is, leaning back against the sink with his arms crossed. When their eyes lock, Louis exhales and Harry's lips pull into a smirk that lets Louis know he's got exactly what he wanted.

The door shuts behind him, the sound leaving the two boys alone in a space too small for all the heat between them.

"Took you long enough."

The bathroom is about the width of Harry's wingspan, decorated in vintage newspaper drawings of half-naked cowgirls and old whiskey posters. There's even a tiny disco ball hanging above them, reflecting little shards of red light all over the room. It's just as ridiculous and unnecessary as everything else has been tonight. None of it matters when Harry's pushing off the sink, walking toward Louis with intent buried deep in his eyes.

He crosses in two long strides, and Louis finds himself instinctively stepping backward until his shoulders meet the door. The soft thud makes his lungs stutter, nervous fingers twitching against his side.

A hand lifts to his jaw then, Harry's ringed thumb swipes gently across and pulls down Louis' bottom lip. From this angle, the faint light makes Harry seem tender despite the sharpness in his gaze, his lashes lower slightly, resting pretty in a way that makes Louis want to lean in.

He's finding lately that he secretly likes the way Harry towers over him, curls falling forward softly, framing his face like a halo. He looks something so close to holy, though nothing about Harry has ever been pure. Louis is starting to think that’s exactly what he likes about him.

"You have some nerve, you know?" His voice is light with just enough bite to make Louis’ stomach swoop, "Not telling me you were coming until last minute. I almost backed out."

Louis swallows hard, making Harry's eyes drop down to his throat, his lips, then back up to his eyes again, thumb gliding over to the hollow of his cheekbone. Louis feels that subtle touch everywhere, his entire body going warm and weightless.

"But you didn't."

"I didn't." Harry shakes his head, cherry-sweet breath hitting against his cheek.

Adrenaline spikes as Louis' hands find Harry's hips, pulling him flush until their chests nearly touch. The rush is electric, dangerous when Harry arches further into it, offering another slow-spreading smile that makes Louis' knees feel stupidly weak.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you watching me out there." Harry drops an octave, the usual tone that sends chills up Louis' spine.

"Yeah?" He barely manages, lost in a daze. 

"Mm," Harry hums, dipping his head low into Louis' neck. His curls tickle the already sensitive skin, making Louis' mouth fall open. Harry takes his time, letting his lips ghost over Louis’ rapid pulse before nipping very gently, "Could feel your eyes on me the whole time. Couldn't wait to get you alone."

Louis knows he's been watching Harry all night, practically hostage to his own selfish desire. He didn't mean to be so obvious. Harry just makes it fucking impossible not to be. The boy is temptation itself, with zero regard for the havoc he’s causing.

And every time Louis thinks he's done making such rash choices, there's Harry to remind him that some impulses can’t be fought.

"You were playing a very risky game, Harry." Louis tries to sound stern, though his voice wavers at the press of Harry's lips kissing into the crook of his jaw, "We shouldn't—oh—shouldn't be doing this. Mina could—" He gulps down a breath, fingers digging into Harry's hips, "She's right out there."

"You're right," Harry is relentless, pressing another slow, claiming kiss, "But I think you like the risk. That's why you followed me, isn't it?" Each one forces Louis' head to tip back further, small broken gasps escaping beyond his control. "That's exactly why you came."

He's nearly disoriented, staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded blinks, torn between heeding the warning and letting the siren call of Harry win, the way it always does. Louis' hands take familiar path in Harry's hair, gingerly carding through the damp, messy curls as he lets himself be dismantled.

Harry's tongue continues to explore him, open-mouth kissing and sucking delicately to spare any marks, while hands slip beneath the hem of Louis' t-shirt, dragging upwards on bare skin, raking goosebumps in their wake. The moans come unabashedly.

"What's wrong, Lou?" Harry murmurs against his ear, tightening his grip around Louis' waist, "You're being awfully quiet tonight." He runs his thumbs in slow, teasing circles. "Nervous someone could walk in?"

It’s a hot-blooded rush Louis hasn't felt in a while. This taunting, untouchable version of Harry, who needs to be knocked down a peg, who gets off on making Louis chase him. After weeks of impulsive, needy kissing in the darkness of his studio, of Harry melting pliant under his hands, of quiet surrender and breathless pleading, this other version draws something darker out of Louis, something possessive and wild, and irrevocably his.

Something that's been there from the start, buried beneath every glare he swore was hatred.

Harry carries on his teasing, nipping on Louis' earlobe and licking wet down his neck, each mocking touch and tormenting word deliberately designed to wind him up. Louis' chest heaves as he becomes more cognizant, muscles tight with the effort to stay focused when all he wants is to give in. 

It's frustrating as it is inviting, maddening as it is addictive and cruel. And maybe that's the point: Louis has always let him get away with it. It's either the alcohol daring him to be brave, or the fact he knows exactly what Harry's really after now.

Whatever it is, Louis is done playing Harry's game.

Something shifts in his chest, a click, like a key turning in a lock and unleashing something he didn't even know he was keeping caged. With a surge of boldness, Louis grips onto Harry's waist, turning them in a quick, heated motion until he’s got Harry pinned against the wall instead. The sudden flip causes Harry's breath to hitch under the rattle of the door shaking from his weight.

Harry is staring back at him with his eyes wide and cheeks flushed, the look of surprise mirroring exactly what Louis feels inside. This isn't him, except maybe it is. It has to be, given the way Harry swallows with unmistakable need, like he's been deprived for too long and is fucking starving. An ignition that has nothing to do with alcohol anymore and everything to do with taking control, reclaiming the upper hand Harry keeps pretending he doesn’t want to lose.

"You're the one with the nerve," Louis retorts, grabbing Harry's wrists and pinning them taut at his sides, "Touching me like that all night in front of everyone."

A shockwave of thrill hurtles through Louis' body as Harry's lips part in shock, his fingers curling into tight fists. He can feel the beat of Harry's pulse racing against his grasp, the air charged with newfound, unexpected anticipation.

"What? You wanted my attention," Louis says, testing the edge of his own voice. "You’ve got it now, don't you?"

Harry inhales tentatively, the distant rumble of the music from the bar not nearly loud enough to disguise his bated breath. After a hesitant silence, he rocks his pelvis forward against Louis', giving him enough encouragement to keep going.

"Always think you're so clever, huh?" Louis cocks his head, holding steady. He crowds forward, releasing one wrist to cup a hand over Harry's jaw, tapping his thumb right into his cheek.

"Getting me to chase you around like this…" The words come slowly, surely, his bleary eyes scanning Harry's face for reaction. "You don't get to act like that and not expect consequences.”

From this distance, Louis' can see Harry's pupils blown wide with lust, a silent exhilaration from the tables being flipped on him, "Then show me," He whispers, and it's not begging, not quite, but his voice trembles in a way that makes Louis' blood sing, "Need you to show me."

Louis smirks as he releases Harry's wrist, coaxed by the way his chest rises in quick succession. Without warning, Louis uses his free hand to thread through Harry's curls again, gripping tight the way he knows Harry likes. When he tugs his head back against the door, Harry lets out a guttural whine that sends right to his cock.

"You drive me fucking mad," Louis retaliates, hovering close enough to kiss his neck and refusing to give in. It's an admission he's been holding back for far too long, feeling more worship in this moment than actual complaint though.

Harry gasps when Louis uses that same fist to angle him closer, guiding his head until their lips barely brush, sharing the same heated breath.

Louis still doesn't kiss him.

He leaves Harry there, panting hot against his open mouth. In that pause, Louis watches him fall apart without a single touch.

“Fuck—Lou—" He whines, trying to lean forward, but Louis tugs him back. "Please, fuck. Kiss me. Please.”

There is no high in this world comparable to that. Harry's resolve burning for him and only him. Louis wants to hoard it, this version of Harry, the one no one else gets to see.

Though he has no real idea what he's doing, judging by Harry’s responses, every look, every command, every touch feels like victory. Louis' discovering a new kind of power he never knew he had, his own arousal building with each little gasp and tremor he draws from Harry's body.

"Yeah?" Louis tilts his head mockingly, confidence clearly taking over, "You gonna be good now?"

Instead of answering, Harry clamps his eyes shut, letting out a small, frustrated moan.

"Look at me," Louis commands softly, thumb pressing into Harry's jawline until those green eyes meet his. There's something heavy swimming in them, an obvious fight against the restraint.

Harry stays perfectly suspended under his hold, waiting, obeying , the same way he had that night on the floor in front of his couch. It's the hottest fucking thing Louis has ever seen from him. And that's saying a lot considering, well, just about everything.

"You gonna behave?" Louis arches a brow, eyes trailing down to Harry's protruding lips.

He nods lazily, slightly delirious.

"No, no," Louis tutts, shaking his head, "Use your words, Harry." He's enjoying this far too much, biting back an amused grin as Harry squirms in place.

"Oh my god," Harry groans, taking a deep, steady inhale in through his nose, "Yes, yes. I'll be good." He exhales with another whine, “ Please, Lou."

The moment Louis loosens his grip as sign of permission, Harry surges forward, slamming them back into the sink with a kiss so urgent their teeth clack together. Louis barely has time to register being lifted onto the edge of the counter, back rocking hard against the mirror as Harry moans broken whimpers into his mouth.

His hands move fast, roaming over Louis' thighs, yanking up the hem of his shirt to his waist, then trailing up his stomach, chest, and jaw all in one frantic sweep. They've been desperate before, never quite like this. It's borderline overwhelming, the way Harry is pawing, clawing at him like something to be consumed.

"Jesus— Harry," Louis gasps, unable to get a single word out between sloppy kisses. Even as he tries to pull back for air, Harry chases him, pressing flush against Louis in the space between his legs and rocking urgently until the brush of their cocks together makes Louis buck forward, hissing between his teeth.

Gripping onto the edge behind him, Harry claims Louis' neck again, forcing his head back with a breathy laugh, "You said you'd behave." He anchors his hands on Harry's hips. The words are useless, Harry's tongue moving in eager, fevered laps, sucking on sweet contradiction.

"Need you," He pants, pulling away, "Need you so fucking badly."

Just then, the door handle rattles suddenly, making them both freeze in place. The muffled laughter from the group on the other side waits for a beat too long before the chatter and footsteps signal their narrow escape.

Louis meets Harry's eyes, seeing his own panic reflected back. Before he can voice his concern, Harry drops to his knees on the cold tiled floor, the added risk clearly doing something for him.

For a moment, Louis lets himself get lost in it despite his worries. Harry's hands run along Louis' thighs with enthusiasm, fingers already working at the button on his jeans. He tilts forward to give Harry access, something sharp plucking in his chest as he watches him, down on his knees on a dirty bathroom floor, doing what feels like muscle memory, as if he's done this a hundred times before.

Not like this, Louis thinks. Not rushed and careless in some dark corner. Harry deserves more than that. Deserves to be taken apart properly, to be touched with respect and care.

"Hey—," Louis manages, gently catching Harry's wrists and stopping his movements. Harry peers up at him with hair falling into his eyes and kiss-bitten lips.

Louis tilts his chin up slightly. "C'mere," he murmurs.

Harry looks confused but rises slowly to his feet, letting Louis guide him closer until they're chest to chest again. This time when Louis kisses him, it's different. Slower, deeper, trying to pour everything he can't explain into the seal of his lips. Harry makes a small sound in the back of his throat as Louis pulls him closer, hands sliding up to cup his jaw with unexpected tenderness.

Louis' mind swims hazily as Harry's tongue meets his, the bass from the bar still pulsing through the walls. It must've been at least fifteen minutes since they've both been gone. Someone's bound to notice their equal absence soon. Either Mina or Georgia, or any of her mates who watched them walk off in the same direction.

It's too risky, messing around like this. Still, the way Harry kisses him makes the consequences feel like someone else’s problem. Especially as he's biting down, sucking on Louis' bottom lip with pure abandon, rolling his hips feverishly and whimpering in that needy little way of his.

The hard line of his cock flashes white-hot, burning away any rational thought from Louis' mind, making him crave things he's always been too afraid to want, too afraid to touch.

He knows they have to be quick, or someone will come looking for them and this moment will slip away under another promise of one of their 'Laters'.

Louis doesn't want later, he wants now.

Gathering every shred of courage, he lets his hand slip between them, pausing just long enough before resting his palm flat over the front of Harry’s jeans.

"Oh—" Harry pants into Louis' mouth, jerking at the sudden sensation. His hips keep thrusting upward, pressing the hardness insistently against him. Louis’ palms move uncertainly against the friction, breath hitching at both the solid heat and the subtle twitch beneath the tight denim.

Harry's reaction is immediate and deep, inviting Louis to press further and with better conviction. The alcohol mixed with the fire coursing through his veins inspires Louis to let go of all hesitation, now clumsily working with the clasp of Harry's jeans before he can properly talk himself out of it.

Harry stills once he realizes what's going on, ripping back from their kiss to glance down at Louis' hands, now working with his zipper.

Just as quickly, he snaps his gaze back up to meet Louis' cautious one, brows lifting in wonder. Louis shoves the black denim low enough on Harry's hips to slip his hand inside, palming him properly now through his briefs with his heart pounding out of his chest.

Louis is not at all prepared for the frenetic rush that hits the moment his fingers finally brush against Harry, or the sounds he coaxes just by tracing the outline of him. The thin cotton of Harry’s briefs leaves nothing to the imagination. Harry is achingly hard and practically bursting at the seams. Because of him and for him.

"Shit," Harry bites on his lip, eyes still locked on Louis', "Lou, you don't have to—"

"Spit."

He raises his hand to Harry's mouth, the demand itself surprising even him. Harry doesn't question though, his eyes fluttering shut as he follows without pause.

Louis works the slick between his fingers, then slips underneath the waistband of Harry's briefs, trying to maintain his cool even as his trembling hand meets the tip of Harry's cock.

The sensation makes Harry falter, his jaw going slack as he leans in to press his forehead against Louis’. The skin is softer than he'd expected, throbbing beneath his touch and leaking. He carefully presses his thumb over the slit, just to test, mesmerized by the two-second quiver that ripples through Harry's lower abdomen in response.

When he fully wraps his fingers around Harry, the angle is all wrong, completely different from touching himself. Trying to readjust his grip, Harry's hand gently finds his, guiding him with a squeeze that makes Louis' breath catch.

"Like this," He murmurs, showing him the rhythm. Louis is struck by how natural it feels, even as his mind spins with the gravity of what it is they're doing.

He’s held himself like this one thousand times, never someone else. Even in his imagination, he'd figured it'd feel exactly the same, but it doesn't. It's not even fucking close. The feeling is devastatingly intimate, terrifying but also carnal, burning under his palm. The heavy pants he's pulling from Harry's mouth, hot breath fanning across his face, only makes Louis want to keep going. Keep him like this forever.

"Fuck, Lou— "

Even in this reckless state, Louis handles Harry with care, attuned to every subtle reaction with each twist of his wrist, meeting his hips as they jerk forward in search of more friction. Wildly out of his depth, Louis figures it out slowly, learning all of Harry’s tells, letting his motions grow steadier and faster, rewarded by Harry’s head tipping back in pleasure, curls cascading long behind him.

It's an out of body experience, touching Harry so bare, watching him fall apart so closely. Louis only wishes they had more time, so he can explore every single inch, lose himself completely in the chaos of Harry’s surrender.

"So pretty," His mouth takes off with speed, the compliment falling out before he even realizes he’s said it. He's distracted, completely transfixed by how good Harry looks in this moment, "So fucking pretty for me."

The praise wins him another blissful moan, "Shit—ah—" Harry's hands find the nape of Louis' neck, pulling him forward for another frenzied kiss, "More, please."

Whether he's asking for more praise or speed, Louis can’t tell, but the force of Harry's tongue pushing its way past his, almost feral now, makes Louis try both.

Without breaking rhythm, Louis maneuvers Harry around between his thighs, pulling his back tight against his chest. The new angle sends sparks through both of them as Louis yanks Harry’s briefs lower on his hips, letting his cock spring freely, fully erect.

Harry's head falls back onto Louis' shoulder with a shudder, Louis' other hand coming up to splay across Harry's stomach, holding him steady. 

Louis spits on his hand to wet it again before pumping fervently, “Feels good?” He asks, eliciting a loud moan that reverberates through the room. This way, he can feel every tremor running through Harry's body, can press open-mouthed kisses to the curve of his neck while working faster, more confident now.

"Fuck—ah," Harry's hands clutch onto Louis' thighs for support, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Each one falls out in raw, guttural bursts. Harry's pliant now, letting himself meld into Louis' body while Louis studies the hypnotic rise and fall of his breath. Harry is loud, shamelessly moaning and muttering incoherent nonsense into the air as Louis works him towards his edge.

Louis knows Harry can’t hold back much longer with how the muscles beneath his abs constrict so violently.

"So fucking loud," He murmurs against Harry's ear, "Have to be quiet for me, yeah?"

"I—I can't—" Harry's words dissolve into a shaky exhale as Louis' grip tightens.

He forces down a groan at Harry’s fragile, gorgeous sound, his own cock twitching in response to the helplessness. He can hardly believe that he's the one undoing Harry, reducing him down to this babbling, limber mess. 

Harry turns his head, cheek pressing against Louis’ shoulder as their eyes meet again. He gives Louis a look so ruined as if he’s offering his entire fucking soul on a silver platter, begging Louis to keep going, to ruin him properly.

"This what you wanted, baby?" Louis' heart stutters at the daring sound of his voice, "You wanted to be handled?"

"Ohmygod—" Harry groans, eyes clenching shut while his cock pulses hard in Louis' hand. He quickly reconnects their mouths as hot ropes spill over knuckles, swallowing the whine that escapes with a kiss that’s messy and so fucking greedy. The overwhelming release makes Harry's entire body sink further back into Louis, completely spent.

They pause there for a moment, mouths panting together with the weight of what just happened slowly sinking in. Then, after a minute, Harry comes back to him.

"Christ," He murmurs against Louis, breathing heavily while still being held in place. He presses his face right into the crook of Louis' neck, the grin he's trying so hard to hide obviously failing, curling softly against skin.

When he finally lifts his head again, Louis' stomach pulls tight. Harry's eyes are soft and sated, cheeks stained a telltale pink, even as the scattered red light from the disco ball tries its best to mask it. He looks gorgeous and properly wrecked. Louis has to stop himself from saying something really fucking stupid to ruin the moment like you're beautiful.

Instead, Louis helps him clean up with paper towels, their movements careful and considerate now that the urgency has faded. Harry tucks himself back in, adjusts his clothes while Louis washes his hands, neither speaking, the quiet lingering heavy.

"Lou, that was…" Harry starts, running a hand through his disheveled curls, shaking them back into place. He's looking at Louis as if he wants to say more, maybe lean in for another kiss, but they both know they can't get stuck in here for too long.

"Yeah," Louis agrees quietly, understanding everything Harry isn't saying.

Later.

Harry's fingers brush Louis' wrist, just briefly, before he straightens his shirt one final time. "I should..." he gestures vaguely at the door.

"Go ahead," Louis nods, "I'll wait a few minutes."

With one last loaded look, Harry slips out, leaving Louis alone in the bathroom with nothing but himself and the strain of his own cock rough against his jeans. When he turns to look in the mirror his lips are swollen, hair a right mess, and his hands are still trembling slightly. It's his eyes that catch him though, wide and almost afraid, like he's looking at a stranger.

What just happened feels monumental, earth-shattering even.

Just outside this bathroom, the mechanical bull is still running, drinks are still being poured, and his girlfriend is still waiting, while everything unfurling inside him feels irreversibly changed. 

Chapter Text

There are things that they talk about and things that they don't.

For instance, Louis knows that Harry likes to paint with Phthalo Blue because it's stark and reminds him of the deepest parts of the ocean. It's the only color he can build layer by layer, without it turning to complete mud. He knows he likes the intensity and the way it stains almost everything in his studio, down to his favorite brushes, the sleeves of his oldest shirt, the floorboards, and the mouth of every water cup.

Louis knows that Harry prefers rain to sun, even when the rain makes his hair frizz in ways that drive him mad, bandanas his latest method for managing curls that never seem to listen to him. He knows that he prefers to paint during the late night when the rest of the world is asleep, he takes his coffee black with two sugars, and knows about the sister whose name only surfaced once.

He's done a lot of listening lately, tucked away on that couch, enjoying whatever it means to be the person Harry finds himself rambling to. The Harry that exists in their quiet, their safe, small-pocket-of-time routine. He's opposite the Harry that walks through Manchester with his shoulders squared and brows furrowed, the one who carries himself like nothing touches him and nothing should. This Harry is softer somehow, introspective.

Sometimes he laughs with his whole body or talks with his hands when he's excited about something, particularly when he's raving about art techniques he knows Louis doesn't understand or his very strong and non-negotiable opinions about which Beatles album is actually their best work.

It's not all of him, Louis knows this.

And it's not all of the time.

This Harry only shines in fleeting moments, emerging when he's half-asleep or lost in his work. Still, it's enough for Louis to peek , to catch glimpses of the boy Harry tries so hard to pretend he's not. Or the boy he keeps folded inside himself, untouched by the hardness this world has carved into him.

He's there especially in the things they don't speak about. The loaded glances, the goodbye kissing, and the way Harry texts him first thing in the morning now. Neither of them willing to face what it means when they keep crossing lines they know they shouldn't.

Louis knows they won't talk about what happened at Giddy Up!. How Harry's body trembled when he'd pinned him against the wall, or the way Harry's voice broke on every plea. Won't mention how easily Harry yielded to him, or how something wild and possessive woke up in Louis' chest at the sight of it.

More importantly, they won't talk about how the night ended with Louis and Mina leaving their table first, and how Harry wouldn’t meet his eyes as they passed. Louis won't let anyone know that he left with her hand in his, but his thoughts stayed somewhere far behind, pressed up against the bathroom sink, timeless with Harry.

It's been a week and two days since that night. A week and two days of Louis drowning in obligations and family dinners with Mina's parents. He had no time to see Harry, could only text him here and there whenever he had a chance. He didn't want to keep pushing his luck, lying through his teeth and hoping Mina wouldn’t catch on when he was already petrified she could see the change dripping off of him.

Louis wanted to see Harry, that wasn't the problem. The problem was how badly he wanted to talk about everything they'd silently agreed to ignore.

He sighs as he plops the wet mop onto the tiled floor of the empty restaurant dining room, swishing it around in lazy figure-eights and watching the suds pool in the grout. These are the only times he gets to savor his little back-and-forths with Harry. When he's alone at work, unbothered, and can text without a flinch or watchful glance. His phone buzzes every few minutes in his back pocket with Harry's latest string of complaints about the tattoo shop's mural he'll be working on for the next fourteen days—something about tidal waves and pythons that Louis pretends not to get just to wind him up. It's the closest thing he's got to breathing room this week:

H: Ran out of blue again. This is a disaster.

Louis smirks, leaning against the mop handle:

how does this keep happening? thought you were meant to be some sort of professional artist

H: Don't know. But I think I've stared at this wall so long I'm going insane.

Louis types back, already grinning:

artistic genius takes its toll

H: My neck hurts. I've got paint in my hair. And you're laughing.

His grin tugs wider as he taps out a reply:

at least blue suits you

H: Not when it's dripping down my neck.

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose, sending without a second thought:

sounds pretty artistic to me

H: Yeah? And how's that mopping going?

Louis glances down at the sudsy floor, water soaking into the soles of his shoes.

He leans on the mop again and shrugs to no one:

very artistic actually. might be my calling

H: Let me critique your work then.

His brows furrowed:

you want me to send a pic of the dirty floors? 

There's a longer pause this time, the three dots bubbling on the screen for a second too long before:

H: Turn around.

Louis frowns at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard before spinning on his heel until he's met with Harry on the opposite side of the window. His heart kicks stupidly wild at the sight of him, that familiar rush of warmth spreading through his chest right before the panic sets in. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to see Harry until he was standing right there.

And he does look a proper mess, the kind of mess Louis has started to recognize as his favorite version of Harry. His hair's gone stiff with dried bits of acrylic smeared into the longer strands, the ends dipped in the grey that matches the streaks dragging across his t-shirt. This is the Harry Louis sees often, and it's also the version he's missed the most out of everything.

Harry twists his mouth around before giving a small wave.

Pocketing his phone, Louis sets the mop down by a nearby table, glancing over his shoulder back toward the kitchen. The lights are off except for the dim glow beneath the prep station. Jeanine must have left sometime after Niall, while Louis had been lost in his phone. He rocks back on his heels for a moment, squinting hard through the small swinging doors just to double check that he's truly alone.

When he doesn't see or hear anything, he moves to unlock the door, careful not to open it too wide. Harry moves to stand in front of the sliver between the gap and Louis holds his breath, taken by surprise from the sudden rush of nerves blooming in his stomach. Up close, Harry's presence is just as overwhelming as always, this time somehow heavier.

Maybe he wasn't expecting things to feel as different as they already have, but Louis hadn’t braced for this. For what comes when he's face to face with Harry again after learning exactly what sounds he makes when he's being taken apart, what he feels like in his hands, and how to act like he hasn’t thought about it every night since.

"Thought you were at the tattoo shop," He murmurs, the quiet in his voice doing little to hide the rush flooding through him.

Harry's lip quirks slowly, his eyes dancing across Louis' face, "Got sick of staring at that python."

Louis flicks his fringe out of his eyes, clearing his throat with a half-breathy laugh, "So you came to stare at me instead?"

"Was on my way home," Harry shrugs one shoulder, not looking at him when he says it. "I'm pretty much done for the night, shop's closing up in twenty. " He shifts his weight between his feet, bare fingers twisting and twirling around in the plastic bag holding all of his supplies.

Louis wonders briefly if Harry secretly missed his drop-ins this week as much as he did, if that's why he's standing in front of Louis when the tattoo shop is fifteen minutes south of where he needs to be.

But texting about missing someone's mouth is a lot different than admitting you crossed town just to see them. And Louis knows by now, that Harry can be a lot more shameless through a phone screen than he is right here, paint-stained and trying not to look like he came on purpose.

"Almost done with it then?" Louis asks instead, unsure what version of Harry he’s going to get next. He peers over his shoulders at the couple walking slowly across the street.

"Sort of," Harry inhales a deep breath, blowing out a defeated raspberry between his cheeks, "Had to start over at some point. This whole thing is just… " He trails, dragging the heel of his palm across his forehead, "Taking a lot longer than it needs."

"Well, from what I can see on your skin," Louis' lip twitches, drifting his gaze back to Harry again, "I'm sure it looks great." There’s a bit of grey flaking on his neck, and Louis is trying his best to not reach out and scrape it off for him.

Harry scoffs an amused sound, rolling his eyes as he starts to scratch at the blue staining his forearm. The small breath is enough to break through some of the tension, not enough to settle the ache that’s been building in Louis’ chest the second he opened the door.

Harry's eyelids are heavy with exhaustion, the kind Louis has learned only shows up after he’s cared about something for far too long. Always working himself past the point of burn out with how lost he gets in his own head, as if his talents aren't already enough.

"I can drive you home," Louis offers gently, partly because Harry's nowhere near his flat, partly because he looks dead on his feet, but mostly because Louis isn't ready to let him go yet. "If you need," he adds, though they both know Harry won't admit to that.

Harry glances up at him, already shaking his head in refusal, so Louis quickly adds, "Meet me in the car park, I just need to lock up, alright?" already backing toward the kitchen before he can get a proper retort.

He does one final sweep in his typical closing routine: dumping the mop, checking the pilot lights, the walk-in, and running his hand along the prep counter switches until everything goes dark. It's all muscle memory for him, except now his hands are fumbling to undo his apron ties, too aware of Harry waiting for him on the outside.

Just as anticipated, he finds Harry in the car park, perched on the hood of Louis' red Fiat. He has one delicate leg crossed over the other, still fiddling around with that plastic bag in his hands. A second wave of nerves hits Louis right in the gut the moment they lock eyes again, crashing into something a lot more idiotic, because of course Harry is sitting like he belongs there.

"Ready?" Louis pulls out his keys, sifting through the ring for the large bulky one. It dawns on him, somewhere between unlocking the car and sliding into the drivers seat, that Harry has gone quiet, only lifting himself off the metal to hover about on the passenger side.

With a long stretch, Louis unlocks the opposite door to let him in, his heart still doing that uneasy flutter it hasn't quite learned how to control. He watches as long legs settle in the cramped space, Harry's knees knocking gently against the glove compartment. And for a second, it feels more awkward than it should for two people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other in a pub bathroom just a week ago.

Readjusting himself, Louis focuses on strapping on his seat belt, trying to ignore the heavy crinkling of the bag Harry’s digging through next to him.

"Found something today," He clears his throat in the silence, drawing Louis' gaze over to his side profile, "At this vintage shop near the tattoo parlour."

Just then, Harry pulls something small out of the plastic before holding it low enough for Louis to catch. A baby blue matchbook, worn and torn at the edges, paired with an old cartoon drawing of a pin-up sleeping on a crescent moon.

"Thought you might want it," Harry shrugs casually, refusing to meet Louis' eyes, "Since all your lighters are shit." He sets it down gently on the center console.

Louis hesitates before grabbing it, running a careful thumb over the weathered cardboard. Turning it around in his palm, his eyes trace over the faded text:

Fait pour les nuits sans sommeil

It feels too delicate in his hands, like something he should handle with care. When he slides the matchbook open, there are only a few blue matches left. The French words stare up at him, a message he can't decode but desperately wants to.

Furrowing his brows, Louis glances back over to Harry, who’s resolutely staring out the windshield with a light flush staining the apples of his cheeks. A small, ridiculous thing Louis' never seen from him before.

On his way home.

Yeah fucking right.

Harry, as shameless as he can be, is clever and calculated, threading sentiment through sarcasm while making it all seem like nothing.

Louis bites back a smile, sinking his teeth into the inside of his cheek as he tucks the matchbook into the pocket of his t-shirt.

Maybe they don't need to talk about everything after all. Some things speak clearly enough on their own.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"Use your fingers, Harry." Louis instructs firmly, peering at Harry through his peripheral, "You have to twist harder while pulling or else it won't—"

"It's broken," Harry huffs, jabbing at the ancient radio dial with growing frustration. He blows a strand of paint-dipped hair out of his face while turning the thick knob with vigor, loud static crackling through the speakers of Louis' decrepit old Fiat, "This thing is a lost cause."

" No , you're just not doing it right," Louis reaches one hand over to swat Harry's away, his own fingers finding the sweet spot on the temperamental dial. With a swift tug and a heavy slap to the CD slot, the static starts to give way, sputtering the chorus to some song from the early 2010's.

"See?” Louis grins at the unintelligible tune, hands grabbing back on the steering wheel, “Old girl just needs a bit of coaxing, that's all."

" Old girl? " Harry snorts, slumping back into the passenger seat with crossed arms. Louis can vaguely make out the tiny smile that follows his exasperated head shake.

"Yeah, a true lady of taste," Louis murmurs, craning his neck as he signals right and takes the turn with an unnecessary flourish that rattles the car, "Doesn't work for just anyone, you know."

Driving Harry home after his shifts has subtly become their new normal, replacing what used to be Louis’ casual studio drop-ins. Brief, but imperative, as Louis finds his days becoming more overwhelming with obligations by the hour. It wasn't even a question or second-thought after the first drive. Harry mentioned he was going to be stuck working overtime at the tattoo shop, and Louis drove over without being asked, parking right out front with two cups of coffee—one black with two sugars—and a bag of boxed left-overs for them to share.

At some point the initial awkwardness slipped away, tucked beneath nervous laughter and safe topics, but now Louis finds himself not quite knowing how to say goodbye anymore. 

This used to be easy, sliding into Harry's space at the studio, pressing him against the walls until they were both breathless and wanting. Now there's this uncertain weight between them, hanging heavy in the air, making every goodbye feel like the loss of something that hasn’t even had the chance to start. Louis finds himself overthinking every single touch, every lingering glance, wondering if Harry feels it too. This shift from whatever they were before into something that feels dangerously close to meaning .

Regardless, Louis will hang onto these irresolute, passing thirty-minutes with Harry if it means pretending, just for a while, that maybe things could be simpler.

Tonight, Harry's boots are propped up on Louis' dashboard despite being told off about it three times already this week, leaving dusty scuff marks on the plastic he'll have to remember to wipe off later. The mid-July heat is no match for the fussy air-conditioning in the beat-up car, whirring with impressive determination but offering nothing more than the heavy waft of the cigarettes Harry recently smoked and a faint trace of paint thinner that'll cling to the seats.

Not a scent Louis is proud to admit makes his stomach flip incessantly, but it’s oddly comforting in a way he can’t really explain. Just like how these quick drives have become the best part of his days.

"It's stopped working again," Harry scoffs, setting down his feet to lean over the space. He makes a great attempt at cranking the dials a few more times before giving up entirely, shutting off the static with a theatrical sigh that makes Louis roll his eyes, "How do you even deal with this? This would drive me insane."

"Would?" Louis smirks, stealing a quick glance at Harry through the rearview mirror. He's slouched low in the seat with his brows furrowed, pink lips tugged into a soft frown.

The sulking would’ve annoyed him coming from anyone else, or maybe from Harry four months ago, though somehow, right now, it’s slightly endearing. They've only been driving for about fifteen minutes, half of that time wasted bickering over a radio that refuses to stick to one clear station. Louis isn't even sure how to admit to Harry that he never drives with the radio on anyway. He was just thoroughly enjoying watching him try to figure it out.

Louis brings his gaze back to the road before the smile creeping on his face gives him away, "Pretty sure insanity’s a prerequisite for riding in this car to begin with." He shrugs, stopping at the red light and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Well, we can't just sit here in silence," Harry protests, sliding further down into his seat until his knees press against the glove compartment, "That's a lot worse than the static."

"We're only thirteen minutes away," Louis laughs, catching another glimpse of Harry's restlessness through the mirror. He bites his lip, debating briefly before—"There might be something in the back pocket of the passenger seat there. If you're so incapable of sitting still."

Harry perks up immediately, twisting his entire body around to dig behind the seat. The fabric of his black cotton t-shirt rides up as he stretches over, exposing a tiny bit of tattoo spreading out over his hipbone. Louis is definitely not looking at that right now instead of oncoming traffic, "Is this—" Harry's voice is muffled as he resurfaces with a worn-out nylon CD book case, "—what I think it is?"

"Don't judge," Louis warns, refocusing on the road, though he can already see the delightfully smug grin oozing across Harry's face as he unzips the case, "I've started collecting most of these in Year 10. They're good for long drives."

He makes a swift left onto Deansgate, pulling through the wide street littered with people stumbling in and out of clubs. Harry hums next to him, studiously flipping through the plastic sleeves while pursing his lips.

"…Blur?" He arches a brow, peering over at Louis with his finger paused over the self-titled white disc.

"Yeah?” Louis quips back, shrugging his shoulders knowingly, "A classic."

Harry raises both brows, then exhales a quiet laugh, curls shaking side to side as he continues perusing. With one leg lifted onto his thigh, he settles in like he's made himself at home, ready for entertainment.

"Pulp…Radiohead…Oasis…" He starts listing slowly, his dimple deepening as he flips through another page, " Both Morning Glory and Be Here Now…"

"You know,” Louis lets out a breath through his nose, “I don't really like your tone." His eyes flick to the side mirror as he weaves around a double-decker. He'd really like to defend his honor right now, but can’t multitask all of the traffic and indignation.

"Never said there was anything wrong with Oasis—" Harry continues, then groans a bit, setting the book down fast, "Oh, god, Lou, Republica?" A disapproving tsk sounds through the silence, followed by a little huff of laughter that tells Louis exactly how much he's enjoying this.

"Alright, alright." Louis mutters through his teeth, "Give that back if you're just going to make fun." He extends his arm over the center console blindly, but Harry twists away, grinning as he angles his body against the passenger door, keeping the book just centimeters out of reach. Their fingers brush in the tussle, and Louis pulls back as if he's been electroshocked, his hand tingling where Harry's skin touched his. He grips the wheel tighter this time, pretending his heart isn't racing from such a simple touch.

"Christ, you weren't kidding about your taste, you really are stuck in the 90's" Harry widens his eyes, flipping through more pages. "Blink 182, the Offspring, Green Day…"

"You have two more seconds to put something on or you're banned from music privileges forever."

"Privilege is a stretch," Harry murmurs under his breath, still roaming over the pockets with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He finally stops on something after another glare from Louis at the red light, pulling the CD cautiously out of its sleeve. "Suppose we'll have to try this one."

Shutting the book on his lap, Harry slips the old disc into the slot, fiddling around with the buttons until the tiny orange screen flickers with big blocky digits. It buzzes loudly for a second, then the familiar strings of Bitter Sweet Symphony start to fill the car. Harry flops back into his seat, looking pretty damn pleased with himself for all his nettling.

"The Verve," Louis recognizes the intro instantly, nodding approvingly, "Good choice."

"Never heard of them," Harry claims, though the smug twitch at the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

"You are so annoying." Louis chuckles despite himself, shifting gears smoothly as he rounds the corner. He presses on the brake hard enough to make Harry jolt forward against the seatbelt with a gasp.

They only get through three songs on the CD before Louis' pulling up to the kerb outside Harry's building, the engine idling as neither of them move to leave. Harry's boots are back propped up on the dashboard, fingers playing with the loose threads on the knees of his ripped jeans.

Louis lowers the volume of the music, eyes drifting over to Harry in preparation for the new, slightly dodgy goodbyes they've shared the past few days. The ones where Harry gives him a small nod instead of words, lingers for a second too long with his hand on the door, and leaves Louis to wrestle with the uncomfortable silence his entire ride home, mind playing out all of the things he should've said.

Harry gnaws on his bottom lip, glancing out the window at his building while bringing a fingernail to his teeth. Louis watches his foot tap twice, clearly stuck on something and trying to kick the thought out.

The music hums low through the quiet, Louis waiting to see if Harry will say whatever it is he’s thinking. His anxiety starts lowly building, rising like a tide he pretends not to feel at the back of his throat.

"Got too much to work on tonight," Harry finally mutters without looking at him, "Not really ready to go back there yet."

It's hesitant, quiet enough to feel as though it wasn't meant to be heard. But Louis knows better now, familiar with Harry's ways of asking for things without truly asking, nudging without pressure so he doesn’t have to risk admitting to anything outright.

Blowing out a secret breath of relief, Louis sinks back into the driver seat, toying with his fingers against his thigh, "Could do with a bit more air myself," He suggests softly, his eyes meeting the back of Harry's head again.

"D’you want to just...drive around for a bit?" He asks, admiring the one coily strand that stands out wild against the others. The offer comes out casual in tone but tentative in delivery, but it's not really a lie. He didn't want to go home yet either, "There's a few more albums in there I think you'd get a kick out of."

Harry shifts around in the seat, hands gripping the CD book still resting against his thighs. He holds Louis' gaze for a beat, pulling his lips together like he's thinking hard, then flutters a slow blink, nodding only once.

"Yeah," He says gently, thumbing the edge of the book, "Sure."

Louis smiles back, already reaching for the gear to pull off the kerb.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It started with Salford Quays.

The twenty-minute drive from Green Quarter over to the water gave Louis ample time to both text Mina that he'd gotten stuck at another coworker's birthday at the pub while also convincing Harry to put on The Bends without another mouthy complaint.

They didn't get out of the car, but drove around in circles through the car parks near the fancy apartments, stopping only to admire all of the lights reflecting on the canal from the distance. At night, the quays were mostly desolate, offering a new corner of the city where they could exist together without explanation.

Quiet didn't matter much anymore when Louis was busy soaking all of it in, the somber tone of the music, Thom Yorke's voice dragging on something wistful and half-asleep while Harry had his head propped up against the window, eyes trailing the LED lights shifting on Lowry Bridge.

"It's pink," he pointed out, voice the kind of rough that only comes with fighting exhaustion, and Louis was resisting the urge to kiss the corner of his jaw, right where the streetlight pooled deep in the hollow beneath it.

Instead, they listened to one more album and smoked a cigarette with the windows rolled down, while Louis counted the seconds between exhales, watching the ash fall onto Harry’s jeans and pretending his heart wasn't kicking up with speed.

He doesn't know what any of this means, whether he truly likes men or just Harry, whether this makes him anything other than what he always thought he was. He's spent weeks trying to categorize it, label it, make panicked sense of why the idea of wanting Harry still feels terrifying, even when it’s already too late to figure it out. But lately he's stopped trying to understand, content to just exist in these moments where Harry looks soft and touchable, tapping his fingers along to all of the songs he swears he won't tolerate.

When Louis pulls up to the tattoo parlour on Thursday, Harry's already waiting for him on the outside with one foot propped up against the brick. He's wearing his usual messy painting attire—except this time, he's got this mysterious cling tape tightly around his forearm.

"What's that?" Louis arches a brow when Harry plops into the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Got a new one," He shrugs nonchalantly, lifting his arm under the car light to show Louis the plastic-wrapped skin. Through the overlapping film, Louis can just make out the curves of what looks like a traditional style mermaid, the bold figure taking up most of the stretch. "Finished the mural early.

"And they…paid you in tattoos?" Louis frowns, putting the car in drive. It's a nice tattoo, the size of something that would normally cost a few hundred, but knowing Harry, that probably isn't the whole story. Something about it isn't sitting right with him.

Harry picks at the edge of the cling, pursing his lips, "Sort of," He shrugs again, "Couldn't pay the full quote so we worked something out. Half cash, half ink." His voice is carefully neutral, low in the way that makes Louis' stomach twist.

"They couldn't pay the full amount?" Louis keeps his questioning light, casual, even as his jaw sets in subtle annoyance, "For work you'd already started?"

"It's fine," Harry murmurs, eyes fixed on the mermaid as he twists his arm to examine it, "Art for art's a normal barter."

Not when you can barely afford rent, Louis thinks but doesn't say. He watches Harry from the corner of his eye, trying to decode the carefully blank expression on his face. He can't tell if the casualness is genuine or if it's just another mask, another way of pretending things don't get to him when they do.

"Oh," Harry says suddenly as Louis starts to drive down the narrow street. He reaches deep into his bag of supplies before pulling out a CD case, "Picked this up for ten quid. Cover was falling apart, but the disc’s alright.”

Louis glances over at the stop, squinting at the psychedelic mess tattered in his hands. He can barely read what it says, the case scratched to hell, sleeve yellowed and half slipping out.

"Van Morrison," Harry clarifies, already popping it out of the plastic, "I'm pretty sure I was ripped off for the price, but—" He laughs, sliding it in and pressing play, "It's one of my favorites. Got it on vinyl."

A soft smile tugs on Louis' face despite the concern in his chest, because, sure, this is probably just Harry’s way of avoiding another Britpop album, but Louis can’t help the way the thought sits warm and quiet inside him.

He drives them off without another word, taking a newer route down toward Hulme, and pulling into a gritty backroad near a park. The Van Morrison album plays brightly between them until Louis reaches into his center console, pulling out the joint he'd rolled for them earlier. Harry's lips twitch at the corners as he takes it, tipping back against the headrest and closing his eyes, letting the beginnings of their night finally settle in his bones.

Twenty minutes later, Harry's slouched low in his seat, the spliff a forgotten stub between his fingers. He hasn’t said anything in a while, and neither has Louis, though he keeps glancing sideways, admiring the heavy pull of Harry’s lashes lightly resting against the tops of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the faint stubble running along his jaw, and the way his pink lips part ever so slightly with each slow breath.

"M'hungry," Harry finally mumbles, slowly opening his eyes and blinking himself out of a daze.

Louis readjusts in his seat, not realizing his hand had been resting on the center console, the back of his fingers dangerously close to where Harry's thigh is, "Yeah?" he clears his throat, bringing it back to rest in his own lap. God, he's so high, he can barely think, "What do you want?"

Harry considers the question carefully, scrunching up his nose with a sleepy sort of stubbornness before glancing over at him "I want a milkshake." he drawls, lazy eyes trailing down toward Louis' lips, "Like, a really good milkshake. Those, like, dramatic ones with loads of cream."

So a milkshake, it is.

Louis tries, but fails to suppress a grin as he starts up the car, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from letting Harry know he’d fucking take him anywhere if he asked like that.

The diner over on Portland is a hassle to find, google maps offering useless information on both the location and hours of operation. With nothing but sheer hope, Louis is beyond ecstatic to find it still open nearing midnight, not just for the hunger he's feeling himself, but because Harry spent the last fifteen minutes raving about the elaborate order he's made up in his head. Something about a strawberry-vanilla milkshake with extra- extra whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, all of the works.

It's absolutely ridiculous, almost unbelievable, the side of Harry that comes out with a little bit of weed and the promise of a treat. After making Louis recite his order back to him, so he wouldn't forget it, he'd launched into a mini-rant about the correct way to eat a milkshake, complete with salty fries on the side for dipping.

It's disgusting to Louis, who can barely stomach the thought, and yet part of him wants to try it anyway, just to see that mischievous dimple sink even deeper on his face.

Louis leaves Harry in the car while he picks up their orders, adding two cheeseburgers and an order of onion rings into their already daunting mix of sugar, cream, and fried everything. It might be because he's still pleasantly high, and everything sounds grossly amazing at this hour, but it's mostly to make sure Harry's properly fed.

When he crosses the street, Harry's already leaning over the drivers seat to unlock the door for him, eyes slightly pink but bright as he reaches out to help Louis place the drinks into the cupholders. He's practically vibrating with silent delight when Louis drives off again, going tongue first for the pink straw in his mountainous strawberry milkshake.

"So what's your first one then?" Louis' curious, pulling onto the empty street in front of Harry's studio, where the streetlight above them flickers in soft, uneven intervals. Harry's absently dipping fries into what's left of his milkshake while Louis tries not to grimace every time he notices.

"Hmm?" Harry blinks slowly, licking a bit of whipped cream off of his top lip.

"First tattoo?" Louis smirks, tracking the movement. He sets the car in park and turns off the ignition, letting the low rumble of the night filter through the open windows. They'd given up on the Fiat's pathetic attempt of cooling the car hours ago, letting the sticky heat of the night settle over their skin, sweat beading at Louis' temples as he reaches over for his last cigarette.

"Oh," Harry smacks his lips together, the singular word drawn out just enough to sound like he might fall asleep mid-thought, "Star. Here." He lifts his left arm over his head, bending at the elbow to show it off to Louis, "Got it done on my eighteenth birthday." He smiles softly, "At some guy's flat with a pretty dodgy setup. Probably lucky I didn't get sepsis."

Louis nods, admiring the simple black star nestled in among the sea of ink that stickers Harry's bicep. It's a bit aged compared to the others, the lines all wobbly with edges not as sharp, but it's sweet, in the way old things often are.

He's seen Harry's tattoos before, only in scattered glimpses at the studio, when his sleeves are rolled up, or bending over to reach or stretch. But never like this, never with the permission to really observe. They're all a mix of different styles together, some traditional, others simple or stylistic with scripture woven inbetween. A lovely mess that really shouldn't work, but does. Just like Harry.

"What about you?" Harry lets his arm flop back into his lap. He takes another fry, swirling it around in pink foam before taking a small bite.

Louis presses his lips together around the filter, pulling out the small blue matchbook from where he's kept it safe in the center console, "You'll laugh." He murmurs, voice low and a little shy.

"I won't laugh." Harry's already smirking, watching him strike the match. Whether it’s at his expense or the fact Louis is actually using his gift, he can’t quite tell.

Louis blows the flame out with a quiet huff and rolls his eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “You will."” He inhales deeply, then stretches his arm across the console, pointing to where a small stick figure is flipping over a skateboard.

Harry's tired eyes widen in amusement, large hands gripping onto Louis' forearm to raise it up toward his face, "How have I never noticed this?" he scoffs, a little disbelieving, "That's absolutely ridiculous. You don't even skateboard."

"Alright, I used to," There’s a new kind of heat forming on Louis’ face, "When I was younger."

"Yeah?" Harry's squinting now, rotating Louis' arm gently to look at all of the others, "Why'd you stop?"

"Fractured my ankle and that was pretty much the end of it for me." Louis blows smoke out the side of his mouth, "My mum was pretty pissed, banned all skateboarding related things."

"So your final act of rebellion…was that?"

"Well," Louis huffs a laugh, "Had to commemorate my short-lived career somehow."

"You're mad," Harry shakes his head, but he's still holding Louis' arm, thumb dragging soothingly over faded lines. "How old were you?"

"Twenty?" Louis tries not to focus on the warmth of Harry's fingers on his skin, or the obvious goosebumps that follow their path, "Or twenty-one. Can't remember I was too drunk, but it was long after I moved out."

Harry hums, studying the stick figure like it’s something worth understanding. Louis can feel every second of his gaze roaming over his skin, sending sparks low into his stomach.

"Well, I'm sure she hated the tattoo more than the skateboarding." He angles his head even closer, stopping his movements over the lit matchstick Louis has tattooed nearby. He presses his thumb twice on it before glancing up at him, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.

Louis clears his throat and brings the cigarette back to his lips a little too quickly, inhaling deeper than intended, "Yeah, she absolutely hated it." He doesn’t meet Harry’s gaze, looking firmly outside the windshield. "But she's got over it now, you know, with all the others."

"Was she strict?" Harry lets go, leaning back in his seat to grab another handful of fries, "Your mum?"

"A normal amount, I'd say." Louis pauses, watching the smoke curl in front of him, "She still tries to tell me what to do sometimes, but I love her to bits, can't say that I don't give in to it."

He thinks about his mum's persistent texts, her worried phone calls, the way she still tries to mother him even now. It's annoying sometimes, but there's comfort in knowing she cares enough to try. That she's always there, always fighting his corner even when he doesn't want her to.

Louis knows Harry left home young, and there are so many questions he wants to ask him, so many pieces of Harry he wants to understand. He hesitates, not wanting to push too hard, but the same question slips out anyway.

"What about yours? Was she strict?"

Harry stills before he bites down on his fry, then shrugs one shoulder, "Not really," And that's all he says.

Louis doesn't pry.

The album they're listening to fades into the last song as Louis finishes off his cigarette and Harry moves onto the remaining onion rings left in the greasy bag on his lap. He hums along under his breath as he chews, swinging one knee back and forth, content. His eyes keep getting heavier and heavier, overcome with equal mix food coma and a subtle sense of comfort.

"Should probably head back soon," Louis says eventually, time slipping past the point of when he'd promised Mina he'd be back.

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, stretching his shoulders when he starts to sit back up, "M'still pretty high.” He yawns, “Sleepy."

Louis watches him lick salt from his fingers, trying not to focus on the way his tongue curves around each digit, "Good milkshake then?"

"Mmm," Harry hums with a slow nod, hand reaching around in his back pocket for his wallet, "How much do I owe you for the food?"

"Nothing," Louis' head shake is immediate, face scrunching up like it was never even an option, "Don't worry about it." He doesn’t say it’s because he wanted to feed him. Because it made him feel good, stupidly good, to do it. And he'd do it again tomorrow, if he'd let him.

Harry freezes mid-movement, his hand lingering on his wallet for a moment too long before he slowly shuts it. He glances over at Louis with the kind of uncertainty that makes him wonder how often someone’s done something for Harry just because.

He blinks before giving a slight nod in thanks, tucking the brown paper bag under his arm and reaching for the door handle, their usual goodbye routine. But this time, when Harry pushes the door open—he stops where he'd usually crawl out, and though he doesn’t look back, Louis can feel the hesitation thrumming in the air. Harry pulls the door closed again, turning back over to Louis in one fluid motion.

Before he can even process what's happening, Harry's hands are at either side of his face, tugging him into a longing kiss. It's the first time their lips have touched since that night at the bar, and it feels just as eager and urgent, nearly frantic. Harry's fingers fall to Louis' t-shirt, fisting and yanking the fabric, trying to draw him even closer over the console, his tongue gliding against Louis’ with dizzying insistence.

And although it's fucking incredible and everything Louis' been wishing for, it's a pattern from Harry he can't help but recognize. How he rushes headfirst into physical touch, how quickly he turns soft moments and thank yous into desperate, fevered kisses. Like he's afraid the moment will slip away if he doesn't take everything right now .

But Louis doesn't want this night to be just another rushed memory with Harry. He doesn't want to be another person Harry uses to hide from himself, not when his guard has been down all week in ways Louis' never seen before.

Louis gently pulls away from the kiss, Harry's teeth dragging on his bottom lip until they're face to face and breathless, "Hey, babe—hang on—" The endearment slips out without either of them seeming to notice, "Let's just—Let's slow down for a moment, yeah?”

Harry’s hands pause where they are, his brows lifting for a split second as if Louis’ pause caught him off guard.

Then Louis tries again. He cups Harry's face in his palms, his eyes dancing with delicate understanding. When he leans in to kiss him this time, he presses his lips only once, the touch light and reassuring enough to cool the urgency but not the wanting, to root them into something softer.

They linger there, with their mouths pressed together, until Louis parts his lips again, just slightly, coaxing his way into Harry’s mouth with a slowness that's reverent. Harry sighs deeply into the kiss, tasting like hints of salt and strawberry milkshake with a third, unmistakable flavor Louis is almost always craving, Harry.

Harry's hands find place around Louis' waist as he leans further into it. Their tongues move in an unhurried pace, deep and devastating in its tenderness. Louis takes his time with it, stroking his thumbs over Harry's cheeks as he kisses him properly for what feels like the first time.

Louis doesn't want to end this, but the feeling's so big it swells in his ribs, pushing his heart up from his chest to his throat.

Harry's eyes flutter open when Louis breaks the kiss, saying nothing with his chest heaving slow.

"Goodnight, Harry." Louis whispers, pressing his thumb into the spot where his dimple would normally be.

Harry swallows hard, his fingers flexing once against Louis' waist before finally letting go. He nods, just barely, and pulls away to regather all of his things. Louis watches Harry roll his bottom lip, eyes falling to his lap as he turns to reach for the door.

The passenger side opens and closes quietly, and Louis sits there long after Harry disappears into his building, letting his head drop softly against the steering wheel.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The message comes at 2:17 AM, almost two days later.

Louis is asleep when his phone buzzes twice against the nightstand, rattling with a force that jolts him awake. The light from the screen pours into the dark bedroom, illuminating everything in a harsh blue that makes him squint. At first, he barely registers consciousness, smushing his face back deep into his pillow with a half-mumbled groan.

It isn't until his phone vibrates a third time, that he throws a lazy arm over, snatching his phone to blink wearily at the string of unread texts:

H: Need u

H: Please 

Louis rubs his fingers against one eye, a crease forming between his brows as he tries to process the messages:

H: Late for trams

And then as he's reading it, the blue type bubble pops up again:

An address.

His stomach drops as he looks them over again and again, heart pounding trying to make sense of it. The address doesn't belong to Harry. It's not his studio, it's not even anywhere near Green Quarter to begin with.

Swiping open to the maps app, Louis punches in the location with sweaty palms, watching the route stretch out to somewhere unknown with a lump growing in his throat.

Altrincham.

What the fuck is Harry doing in Altrincham?

That's at least forty minutes away.

Louis turns over to Mina sleeping on the opposite side of the bed, diligently studying the gentle rise and fall of her breath. He moves on impulse, the slow extraction from warm sheets and the careful placement of feet on the floorboards carrying out on automation.

Guilt can wait for later. Right now, there's only an urgent thrum under his skin, and the overwhelming need to move fast.

Harry never fucking asks for help. That's what makes all of this worse.

Om my wayfm

Louis types without looking, reaching for the nearest jumper and trackies crumpled in his dresser, tugging them roughly over his body.

Mina doesn't stir as he pads quietly out into the living room, an unfamiliar anxiety sweeping through him, stunting his ability to think as he spins aimlessly in circles in search of his things. Forty minutes is too long of a drive for sneaking out in the dead of night, but he’d drive across the whole city if Harry admitted he needed him. He'd drive twice that, even.

Keys, phone, wallet, cigarettes.

He's out the door with a marlboro between his lips, rushing down a side street for his car.

Altrincham at three in the morning is eerie, dark in a way that feels unnatural in comparison to the city. There's nothing but stillness and the distant chirping of crickets, not a sound or a peep loud enough to ground him, just the kind of quiet that makes his heartbeat almost explosive.

Louis gnaws at nothing in particular, flicking his tongue against his teeth as he rounds another endless corner of huge houses, guarded by perfectly trimmed hedges, sterile driveways, and iron gates. The whole neighborhood is so pristine and uniform it feels like he’s driving in circles, the disorienting symmetry doing little to soothe the tremors in his hands.

He doesn't belong here, and neither does Harry, and the closer he gets to the destination on his GPS, the more he feels like throwing up. Louis called Harry twice on the way there looking for answers, but both times was met with two or three rings and a voicemail, Harry deliberately declining. It would piss him off to no end if it wasn't for the anxiety steering him forward, the promise of a two minute arrival granting him one final burst of focus.

When he pulls onto Belmont, he instantly spots Harry at the end of the road through the headlights, slumped on the pavement with his head tipped back against the hedges. Louis lets out an unsteady breath of relief, shaking his head as he speeds down the road, tires crunching onto the kerb opposite.

He leaves the car running as he swings the door open in panic, watching Harry struggle to get himself onto his feet.

"Jesus fucking christ, Harry—" Louis mutters as he crosses over, "What the hell, are you alright?"

It's immediately obvious that he's not. Harry tries to push himself to full height, gripping at the cobblestone ledge and stumbling slightly as he finds delicate footing on the ground. Louis instantly reaches over for support, getting a good whiff of the alcohol rolling off him.

"What's going on?" He grips onto Harry's forearms, trying to steady him into place, "Where are your shoes?" He peers down at his bare feet, brain scrambling for context that isn’t coming.

Harry is fully dressed, despite his missing boots, wearing one of those fancy sheer blouses, half-buttoned and half-untucked into beltless black jeans.

"M'fine," Harry mumbles, turning his head toward the car, "Wanna go home." It's now that Louis remembers just how heavy Harry can be, leaning back sloppily on his heels, his body slack with little to no resistance. Louis has to brace himself for the pull, both arms full of someone a lot stronger and less cognizant than him.

"You're clearly not fine or you wouldn't have texted me to come get you in the middle of fuck nowhere," Louis protests through clenched teeth. He hikes his hands higher on Harry's biceps, glancing around the dark, "Where are your shoes, Harry?" He asks again with careful patience.

"Left them inside," Harry attempts to shoulder out of his grip, "Can we go?"

"Inside?" Louis repeats, his confusion mounting. He brings his brows together as he readjusts his fingers around Harry's arms, "Inside of where?"

Just then, Harry manages to slink away, tumbling two steps back, "Doesn' matter." He hiccups, "Car, Lou." The tone is impatient, tinged with frustration that misses its target.

Louis exhales sharply, dragging his palms over his face. Getting any answers from Harry right now would be like pulling teeth, and they're already drawing too much attention standing out here in the open.

"Fuck, alright, yeah," He sighs finally, slapping his hands down to his sides, "Let's get you in the car then."

With gentle assistance, Louis leads Harry back to the Fiat with one hand hovering near his lower back. Harry, insistent on walking himself, keeps muttering, “I got it,” shrugging off the help every few steps, only to keep barging right into Louis' side.

Opening the driver's door, Louis lets Harry crawl in, his awkward limbs tangling themselves as he elbows across to the passenger side, hitting his head twice on the roof along the way.

"Seatbelt, H." Louis murmurs, sliding into the seat, knowing damn well he’s about to end up doing it for him anyway.

When he turns over to try, Louis stills, his eyes catching on the fresh gash on Harry's right knee, exposed and raw, bleeding through the dark fabric of his jeans. He glances up at Harry, who stretches himself out lazily for the seatbelt, seemingly unbothered by the whole ordeal.

The shadows from the trees in the late hour shielded him perfectly, but under the dim interior light inside the car, every detail of Harry’s flushed face is painfully visible. His pupils are blown wide, slightly glossy, darting around fast but never landing in one place. Clearly off his face in more ways than just one.

The knot in Louis' stomach only twists tighter, because the more he sees, the less he understands, and the more it makes him angry with ache.

"You're bleeding," He points out, watching Harry struggle to click in the buckle.

Once it sticks, Louis sighs, punching Harry's address into maps on his phone. He chooses to ignore how it's nearly four in the morning now, shifting the clutch and cautiously k-turning them back onto the moonless road.

"Tripped," Harry exhales roughly, slinking down into a more comfortable position. He swipes his nose with the back of his hand twice then crosses his arms tight over his chest.

"On what?" Louis can't help but press, gaze flicking between Harry's slouching form and the empty street, "The forty grand staircase inside wherever you left your shoes?"

"Drop it." Harry shakes his head, his voice low and clipped, warning Louis not to do exactly what he's about to do next.

"You're in fucking Altrincham at four in the morning with no shoes, Harry." He grips the wheel harder, "What am I supposed to think?" Louis is getting frustrated with the vague one word answers.

"Nothin," Harry says in a sharp, barely there, mumble, "You're not suppose' to think anything." His head tips against the window then, eyes closing.

The silence stretches between them, broken only by Harry's uneven breathing and the gravel on the road. Louis watches him rub at his nose again, noticing how his hands won't stay still in his lap.

"Who lives here?" He tries again, gentler this time.

"No one."

"Harry—"

"Fuck's sake, Louis." Harry snaps with brittle exhaustion, clearly already done defending something he never wanted to explain in the first place, "Brian."

"Brian?" It comes unexpectedly quick, Louis' heart sinking the second the names out. Because even though he already knows where this is heading, he's still scraping at the edges, hoping for some better clarity.

"Yeah, Brian." Harry mutters harshly, "He usually drives me home, okay? Didn't have it for a taxi tonight."

 Louis' grip on the wheel whitens. The casual way Harry says all of this makes his blood run cold. "And what? He just threw you out with no money and no shoes?" It isn't making any sense, and that's making everything worse.

"None of it fucking concerns you." Harry shifts in his seat, agitated now. His knee bounces rapidly, hands still fidgeting on his thighs.

"It does if you're calling me to come get you off your face in some rich prick's neighborhood, Harry."

"I didn't call you," Harry bites, each word laced tight with frustration, "I texted. Because I had no other choice."

Louis lets out a bitter exhale, ticking his head because that's the important part, apparently. Not the fact that Louis came at all, no questions asked. But of course Harry would've exhausted every other option in the world before reaching out to him. He probably would've walked until his soles burned before handing Louis even a sliver of vulnerability.

"Right," Louis says tightly, jaw clenching as he takes a corner faster than he should. "And I suppose if the trams were still running, you'd be halfway home by now. Wouldn't have even bothered telling me you were—"

"You don't get to fucking do that," Harry's laugh is cold, his gaze boring into the side of Louis' face, "You don't get to shame me for what I do when you go home to your girlfriend every night."

That catches Louis off guard like a clean hit to the jaw, punching the words right out of him in a humiliating silence he knows he deserves. He'd almost forgotten , almost, how cutting Harry can be when he really wants to make something sting.

But what can he possibly fucking say to that? Harry's right—what authority does he have here? What right does he have to his anger, his concern, his desperate need to understand? He goes home to Mina, crawls right into their bed with the press of Harry's lips still wet on his skin, and pretends he's not the worst kind of hypocrite.

"I'm not—" Louis tries, but it bubbles in his throat and fizzles into nothing. There's nothing he can say that won't make this worse, nothing that won't reveal how deeply Harry's words have gutted into him.

He isn't trying to shame Harry. He's never trying to shame Harry. Still, it doesn't matter what he means, he’s got no right to expect anything from him.

“I’m not trying to shame you,” he says at last, though it's rough and wavering. Louis' not sure if Harry’s even listening anymore, his back turned away from him now and facing the passenger door, "I didn’t know what happened, alright? You texted me, and I panicked. That’s all.”

Harry doesn't respond, the rapid bounce of his leg the only sound filling the car. He fidgets around until his head finds an awkward balance on the seatbelt strap, gazing blankly out the window. Louis keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his chest burning with the need to say more. To do something other than let this heaviness pin him to his seat, but he doesn’t know where to start, or if he even has the right to try. And Harry sure as hell doesn’t want fixing.

It's another thirty minutes before Harry's breath evens out, whatever he's on fading away and tugging him into deep sleep. When Louis glances over, Harry's lips fall open with light snores, neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle, but his face is finally peaceful, the heat of their argument melting away until he looks soft again. Vulnerable.

Louis inhales deeply, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel. Despite all the frustration, he still can't help that protective pull settling beneath his ribs. Before he's back on the Parkway, Louis drifts into an empty McDonald's car park because it’s the only thing he knows how to do, offer something small, and he figures Harry should have something in his stomach before he crashes for good.

His phone buzzes just as he kills the engine:

Mina: Where are you???

The text glows in the phone holder. Louis stares at it for a long while before swiping it from the dashboard mount, clicking the screen off while sliding out of the car as quietly as he can.

When he returns with a paper bag of Sausage & Egg McMuffins, Harry hasn't moved an inch. He's properly out with hair splaying all over his cheek, some of the strands falling into his mouth. It makes Louis want to reach out and fix it—but he doesn’t.

He's already in too deep. 

He knows this as he tosses the greasy bag into Harry's lap, watching him stir before settling again. He knows this as he turns the key in the ignition, as he deliberately ignores the second text from Mina lighting up his phone.

He knows this, and he still does it anyway.

Chapter Text

H: Work tomorrow?

Louis is finishing up the laundry when his phone buzzes just past eleven. He nearly drops the basket, seeing that infuriatingly simple letter, appearing in the most offhand, heart-jolting way after five days of absolute nothing.

His heart lurches, staring at the screen, glancing over his shoulder through the bedroom doorway at Mina typing away on her laptop at their dining room table.

It'd been a different kind of ache not hearing from Harry.

Not the stabbing kind he often feels when he's anxious, but a hollow one that curls up right behind his sternum, more annoying than painful.

Four sleeps and no texts, Louis couldn't pretend that he hadn't been waiting around for something. Just how he sat in his car outside of Harry's building last Sunday, watching him stumble without so much as a backwards glance. No mumbled thank you or even a slam of the door, just the quiet click of the latch and Harry's crossed arms and unsteady footsteps, wincing as his bare feet stepped over bottle caps and broken shards of glass.

He knew better than to pry, to push when he might've already overstepped, but he'd never been quite good at leaving things alone, especially when it comes to Harry. So Louis tried to be good, giving Harry the space he might've needed to recover from whatever it is that happened to him in Altrincham.

When he'd gotten home that night, he'd floated through his usual excuses with a voice too tired to carry conviction—something about Niall being too drunk, needing a ride, falling asleep in the car. A half-truth, only hiding the part about who he was really worried about.

Mina had gone quiet in that way she did when she was trying to piece things together, eyes bleary but sharp, assessing every half-grumbled word until they both crawled back into bed before sunrise, pretending not to notice the inches of space left between them.

He swallows hard, refocusing back on responding with the laundry basket tucked away under one arm:

yeah early in the morning why?

The words feel too casual for what it was. Louis rolls his eyes, cursing at himself for how quickly he responds like some desperate idiot.

But maybe that's exactly what he is, and there's a part of him that doesn't care because the ache in his chest quiets, just a little, when Harry’s name lights up on his screen again:

H: Call out.

H: Got plans x

Louis' heart skips two beats at that unexpected letter blinking back at him, a warmth that rises in his cheeks and spills all the way down to his toes.

Harry's never sent him a kiss before.

It feels dangerous, especially after the long, cold nothingness that left Louis silently wondering if he'd fucked up everything and made Harry disappear forever.

Now he has this tiny little 'x', something that feels unexpectedly good, a lot like permission or forgiveness, or a particular softness that he hasn't really earned. Still, it's the smallest fucking gift, a narrow opening in the wall Harry keeps up that Louis' desperately trying to squeeze through.

His thumb hovers over the screen, caught between matching Harry's tone and demanding answers about everything. Altrincham, the silence, all of it.

In the end, he types:

where to? x

Pressing send with a flutter of boyish giddiness in his stomach.

The next day Louis' pulling up to Harry's at nearly eight in the morning when he suddenly appears at the passenger side, raising a gentle fist to knock twice on the window.

He's startled by the sound, but immediately relieved when he sees Harry standing there, wearing his favorite pair of sunglasses, overswept curls tousled perfectly, with a delicate print of sleep still holding onto them. Unlocking the door, Harry moves slow and lazy into his seat, plopping down next to Louis like nothing had ever changed.

Louis' eyes drift over to Harry's buttercup yellow collared shirt, fastened only in the middle, and the bright red duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

He hadn't really explained where they were headed or what he had hiding up his sleeve, but Harry's not the type to think it mattered for Louis to know anyway, only that he follow. And Louis does —god help him— every single time.

"Planning a holiday?" Louis asks carefully, watching him shift around until the duffel is resting heavily on his thighs, "Or should I start rehearsing my alibi now?”

Harry smirks, fishing his phone out from his back pocket. "Depends. How good are you at lying under oath?"

He slides his Ray-Bans up into his hair as he swipes idly, and Louis catches his eyes from the corner of his own. The emerald green's backlit gold by the morning sun, less fogged over and less careless than he last saw them. The thought pulls at Louis' chest, his gaze dropping to ringless fingers tapping absently.

"Here's the address," Harry says suddenly, holding up his phone for Louis to see. The highlighted route stretches somewhere unfamiliar, with the fastest arrival time edging closer to 10 a.m.

Louis' eyes narrow at the screen, then at Harry, who stares at him blankly, "That's an hour and thirty minutes away."

Harry purses his lips. "Does it say that?" he asks with a sarcastic lilt, furrowing his brows as he pulls the map back toward his face for inspection.

Louis rolls his eyes, lips twitching at his very ridiculous squint, "That's a bit far for a random drive, don't you think?"

Harry shrugs, "You called out of work, didn't you?" he says, already placing his cracked iPhone into the dashboard mount. He hits “start” like it’s his car and not Louis’. "You were working, what, another ten-hour slog? Should be a lot better than doing that."

Siri softly reads the address back to them, aiding and abetting whatever misadventure Harry’s just roped him into, while Harry turns to toss his mysterious bag into Louis’ backseat with a grunt.

"Must've missed the bit where I agreed to be your personal chauffeur for the day," Louis murmurs playfully, already working the clutch.

Harry scoffs lightly, shooting Louis a self-satisfied look, "When's the last time you called out of work to do something fun, Louis?"

It's a simple, teasing question, but there's a quiet truth there both Louis and Harry silently acknowledge.

Louis can't remember the last time he took a proper day off. One that wasn't just meant for mental rest or a brief exhale from relentless expectations. Somewhere along the line he'd gotten so used to pushing through the chaos that he’d forgotten what it feels like to just stop, to let the world keep spinning on its axis without him trying to chase after it.

The few times he's had any sort of fun lately were these unexpected moments with Harry. Before that, it was maybe when he and Niall used to crack jokes until their sides hurt, betting pints on rounds of darts and feeling invincible in the way only someone without the heavy burden of growing up could.

He doesn’t say any of that, though, as he presses down on the accelerator, heading north toward M61 with an amused grin that only appears when Harry pulls the kind of nonsense no one else can get away with.

"You're not going to tell me where we're going, are you?" He glances over at Harry, knowing the answer but finding, surprisingly, that he doesn't really mind.

"Nope." Harry pops the P, lifting his chin in defiance. "And that’s entirely on you for not reading the fine print." His left hand grabs the lever to recline the passenger seat, his elbow brushing the console as he slumps even lower.

Louis shakes his head fondly, unable to wipe the smirk stubbornly hitching on his mouth. It’s been ages since he did anything spontaneous like this—just sat in the car and gone somewhere without mapping out every single detail. He allows himself this one tiny break from all control, welcoming the soft, exhilarating thrill of just letting go.

The sun climbs higher in the sky as the road opens up ahead, leaving behind the familiarity of Manchester for the nearest motorway. After fifteen minutes, Harry sifts through the glove compartment, grabbing the CD version of Rumours he'd left behind for Louis to 'study'. He cranks the dial to the highest volume and rolls down his window, letting both the breeze and hypnotic drums of "Dreams" carry into the car.

Harry sings softly under his breath through rolling green hills and sleepy villages, both palms drumming out the beat against his lap. His curls bounce in an effortless, private rhythm for anyone lucky enough to see, and Louis glances over more times than he should just to catch it. It’s a lovely drive for an early morning, but nothing quite holds his attention like the boy, sunlit and pretty in his passenger seat.

At the halfway mark, they pull off for some petrol and breakfast. Harry follows Louis into the service station to stretch out his legs, yawning as he pokes around at a rack of packaged doughnuts behind Louis in line at Greggs.

Louis orders two Sausage and Omelette breakfast rolls, along with coffee and an extra chicken bake for Harry, snatching the receipt and crumpling it in his hand just as Harry tries to swipe for it. With a knowing smirk, Louis holds the paper just out of reach, "You’ll have to work faster than that.” He clicks his teeth, and Harry's eyes sparkle with delight as he reaches out faster this time, only to be denied again.

The GPS leads them to cottage houses and winding roads, a picturesque town somewhere smack in the middle of Cumbria. Cobblestone shops line the narrow streets, and the sweet scent of fresh pine and baked goods swirls in the air, making Louis’ nose twitch. His confusion only deepens as they pass through the village center and continue into a dense stretch of forest for another fifteen minutes.

Turning left onto a dirt path, the forest closes in fast, and the road shrinks down until it's barely wide enough for the car. Louis squints through the windscreen, half-expecting to see a dead end that leads to nowhere, but is eventually met with the vague outline of a house and a small glint of water behind it.

There’s no gate around the two-story home, just a wooden post and a discreet brass plate etched into it that says Lennox Lodge. Whatever Louis was expecting from Harry today, it certainly wasn’t this.

He knits his brows together as his tires pull up on the driveway, turning to Harry slowly when he sets the car in park. "What is this?" Louis asks, glancing back at the mossy stone walls, then over to Harry again like he might’ve misread the entire situation.

"Come on," Harry says simply, clicking off his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. He doesn't bother with Louis' need for semantics, leaving him perfectly stranded in his bewilderment. He snatches his red duffel bag from the backseat, then starts to head toward the stairs.

Louis sits there for a moment, keys dangling in the ignition as he watches Harry's retreating form. Then he shakes his head once, killing the engine with a resigned huff.

The gravel crunches beneath his trainers as he follows in Harry's path, taking in the building properly now. It's something out of a postcard, quaint but a little bit too polished to feel humble. The kind of place that looks like it should belong to a novelist, or retired historian, not something he or Harry should have easy access to.

It's when he reaches the porch that Louis notices the small signs of life: fresh flowers in window boxes, a pair of expensive walking boots propped by the door, and a stone-patterned welcome mat that’s clearly seen regular use.

"Harry…" Louis says slowly, eyeing the pile of mail laid out on an iron wrought table, "…whose house is this?"

Harry crouches down next to him, fingers working fast at the lockbox mounted to the wall, purposefully avoiding Louis' gaze as he punches in the code without a second's hesitation. Louis doesn’t know why he even bothered asking again when Harry always does whatever he wants.

The way Harry moves tells him everything anyway, and Louis' stomach dips as he catches sight of the expensive art on the walls through a small gap in the curtains, the pieces slotting together whether he wants them to or not.

He knows exactly the kind of wealthy man who’d own a place like this, tucked away in some desolate, off-road stretch of countryside. Louis swallows hard and forces his mind away from that particular thought, unwilling to unravel the delicate way they’ve been tiptoeing around this part of Harry’s life.

"He's in Ibiza until September," Harry mutters, not looking over as he fits the key into the lock and pushes the door open with ease.

Louis stays put, craning his neck towards the interior where an open-concept living room with wooden slatted walls and floor-to-ceiling windows looks frozen in time, eerie in its perfection, with not a single item out of place.

The natural light pours in over Harry as he tosses his bag onto the persian carpet, turning back around to blink at Louis. His expression is unreadable through the Ray-Bans, neither inviting nor impatient, just still.

Louis can't help but feel unease creeping in, even as he takes a hesitant step forward, painfully aware of the quiet surrounding them. His eyes sweep over every tall corner, half-expecting to catch the red blink of a lingering security system or hidden camera.

And he can't lie and say the house isn't spectacular, although that's usually a given when it comes to people whose comfort is never compromised by cost. The place is immaculate—pristine but still cozy — very cabin in the woods with two white linen sectionals perfectly untouched in the center of the room.

There's a large patio behind it, where the sunshine carves out a path to a small pebbled beach and forest-like cove, secluding the open lake from drifting boats and busy crowds.

"Harry," He grimaces, sort of embarrassed by how unsure he sounds, "I don't know about this."

He glances over at the photos in ornate frames, propped up on the fireplace mantle, some showing a well-dressed man smiling warmly in outdoor gardens and heaths, others with family, or maybe friends, caught in laughter on expensive-looking vacations. Louis can't shake how wrong it feels to be intruding in on space that doesn't belong to him.

He wants to have fun, the spontaneous kind Harry has been keeping quiet about for hours now, but he doesn't really understand what breaking into someone else’s house has to do with any of that.

"Won't we get into some sort of trouble for this?" Louis continues, watching Harry slip past him to take off his trainers, gently placing them over by the rack near the door.

He glances up at Louis only once as he peels off his socks, stuffing them into the mouths of his ratty old Converse, "We won't get in trouble." He bends down to sling the bag over his shoulders again.

"Okay…" Louis thinks, not entirely convinced by the certainty in his voice, "But what if someone comes back?"

"Nobody is coming back."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do." He says simply, sliding his sunglasses up into his curls.

"Alright, but what if—"

And before Louis can finish, Harry's in front of him, one hand on his jaw as he tilts his face up to meet his eyes. The usual green is warmer now, clouded with something gentle and patient, holding Louis in place like a tether before he starts to lean in.

All of Louis' doubts melt away under the sudden press of Harry's lips, overshadowed by the fierce pounding of his heart and heavy plunge in his stomach, leaving him both weak-kneed and stunned.

"Hey," Harry murmurs, pulling away too quickly for Louis' liking, "It's alright." His voice drops lower, softer. "He knows that I come here sometimes."

Something cold slides down Louis' spine at the suggestion beneath the nameless he Harry's mentioning , but his thumb is stroking absently along his cheek now, and Louis lets himself fall into that touch instead, his mouth tingling with a dizzy sweetness that has his head swimming. He nods mechanically, already pulling Harry in by the nape of his neck for another. And then another.

"Okay, yeah, alright." He breathes between kisses, the rumble of Harry's laugh vibrating against his lips.

Harry's other hand falls gently on Louis' lower back, easing him forward with a feather-light touch that's more reassuring than desire. "I want to go sit out by the lake," He says, breaking away again when Louis finally lets him go, "Sitting in the sun clears my head when I need it most."

The soft implication hovers momentarily, crashing over Louis with startling clarity that Harry didn't just bring him here today on a whim, but is offering to share a slice of peace he needs, allowing Louis a tiny glimpse into the guarded corners of his mind, the first step past the walls he rarely lets anyone near.

For a second, Louis just stares at him, struck by the quiet trust in that invitation, then he nods again, not wanting to question it, "Sounds perfect." He says, and for the first time, means it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

There's something about watching water that makes Louis forget how to worry.

Leaning against the bark of a tall oak tree, the sounds of small lapping waves remind him of childhood summers, of cheap holidays by the sea, and the way everything always smelled like salt and too much sunscreen.

If he'd known that this was what he'd be doing all day, he wouldn't have thrown on a pair of jeans. The early afternoon heat shows no mercy, baking the black denim deep into his skin and also, somehow, his lungs.

Still, he doesn't care about the sweat pooling in his collarbones, or the way his t-shirt sticks to his chest like clingfilm when the view is almost too serene to feel real. The breeze off the lake comes in every few minutes, a simple reward he’d trade a dozen summer heatwaves for.

Beside him, Harry paints in silence, cross-legged with his jeans rolled up on his calves. The red duffel he brought is unzipped next to his lap and spilling over with various paint supplies and sketchbooks, along with a bunch of other things Louis can't quite make out from the distance, tucked beneath clothes and what looks like a rogue sock and a tangle of old wired headphones.

He hunches over his paper, dipping clean brushes into something called gouache, a new kind of paint Louis is half-convinced he’s making up, but Harry insists is the holy grail for “subtle layering, if you actually care about tone.” He pokes his tongue out in concentration, brows drawn into their deepest furrow as he dabs tiny squares onto the blank page with painstaking care.

Every so often, he holds it up toward the sky like he's comparing swatches to the clouds, then scrunches his nose in dissatisfaction, muttering something under his breath and reaching for a different shade.

This is when Harry is loveliest, Louis decides. Entirely lost in focus, stealing lazy bites from the white peaches he’d grabbed for them in the kitchen with juice dripping down his sticky arms as he works.

He doesn't even notice, but Louis catches himself watching the trail it leaves around the curl of his wrists, trying to pinpoint the exact moment watching turned from harmless curiosity into something heavier.

"What's the squares mean?" He brings his hand to shield his eyes against the sun, squinting at the neat little row of gradients.

Harry doesn't glance over as he dips his brush into a borrowed water cup, then back into a bright green, "Just mixing." He hums, placing down another dot with care, eyes narrowing as he compares it to the treeline beyond, "Trying to match the right shade of those trees over there." He points across the water with his chin.

Louis follows his gaze over to the evergreens reflecting in the water. "Looks pretty green to me."

Harry's lips twitch slightly, "There's no such thing as just green." He rolls his brush over a paper towel, cleaning it off before delicately placing it into red, "Everything's got shadows and depth. Sometimes you need a bit of red to make green feel real."

"Red?" Louis furrows his brow, shifting closer in genuine curiosity. He still knows very little about painting, even after all the times Harry's tried to teach him, "Wouldn't that just make brown?"

Harry presses his lips together, craning his neck closer to the page, "Watch," He murmurs, mixing the tiniest bit of red into his green square with a flat stroke, the water of his brush mixing the two with gentle precision. The color deepens just a bit, sinking into something richer and more complex, "See? You'd use that to make a shadow, like, in between the branches or where the sun isn't hitting. It's about finding colors that already exist there, just darker."

Louis leans in, his shoulder brushing Harry's as he watches the subtle transformation, "That's actually brilliant." He purses his lips, never really considering to think much deeper about something as simple as that.

"S'just color theory," Harry mumbles, barely meeting Louis’ gaze before pretending to fuss with his paints.

"So you can match any color then?" Louis smirks, prying further for the sake of the pink blooming on Harry's cheeks, and also because he's sincerely intrigued.

"Mhm." Harry nods earnestly, curls hanging forward over paper like it’s easier to concentrate on color mixing than the way Louis is looking at him, "Give me something to match."

Louis arches a brow thoughtfully, delighted by the quiet confidence in Harry’s voice, "Anything?" He asks, already glancing around in search of something good.

"Anything."

But everything around them is green, every tree, every blade of grass, even the rust on the ladder at the end of the floating dock in front of them. Louis thinks of the peaches sitting in the fancy burnt orange ceramic bowl, or even the purple on his chipped lighter. Nothing feels quite right.

"Alright, you pick." Louis leans back on his hands, "Since you can do anything." he teases, knowing Harry will manage it somehow, whatever it is.

Harry finally looks up, setting his brush down on his sketchpad deliberately. "Are you doubting me?" He tilts his head, shifting over to face Louis properly now in the grass. His knees push up against Louis' as he scoots in, close enough that Louis forgets what smartass thing he was going to say next.

Reaching over for his paints again, Harry hums with narrowed eyes, roaming over Louis with careful consideration, "Stay still." He says, and Louis tenses in place as he continues holding his gaze.

For a long while, he says nothing, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as he flicks his head from Louis' face to his palette, swiping across a dark shade of primary blue.

"Your eyes," He says softly, taking a bit of white from a tube and smearing it right into the shade with the tip of his finger instead, "They're not just blue."

Louis clears his throat, trying to hold the stare without blinking too much. "No?"

"No," Harry says quickly, "They're more cerulean." He adds water into the mix, letting a drop pool until he swirls it around, "But there's also all these other colors hiding in there." When he glances back up, Louis holds his breath, "Bits of grey around the edges, sometimes green when the light hits them in the center. Like right now."

All Louis can offer back is no movement, sitting with his hands tucked tight in his lap, torn between watching Harry's hands create the color and meeting his gaze every time he looks up to check the shade.

"Just a smidge of this yellow," Harry murmurs, mostly to himself, then he smiles, lifting his sketchpad for Louis to see the small square he created, standing out bright amongst the forest of green.

Louis' brows lift at the perfect match, "Wow." He says, "You're incredibly talented.”

He truly didn't expect anything less, he already knew Harry is capable of such piercing perception. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things, and right now, Louis feels cracked open in his middle, bleeding out cerulean blue.

Harry doesn't say anything else as he flips to a blank page, knees still tucked against Louis’ like he’s forgotten they’re touching. His gaze drops, pencil already moving in slow strokes, maybe starting on the distant trees, or maybe just trying to sketch through the compliments.

"When'd you learn how to paint like that?" Louis asks, watching Harry's mechanical pencil scratch against the page.

"Um…" Harry tilts his head, considering. "When I was little, I guess." His hand works fast, gently rounding out vague shapes.

"Self-taught, then?"

"Yeah, mostly." Harry murmurs, eyes narrowing at the shifting reflections on the lake. He pauses to think before continuing, "My… mum used to work at this library over in the town we lived in, would bring me and my sister during her longer shifts." He glances over to Louis for a moment, smirking, "The things you pick up when you're sat at a desk for hours with a pack of crayons."

And just like that, Louis can't wipe the image of a younger, smaller version of Harry, barely fitting in a chair with a stack of battered Crayola boxes in front of him, scribbling out nonsense that would eventually become these incredible works of art he shrugs off like they’re nothing.

He wonders, briefly, about the way his curls might’ve flopped in his eyes back then too, or if he'd always chewed on the ends of his pencils, deep in thought. Louis' eager to know more about the kind of kid Harry had been, whether he looks more like his mum or his dad, if his sister shares the same bunny-shaped teeth as him, and if Harry’s childhood is full of sweet stories he’s never told anyone else.

"Does your sister paint also?" Louis doesn't take the opening for granted. He busies himself with reaching over for a peach, casually edging his thumbnail over its tiny sticker and peeling it off.

Harry snorts, shaking his head, "No, she was mostly busy with the books." the corner of his lip quirks, "Or putting gum in my hair."

Louis grins at that, all too familiar with the chaos of sisters. He’d racked up his fair share of bruises and a lifetime of teasing, the fun kind of shouted insults that always end in giggles.

"But look at you now, proper artist," He takes one big bite of the peach, wiping juice off his lips and chin with the back of his hand as he chews, "Still got all your hair, too."

"Not quite proper yet." Harry ducks his head again, but Louis catches his smile.

"Not yet?" He arches a brow, "What's proper look like then to you, Mr. Galleries?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugs one shoulder, "Would be nice to show in London one day, or New York, maybe." He stops drawing then, setting his sketchpad aside to bring his knees up to his chest. "There's this small gallery in Chelsea that shows emerging artists. Been following their exhibitions for ages."

"I think you could do it." Louis says firmly between a chew, "You're very New York." He waves the peach around in the air, before taking another huge bite, like that sealed it.

Harry rolls his eyes, unable to hide his satisfied smirk, "And you?"

"Me?" Louis scrunches his nose, "Never really been the New York type. Too crowded, overpriced."

"No," Harry bubbles out a laugh, "What do you want to do?" He nudges Louis' leg with his bare foot, not at all casual in how Louis feels it like a jump-start in his chest, "Like, actually do."

"Oh." He blinks, suddenly finding it hard to meet Harry's eyes. He swallows the last bits of peach, grateful for the excuse to look down as he places the half-eaten fruit back in the bowl, methodically wiping his hands onto his jeans. "Um..."

It'd been a while since anyone asked him that question, and even longer since he bothered to consider it honestly. Louis thinks about the person he was at nineteen, careless and unworried about what twenty-four would bring when it seemed ages away. And truthfully, he convinced himself that everything would've sort itself out by now, because that’s what everyone always said would happen anyway.

He'd spent a lot of time over the years dodging that question, offering jokes or half-shrugs, nodding along instead of dealing with how scary the truth might sound out loud. But there's a sincerity in Harry’s expression that makes Louis want to say something true, if only to match it.

Louis focuses intently on picking at blades of grass, blowing out air from his cheeks, "I guess…I don't know, really." He admits quietly, twisting a green stem between his fingers until it snaps. "I went to Uni for Sociology, seemed like the right thing to choose." He glances sideways at Harry, then quickly away. "But now I'm meant to do something with that and I just—" He lets out a small, breathless laugh. "I've really not one fucking clue."

Harry nods in acknowledgment, his long tanned arms wrapped lazily around his knees, delicately watching Louis. The sounds of afternoon birds chirp warm in the heat, along with the distant humming of a bee circling around their heads. Louis fingers work faster as shame starts to unfurl through his body, ripping out chunks of grass and tossing them aside.

"Sometimes it just feels incredibly stupid," He murmurs, not entirely sure why he's still talking, "Being twenty-four and not knowing what to do with your life."

There's another pause, and then the abrupt sensation of a hand reaching over to stop Louis' anxious yanking. When Louis looks up, Harry lets go, but his voice is calm when he says, "You know it's okay not to know, right?" He gives a small shake of his head, pulling back to rest his hand in the grass, "To change your mind about what you thought you wanted before?"

Louis wants to grab that hand back and plop it right in his lap, maybe brush his thumb over Harry's knuckles and see if he’d let him hold it. Instead, he just swallows the sudden lump in his throat and looks away, overwhelmed by the softness in Harry’s voice and touch.

"The good thing about life," Harry continues, eyes still locked on Louis, "is that nothing's ever certain, things can always change, and you can always start over tomorrow."

Louis lets that sink in as he watches calm ripples over on the lake, an unfamiliar tightness expanding between his ribs, overheating his face. He wipes some sweat off his brow, determined to not glance over in fear of exposing just how raw he suddenly feels. He can't remember the last time anyone's given him permission to just... be .

Harry watches him a second longer, maybe thinking of something else to say to fill the silence, then he exhales, using both hands to push himself up off the grass, "We're not here to think about any of that bullshit anyway."

The feeling of fabric landing in his lap makes Louis turn his head over, finding Harry standing there, completely shirtless and working on the clasp of his jeans. He gently shimmies out of the denim, kicking them off clumsily and nearly tripping over one leg, muttering something under his breath that Louis doesn’t quite catch over the thud of his own heart.

"Coming?" Harry's already starting off towards the timber dock, jogging backwards in nothing but his grey trunks. Louis stares at him blankly, stomach folding in on itself like it doesn’t know whether to drop or lift.

Harry's limber legs pick up speed as he turns back around, heading for the dock in a full sprint. He makes a swift jump, nose-diving right into the stillness of the lake and disappearing beneath the surface. After a worrying breath, Harry eventually pops back up a few feet away with a loud gasp that echoes around his splash.

"Louis," He sputters around with his curls flat over his face, fractions of a wild grin peeking through the strands, "Shit—" He giggles, wiping them away from his eyes, "It's fucking cold."

"And you want me to throw myself in there willingly?" Louis shouts back, already standing up.

"Yeah, I do." Harry nods vehemently, his head faux-bobbing in and out of the water, "I do, so bad. Please, I'm drowning."

Louis smirks, shaking his head, "You're absolutely ridiculous." He peels the hem of his shirt from his sweaty body, then tugs down his black jeans from where they stick on his thighs.

He doesn't think about anything else as he tosses them both aside, mimicking Harry's lopsided, gazelle-like sprint through the grass. Louis lunges himself at the end of the dock, cannonballing right into the lake with all the grace of a startled cat.

Harry's right, the water's absolutely horrible. The icy shock snaps Louis straight back into his body, right into the now. He flails around on instinct, limbs kicking out erratically as he sinks deep into the bottom. The lakebed meets his feet and he pushes off, launching himself upward, desperate for air.

"Fuck," He gasps, spitting water from his mouth. He can't see anything through the blur in his vision, but can hear Harry laughing somewhere around him, "Shit, shit, shit."

The goosebumps ease with each kick, adrenaline smoothing out into warmth when he hears Harry giggling again, closer this time.

"You have lakeweed in your hair," He points out, reaching from behind to pluck a soggy strand off the top of Louis’ head. He holds it in the air as Louis spins around to meet him, wiggling it like a worm before tossing it away.

"So do you." Louis laughs, still trying to catch his breath. He admires the thin strands of green wrapping around Harry's shoulders and falling on his neck as he tries to stay afloat, eyes drifting down to the two swallows tattooed on Harry's chest.

Harry just smiles, not the least bit bothered by the attention. "Feels good, doesn't it?" and Louis nods, the two of them paddling in place, like a pair of idiots, grinning through chattering teeth.

Then a pair of hands finds Louis’ waist beneath the water, dragging him in until he’s chest to chest with Harry. His heart stutters wildly as Harry leans in, kissing him open-mouthed and so utterly consuming that Louis forgets to ground his feet, slipping beneath the surface under his weight.

Their lips stay connected as Louis bobs beneath and above the water, gravity giving way to want with each languid swipe of tongue. Harry's arms wrap around Louis' shoulders, anchoring him even as the water rocks them closer, both breathing between hungry kisses as though they’ll never surface again.

Reaching down to a thigh, Louis pulls one of Harry’s legs up to his waist, then the other, hiking him easily around his body. He fumbles briefly for a grip but doesn’t care, so long as Harry stays wrapped tight against him.

He gasps away from the kiss when he can’t breathe, fighting to stay upright as he kicks them both toward the shallower part of the lake. Harry’s lips trail along his jaw, laughing against the wild waves sloshing between them, making it impossible for Louis to focus on anything but the sound.

When Louis finally finds solid footing on the lakebed, his hands are already around Harry’s ass, fingers pressing deep for hold before he even realizes he's doing it. He barely cares, and Harry doesn’t either, returning to kissing him without pause or breath. Their ferocity matches beat for beat, winding tight somewhere deep in Louis’ spine.

"Is this a bad time to tell you I don't know how to swim?" Louis' voice is ragged against Harry’s mouth, causing him to still slightly before pulling away.

He tilts his head down, meeting Louis’ eyes with curious concern, then bursts out laughing when he realizes Louis is being serious. "Don’t you think that would’ve been nice to mention before I nearly drowned you?" He brushes away a strand of hair flopping over Louis’ nose, grinning wide.

Louis gives a one-shoulder shrug, following the movement, "Not the worst way to go," He admits, craning his neck for more.

Harry finally drifts away after a few more drenched kisses, his legs dropping from Louis' sides to swim in a backwards stroke. Louis' feet curl around the pebbles on the shore while his soaking body rips from the water, his boxer briefs clinging tight around his hips. He eventually finds a safe perch at the end of the dock, feet gently splashing, as Harry swims lazy circles, floating happily with his eyes closed and nose to the sky.

The sun sparkles around him as they chat about Louis' inability to swim and his ironically undeniable love of waterparks, making his wet curls shine and his grin unfairly radiant. Louis insists avoiding the deep end is just proper strategy, not fear, until Harry yanks at both of his ankles, pretending to pull him back in again.

Then Harry makes an absolute show of it, boasting about his swimming talents and backflipping off the dock to prove it. He makes Louis rate every single one, giving nothing but shitty critiques on his form, as if he could do any better. Every time Harry resurfaces, shaking water from his hair with that irresistibly smug grin, Louis feels a wild heap of giddiness swelling deep in his chest.

Louis’ cheeks ache from laughing at Harry’s awkward belly flops, his hands braced behind him on the sun-soaked wood, lips still fuzzy and Harry-kissed. It’s silly, how happy this makes him, but for once, he's not overthinking anything, just letting himself feel.

Eventually, Harry tires himself out and suggests they go back inside for lunch, the afternoon sun high above them now as they gather their scattered clothes from the grass. He can't help but smile, watching Harry attempt to squeeze back into his jeans with wet skin, stumbling around and cursing under his breath.

Everything feels lighter now, like the water has washed away all the heaviness from before, leaving something much sweeter and brighter in its place.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"I'm starving," Harry announces as they stumble back inside, both still wet and giggling.

Louis carries his dry clothes in his arms, shivering as they track wet footprints across the hardwood floor. Harry leads them through rooms he hasn't seen before, past tall oval archways and down long, rugged corridors with too many doors, until they reach the main kitchen where everything is made out of dark-stained wood and flooded with natural light.

Harry starts rifling through cabinets, while Louis sets his stuff down on a barstool, poking at the fancy, unopened bottles of wine and crystal decanters lining the shelves. He trails a finger along the smooth countertops as he wanders through the kitchen, grinning like all of the laughter and sunshine from the outside followed them in.

"Mmm," Harry mumbles, shifting to open the double-brass fridge, "Not much in here." He shoots Louis a look over his shoulder, "Unless you're into tinned foie gras, or…" He smirks, pulling out a half-cut wheel of cheese, "Comté."

Louis turns around with a disgruntled look, lips tugged in a frown, "I don't know what either of that means and I'm not sure I want to."

"Rich people food," Harry explains, placing the cheese back with a grimace. "Fancy liver paste and overaged cheese."

Louis scoffs a laugh, already snooping through the nearest wooden cabinets, pretending he’s not quietly impressed by how stupidly nice everything is in here. Each one reveals another collection of things he'd never own: imported olive oils straight from Italy, tiny glass jars of saffron, and unopened tins of anchovies or tuna. But there is this really nice espresso machine on the counter that he wants to try and figure out.

"Do these people actually eat any proper food?" He murmurs, picking up a jar of rose petal preserves. He turns it in his hand once, completely unimpressed, then sticks it back on the shelf upside down.

"Well, define proper food," Harry smirks, watching Louis slam another cabinet shut in defeat. He leans against the fridge with his arms crossed, long hair still dripping from his cheeks onto his bare stomach. Louis steals a glance between crouching down to peer into a drawer that houses nothing but seaweed crackers and a single packet of roasted almonds.

"I don't know, maybe some beans? Pot noodles?" He wrinkles his nose, standing back up, "Stuff that doesn’t require a culinary degree to prepare, for starters.”

Harry snorts at that before his eyes light up. "Wait, hold that thought," He points a finger at Louis, padding over to the double French doors that lead to the wraparound patio.

Louis watches Harry vanish, the growl in his stomach roaring louder. He hugs his arms around himself, suddenly hyper-aware that he's practically naked, standing in the middle of some rich wankers designer kitchen.

When Harry passes by the window again, he's holding a cardboard box high in the air over his head, shaking it around like a trophy.

"Look what I found in the chest out back!" His voice carries inside before he does, a triumphant grin wide on his face, "Pear and Gorgonzola Pizza."

Louis narrows his eyes, half-delighted, half-suspicious, "Pears?" He moves over from his spot to inspect the box, "Still sounds…fancy."

"Yeah, but it's still pizza." Harry bumps his hip into Louis' as he passes to get to the oven, "Beggars can't be choosers, Lou."

Rubbing his hands along his goose-bumped thighs, Louis huffs through his nose and trails after him, figuring he can just pick off the pears instead of starving to death. He settles against the sink, watching as Harry reads over the instructions, fiddling with the unfamiliar knobs on the chef-grade oven.

His eyes follow the curve of Harry's back as he bends to check the temperature gauge, then dip lower to the open clasp of his jeans, still unzipped, and exposing the dark line of hair traveling from his navel to the waistband of his trunks. Louis really likes the way the butterfly on his sternum expands with each breath, and the harsh contours of his abs flexing subtly beneath it.

Selfishly, he lets himself stare, counting water droplets clinging to Harry's skin like tiny kisses, wondering what it would feel like to follow their path with his mouth instead of his eyes.

"I think it's on?" Harry looks over, and Louis glances away fast, "Hard to tell, but it's making some sort of clicking noise."

"Probably a good sign," Louis says, pretending to run a hand through his hair, wincing as slimy bits of green pull from the stiff strands. "Gonna have to hose this pond scum off before we go," He nearly gags when it webs between fingers, "Not keen on taking back a whole garden with me."

“There’s a hose out back ’round the bins,” Harry chuckles, reaching for the pizza box again. “But if you really want to get all that gunk out, the ensuite upstairs has proper water pressure.”

Washing everything off does sound like the better option, but Louis hesitates momentarily, wanting to stay and help with the oven. “You sure?”

“Course,” Harry nods simply, not looking up from where he’s unwrapping the pizza. “Take your time. I’ll sort lunch.”

"Alright," Louis gnaws his bottom lip, lifting off the counter and grabbing his pile of clothes. He lingers for a moment, watching Harry's careful movements around the kitchen, trying not to think too hard about the comfortable intimacy, "Try not to burn it, that's our last resort."

Harry laughs and shakes his head as Louis pads around him, "I think I can manage frozen pizza, thanks." And when Louis turns to throw a cheeky retort over his shoulder, he catches the tail end of Harry’s gaze snapping back up from somewhere lower.

Their eyes catch just a second too late, but Harry doesn’t even flinch, just arches a brow as though he meant to get caught looking. Louis flushes down his neck, but keeps walking, holding his jeans tight to his chest.

The ensuite is just as a grand as all the rest of the house—though Louis would deny snooping through it if ever asked or put on trial—complete with a copper clawfoot tub by an open bay window and monogrammed towels hanging on a heated rack. His eyes widen when he sees the shower, large enough to be considered its own separate room.

It's astonishing to him that something this lovely can just sit here for seasons going completely unused. He sets his clothes back down on the marbled vanity, curious to see what's behind the two sliding doors next to the mirror, pleasantly surprised to find a sleek chrome washer and dryer tucked behind them. An unexpected luxury that solves the swamp boxers situation in one go.

Content with all his foraging, Louis peels out of his boxers and tosses them into the wash, moving onto the next mystery of figuring out which one of the four golden knobs actually turns on the shower without setting off a geyser.

He figures it out on the first try, and the rainfall showerhead instantly rewards him, cascading warmth onto his skin in a soothing rush that relaxes his shoulders. He shuts his eyes, soaking all of the quiet in with a sigh.

The water pressure is heavenly against his scalp as he works his fingers through the tangles, watching long bits of green swirl down the drain. He's just about reached for what looks like stupidly expensive shampoo when a knock at the door startles him, followed by light mumbling he can’t quite make out.

"What was that?" Louis calls out, squinting one eye to catch the words better. When only a distant mumble replies, he slides open the glass and pokes his wet head out. "Can't hear you, H. Come in."

After another moment, the door opens, but only a crack, and Harry sticks his head through it, eyes trained to the floor.

"…I said pizza's in, should be ready in about twenty five."

Louis smiles, dripping puddles onto the tiled floor, "Figured it out then?"

"Yeah, yeah." Harry nods, still not glancing up, "Eventually. Thought I might have to call the manufacturer."

Louis lets out a small laugh, watching him hover there through all of the steam. Half in, half out of the doorway, Harry stares at his toes, avoiding the shower. It's incredibly endearing, his tentative politeness making Louis stomach swoop hard.

"Hey," he says softly, heart drumming loud in his ears. Louis can’t stop thinking about Harry’s hands on him at the lake, the way their bodies fit together so effortlessly. After everything that's happened today— the kissing, the touching, the way Harry had looked at him just moments before this—this careful distance feels almost ridiculous.

Harry glances up, but only to look at Louis' face, "Hm?"

"C'mere." Louis tilts his head, voice barely above a whisper, "It’s warm."

Harry's expression shifts slightly, his brows lifting up in surprise, "Yeah?" He asks, almost too soft to be heard.

"Yeah," Louis smiles, stepping back under the spray to make room for him, "Get in here before you let all the hot water out."

It's a bit bold, but Harry barely hesitates before stepping into the bathroom, padding slowly across the room. All Louis hears next is the delicate shifting of denim, followed by a scatter of loose change, and then Harry is naked, reappearing in front of him with a shy kind of tension in his posture, eyes wide but vulnerably curious.

He doesn't even look at the rest of him, just reaches for Harry's wrists, fingertips lightly pulling him two steps into the spray.

"Hey," Louis says again, blinking through the curtain of water. His fingers trail down Harry’s wrists until they find his fingers, curling over his knuckles before threading slowly between them.

"Hi," Harry echoes back, swallowing hard.

They stand there in the quiet, a little bashful and unsure, and Louis can tell that this is the most nerve-wracking thing they’ve done yet. He watches the water flatten over Harry's curls, catching droplets on his eyelashes and pooling above his upper lip.

When Harry licks the water away absently, locking Louis' gaze to the movement, he almost can't help but lean in to taste them then, tongue pushing past Harry's in a thoughtless sweep.

Harry gasps, instantly falling into the touch with hands barely ghosting Louis' waist as if he's giving him every chance to change his mind. Louis draws him closer, pressing up on his toes to deepen the kiss and reassure him. His fingers find the nape of Harry's neck, wrapping in a grip that tightens with possessive intent, a silent demand Harry melds right into.

He steps forward until their bodies slot together, chests slipping wet with each heavy breath, fogging up in the space between them. Louis' other hand finds place on Harry's hip, thumbing sweet little circles around his hipbone, and coaxing even sweeter sounds from his mouth.

"Louis…" Harry breathes, clenching his eyes shut as Louis noses down to the crook of his neck, lapping over the sensitive skin and trailing down to his collarbone. Louis doesn’t think about the trail of red marks he’s leaving behind, encouraged by Harry’s fingernails digging deep into his sides, pulling him with an urgency that twists tight in his gut.

"So perfect, baby." Louis murmurs, lifting back up to find Harry's panting mouth, capturing a sloppy kiss that lingers with a slow, aching reverence. Harry whines at the compliment, rolling his hips forward in a slow, lazy grind.

The growing press of Harry’s cock nudging against his own pulls an unexpected moan from Louis’ throat, the thick length pushing hard up against his stomach with absolutely nothing between them to dull the sensation. His knees buckle, hips jerking forward on instinct. "Oh—" He shudders, jaw falling slack when Harry does it again.

"Jesus, Lou," Harry moans, his hands slipping down between them to drag across Louis. His fingers curl around Louis' shaft for a brief tug before bringing his hands back up to grip his hips, voice thick with need, "You don’t know what you’re doing to me."

He slots Louis' thigh between his legs, pulling him flush against his body, dragging himself up with a desperate shudder. Following the movement, Louis rolls his body back to meet Harry's, both of them locked into this addictive, dizzying rhythm, mouths slipping over each other in a series of open-panting kisses and loud, unapologetic moans.

The thoughts come unbidden, flashing through Louis' mind in fevered bursts with every stroke of pleasure, that this feeling coiling in his stomach is teetering dangerously close to where he just stops thinking altogether. His hands itch to grab, to flip Harry over against the shower wall, succumbing to his desire to make Harry his in every filthy, frantic way his body aches for.

The intensity of wanting it all catches him off guard, making his pulse stutter in place as Harry's hands drag from his waist and spread over his chest. He blinks in the midst of his scattered haze, staring blankly at nothing while Harry sinks his teeth into his neck like it’s owed to him.

Feeling his grip loosen, Harry pulls back to look at Louis. His cheeks are flushed, splotched with dark red, and his eyes are heavy-lidded but glimmering. He brings gentle hands to either side of Louis' face, guiding his gaze back.

"Lou," he says hoarsely, catching his eye. "What's wrong?"

Louis nods once, not exactly sure how to put the intangible feeling into the right words. It's hard to think properly when his body is thrumming and Harry is standing there looking at him like he’s something to be handled carefully.

"Nothing," He swallows thickly, "It's just…this feels—"

"Yeah," Harry says, his expression softening with a kind of understanding that doesn’t need explanation. "It’s okay." He presses his thumbs into the soft skin of Louis’ cheeks, catching his breath. "We can stop."

"Shit. " Louis groans, dragging his hands over his face, "…I'm sorry." The need to apologize slips out of Louis unprovoked, followed by a mortifying surge of embarrassment.

Harry shakes his head and presses a quick kiss to the top of his fringe. “Shush.” He gives Louis’ arm two reassuring squeezes before stepping back, offering the space to recover from both the heat and the moment.

When Louis' body finally calms, he dares to look up again.

Harry's back is turned to him, busy lathering suds that scent the shower in sage and eucalyptus. His slowing heart rate is only thrown into another tailspin when Harry turns back around, reapproaching with a soft smile and cupped, foamy hands.

Without words, Louis watches as Harry starts to work the lather into his fringe, barely letting a single breath past his parting lips. He's entirely too full of feeling to even bother speaking, eyes fluttering shut as Harry massages the shampoo through his scalp. But then he changes his mind, wanting to look, wanting to capture every precious curve of Harry's face as he handles Louis with the kind of sweetness he isn't sure he entirely deserves.

They hurry up after that, neither sure whose stomach is growling louder, loud enough to be heard over the shower. Nervous giggles bounce between them as they bump shoulders and fumble to rinse off the foamy soap. It's too easy like this, sharing space and body wash, trading warm kisses between rinses, learning the slopes of each other's bodies with mindful hands and light touches.

Later, they end up on the patio wearing nothing but the luxurious bath towels stolen from the heated rack. The pizza box is balanced on Louis' thighs while Harry eats off a ceramic plate, legs stretched out on the wooden slats, curls dripping onto his shoulders as he tells Louis some ridiculous story about the first time he got drunk that has him laughing around a mouthful of pizza.

"Can't believe you're actually picking off the pears," Harry teases, watching Louis methodically remove each one from his second slice, "You're such a baby. They're so good."

"It's fruit." Louis emphasizes, dropping another one onto the pile he's accumulated in the box, " On frozen pizza , Harry. That’s deranged behavior, and you're especially deranged for enjoying it."

Harry shrugs with a grin that makes the lakeview a lot less impressive by comparison, taking a handful of peels from Louis' small pile and tossing it right into his mouth. As the sun dries them off from the shower, Louis admires the way Harry basks in the light, wiggling his feet side to side as he happily chews with his eyes shut.

He tears his gaze away from Harry's profile, staring out into the lackluster waters instead.

"Your boxers are probably dry by now," He murmurs, "We should probably get going soon to avoid all the traffic."

"Yeah," Louis manages, though he makes no move to get up.

He can still feel it, the whirl of anticipation ballooning hard in his stomach. The sun is starting to mellow out west, and Harry's freckled shoulder presses warm against his. Suddenly, he can't recall a time he’d been so desperate to stay in one moment forever, terrified and content.

Falling, falling, falling.

Chapter Text

"Okay, now say, 'Louis is the most brilliant person I've ever met,' but make it sound passionate."

Louis flops back onto the loveseat with a satisfying huff, kicking both legs up on the armrest as he waits for the award-winning delivery. He turns his head briefly, only to catch the thunderous eye roll crossing Harry's face, followed by the same deep sigh and unmistakable smirk he earned five minutes ago. It's tiny, but there. So it counts.

"I'm done playing this game, Louis," Harry says around the brush wedged between his teeth. He shakes his head, returning to his palette mixing, "And I don't lie. Not even in French."

He scoops a bit of burnt sienna with his knife, which Louis has learned is actually pigment, not just paint, and somehow looks richer on Harry’s fingers than it ever does on canvas.

"It wouldn't be a lie, though, wouldn't it?" Louis purses his lips, "I'd say I'm pretty brilliant."

"Doesn't count if it's just you that thinks that."

"Alright," Louis scoffs, flipping to lay on his left side. His eyes follow the smear of Harry's knife across the linseed oil, then back up to the small half-bun tied delicately on his head, "How about…I fear he may bite if startled?"

Harry doesn't answer, only peers at him through the corner of his narrowed eye as he works.

"It's so I can warn the others."

"You think you're funny?"

"Fluently." Louis nods, lips stretching nearly ear to ear.

Early August looks good on Harry. Almost as good as faux-annoyance, and that one wiry curl behind his ear that never stays put. The same one Louis has spent a lot of time this week twirling around his finger, Harry bracketing around his hips, humming low under his breath, like being touched by Louis is a second nature neither of them bother to question.

It's all so casual, maybe a bit too casual, but if anything it's made Louis feel very floaty and weak. He’s been in a weirdly good mood since their day at the lake, the days passing by in a kind of hush that's been suspiciously kinder and gentler to him than he’s used to. Even the worst customer interactions at the restaurant haven’t stuck, just rolled right off his shoulders like the water, and he’s pretty sure that has everything to do with Harry and absolutely nothing to do with the summer.

"Okay…" Louis hums, eyes on the wet sparkle of Harry’s lip as he takes the paintbrush from it, "Now how do I say… I'd really like a kiss from this particularly moody boy right now?"

He watches as Harry tries to fight back a smile, biting down on his cheek with reluctance and then he sets down his brush with pointed, but fond, resignation. Sliding a foot over on the floor to the edge of the couch, Harry climbs onto his knees to meet Louis face to face. He’d also like to add rosy cheeks to the ever-growing list of things that look good on him.

And to the list of things Louis is constantly proud to have accomplished.

"Embrasse mon cul." Harry’s eyes are low-lidded as he leans in, capturing Louis’ face in both hands, and pressing a tender, sweet kiss that erupts a flutter of butterflies low in his stomach.

When he pulls away, Louis feels them in his throat, tightening into something deliciously sharp when he sees that cheeky glint peeking behind those green eyes.

"Mmm," Louis darts his tongue out onto his bottom lip, "You just told me off didn't you?"

Harry grins, tilting his head, "So you do know French?"

"No, I just know you." Louis chuckles, pulling Harry in for another quick peck, "But that's definitely worth whatever it is you just called me."

Harry rolls his eyes again, scooting back down to where his easel sits on the floor, "I have to get these paintings done for a deadline and you're distracting me." He says softly, crossing his legs. The way his eyes linger on Louis betrays just how little he means it, and Louis knows he’s not the only one enjoying the distraction.

He rests his head on his hand, using his other to pet Sugarcube as she hops onto the couch to perch beside him, "I took GCSE Spanish, you know," Louis continues, grinning at Harry who’s pretending to ignore him. "Got a C."

"Wow, impressive." He deadpans, refocusing on setting his brush strokes. "Tell me something pretty."

"Hmm…." Louis digs around in memories, rummaging through a few years of half-slept-through classes and questionable pronunciation. He wiggles his brows, quirking his lip, "…Cerveza."

Harry wrinkles his nose at that, slowly glancing over, "…Beer?"

"That's pretty much all you'd need on holiday anyway." Louis shrugs, then he pauses, furrowing his brow, "Wait, you know Spanish too?"

"I also took GCSE Spanish, Lou."

"Of course you did," Louis rolls his eyes, waving his hand around dramatically, "And I'm sure you got straight A's too." He returns to scratching the kitty under her chin, not at all acknowledging how much he used to claim he hated cats, "Where does the French come from then?"

"Actually didn't," Harry says, a small frown creasing his brow. "Got a B." He dips his brush in water, swirling it clean. "Also, you can learn languages whenever, you know."

"Right, yeah." Louis nods, arching his brow. "But when? Is your family French or something?"

He glances back over, tenatively, to the frustrating puzzle he's desperate to solve, each vague answer Harry gives always leading to another endless tunnel of questions. Though lately, Harry's been handing him over pieces gently, and Louis is grateful for each one he gets, tucking them away in a small keepsake box he’s built just for him, hoping someday it’ll all make sense.

Harry's movements slow, like he's considering what to share, "When I was fifteen." He says, quietly, "Dated someone who moved from France. Just made sense to try."

"Oh." Louis says carefully, watching Harry's face, "Did he only speak French then?"

"Bilingual, but still." Harry shrugs, not looking over while he paints, "Hated feeling clueless when he switched over. Wanted to impress him."

He sets his brush down then, getting up to rinse the paint off his hands in the studio sink, Sugarcube pouncing off the cushion to trail behind his feet.

"Aren't you quite the romantic?" Louis keeps his tone light as Harry rummages through his drawers for a cigarette, "Was he your first relationship?"

After fishing out an old battered pack, he slides one out, pausing before he smirks, "I mean if you're not counting Phoebe Weller from year 8, sure." He shrugs one shoulder, placing it into his mouth.

Louis' brows lift, the name catching him off balance, "Sorry, Phoebe?"

"I feel like you're interrogating me."

"I'm just curious." Louis shakes his head, letting the name slide past without asking for more. "Can you blame me? Fifteen is so young."

Harry laughs at that, crossing over to his open rickety window that barely budges without force, "I feel like fifteen is pretty normal, Lou." He says, propping another hardcover book in the gap to wedge it higher. "When was your first?"

"Kiss or relationship?"

"Both."

Louis adjusts on the couch, swinging his legs off the armrest to place his bare feet on the floor. He straightens his back, scrubbing his hand over his mouth, "Kiss was thirteen, behind the cricket nets at school. Relationship…" He pauses, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as if searching through old files, "Eighteen. Girl named Emily, though it barely lasted."

Nodding his head with exaggerated sympathy, Harry shoots Louis a look over his shoulder, "Wasn't impressed by your very okay GSCE Spanish?"

"Not the least bit, no." Louis huffs out a laugh, "She also wanted me to go to Leeds with her for Uni. It was a whole thing."

"Leeds?" Harry scrunches his nose, turning to sit on the edge of the windowsill.

"Exactly." Louis raises his brows, tilting his head. He lets the tease hang in the air just long enough before he pivots, unable to help himself, "What about your French boy?"

Harry stills then, thumb pausing over the sparker of his lighter. The playful light in his eyes dim to something else, "What about him?" He murmurs, focused on the cherry as he strikes a match.

Judging by how Harry's shoulders tense, Louis treads lightly, masking his interest under another shrug, "I don't know," He rolls his bottom lip, careful to keep casual. "How long did you date?"

Averting his gaze to the door, Harry inhales deeply before crossing his ankles, “Two years.” He says, letting the silence stretch around the smoke.

"Two years?" Louis repeats, a little bit surprised. "That's pretty serious for fifteen."

"Yeah, I guess." Harry scratches at his ear, voice dropping into something almost guarded. "Samuel was just different."

Samuel.

The name immediately slots into place with a half-formed thought Louis has been carrying around for a while, and he doesn't stop once to carefully process what he's saying before blurting out the rest.

"Samuel…as in 'S'?"

Louis immediately regrets doing that the moment Harry snaps over to look at him again, cigarette frozen halfway to his lips.

"What?" His brows knit together.

Why the fuck did he say that.

Louis swallows, his heart thudding in the sudden quiet. The air in the studio feels thicker now, charged with a growing tension that makes his stomach drop all the same. "Nothing, I—" He starts, running a hand through his fringe. "I just, uh,  I have this… thing of yours I've been meaning to give back. I sort of forgot about it until right now."

Harry lowers his hand, putting out the cigarette in the ashtray. "What are you talking about, Louis?" His curls sweep side to side as he shakes his head, trying to understand.

"I found…" He doesn't even know how to start explaining, his throat suddenly dry and uncooperative, "This, um, lighter thing. A metal one with a little 'S' engraved on it—"

"You went through my things?" Harry's voice goes dangerously quiet.

"No, no, no." Louis holds up his hands, panic rising in his chest when he sees a flicker of anger sparking behind Harry's eyes. "I just—it fell out of your pocket in my car one night and I—"

"You kept it?" Harry jerks his neck as he straightens up, crossing his arms, "Louis, I lost that lighter ages ago."

"I know, I meant to give it back, I swear." Louis' words tumble out. "I just didn't know how to—"

"What do you mean you didn't know how to?" Harry is standing now, speaking through clenched teeth as he takes a step forward with his palm outstretched behind him, "You didn't know how to tell me you've been holding onto something that doesn't fucking belong to you?"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Broken sounds leave Louis' mouth as he works his jaw helplessly, realizing just how badly he's fucked this up. He wants to explain that this was back when they barely knew each other. When Harry was still keeping Louis at an arms length and some inexplicable pull made him hold onto any piece of Harry he could get. But none of that would help now, and none of that would make this better.

"It's been four fucking months, Louis." Harry glares at him, his voice slightly rising, "You could've told me at any point that you had it. Did it not occur to you that I might've been looking for that?"

"No, it did—" Louis scrambles to his feet, reaching out for him instinctively. "I just, I got caught up in everything and I—"

Harry shakes his head, taking a step back and nearly tripping over a stack of books. "I thought I lost that for good," There's a tremble in his voice Louis isn't used to, "And you had it all this time, are you fucking kidding me?"

"Harry—listen, I'm sorry, really." Louis follows in his step, his tone soft and pleading, begging Harry to understand where he's coming from, "I didn't know what it meant. I-I didn't realize how important—"

"That's exactly the fucking point!" Harry's shout ricochets around the cluttered room. When his arms extend out again, he knocks over a glass on the table, "You don't know anything about me, or what's important to me, yet you've held onto this as if you have any fucking right to my past. To my things. To me."

Louis winces, watching as the water splashes onto the floor, the glass rattling around erratically until it settles into a dull hum. Harry's chest takes off with each sharp word, twisting Louis' heart in the sudden ache of guilt.

"H, wait…” He reaches out again, but Harry takes another step back, “Slow down, that's not it at all—"

"Where is it?" Harry's eyes are wild now, voice rough and burning with frustration, "Give it to me."

"It's back at my flat, safe in a drawer, I promise." Louis hastily assures, desperate to calm things down, "I didn't lose it or use it or touch it or anything—"

"I want that fucking lighter back in my hand now.” Harry's breathing is getting faster, more shallow, and Louis nods vehemently.

"Yeah, o-okay, I can bring it back tomorrow—"

"No." Harry shakes his head violently, pointing to the door, "You need to go bring it back to me, Louis. Right fucking now."

"I will, Harry." Louis is gentle as he speaks, caught between concern and fear watching Harry’s hand shake, "Please, just listen to me—"

"No. Now, Louis." Harry's eyes squeeze shut for a moment, his breath catching as if he’s trying to hold himself together. "Now, I need it back now." His voice cracks on the last 'now', and Louis watches in shock as tears quickly start to form and fall, Harry angrily wiping them away like he's betrayed by his own reaction.

He freezes in place, unsure whether to step closer or give Harry space, feeling completely blindsided by what he’s witnessing. Harry's eyes are still locked onto Louis', brimming pink with hot tears that fall onto his mouth, each inhale getting shallower and shallower until his shoulders are vibrating in quiet tremors of barely contained panic.

"Harry…what..." Louis whispers, his heart shattering.

"Don't." Harry's chest is heaving now, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "I need it back, Louis. I need you to bring it back to me. Please." The words rush out between ragged inhales.

"Okay, shit—yeah, okay." Louis notices him starting to lose grip on his usual control. He quickly tries to remember what helps him when he's like this, reaching out again but hesitating, unsure if he’s welcome, "I'll bring it back, I promise. Really, I promise."

The moment he takes another step forward, Harry seemingly collapses in on himself, using both of his hands to shield his face as he crouches down until he's sitting on the floor with his knees tucked to his chest. He takes small, shuddering breaths, cursing broken words beneath each one, almost furious at himself for coming apart like this in front of Louis.

Louis moves on instinct, kneeling until he's steady in front of Harry, his own heart pounding with an all-consuming urge to pull him back together. He's never seen Harry look so small, so vulnerable like this, and it's tearing at his chest like a rip he can't stitch fast enough. This isn't about the lighter anymore, maybe never was about the lighter in the first place, but something much, much deeper, something he's only seeing fragments of for the first time.

"Hey, come here," Louis whispers, gentle as he can manage while sliding back to rest against the wall. He opens his legs, creating space. "Please, love."

Harry resists at first, his entire body rigid and trembling, but Louis stays patient, keeping his movements slow until Harry finally gives in, crawling forward to meld into Louis' chest like all of his strings have finally been cut.

"I need it back," Harry mumbles into Louis' shirt, fingers snagging into the fabric. "I need it back, I need it back. I need it back, Lou," The words spill out between shaky breaths, and Louis can feel the tears soaking through to his skin.

He runs his hand up and down Harry's back, trying to pour all his regret and understanding into the reassuring touch. Trying to say I'm so sorry and I didn't know and I've got you, you're okay all at once. Harry's shoulders shake under his palm, but his breathing starts to even out, bit by bit, curling himself impossibly small with each and every unwanted sob that escapes him.

Eventually, he pulls away from the hold, keeping his eyes down while he readjusts himself between Louis' legs, settling. His dark lashes are wet and clumped together, resting sweetly against splotched cheeks. Louis wants to run his thumb across them, collecting all the tears finding their way out, but he stays put, his hands firmly wrapped around Harry's sides for grounding.

Harry brings an unsure hand to his mouth, biting down on his nail like he's mentally warring with whatever it is he's about to say next, the tiniest, fractured shudders still leaving his breath.

And then he exhales, swallowing, "It's the only thing I have of him.” Harry admits in a voice rasped down to its bare truth. He furrows his brows, not allowing himself to get too worked up again with worrying fingers now toying in his lap.

Louis tightens his hold but stays quiet, letting Harry speak, afraid that anything he might say may force him to retreat back into himself.

Because for the first time since they met, he finally feels all of Harry's walls coming down in the safety of his embrace.

"…I had just turned seventeen," Harry says through a quiet sniffle, using the heel of his palm to wipe away whatever's left. He takes another deep, careful breath, meticulously arranging his thoughts, the way he always does when he's picking through memories and deciding what’s safe, "…his parents… found out about us. About… everything. And it all just…changed overnight."

Louis nods gently, trying to catch his eye in quiet encouragement, but Harry avoids him.

"I was kicked out of my house," his fingers twist in his lap, scratching and picking at the skin at the edge of his thumbnail, "And Samuel—" Harry pauses, recollecting himself when his voice wavers again, "Disappeared. No goodbye, no explanation. Just…gone." He shakes his head, almost whispering, "I still don't know where they sent him."

Harry's words carry the weight of a truth long-held, finally being offered up, and all Louis can do is sit there, trying to comfort him with his hands while his chest aches for a boy who’s had to carry all of this alone.

When Harry finally looks up, his eyes are clear despite their redness, "Sometimes I think...if we'd been more careful, if we hadn't been so careless—"

"Hey—hey," Louis shakes his head firmly, a lump rising in his throat as he tries to find the right words, "It wasn't your fault, Harry. It was never your fault, okay?"

He can see it building again, the slight tremble in Harry's lip as he forces himself to glance away, clenching his eyes shut like if he doesn’t look while Louis says it, maybe the words won’t stick and slice him open.

"I—" he drops his head, "I can't really talk about this right now."

"It's okay," Louis offers quickly, readjusting his grip so that he can drag Harry back into his chest, "It's okay, you don't have to explain." The same way Harry never pushes him with anything, never demands more than Louis can give. If there’s one thing he's finally learned, it’s that you don’t have to hand over every piece of yourself all at once.

Keeping his palm moving in slow, steady circles between Harry’s shoulder blades, Louis uses his other to cradle his head, carding through the short, tangled curls with his fingers, tucking him back into safety. Harry doesn’t pull away this time. He nestles his face into the crook of Louis' neck and lets out a shaky breath that warms against his skin.

They sit like this until Louis is certain Harry's body stops shaking, though he keeps his arms wrapped around him anyway, unwilling to be the one who decides when to let go. His own heart feels raw, scraped open by the harsh reality of Harry's situation—the gravity of his trust. He thinks about that lighter sitting selfishly in his drawer at home, how many times Harry must have torn his studio apart looking for it, how it might have felt like losing Samuel all over again.

"Would you like me to go get the lighter?" He murmurs into Harry's hair, the guilt thick in his throat. "I can be back with it in thirty."

Harry shakes his head against Louis, "No, just stay." His voice scrapes. "Please."

"Of course." Louis presses his lips to Harry's temple. "Whatever you need, H."

Harry stays quiet for a moment, his labored breath evening out against Louis' collarbone. Then he shifts, pulling back enough to look up at Louis properly, his glimmering eyes heavy with soft affection and fragility, a shy gratitude Louis knows is meant just for him. His fingers find Louis' jaw, gently swiping a thumb across the gentle curve of his cheek, lingering as if memorizing the moment.

Louis holds perfectly still, barely breathing as Harry studies his face with a silent intensity that could almost burn through to his soul. Time seems to stretch then, every thud of Louis' heart beating in time with Harry's slow, aching blinks, then he's leaning in, closing the small distance until their lips meet in a kiss that’s both tentative and electric.

The first press is impossibly gentle, barely there at all beneath a whispered thank you Louis feels more than hears. When he pulls away, Harry keeps his face close, his nose brushing against Louis' with their heated breaths mingling in the quiet. Harry's eyes softly search his, asking a silent question that Louis immediately answers by chasing his mouth.

Deepening the kiss, Louis' grip tightens around Harry's waist, swallowing a neediness that grows with every desperate caress. His hands cup the sides of Louis' face, slipping into the back of his fringe and knotting between the ends that meet the nape of his neck.

The sharp saltiness of drying tears lingering on Harry's lips floods Louis with a sudden, overwhelming need to be the one who mends all the hurt he’s carried for so many years—pouring all of the care he's been trying to share for months into the brush of his lips, hoping Harry can feel it.

They're still sitting on the floor, Harry twisted awkwardly between Louis' thighs, but then Harry is moving, climbing and pulling his body up and over until he's properly straddling Louis' lap.

"Is this okay?" He whispers against Louis' mouth, already reconnecting their kiss.

Louis can only nod, dizzy with how quickly the atmosphere has shifted from anger to comfort to longing, the emotional whiplash making his head spin almost as much as the man on his lap. His hands find Harry's hips as he settles more firmly, pressing into the sliver of skin exposed beneath the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, absently tracing his thumbs along the silky divet just above his jeans.

Harry's fingers thread higher in Louis' hair, tugging the strands into fists as his tongue slides against Louis' with slow, deliberate intent. Louis moans at the pull and into the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, the gentle force of Harry’s swaying quickly shifting into a desperation that meets every thrust, pressing them closer and closer until nothing else exists.

Harry gasps as Louis’ hands slip beneath his shirt, skimming over the ridges of his ribs before dragging down to find purchase at his waist. Louis guides him across his lap then, coaxing a deeper, more urgent grind.

Nosing into the crook of Harry's neck, Louis leaves sweet, adoring kisses along the curve of his throat, lingering at the spot where Harry’s pulse flutters right beneath his lips. He bites down, just lightly, savoring the dulcet vibration of Harry's pleased little hum, his hips faltering suddenly in their rhythm.

"Lou," Harry rasps, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. His breath is hot, loud at Louis’ ear, sending sparks racing down his spine. "I need—fuck, I want—" He cuts himself off with an impatient whine, pulling Louis back to him for another hungry kiss.

The sound makes his hands tighten instinctively, letting out a deep groan as Harry rocks harder with purpose, "What?" Louis murmurs, not letting up on the kiss, "What do you need, baby? Tell me."

Harry presses their foreheads together, panting a soft, shuddering thing that trembles with need, "Want you." He utters, his hips tilting insistently against Louis' half-hard cock, "Want you to fuck me, Lou. Please."

Louis' heart takes off with frisson, nearly combusting altogether at Harry's sudden plea. His breath hitches in the quiet, searching into the dark eyes looking back at him for tangible proof that this isn't just his imagination.

It's not.

Harry's rolling motions slowly come to a stop when Louis says nothing, his initial thrill and desire plunging deep into a pit of fear-soaked uncertainty. Harry lets go of his grip in Louis' hair, moving his hands to rest at either side of his face.

"I'm clean." Harry tries to catch his breath, sensing Louis' growing panic, "Get tested every two weeks. Have condoms and everything we'd need."

Louis swallows, struggling to steady his voice. "Harry, I—I've never—"

"I know." He runs his thumbs along the stubble on Louis' jaw, "We can go slow." He kisses Louis again, sweetly now. "Only if you want to, though. You can say no."

"No—I want to," Louis admits quickly, blinking rapidly. The words feel heavy in his chest with meaning. "God, H, I really fucking want to."

Harry's eyes dance across his, still seeking reassurance in his small touch, "Yeah?" He whispers, the tiniest quiver betraying how much he truly cares. It washes over Louis with encouragement, melting away any doubt.

"Yeah." He responds firmly. "I do."

The corner of Harry's lip lifts, just slightly. "Okay." He says, "Then kiss me."

Without any more preamble, Louis leans forward, claiming Harry's mouth again. His stomach swoops with anticipation, splaying one hand against Harry's upper back to steady him close as he kisses into his mouth with newfound devotion and adulation.

He takes his time with it, lips moving slowly over Harry’s, drinking in the way their tongues meet with careful exploration. His hands tremble slightly where they curl into Harry's shirt, but never lose their hold, softly moaning as the sensations grow more urgent, somehow staying just as tender.

Harry kisses him like he's trying to forget, or maybe trying to remember what it feels like to trust someone this much. His hands are desperate, but gentle, and Louis wonders if anyone has ever truly taken care of Harry the way he deserves.

His fingers trail down towards the edge of Harry's t-shirt, "Can I?" He whispers, the permission mattering more to him than what comes after.

Harry nods, arms raising obediently as Louis peels the shirt over his head and flings it aside without a glance. The sight of Harry’s bare chest, slick with sweat and rising in quick breaths, makes Louis' mouth go dry, heat pooling low and fast behind his ribs.

"You too," Harry's hands find Louis' shirt next, keeping their gaze locked as his fingers work to slowly tug it from Louis' torso, "Want to feel you."

Once both shirts are discarded, Harry settles close again, the warmth of his flushed skin burning through the non-existent space between them. He holds there for a second, his heart hammering wild against Louis' chest, matching his own erratic beat.

It's messy then, Harry’s tongue pushing into Louis’ mouth like he’s been starved, as Louis’ hands roam the smooth planes of his back, running over his shoulder blades and trailing down to grip his hips, grunting every time Harry relentlessly rubs their cocks together. When Harry breaks away to mouth at his neck, Louis seizes the moment to shift them, guiding Harry backward until he’s laying beneath him on the studio floor, legs wrapping tight around his waist.

"Fuck—" Louis hovers over him with one arm caging the side of his head, completely awe-struck.

Harry is breathtaking like this, his angel-soft curls lying wild against scattered newspapers, strands falling over his forehead, revealing a look of trust Louis has only ever hoped for.

He has to pause just to take it all in, overwhelmed by how much he wants this, wants him. All of him.

"Lou," Harry whines, rolling his hips upwards. "Please."

And right, yeah.

Louis drops to an elbow, surging forward to catch Harry's mouth in a bruising kiss as his shaky hand reaches down to work on the clasp of his jeans. This part, he knows how to do, moving to lick along Harry's jaw, sucking in the spot that makes him tilt his head back and moan, his fingers digging into where they grip at Louis' shoulders.

"God, Harry," Louis traces the red mark he leaves behind, fascinated by how easily Harry's skin seems to darken under his attention. Trailing kisses down to Harry's collarbones, Louis lets his mouth skim over the jut of bone, cautious, like he’s touching something sacred, "You're so fucking gorgeous."

The goosebumps rising on Harry's skin don't go unnoticed, along with the soft arch of his back, offering himself up to Louis, wordlessly begging for more.

"Think of you all the time," Louis continues, working on his chest now. His palm finds the outside of Harry's briefs through the gap in his zipper, cupping and teasing the length already straining against the soft cotton, "Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, you’re always in my head. Can't get enough of you."

Confessions start spilling out of him, each one a testament to the ache Harry stirs deep inside, each one pulling needy moans from his mouth. Louis glances up as he tentatively laps his tongue over one nipple, only testing his curiosity, but is met with a soft, approving whimper that sends a thrumming eagerness through him.

"Love those sounds, baby." He says, drunk off how Harry always seems to preen at his praise. He bites down delicately before moving onto the next, "So fucking pretty."

The pair of hands on his shoulders move back to his fringe, massaging through the strands with just enough grab to make Louis groan into his skin. Harry pushes himself up into Louis' flattened palm, clenching his eyes shut at the friction.

Louis sucks hard on the sensitive spot, swirling his tongue around in hot, teasing circles as he lets himself get lost in the moment, "How's this?" He lifts his head, holding Harry’s waist steady as he moves, lowering himself carefully to explore his body further.

Harry whines when Louis' focus shifts away from his cock but nods hastily, eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on him. "So good, Lou." He pants softly as Louis starts to trace a wet path along the harsh lines of his stomach, his abs flexing beneath each teasing stroke, "Fuck," He bites down on his lip, "So, so good. Keep going, please."

A tingle runs up Louis' spine at the desperation, taking the opportunity to finally kiss where he's always secretly wanted to, trailing slow, reverent sucks along the delicate, dark ferns adorning Harry’s hipbones, pausing just long enough before letting his mouth drift lower to where the soft trail of hair disappears beneath the waistband of his briefs.

"Tell me what you want," Louis kisses right above it, licking a flat stripe up to his navel, basking in how Harry's throat works in response, "Tell me how to make you feel good."

"Oh—" Harry moans when Louis does it again, darting out his tongue to wet his lips while he thinks, "Um, hands—mouth, anything."

Louis swallows thickly, nodding, "Okay." he says, placing one last kiss before hooking his fingers into Harry’s jeans, his movements a little less certain as he approaches this unfamiliar threshold.

He's seen Harry’s cock before, of course, had him bent back on his lap against his desk just two nights ago, lips parted, moaning loud enough to make Louis’ ears burn while he stroked him the way he likes.

But seeing him like this, spread out beneath him, trusting him completely, and waiting for Louis to take him apart in ways he never has makes touching him now feel bigger than it ever has before. There’s a new weight pounding through his chest, a critical need to do right by him, to make this something Harry will remember for all the right reasons.

Harry lifts slightly as Louis starts to tug off the denim, the briefs slipping off in tow. His cock slaps up to his stomach when they're rolled past his hips, giving Louis quite the view when he bridges even higher to get them off completely.

Placing the material aside, Louis' gaze travels from the small freckle on Harry's inner left thigh up to his bare body, feeling a deep crimson flooding his face. Harry is thick and hard, flushing red at the tip as his cock curls beautifully over his muscles. He's certain he's only dreaming this bit, but the blood rushing through Louis' head is determined to prove him otherwise.

"So fucking perfect," He murmurs breathlessly, unable to help the fact that he sounds like a broken record. He uses the backs of his hands to glide across Harry's inner thigh, marveling at how Harry's cock twitches before he's even touched it, "Gonna take care of you, baby."

"Please, Lou." Harry begs, hips shifting restlessly trying to meet any part of Louis that he can, "Want you so bad."

With Harry's eyes burning into him, Louis shifts, hooking an arm beneath the bend of his knee to guide Harry's leg up over his shoulder. The new angle pulls him open just enough for Louis' mouth to find that same delicate freckle, determined to worship every inch he's been given permission to touch.

Using his free hand, Louis skims along the front of Harry's right thigh, finding his way to the base of Harry's cock and gripping firm around his shaft.

"Wanted this for so long.” Louis starts to roll his wrist, pressing sloppy kisses into the bare stretch of skin. He can't help but grin when Harry groans the higher he goes, a low, rough thing that sends all his nerves alight. "You have no fucking idea how much I think of you like this."

Harry sucks in a sharp breath at that, rocking upward into Louis' fist as he works the hard length teasingly, "T-tell me," He stutters, his abs constricting beneath his moan, "Tell me what you think."

Louis hums, his head dropping to where Harry's thigh meets his hip, "Well, when I’m all alone," He presses a gentle kiss at the crease, "I picture you just like this." Then to his hipbone. He thumbs over his slit, tracing slow, teasing circles over his head, dropping his voice to a husky whisper, "Wondering if you’re touching yourself, thinking of me too."

"Oh—fff—" Harry's hands fist into the papers beneath him, "I do." He nearly chokes on a gasp, "Fuck—think of you all the time."

"Do you?" Louis drops his leg, keeping steady in his exploration. He props himself up, readjusting until he's hovering over his own slick fist, letting the heat of his breath tease against Harry's tip. "Bet you always have."

His pulse jumps hard at how close his face is to Harry's cock now. It's incredible, still unimaginable, how hard Harry gets for him, pulling Louis closer with an overwhelming urge to reach out and taste.

"Mmmhfuck," Harry clenches his eyes shut, "Always." He whimpers, hips still jerking, “From the start… needed you always, Lou.”

That's enough to push Louis right over the edge.

He takes a deep, nervous breath, blatantly ignoring the tremor in his hands before sticking out his tongue, giving Harry a slow, trepidatious lick over his head.

Harry's eyes snap open to find Louis', mouth parting in a heady mix of pleasure and disbelief. Louis catches the quick flex of his fingers against the floor, like he's bracing himself, trying to keep from falling apart.

"Been thinking about that?" Louis strokes him slower, almost lazily, drinking in the sight. He tilts his head, giving another long lick on the underside just to watch his lashes flutter shut again.

"Please—" A hand shoots out to rest at the back of Louis’ head.

Louis doesn’t resist, leaning into the touch, letting Harry’s fingers tangle in his hair as he experiments with swirling, surprised by the salty, almost bitter-sweet taste of precome blanketing his taste buds. He tries what feels best on himself, having watched Harry do exactly this, elated by the little curses and choked-off moans he's receiving, his confidence swelling with every little sound.

"F-fuck," Harry stutters, letting his head fall back to expose his throat again. His voice has gone raspy, deeper than Louis has ever heard it, "Fuck, so good, Louis." He swallows hard, "Feels amazing."

The hand in his hair knots firmly, but doesn't nudge, letting Louis take his time without any added pressure.

"Better than I imagined," Louis whispers, stilling his hand briefly to press a warm kiss into Harry’s inner thigh. Though his imagination never quite got this part right, the muscles in Harry's thigh jumping at the slightest brush of his breath, "Want to taste all of you."

Harry lets out a strangled sound when Louis does just that, opening his mouth over him without further hesitation. He wraps his lips to test the wide stretch around his head, taken aback by how little of him fits. He can't really go any further without pulling back to catch his breath.

Still, he tries again, breathing through his nose as he glances up to Harry watching him, stirred by this new sensation that’s equal parts thrilling and daunting, fueling a growing boldness inside him.

The skin is velvety warm and smooth on his tongue, and Louis can feel the edges of his mouth burning the longer he holds in place. So quickly, he blinks away the anticipation, moving on adrenaline and the need to please. He hollows out his cheeks and bobs his head, only halfway, making Harry arch into him with a deep, guttural groan.

The jerk makes Harry's cock slide in with ease, Louis only able to get his head down twice before Harry hisses between his teeth, his body shooting upwards into a sitting position. "Okay—ah, ah—fuck," He tugs gently at the strands of Louis' hair, urging him to pop off.

"W-what?" Louis straightens up quickly, spit dribbling down his lips and over his chin. He wipes it away with shaking fingers, anxiety cutting sharp through the haze of arousal, "Did I do something wrong?" He hates how small it sounds coming out of him, betraying his very obvious lack of experience.

"No, no." Harry breathes, his voice a little hoarse and broken, "You're perfect, I just—" He lets out a flustered laugh, "I might come if you keep doing that."

Louis feels his face flush hot at the admission, nodding his head shyly as his hands reach to smooth over Harry's thighs again. Before he can say anything in response, Harry's leaning in for a heavier kiss that makes Louis' chest ache, instantly dragging him back under his intoxicating spell.

"These should come off," Harry hums, his fingers trailing down Louis' chest to find the waistband of his jeans. In a split second, they're unfastened and unzipped, the movement so quick Louis barely has time to catch the delighted smirk on his lips.

Slowly, he rises to his knees, letting the boy tug the denim around his thighs, butterflies chasing down the path of hot, wet kisses littering against his stomach. He never stands a chance against the lure of Harry's mouth, already undone when that devouring tongue finds the tender spot right below his hip.

“So big,” he purrs, glancing up at Louis from under sinful lashes. His open-mouth kisses find the swollen outline of Louis’ cock, leaving damp marks through the fabric of his briefs, "Need you in me."

Louis' mouth opens in a unsteady, delirious sound that would have, under other circumstances, been embarrassing, but with Harry nosing at him, looking absolutely gorgeous and begging to be fucked with plush lips and the occasional, maddening scrape of teeth, he’s clearly powerless to stop it.

His hand grabs onto Harry's jaw, tilting his face up to force him to meet his eyes. Running a thumb over his dewy bottom lip, Louis feels the last bits of his restraint vanish when Harry sucks it into his mouth, igniting a wild impulse to claim.

He's moving before he can think, surging forward to topple Harry back against the floor again, newspapers crinkling beneath them like thunder. Harry gasps into his mouth when Louis grinds down against him, his body rolling up instinctively to meet Louis' cock, desperate for friction.

"Can't take it—" Harry pants against his lips, hands scrambling at Louis' hips to rip down his briefs, "Please, Lou—f-fingers."

Louis tries to steady his racing heart as Harry spreads himself out further beneath him, moaning each time they press deeper together. "Anything you want," He groans into his neck, kissing along his jaw. The warm weight of Harry's sweaty, naked body against his is almost already too much for him to handle, "Gonna fuck you so good."

Harry’s hand reaches up to his, prying them from where they hold onto the floor for balance. Then suddenly, Louis' index and middle fingers are engulfed in wetness, Harry parting his lips to welcome them around his tongue. Heat rises up Louis’ neck as he watches Harry suck them deeper, then even deeper, almost reaching the back of his throat. He swirls around them with increasing urgency, his moans loud, but muffled and needy against Louis’ skin.

"Jesus...fucking Christ."

He's very grateful that he got off in the shower this morning, otherwise, that would've put the final nail in his coffin.

When Louis, reluctantly, pulls his fingers out, he readjusts, getting into a better position as Harry brings his knees closer to his chest. They're both breathing heavier now, Harry biting onto his lip as he waits patiently for the next move.

Pressing a sweet kiss to his matted curls, Louis lets his hand trail hesitantly between Harry's thighs.

"Trust yourself, Lou," Harry breathes out, his throat bobbing softly, "You won't hurt me, okay?"

Louis nods, soaking in his sweet encouragement. He places one last kiss on Harry's temple before focusing on where his fingers rest against his rim. The first touch makes Harry audibly shiver, and Louis hovers, mesmerized by how even the lightest touches seem to pull such intense reactions from him.

Circling very gently, he tests the first push, diligently watching Harry's face for any sign of pain or discomfort. When the tip of his finger slides in, they both gasp.

"Ohhh—" Harry's stomach twitches, his brows pulling together in concentration. He pauses to take a deep breath, reaching out to hold tight onto Louis' shoulders. "S'perfect, Lou—keep going."

Louis works his finger in deeper, the tight heat around him more inviting than he expected. He's a little bit overcome by all of it, transfixed by how Harry's body draws him in so easily, how his breathing changes with every micro adjustment. "Like this, baby?" He glances up for reassurance, pulling back slightly before pressing in again.

"Yes," Harry nods frantically, already trying to push back against Louis' hands for more, "Yes, fuck—" He mumbles wetly, "Another, please. Need more."

Louis obliges carefully, taking his time in adding another slick finger alongside the first, giving Harry a moment to settle properly with the feeling. He watches in complete awe as Harry's mouth goes slack at the pressure, craning his neck back as a beautiful shade of rosy pink climbs high over his cheekbones.

"So beautiful," Louis murmurs, curious to see what happens when he starts sliding them. He works to find a solid rhythm, gently fucking in and out of Harry, pushing deeper each time he's back in.

Harry groans helplessly, his arms falling back at his sides in search of something to claw into, which Louis takes as a good sign to speed things up a little, "Doing so good for me, baby." He keeps his eyes locked on Harry’s, adding a bit of curl at the end of his next stroke.

Whatever that did sends Harry's back arching high like a jolt of electricity beneath him, "Oh my ff-fuck—right there—" He keens, his hand scrambling for support at the leg of the table next to them, "D-don't stop, please."

All Louis can do is fight his own groan, the sensation of Harry dragging against his cock making it impossible to stay focused. But he keeps the same angle, nudging into Harry's prostate over and over again with a determined force, neither of them bothered by the newspapers tearing as Harry rocks insistently to meet Louis, chasing more.

"That's it, just like that, love." Louis catches Harry's open mouth in a messy kiss, eagerly swallowing back all of his whimpers, "Wanna hear your pretty moans."

He kisses along Harry's jaw, then his neck, as his body trembles in ripples of pleasure. Every loud gasp and shiver assuring Louis to lean further into it, exploring with an intent that feels natural, almost greedy, with his new knowledge of what makes Harry unravel.

When Louis feels confident enough to add in a third finger, Harry cries out at the stretch, "Fuck—ah—I-I can't—" He yanks hard at the table, sending a few plastic cups flying to the ground, "I can't, Lou, I can't."

The paint spills everywhere, dripping off the wood and pooling onto the floor, spreading fast, but Louis ignores it, curling his fingers again to deliberately rub against the spot that makes Harry shake, "Can't what?" He gently nips at Harry's shoulder for grounding, overstimulated by so much happening all at once, "Use your words, darling."

"Can't—" Harry repeats in a pant, his voice cracking on a particularly deep thrust. His hips are moving desperately now, fucking himself on Louis' fingers, "Please, Lou, fuck—need your cock."

The words make Louis falter, his rhythm coming to a stagger.

He lifts to glance at Harry, who's looking at him like he's the only thing he needs, bliss-drunk and breathless with flushed skin glowing beautifully under the dim studio light. Louis' heart tumbles recklessly into his stomach, knocking the air clean out of him, "Are you sure you're—"

"Yes," Harry cuts him off with an impatient moan. His pupils are blown so wide there's barely any green left in them, locked onto Louis and drowning him in their need, "Been ready. Please, please, please fuck me."

There's a slight frustration in his tone that makes Louis dizzy, consumed by how wrecked he sounds pleading for it. "Okay, baby. Okay." He carefully withdraws his fingers, feeling the tremors start to kick up again. He sits back on his heels for a brief, restless moment, taking in every single inch of Harry lying back, hard, and spread open for him.

"Condom and lube," Harry breathes, jerking his head towards his workbench. "Top drawer."

Louis scrambles to his feet to find it, accidentally stepping in yellow paint as he kicks off his jeans and briefs in his haste. When he returns, Harry's watching him with softer eyes now, a warm little smile resting on his lips.

It's incredibly distracting to Louis, who's already struggling to tear the condom with his shaky fingers, the tenderness in Harry's expression spreading a rapid warmth through his chest. He opts for just ripping it open with just his teeth instead, scooting forward on his knees to settle between Harry's thighs again once he's all prepped and ready.

"C'mere," Harry reaches out for his waist, and Louis follows, dropping down to hover closely.

As the two stare at each other, Louis delicately tucks a curl behind Harry's ear, searching every part of him, "This okay?" He asks again, listening to the soft rhythm of Harry’s breathing. He moves to grip the base of his cock, lining himself perfectly to tease the tip against Harry’s entrance.

He's never felt so simultaneously sure and terrified about anything before, but all he cares about right now is making sure that Harry’s truly alright with this.

Harry nods, each one of his blinks fluttering slow. His hands slide up on Louis' back, pulling him closer, "Want you to," he murmurs, "Want you so much."

Louis takes a deep inhale, not wanting to waste any more time. He presses their foreheads together as he starts to push in.

The first breach has him seeing stars, an unrestrained moan bursting through his lungs at the tightness closing in around him. It's an out-of-body feeling, different than anything he's ever experienced, better, deeper, way more fucking intense, and Harry's body welcomes him like it was made for this, like they were designed to fit custom molded together.

"Holy sshit," Louis' arm shakes where it brackets Harry's head. He shuts his eyes as he finds balance with his other, "Fuck, Harry, you're so tight."

When he opens his eyes again, Harry's mouth is open on a silent scream, looking so unbelievably perfect that Louis can’t help but marvel at how completely he surrenders. His muscles flex beneath Louis' stomach, fingernails digging in until he finds the perfect grip, ankles locking around Louis' waist instinctively.

Louis fights the growing urge to thrust forward, waiting for Harry to adjust to the split while peppering tiny, devoted kisses on his cheek, his nose, then to his trembling bottom lip.

"S'good," Harry mewls. He chases Louis' mouth for another sloppy kiss, pouring everything he has into the reverent push of his tongue. When they part, he swallows desperately, "So so full, Lou…need more."

Louis nods against his temple, slowly drawing back his hips before pressing in again, easing impossibly deep as their slick bodies lock together. The languid drag makes Harry's body bow upwards with a throaty moan, the sound rumbling low against Louis' chest as he starts to rock into him.

The pace is measured and unhurried, Louis wanting to savor every single touch, letting the heat between them build and linger, but there's nothing delicate about the way Harry chants in delirious slurs beneath him. His fingers ground in Louis' hair, clinging onto him tight, almost painfully.

"Love how you beg," Louis pants into his neck, sucking on the sweaty hollow. He winces when Harry rips harder at the strands, but doesn't let up, claiming his warm skin with relentless purpose.

"You feel… s-so good…" Harry’s voice grates through clenched teeth. He starts grinding his body back faster on Louis’ cock, writhing in open-mouth pants as he slightly changes their angle, trying to hit the spot he craves. He gives Louis absolutely no time to keep up, ripping his head back by a fistful of hair to lock eyes, whining, "So fucking good… so fucking big."

It’s unbearably filthy, and Louis knows he’ll be replaying it, over and over, chasing this in every single dream.

"I know," Louis rasps, trying to maintain his composure. "You're taking me so well, baby." He drives even harder, the pressure building inside him threatening to spill out as Harry pulls his knees back even wider. He's unable to help himself then, showering Harry in nonsensical, stammered compliments, "Such a good boy, being so filthy for me."

"OhmyfuckinggodLouis—" Harry's eyes roll deliciously, his curls bouncing around as he gets fucked up higher on the floor, "Harder, p-please, please," He urges frantically, "Gonna come."

That's all the motivation Louis needs to snap with renewed dominance, crashing their lips to find Harry's tongue and tangling it with his own, wanting to taste every single wavering cry that tries to leave his mouth.

He moves fast, fueled by possession and the insatiable need to push Harry further, taking them both into a higher state of delirium. Louis straightens back onto his knees, keeping his cock buried inside while he hoists Harry's left leg up over his shoulder, the other hooking around him, sinking into a position where he can hit much harder, deeper.

Biting down on his lip, he uses both hands to steady Harry's hips in place, slamming in with enough force to draw loud, desperate sobs, each one spreading the ache engulfing Louis' body like wildfire, burning through every single one of his muscles until he’s moving on reckless abandon.

"Yeah?" He grunts, glancing down to where Harry's hand reaches around himself, his stomach already glistening from a spurt of precome, "Gonna show me how good you are?"

When he tilts forward, Harry shouts, his face twisting in satisfaction and distress, and Louis knows he’s hit that perfect spot again.

Harry's hand pauses in its glide. "I-I can't—fuck—Lou," his cry dissolves into pattering, repetitive whimpers, doing whatever he can to keep his strokes in time with Louis' motion.

"Yes, you can, baby." Louis encourages him through choppy breaths. He keeps his gaze locked on Harry, trying his best not to break momentum, "Come for me."

And then Harry's head thrashes back on command, pink-cheeked and pretty, going silent with his jaw hung wide open. Spilling over his hands and onto his stomach, he gasps around the broken sounds that fight their way out, completely spent in his pleasure.

The way Harry's body tightens around Louis' cock is enough to drag Louis under with him.

"Fuuuck, Harry—"

White spots blur at the edges of his vision as his hips sputter in frantic, uneven slams, fucking his release into Harry and filling the condom. Louis' breath trembles as he finally winds down, the sudden rush of his orgasm swallowing him whole.

They stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, neither wanting to separate. Louis can feel Harry's heart drumming against his chest, his matching the pace as if they somehow merged into one.

"You okay?" Louis eventually whispers, lifting his head to look at Harry properly. He brushes a sweaty curl from Harry's forehead, studying his face.

Harry's smile is soft, sated. "More than okay," he murmurs, drawing Louis down for a tender kiss. "Perfect."

Louis gently pulls out, soul still untethered from this realm, and places a swift kiss to Harry's knee on his way up, "Hang on." He winces, standing on shaky legs to toss the condom in a bin.

Along the way, he grabs one of Harry's clean wash cloths from a pile over by some books, running it under the tap in the utility sink. His entire body is thrumming, Louis still trying to gather all his bearings while white-hot static practically leaks out of his ears.

When he turns back around, Harry's shifted on the bed, reclining back with his arms stretched out behind him, a mischievous, lazy grin on his face, "You have paint on your arse." His voice is tired, eyes hanging low, "When did that happen?"

Louis pauses, glancing to where sploches of yellow wrap around his skin, then to the small pools of acrylic splattered around on the floor, "Trying to sign your work?" He laughs, feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy.

He crosses over, settling beside Harry to softly wipe off his stomach and his chest, the weight of Harry trailing his careful movements bringing tiny, fizzy flutters alive beneath his skin.

When the heat finally settles, they somehow migrate onto Harry's mattress, a soft, indie record spinning distantly under the haze. For a while, they just lie there, naked, in comfortable silence, Louis tracing abstract patterns on Harry's bare shoulder while he lights them both a cigarette, their hands brushing over and over in the exchange, each touch carrying something tenderly mutual.

"Mmm," Harry hums, his eyelids getting heavier as the minutes pass, "Need to finish getting those done tonight." He glances at his abandoned paintings from earlier, starting to rub out the clinging sleep from his face.

Blowing out a heavy stream of smoke, Louis instantly reaches an arm out to grab Harry by his waist before he makes it out of bed, "They'll be fine," He mumbles softly around the cigarette, dragging Harry back in, but this time toward his chest, "Get back here, you nut."

He looks emotionally drained, more than physically, the two pressing together and making Harry melt right into him. Louis knows he'd spend all night driving himself insane trying to perfect certain details or painting shadows right, and right now all he needs is for him to finally rest. Especially after everything.

The war of exhaustion seems to win, Harry giving in to Louis' order without his usual fight. He does, however, mumble something sweetly unintelligible once or twice before nudging in, his hand finding place on Louis' stomach, nestling softly, like the space was carved just for him.

Louis watches as Harry's breathing evens out, studying the delicate curl of his eyelashes, the way he effortlessly drifts into much-needed sleep. Harry's body occasionally twitches in his arms as he lulls deeper, Louis carding through his damp hair, enjoying the simple quiet of him in peace.

There's an overwhelming bloom of something heavy in his chest, a feeling almost too big to name. Dangerous to acknowledge.

When Harry's soft snores reach him, Louis stubs out the cigarette and grabs for his phone, reluctant to break the moment.

10:15 pm.

He swipes over to his last thread with Mina, her message still left unread from an hour ago.

Mina: How's it going with Lotts? She alright? x

Louis' stomach twists as he glances back over to Harry, sighing out a heavy breath before typing out another orchestrated text:

all good driving her home

Then adds:

probably spending the night if i stay around too late. ill call later

He stares at the messages after sending it, wondering when he became the kind of shitty person who uses his sister to cover for him. Especially the one he knows likes her the least. Especially the kind that's just had sex with someone else.

Once, lying to her had made him sick to his stomach. Now, the guilt is still there, but barely, tangled in the growing certainty that what he feels for Harry isn't something he can keep ignoring.

He knows he needs to deal with this, sooner rather than later, but part of him can’t stop thinking about the boy fast asleep on his chest, and all he wants is a few more moments of this fragile, perfect calm.

Setting his phone aside, Louis shifts, pulling the thin comforter over their bodies, leaning down to kiss into Harry's hair before letting his own eyes drift shut.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Around five in the morning, Louis blinks himself awake to the movement stirring beside him. The studio is still lit, but only by Harry's small desk lamp and strips of streetlight filtering in through his windows.

He glances over to find Harry propped up on an elbow, staring down at him, half-asleep and confused, sleep-matted curls trailing over his eyelids as he blinks slowly.

"You stayed," He whispers hoarsely, a look on his face that reads like he'd expected to wake up alone.

“Yeah, course I did.” Louis squints through one eye, shifting onto his side to face Harry. His hand finds him under the blanket, thumb brushing slow across his hipbone. “That alright?”

He watches Harry's face soften in the dim light, nodding only once before rolling out of the bed to shut off the light. Louis' eyes flutter shut again while he listens to Harry pad quietly around the studio, closing both of the windows, rummaging for a glass of water, then shutting a drawer.

When he comes back, the bed dips around him, but Louis startles slightly as the mattress sinks again on the opposite side, Harry's warm body straddling him before he can even fully register.

Louis rolls over, glancing up to Harry above him, the sweet curve of his face barely outlined in the dark.

And when he leans in to kiss Louis, it's almost inevitable, simple as natural as breathing.

The kiss is slower this time, sweet like melted honey.

They move together lazily, Harry slipping under the sheets with his hands planted firmly on Louis' chest as he rides him, each shift and grind measured, savoring the closeness, their lips sliding between shared, shaky breaths.

Everything feels dreamlike in pure darkness. Harry's sleepy moans, the ends of his ringlets brushing repeatedly over Louis' face, how their fingers interlock above Louis' head on the pillow. At some point, Louis loses track of the world outside, or maybe reality itself, gone to a heady pull he never wants to stop feeling.

After, Harry tucks himself back into Louis' chest, a long leg thrown over a sweaty hip. His breathing stills almost immediately, clearly exhausted, but his grip stays firm from where it holds on Louis' waist.

A light blue starts to paint the sky before Louis fully drifts again, Harry’s steady heartbeat the last thing he’s aware of before sleep pulls him under.

Everything else will come later. But for now, there's just this.

Chapter Text

"Fuck— you're so fucking loud."

Louis groans, clapping a hand over that ruinous mouth. The sharp bite of Harry's front teeth sinks through his palm, slipping into an unforgiving whine lost somewhere beneath skin and music. The boxes of leftover champagne flutes he uses for balance rattle clumsily, the edges of the cardboard slowly dipping under his weight.

Trying to find better positioning, Louis yanks Harry back up towards his chest with both hands, the boy's knees buckling and slipping with each uninterrupted thrust. Carefully, he shuffles them over a step or two, propping his right leg on a stack of chairs for leverage, mindful not to trip over the trousers restraining his ankles.

When he readjusts, Harry's hand scrambles for his wrist, gripping tight enough to bruise as Louis slams back into him.

"Want to be heard, huh?" Louis breathes hot against his cheek, the vibration of Harry's moan pressing wet against his skin. "Want everyone to know just how good I fuck you?"

It's been consuming, to say the least, these desperate, addictive moments that evolved from careful exploration. Months of secret wanting bottled up and exploding right in their face, making them reckless, careless, stealing moments wherever they can.

Three weeks of mindless sex means they can barely make it through a late-night drive now. Not without Harry's hand finding Louis' thigh in the driver's seat, shooting him that low-lidded look that has him swerving for the nearest deserted car park before he’s even thought about it, both of them still dizzy with the newness of being allowed to fully touch.

Louis is finding out, very quickly, that with him, Harry is insatiable. And fuck, no, he's not complaining, he can barely keep his own hands off him, but he never expected to find someone who could match him want for want, someone who could make him feel this driven to keep up, to pour himself out until he's wrung dry.

Harry brings it out in him naturally, already knowing how to test his control, how to beg without words until Louis gives him exactly what he needs, doing just about anything Louis says to hear 'good boy' whispered against his skin. To have his hair pulled, his wrists pinned, and his breath stolen with each demanding word.

What started as cautious is now a fever Louis can't get enough of. He feels like the luckiest man, really, given a chance to worship the beautiful, wrecked mess panting in his arms. And to keep him close after, kissing the still-glistening pink right off his cheeks, making him bubble over with a cackle that's loud and giddy, his absolute favorite, most ridiculous sound in the world.

It's all so new, yet somehow feels like they've been building to this forever.

Now they're pressed up in a dark storage closet, no bigger than a phone booth, between a metal ladder and a rickety shelving unit. Tipsy and ravenous four hours into Anna's reception because Harry, tasting of mischief and peach Moscato, caught Louis' arm with a pinch of his suit jacket, dragging him in when nobody was around to see.

"Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?" Louis grunts, releasing his grip on Harry’s mouth to trail down to his throat. He squeezes just enough to feel his pulse racing beneath his fingertips. “Making me fuck you in the middle of a wedding? Naughty."

Harry's head falls back against his shoulder, surrendering to his hold. He swallows thickly against the pressure, gasping once, "M-maybe I do—" He breathes out, clenching his eyes shut as he arches to meet Louis flush, "Maybe I want them to hear."

Louis huffs, shaking his head as he squeezes even harder. He wets his lips, leaning close so his words press against Harry’s ear, "Only I get to hear you like this. Got it?"

When Harry nods with a pleading whimper, Louis lets go, rucking his ruffled dress shirt high above his torso, wrapping around to glide in sloppy, rushed fists around his cock. The soreness in his abdomen sears deep, holding Harry like this becoming insanely difficult, along with keeping up the punishing pace.

The music from the ballroom bleeds heavily through the walls, an upbeat love song making their desperate fumbling feel even more illicit. Even more wrong, though it's loud enough to mask the sounds of heavy breathing and Louis' name being rasped out between swallowed groans.

"Come on, baby." Louis pants raggedly, dragging a sweaty kiss to Harry’s cheek. He pumps frantically while the ends of his fringe flop damp in his eyes, the cramped space torturously hot and suffocating the harder he snaps his hips. "Want you to come while everyone's out there, dancing, completely fucking clueless about what I'm doing to you in here."

"Oh— fuck. Fuck, Lou— I'm gonna—" Harry's voice pitches higher before his jaw falls open, fingernails digging deep into the outer muscles of Louis' thigh and clawing his way up to stay quiet.

The pain barely registers, Louis focuses on biting back his own throaty moan as his head tips backwards in release, spilling over right with him, because fuck, he never lasts when Harry does. How can he, when no matter how hard he tries, that obscenely satisfied smirk he pulls on those lips seems intent on ruining him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Louis exhales sharply, lungs fully burning now. He shuts his eyes as the ceiling starts to spin, the overwhelming pleasure and mix of reds, whites, and whatever else from the open bar melts in one disorienting blur.

Harry falls forward to grip onto the chair in a shuddering heap, collapsing enough to leave Louis in control while he rides out the tremors, moaning softly into his own bicep.

Louis follows his bend with a groan, pressing his cheek onto Harry's damp dress shirt in an attempt to regain some composure, but his chest heaves wildly, pounding heavy with the aftermath, straining and struggling to catch his breath.

After a winded beat, he pulls out slowly, placing a gentle kiss along Harry's spine as he shivers from being emptied.

"You did so good, baby." Louis sighs, using a free hand to reach over blindly for an unopened box of tissues he swore he saw in the light, knocking over what feels like two cleaning sprays and a roll of bin bags in the process. Harry huffs a quiet laugh through heavy breaths, his warm, sweaty skin still pressed up against Louis' thighs.

"Graceful as ever," He teases, the sweet, raspy slur in his words present even after everything they’d just done.

Smirking, Louis manages to grab the cardboard without dropping it, ripping it open with an awkwardly balanced knee and trembling fingers. "Be glad I didn't knock both of our arses into the mop bucket there," He snags a tissue out to wipe himself clean, carefully disposing the condom in the nearby bin. "Absolutely nothing sexy about that."

Harry giggles to himself as he shifts around in the dark, suddenly filling the small space with the screen of his iPhone. "There," he clicks on the flashlight, propping it carefully on the nearby shelf, "Better?"

The bright light illuminates the closet, catching on straggling dust motes and weird shadows on the walls, but Louis' words catch in his throat when he finally sees Harry standing there with soft, glassy eyes and strawberry-bitten lips, wearing the crooked smile that makes Louis want to melt right into him all over again.

He'd been wearing this endearing, affectionate glow all evening. Sneaking glances at Louis from across the table during dinner, the crease between his brows softening whenever they caught eyes, which was constant.

It was getting harder and harder to stop finding it, even when Louis was busy pretending to listen to bridal party chatter about seating arrangements or which bridesmaid doesn't like who and why.

Every few minutes he'd feel Harry's attention pressing hard into the side of his face, stirring enough nerves to lose his train of thought mid-sentence. It took an arched brow and a firm, but silent warning from Mina to be more conscious of how often he was spilling sips of his drink.

"What?" Harry asks, noticing Louis' stare. His dimple deepens as his smile grows wider, almost bashful.

Louis shakes his head once, glancing at his hands. "Nothing," he says softly, fumbling around with the napkins. Harry had caused enough havoc on his heart tonight, he didn't need him throwing him off balance with that doe-eyed look again, though he probably already has.

When he looks back up, his eyes narrow, then widen, catching on the edge of Harry's mouth, "Shit—" his heart squeezes with a sudden need to make it better, reaching up without thinking to brush his thumb across where Harry bit earlier. "Your lip, babe."

There's a faint streak of blood dribbling onto his chin, some of it smearing up onto his cupid's bow and cheek in the print of trailing, messy kisses, Louis' somewhat aware that he more than likely has identical ones that match.

But he doesn't care about how he looks right now, wincing while lightly inspecting Harry's face for more marks, a deep concern cutting through him. "Must've been rougher than I thought," he half-whispers, careful not to pain Harry more. "M'sorry about that, love."

Harry jolts slightly at the touch, his tongue darting out to examine the sting before giving a coy smile. "It's alright," He breathes, tilting his chin further into Louis’ fingers, settling between his index and thumb like he belongs. "Wasn't exactly complaining, was I?"

Louis shoots him a chastising look, crinkling his nose with gentle fondness. "Okay, still..." He swipes over it again, trying to soothe the swelling.

Quickly, he pulls out another tissue from the box tucked under his arm, using his free hand to hold Harry's face steady, brushing a thumb against his cheek in silent apology. "Hate the thought of hurting you," He says under his breath, dabbing at the split.

Harry just swallows, following Louis' tender ministration with hooded eyes. He cleans up Harry's bottom lip, then uses the back of his hand to wipe at his jawline, the sheen on his flushed cheeks making it easier to softly remove whatever's left on his skin.

When he's done, he maneuvers his face around in the light, just to double-check, still aching from the sweetness that's Harry nuzzling into his touch, fluttering his lashes as if savoring all of the warmth in Louis' palm.

He loves this, loves him like this, trusting and bare in the quiet after. Harry letting Louis care for him, guard lowered, words no longer needed. There was no more pretense.

"All good," Louis smiles warmly, releasing Harry from his grip to press a reassuring kiss into his shoulder. One more 'sorry' couldn't hurt, a silent promise that he’ll do better next time. "You sure you're alright?" He murmurs into the fabric, resting there momentarily.

"Yeah, promise," Harry's hand finds Louis' hair, sweeping back the mess that's fought through layers of gel and hairspray. What started as a quiff is now a sad, tousled mix of fringe and wisps. "We should probably put our pants back on, though." He suggests, tucking a wayward strand behind Louis' ear, "I mean, unless you want to give everyone a proper show."

The distant sounds of laughter immediately sucks Louis back in, reminding him of exactly where he is and what he's doing. The slowing calm in his chest catapults back into a self-conscious tension, the kind only cured by two or four more drinks.

On a deep inhale, Louis reluctantly peels himself from Harry's shoulder, "Yeah," he mutters, more to himself than anything. "Right, clothes."

He steps back to retrieve his trousers from around his ankles, nearly tripping over his own shoes in the process. Harry automatically reaches out to steady him with a low, rumbling laugh that only confuses the anxiety tearing through him fast.

"Here—" Harry's hands are already wrapping around his collar when he stands back up, "Your tie is a mangled mess." He smirks, loosening the knot that's been yanked and twisted askew. It'd taken him forever to get it on right this morning, but Harry redoes it seamlessly, tongue caught between his teeth as he puts Louis back together after taking him apart.

"Now whose fault is that?" Louis teases, watching his fingers loop it taut.

"Hmm…" Harry hums, scrunching up his nose as he tilts his head to admire his work, "Can’t imagine who’d be so reckless." He pats Louis on the chest twice.

They redress hastily then, spurred on by heels barreling down the corridor, conversations trailing past the door and around the corner. Louis' pulse jumps as he helps Harry back into his suit jacket, smoothing his hands over his back to fix all the rumpling.

When Harry turns to face him, his eyes are soft again, tightening Louis' chest with an overwhelming urge to kiss him, right on the little red spot on his mouth. But he doesn't get to, Harry urging him to turn around so he can attempt to tame his destroyed quiff. His touch is soothing, but hurried, as he works leftover product through the strands, trying to salvage some semblance of order.

"Good?" Louis asks, though he doesn't really want to know the answer. He can just blame it on drinks and bad dancing, the consequence of a little too much fun if anyone comments.

"About as good as anyone looks after that," Harry grins, retwisting a curly piece over his forehead.

"Gonna have to do, I guess." Louis sighs, running a nervous hand through his hair before Harry catches his wrist to stop him.

"Stop fussing," He chides softly, "You look…great." His thumb circles over Louis' pulse point.

Harry pauses then, rolling his eyes with a timid little smile tugging at his mouth, leaning in close to add, "Stupidly handsome."

The compliment hits a little harder than it should, only because Harry hardly ever gives them, not unless he means it. Louis huffs a shy laugh, his lashes dropping quickly like he can hide behind them.

"You should go first," he nudges Louis with his knee, forcing his head back up. "I'll wait in here for a bit."

Louis' nod is hesitant, not at all wanting to leave this moment behind, but obligation leaves him no choice. He idles for a moment too long, weakness overpowering common sense to pull Harry back in for one more greedy kiss before reality drags him out the door.

Harry falls into him like it was needed, caressing Louis' face as he languidly drags his tongue against his, Louis welcoming each stroke with a needy kind of patience. A few more heedless minutes pass between moans until the slam of a door across the hall shocks them in place.

"Fuck, okay. Alright, baby," Louis forces himself away. He shakes the growing fluster out of his body, knowing he'd get lost in this if he lingers, he has to get it together before anyone comes around again, pissed, looking for the loo and finding them together in here by accident. He blows a long, uneven breath out of his cheeks, straightening out his jacket. "Let's get going before someone—"

"Yeah," Harry's voice is quiet as he steps back to collect himself. "Go ahead, we'll talk later," He says, but doesn't look at Louis as he grabs his phone from the shelf, shutting off the flashlight to throw them both back into the darkness.

Louis clears his throat, wanting to say more, wanting to promise him something, but he doesn't know what. They never talk about this part, both skirting around the obvious, even when the obvious is right in their face. Right down the hall, probably wondering where her boyfriend's gone, making excuses for him like she always does.

It's easier to pretend when they're off in their own world, painfully different when sharing a table and clinking glasses for a toast. He thinks about his speech from earlier, how his voice wavered enough to pass off as presentational nerves, though his insides were twisting unforgivably, trying to keep his focus solely on the newlyweds in front of him.

He'd forced himself not to look at either Harry or Mina, spouting words about love and forever while feeling like the biggest fucking fraud in the room. He'd felt both their gazes burning into him then, from opposite sides, and still, even after all that, he ended up right here, heart now stubbornly tied to Harry's.

Louis stalls by the door, unable to find the courage to turn the handle yet. In the dim light that seeps under, he can vaguely make out Harry standing behind him. When their eyes meet again, Harry quickly busies himself with readjusting his cufflinks, his attention deliberate and unreadable, leaving Louis to guess what he’s actually thinking.

Taking a deep breath, he finally slips out of the room, looking both ways before carefully stepping back into the corridor.

The contrast is immediately overwhelming, forcing him to shut his eyes against every jarring sound that echoes around in the hall.

He lets the door click shut behind him quietly, sagging against the wall for a brief exhale, his heart still racing, hands still trembling, his entire being tingling from the heat of Harry's mouth.

"…Louis?"

His head snaps up at the sudden sharpness of Georgia's voice, stomach plummeting to his toes as she rounds the corner with two champagne flutes in her hands. Her brows knit together as she picks up her pace, making a swift beeline towards him like a train speeding down the tracks.

Shit.

Louis straightens up immediately, trying his hardest not to look like a deer frozen in headlights as his collar starts to feel suffocatingly tight. He silently prays —begs— that she didn't just catch him sneaking out of the closet while inching closer to the door to shield it with his back.

"Where the hell have you been?" The irritation in her voice is unmistakable, if the stomp of her heels hasn't already clued him in. Definitely fucked if Georgia's the one out searching for him now, "Mina has been looking for you all bloody night."

She stops just short of him, eyes narrowing as his brain scrambles for the excuse he rehearsed over and over for safety measures, but when he opens his mouth to talk—

"Why do you look like that?" Her expression twists, searching and scanning over Louis' face in a way that nearly stops his heart.

His mouth clamps shut, swallowing to buy himself some time, "Uh, erm, look…like what?" Louis asks, shooting her an over-bright grin like the proper fucking knobhead he is.

Georgia shifts on her foot, tongue poking through her cheek while she microanalyzes, her eyes sweeping from his head to his toes. "Like…that," She waves a flute at him, the motion impatient, almost accusatory. "Like you've just run a marathon."

Fuck.

If only he had the chance to run to the bathroom like he'd originally planned, he could've taken care of the mess he and Harry created. He has no idea what he actually looks like, whether his lips are swollen and bitten, his pupils overly sated and dilated, his hair still frizzing helplessly, or if his jacket is incriminatingly wrinkled.

Any surviving proof of hands on him that wasn't his.

Or Mina's.

"I—" Louis' face heats under her stare, "Was just starting to feel a bit overwhelmed." He glances down the hall, toying with the hem of his sleeve. "Needed some air… from all the… dancing."

Georgia arches a brow, glancing at the door behind him briefly, then back at Louis, "And you found air in a…storage closet?" Her tone is unconvinced, because of course she’s the one friend Mina has who never lets him off easy. Even before all of this, she was always the first to call out his bullshit under the guise of tough love.

"Had a bit of a panic," Louis shrugs, unable to meet her eyes, "Don't do well with speeches, you know how I get with crowds."

Georgia studies him for an uncomfortable amount of time, her condemning look softening just a bit, "You know, Mina would've at least appreciated if you told her that." She crosses her arms indignantly as his heart rages against his chest, "Got everyone asking her about your whereabouts while she's out there dancing alone."

"Georgia…" He sighs, "I was only gone for—"

"No, Lou, listen," She shakes her head, stepping closer with concern breaking through the annoyance, "She talks to me more than she talks to you. And if Mina's not going to say anything about it, you know that I will."

They stare at each other, Georgia practically crowding Louis' space until he has nowhere left to go but the door. He cowers slightly, fumbling for words that don't come, made worse by the thought of Harry standing right behind it, probably hearing every awkward pause and breath she forces out of him.

"You need to do better by her," She continues, lowering her voice, "Because she doesn't deserve this weird, distant energy you're giving lately." His eyes follow the champagne as it wildly splashes out of the flute she's aggressively pointing at him, drops of it spilling out onto his shoes. "Snap out of it, Lou."

Louis holds his breath, shrinking even further into himself as she finally pulls away. Somewhere, there's a happy shout in the hum of laughter and clinking glasses, the thought of Mina celebrating alone while he feels entirely caught out.

Whether Georgia suspects more than she's letting on, she doesn't say, but the intensity of her gaze holds him in place. It's a brutal reminder that he's not actually handling all of this as well as he thinks he is, his sloppy juggling spilling carelessly through the seams.

"Get yourself together," she says finally, through a mockingly casual sip of her drink, "Fix your hair, have some water, and for fuck's sake, go find your girlfriend. She's sitting by herself at a goddamn wedding."

Giving one last pointed look, Georgia turns to start her march toward the ballroom. Her long orange hair swishes behind her, leaving Louis to stand in the repercussions with a sinking stomach and the reforming guilt he thought he had under control.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Louis wastes too much time in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror while gripping the marble sink. He lets the tap run below him, its steady flow helping decelerate his racing thoughts, not anchoring him entirely, but enough to set him up for a proper reappearance.

His hair is beyond saving at this point, the product clearly having lost its hold ages ago, but he tries anyway, wet fingers desperately sifting through its disarray like he can somehow fix everything else that's been disheveled.

When the door swings open unexpectedly, his heart launches out of his chest, half-hoping for Harry, fully anticipating Georgia to come storming through again, dragging him back out by his collar.

He sighs in relief when he sees that it's just another groomsman, belching loudly as he stumbles his way in. He meets Louis' grimace with a lopsided nod, patting him on the shoulder as he passes, slinking into a stall with an unintelligible murmur.

Louis takes that as his final sign to leave, splashing cold water over his face to calm the flush. He needs to know if Harry made it out of the storage closet okay, if he actually heard everything Georgia said, and whether it left him feeling as fucking rattled as Louis does right now.

If he did, Harry wouldn't say, and that's the worst part out of all this.

Sighing defeatedly, Louis dusts off his jacket before shouldering his way back toward the reception hall.

The alcohol sits heavy in his stomach, sour with remorse. Still, he forces himself to remember to grab two tequila sunrises at the bar first before finding Mina exactly where Georgia said she'd be.

Through the flashy crowd, under the warm golden lights, he makes out her lonely silhouette across the room, perched at their assigned table with her phone clutched in her hand, leg bouncing restlessly beneath the white lace tablecloth. The disappointment is evident, even in the curve of her back, her posture defensive, like she’s trying hard not to let it show.

"Hey…" Louis' voice is scratchy, almost swallowed by the music. He softly sets the drink down beside her, tapping a hesitant finger on the table before sliding into his abandoned chair.

Mina doesn't look over from her scrolling, "Oh, hi." She says with a bit of a sharp bite, "So lovely of you to join me." Her hair slips forward as she leans further in, the wild strands doing little to hide the tick of annoyance in her jaw.

Louis watches as she purposefully angles closer and closer to the screen, frantically swiping through imaginary texts and apps, just to avoid his presence. Cautiously, he edges the drink one inch at a time, until it's directly in her view.

"I'm sorry for disappearing on you…" The chair squeaks as he scoots in, his knees pressing up against her silk dress. Louis tilts his head, trying to catch her attention, "I just…got a bit overwhelmed with all the…." He waves a hand vaguely toward the dance floor, "Everything."

Mina's thumbs pause, peering at the fancy cup adorned with a tiny pink umbrella through a skeptical side-eye, then she sets her phone down, snatching the drink and slumping back against the chair with a huff.

"Could've said something before leaving me to spend half this night alone," She purses her lips, delicately poking at the straw. "Do you know how many times people have asked me where you've gone off to?"

It's not really a question for him to answer; Louis knows this, letting it hang in the air as he accepts his well-deserved lashing. Mina takes a long, irritated sip before turning over to him, "Had to say 'Oh, I don't know, probably out smoking.'"

His eyes flick down to his hands, the irony not lost on him that he hasn't even had a cigarette yet. Not one all night, despite how badly he could use it to soothe the unease surging through him.

"You've been doing that an awful lot lately," She adds with subtle exasperation, pinning him with her glare, "Disappearing. Getting overwhelmed. Being…" Her lashes flutter erratically, "Distant."

Louis takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes as the overly cheerful beat of the music throbs through his temples. This isn’t exactly the occasion for a conversation like this, but he knows he owes her at least something close to a proper explanation, "I know," he exhales steadily, meeting her gaze again. "I'm sorry, Mina. I've just…I've got a lot going on in my head, okay?"

"You've had a lot going on for months now, Lou." Mina counters immediately, crossing her legs. “When are you actually going to do something about it? Like, see a therapist, maybe?”

"Okay— whoa," Louis' eyes widen, holding his hands out defensively, "Hang on a second," He glances around their space to make sure nobody is within earshot, his voice barely audible. " Mina, you can't just—"

"It's only a suggestion," She cuts him off with a saccharine smile, taking another long pull of her drink, "All this anxiety you have can't be healthy for you. I've been telling you this. Just like those cigarettes."

He blinks, caught somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, unsure if she’s genuinely urging for him to get help or if she's just being vindictive, throwing jabs where there's already cracks. Either way, he knows he has no authority to fight back right now. Not when his argument would be counterproductive.

Because lately he's been finding all of these tiny pieces of himself he thought were long gone, realizing his hands don't shake so much when Harry is near, how the noise in his head dulls to a calm, welcoming silence, and how his chest doesn’t feel so tight when he’s laughing deep, gut laughs with him during their night drives or listening to shitty, old music.

But still, he really doesn’t want to hurt her tonight, not more than he already has, even though every part of him is aching for something else.

Swallowing down his frustration, Louis leans forward with a gentle whisper, "I know, I'm sorry," he offers again, useless as it is, "I-I'm trying my best, Mina. Really, I am."

Mina stares into her sunrise, chewing on her bottom lip like she's debating whether or not to say something else, her heel tapping rhythmically against her calf.

Louis reaches out for her drink then, finally capturing her attention when he sets it back aside. "…and I know it doesn't make up for it, but I'm here now," He continues softly, almost pleading, as if just being here could undo all his wrongs. "I'll be right here all night, won't have another smoke either."

That seems to reach her, Mina's unsatisfied expression turning slightly hopeful, "…Promise?" She asks, shifting her body towards him.

"Yeah," Louis assures her, even as his eyes betray him the very second he notices Harry walking back into the reception over her shoulder. "Promise," He chokes back, quickly averting his gaze to Mina, pulse starting to spike again.

"Okay, well, good," She perks up, reaching a hand out for his knee and giving a hard squeeze. "You were doing such a good job at quitting, we have to get you back on that streak."

Louis nods at her words, though he isn't fully listening, vision trailing towards Harry in the crowd again. He looks effortlessly untouched despite all of the chaos from the previous hour, curls resting delicately beneath his chin, styled like some storybook prince come to life.

It can't be good for Anna, him stealing the show on the night of her wedding, showing her up by just existing in that casual, careless way of his, his mere existence pulling eyes where they shouldn’t be.

Harry hardly spares anyone a glance, busy ruffling his hair back into place as he starts to saunter over to the bar.

Suddenly, the same hand on Louis' knee dives into his hair, jolting him with a force that yanks him back into reality, "Also, what on earth happened to your hair, babes?" Mina furrows her brows, roughly sliding her palms to either side of his head. "You look an absolute mess."

Using her acrylic nails to part through, Mina sucks her teeth, pulling and twisting on the ends with deliberate exaggeration, trying hard to remold him like some failed science project and into something slightly less disastrous.

Louis winces as she tugs him around viciously, squinting one eye against the pain. "Um, okay, Min— Mina, alright," he laughs nervously. "I'm afraid it's done for," he says, placing a hand over hers to stop her examination. "Tried wrangling it in the loo myself, won't stick back down no matter what."

"But that won't photograph very well, won't it, Lou?" She sighs heavily, shoulders slumping in defeat as she sets her arms back down in her lap, "Anna spent a fortune on her photographer."

Just past her, a man with an expensive-looking vintage camera sneaks up on innocent bystanders, lost in their shameless, drunk dancing. The flashes go off left and right, catching every single stumble and spill.

Louis is almost certain his deflated quiff is the least of Anna's worries, judging solely on how one of the groomsmen just tripped over someone's nan, sending his drink flying across the dance floor.

"Well, tell Anna she has my permission to edit me out completely," Louis murmurs, only half-amused by the mayhem. He reconstructs the mess on his head until it wisps across his forehead again, "Or throw a paper bag over my head if need be, whatever she wants."

Mina snorts at that, rolling her eyes fondly enough to let Louis know that she can’t stay annoyed for too long, "Would've loved to have some framed, but lesson learned, yeah?" She grabs at the tequila again, slurping most of it down in one go, "We'll just have to find a stronger gel when it's our turn for wedding photos."

The smirk on Louis' face vanishes, stopping his motions to stare at her vacantly. The ease in her slurping immediately reminds him that he's left his own untouched, quickly snatching his cup and mumbling a barely heard, "Yeah, sure, absolutely," between a forced gulp.

As they sit and sip in relative quiet, Louis uses the wedding madness as another excuse to check in on Harry. He's still at the bar, elbows leaning over the counter with two shots of whiskey lined up before him. His ringed fingers tap absently against the wood, watching the dancefloor, or maybe nothing at all, lost somewhere deep in thought.

And god, all Louis wants is to talk to him, text him. Send him a flare, a smoke signal, fucking anything to let Harry know he’s right here, 60 feet apart, still thinking about him. Desperate to know if he's feeling alright or if he’s regretting anything from earlier. The urge to get up and cross the room is almost unbearable, yet he forces himself to remain seated, palms sweating with every glance that's drawn to him.

But Harry never looks back.

He doesn't so much as glance over his shoulder, shooting down both shots like it's nothing, already holding out one finger to order another.

"Oh my god!" Mina chirps loudly, setting down her glass with a wobbling thump. She whips around to him again, her eyes wild and twinkling with palpable nostalgia, "Remember this song, Lou?" she whines, gripping his forearms, "From our first New Year's Eve together?"

An old-timey song starts to play, familiar enough to freeze Louis in place, his heart clenching and chest tightening while Mina beams at him. A slow, lulling guitar and the tender, comforting voice of The Righteous Brothers sweep through the sound system. It’s the song they first danced to as a newly-formed couple, just a week after he’d asked Mina to be his girlfriend.

It's almost punishing how bittersweetly it plays, the timing maddeningly cruel.

"Dance with me?" Mina's already standing out of her chair, wrapping her fingers gently around his hand, tugging, "Make it up to me proper?"

It'd be wrong if he said not now, not when she’s smiling like that, so full of hope.

Louis casts one more wistful look at Harry, shoving down the ache burning up his throat. Then he nods up at his girlfriend, smiling ruefully, as she squeals, leading him out of his seat and past the other dancing couples.

They find their place in the center of the room, under the grand chandelier, Mina giggling as her arms drape comfortably over his shoulders, his hands settling loosely at her hips. Pressed flush against his chest, Louis holds his breath, his mind still wandering back to Harry, even as he tries to focus on swaying with her movements.

It's been a while since he's held her like this, properly held her.

Their lives have become nothing more than missed connections disguised as busy schedules: rushed kisses in the morning before work, takeaway dinners eaten separately, getting into bed at completely different hours of the night. Sometimes Louis avoids the bed entirely, blaming his new routine on a bad back and old mattress. And even now, with her in his arms and their song guiding them, it all still feels painfully off-kilter.

"Speaking of mess," Mina chatters on, tucking her chin onto his shoulder, "You completely missed Dave falling flat on his face earlier…"

Louis' gaze goes unfocused, thoughts drifting back to another party from months ago. Mina's birthday, another dance where he'd held her just like this, watching Harry across the room. He'd been so sure then that if he just drank enough, wanted hard enough not to want him, everything else would go away.

God, he'd been such a fucking fool.

Naive as ever with how he never imagined he could actually have Harry, not in the way he has him now, tangled up in something he can't undo.

"…And poor Emmy, her heel snapped off and now she's gone barefoot on the dance floor."

When they spin around, Harry's no longer at the bar, and Louis notices immediately, his stomach dropping as he frantically searches the room to find him. He glances over to the corner, catching Georgia with her date, laughing uncontrollably while sitting on his lap, then between a pillar, where two bridesmaids are whispering behind their champagne flutes.

He panics slightly, darting to the three shot glasses sitting empty where he had just been.

"But doesn't Anna make a beautiful bride?" Mina pulls away, tilting her head back to look up at him. She grins warmly, blissfully unaware of the way his jaw tightens, "Her and Tom look so lovely together, don't they?"

"Oh, um, yeah," Louis mumbles, peering back down at her, "Everything's spectacular. You did a fantastic job helping her out." He tries to remember to keep his face neutral, though he's tempted to peek over her shoulder again, to scan the crowd for a head of dark curls that's nowhere in sight.

Sighing contentedly, Mina gives him a tiny, but clearly pleased smirk, "Christ, it was beyond stressful, but worth it." She turns them around again, tightening her hold, "I loved doing this, swear I would've gone into making a career out of it, if it weren't for the firm."

"Yeah?" Louis arches a brow, slightly surprised by her confession, "And why don't you?"

Mina gives him a puzzled look, as if the answer doesn't even need saying, then shrugs, "Wedding planning doesn’t come with benefits or a workplace pension, Louis." She scoffs, nudging him lightly in the chest, like he should’ve known better.

They twirl slightly with a heavier step, allowing Louis a brief glimpse across the dancefloor and over to their table, relief flooding over him when he spots Harry sitting in his assigned seat.

His eyes fall to the new drink placed in front of him, the tall glass already half empty.

Louis keeps a watchful eye, concerned with all his drinking, even as he drags out a strained response, "Right…" He bites his lip, following Harry's hands as they pick at the flowers in the centerpiece, fingers idly moving through pink petals, "…But do you ever think about how sometimes not everything worth doing comes with a retirement plan?"

Mina drops her arms from Louis' shoulders at the same time Harry moves to chug back whatever he's drinking, "Lou." She exasperates, and he almost breaks his neck meeting her scornful gaze.

"What?" He asks, searching for what he could've possibly done wrong then.

She just shakes her head, "Not now with that nonsense." The disapproval's clear on her face, but her voice still gentle, Mina's way of always redirecting him like some small child, "Can't we just… dance?"

Louis doesn't argue, exhausted from all of the mental wrestling and unease. He draws her back into his arms with a resigned nod, her hand interlocking his. What's the point in arguing anyway? He's hardly in a position to push for honesty tonight.

As another ballad starts to play, he gives in to the motions, spinning her on her heel every so often, and dipping her with grace. When she settles back into his chest, his hand finds the small of her back, but it all feels so discouraging now, numb. Empty.

"Oh, goodness, look at Harry sitting there by himself," Mina tutts, the sound of his name dropping Louis' heart to his stomach. Whether she's genuinely delighted to see him or pitying his solitude, he can't tell, but she squeezes his hand, pouting her lips when they turn, "He's so darling in his ruffled dress shirt."

Risking a glance, Louis' breath catches when their eyes finally meet across the room.

Harry is staring directly at him, his gaze slightly glossy, but heavy, unflinching.

His lashes flutter slowly beneath the lights, shifting the atmosphere from casual to magnetic, a quiet challenge between those doting blinks. And when he raises his glass up to his lips, sipping down the last of it, Louis can see the conflict simmering there—an unspoken hurt, maybe something darker.

It's like time seems to slow in the milliseconds that pass, Louis unwilling to peel away, desperate to keep contact while trying to keep steady as Mina rambles on, oblivious to the silent conversation happening over her shoulder. Each turn of their dance feels like torture now, like being pulled between two hearts, knowing that one will eventually give.

"You know, I think he's been seeing someone," Mina continues with a whisper, nuzzling even closer into his chest. "Makes me wonder why he came alone. Anna did say he could bring a plus one."

Louis' throat feels raw as he swallows, "Is he?" He asks, despite being the answer.

"Hmm, I think so." Mina nods, letting go of his hand to wrap around his waist, "He's just got that look about him, you know? I mean, he's already plenty busy with his art stuff, but lately he's only accessible through text and even then, barely." She admits, sighing with a hint of guilt, "But it's not like I've been the best either, I've been jammed packed with all of this planning stuff and then…"

Her voice slightly fades away, Louis' attention locked on the boy whose focus is still pinned on him, his heart stuttering in response to Harry’s quiet, unyielding stare. Then, just as he blinks, Harry glances away, setting his empty cup aside.

Louis' worry only worsens when Harry stands up, neatly tucking his chair and stepping away from the table with a drunken teeter. Despite his efforts to keep his head turned in the opposite direction, he catches Louis' eye once more, a momentary lock through a curtain of curls that shatters him.

Slowly, Harry makes a deliberate stride for the exit, disappearing into the chaos without Louis getting a chance to intervene. There's no time to process, or even watch him go, as Louis' body repositions against his will, his feet intertwining with Mina's, forcing him to stare at the wall directly ahead instead.

It's then that he hears Mina's voice filtering back through the clamor of the reception, "…less time once he moves to London."

Blinking out of his daze, Louis jerks his head back down towards Mina, prompting her to separate from his hold, "Wait, what?" He says, shaking his head, "What did you just say?"

She raises a brow at him, humming as she tries to recall the exact words, her lips pursed thoughtfully, "I said we've barely had time to properly catch up between all this wedding planning, but I'd like to throw a nice dinner party soon, maybe, for all of us."

"No—no, after that," Louis cuts her off, narrowing his eyes.

Mina pauses, frowning slightly, "…That the drive is only about three hours, but—"

"No, Mina," He sputters, almost panicked. "After that, you said something about London?"

"Oh," Her expression softens for a moment, then she continues, slightly hesitant, "…That…we'll have even less time to catch up once Harry moves to London, but I—"

"What?" Louis interjects again, unable to hear anything but the pounding rush in his ears, "…Harry's moving to London?" He feels dizzy as he says it, sick with unexpected nausea starting to overwhelm him.

"Yeah, babes…" Mina says too acceptingly, too final in a way that feels like a knife slicing through his chest, "Well, he's been applying to all these art residencies over in Shoreditch last he's told me." She explains, as if it’s nothing, her words brushing past him like meaningless, idle, unsatisfactory fucking gossip. "I've been meaning to check in on him with that actually, but times got away, really."

Everything seems to tilt then, the room, their bodies, his vision, Louis' grip tightening on Mina's waist for the sake of not toppling over with the sudden weight of everything crashing down on him.

London.

Harry's leaving for London.

What the fuck?

The shock rapidly boils into anger, each needling repetition gnawing through his skull.

Because of course he'd find out this way, in the middle of a wedding reception, with his girlfriend in his arms and his heart lodged in his throat, not from Harry himself, where it would’ve fucking mattered.

How long has he known?

How many times has Louis kissed him, touched him, confessed with his hands what he couldn’t with words, all while Harry held onto his impending departure like some cruel secret?

Even when Louis thinks he's the only person granted the chance to understand him, Harry leaves him blindsided, humiliated, fucking stupid, like a lovesick fool who never really knew him at all.

He can barely hear Mina continuing on about travel times and weekend visits, the music blaring at a crushing volume, colliding with the anxiety that's threatening to smother him.

"I-I'm not feeling so well—" Louis falters, his hands falling away from Mina, "I can’t… I have to sit." His chest constricts with each labored breath, like his ribs are about to collapse inward.

Stumbling backwards, he ignores Mina's concerned voice calling after him, his blurring vision tunneling in on the empty seat that's mocking him at the end of their table, the space where Harry should be a perfect mirror of the hollow feeling settling deep in his gut, rising back up in the form of bile.

Chapter Text

Louis doesn't remember the drive to Harry's, just the white-hot anger pulsing behind his eyes and his hands shaking on the wheel.

After stumbling through the corridor to vomit in the car park, he could barely contain it anymore, everything spewed out of him in torrential heaves, like his body was desperate to purge this secret right out of him before his mind had the chance to scoop it all back in.

When Mina ran out to follow, she found him hunched over with his hands on his knees, her expression shell-shocked, eyes wide and uncomprehending as she rushed to his side with a loud, piercing gasp. Her concerned questioning was lost beneath the ringing in his ears, the what's wrong and are you okay's, only making the situation worse the more she pushed for answers, igniting a shout from him that echoed over the concrete.

They sat in unyielding silence the entire ride home, Mina's arms crossed indignantly with her back turned away from him while Louis stared blearily at the roads ahead. It'd taken him about twenty minutes to convince her he was sober enough to drive after the twenty-five it took for him to slightly calm down, each minute he could've been storming toward Harry wasted, a punishment he couldn’t really stomach forgiving her for.

And when they finally pulled up to the front of their flat, he'd just sat there with the engine idling, waiting for her to leave, refusing to budge even when she'd turned to him expectantly, eyes fixed stubbornly on the steering wheel instead of her face.

After realizing he had no intentions of coming in with her, Mina crumpled completely, almost begging for him to talk to her. It wasn't fair, he’s not even angry at her, but he couldn't find the proper words, persistent in his wavering explanations that, no, it wasn't the fact that she kept bringing up his job interview next week, and no, it wasn't what she said about his stupid hair. He just really needed some space to fucking think.

The look she gave him after another round of silence held a question she clearly didn't want to ask, but Louis glanced away anyway, stomach turning again at how her hand lingered on the door handle like she was waiting for him to prove her wrong. He swallowed it down, pretending he hadn’t noticed as she reluctantly climbed out of the car, not really wanting to know what it truly meant.

His throat still burns as he skids over the edge of the familiar kerb, accelerating with dangerous speed onto Harry's street. Even just the blurring sight of his building looming over Louis' Fiat has his chest squeezing with an uncontrollable grief.

Because why?

Why would Harry do this to him?

He could have said something, anything. Could have trusted Louis enough to tell him the news, instead of letting him fall deeper and deeper into whatever the fuck this is between them, knowing all along he was just planning to leave it.

It doesn't make any sense. Not after everything they've done.

Louis scoffs, snatching his keys from the ignition, the secondary FOB Harry had recently given him for the entrance seeming all that pointless now. He snags it from where its hidden, not bothering to care about searching for his phone, leaving whatever's left of his restraint and his heart behind as he trudges over to the studio with purpose.

Taking two stairs at a time, Louis practically drags himself to Harry's floor, wedding shoes clacking rough against the hardwood, arms feeling heavier than cement. It's almost funny how all of this reminds him of another distant memory, another night he'd panicked up these same steps, desperate to confront Harry with the very mistake that unraveled all of this.

History always seems to repeat itself, and god, he really never learns.

With the door in sight, Louis feels all of his anger-fueled adrenaline kicking back in, shaking legs picking up speed as he stomps through the last stretch. He bangs on it twice, not even waiting a breath before throwing his shoulder against the barrier, rattling around the handle with force.

It's locked. Which it rarely ever is, Harry always leaving it open for him, always waiting for him to show up. And now he's bolted it shut just like he bolts everything else, leaving Louis out in the cold, stupid for thinking he was the exception.

"Harry," Louis rasps out between clenched teeth, pulling back to listen for any form of movement. On the other side, he hears the soft lull of music, an old vinyl spinning faintly, mocking his frenzied state with its painful calm.

For a moment, he's almost certain Harry's fallen asleep, met with nothing but the crack of the needle and his own pounding heart. At least then, he would understand, write it off as drunken forgetfulness. But then he knocks again, gentler this time, and the volume spikes almost immediately, Harry awake, purposefully trying to drown him out.

"Are you fucking—" Louis huffs an incredulous breath, shaking his head in disbelief, “Harry!” He calls out, trying at the handle again. “I know you’re in there, I can hear the fucking music.”

The music creeps even higher then, a level that barely even supports his cheap plastic player without muffling everything and distorting it. He knows that Harry can still hear him through it all, making his entire body tremble with the violent need to be heard. It's so crippling, Louis unsure whether to laugh at the cruelty or crumble from the defeat, his eyes starting to well with hot tears of self-inflicted injustice.

His fingers shake as they grip the key FOB in his pocket, muscle memory warring with the urge to yell, to throw it against the wall, to shatter this last remaining piece of trust Harry had given him into as many pieces as his heart.

"Goddamn it," he whispers to himself as he backs away, running frustrated hands through his hair. It's not even the fact that Harry is drunk and ignoring him right now, it's the fact that Louis could leave, come back tomorrow and find that he's fucking gone.

The uncertainty is unbearable.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Louis turns to try again, determined to get an answer this time. He wipes at his eyes roughly with his sleeve, recollecting himself before slowly knocking, "Harry… please open the door." He pleads raw, clamping his eyes shut, "Baby, please." His forehead presses against the wood, "Please."

With his hand gripped on the handle, he waits there, listening to the music that relentlessly spins, clenching his eyes tighter and tighter the quicker the seconds crawl, dragging out his own torment, dignity long gone to exasperation and despair.

But then his head snaps up at the soft sound of a click, the gentle turn of the knob sending his heart from his feet back up to his throat.

Louis' breath catches when the door finally creaks inward, barely wide enough for him to see Harry's face peeking through. He's still wearing his wedding clothes, though his ruffled shirt is half-unbuttoned now, and there's a hunch to his stance as he hovers, a bottle of whiskey caught between his fingers,

For a moment, they just stare at each other, the space between them laden with the quiet, the ache of things left unsaid. Louis already feels his resolve slipping just looking at him, all his righteous anger fading beneath that heavy-lidded, wounded gaze, trailing from where Louis' tie hangs loose on his chest to where his collar is still damp from being sick.

Harry's expression instantly hardens, brows furrowing as he looks at the floor, "What d'you want?" His voice is rough, close to a slurring whisper.

Louis swallows against the urge to give right in, to take Harry’s sweet face in his hands and kiss the sorrow clean, tending to his hurt, wanting to erase all of the pain he might've created.

"Can I come in?" He asks instead, barely steady in how close it sounds like begging.

Harry presses his lips together, jaw shifting once while he considers. Louis barely breathes as he watches his hesitation, eyes falling to where Harry's grip tightens on the neck of the bottle before taking the smallest, grudging step back, the door opening just enough to let him through.

It's a reluctant gesture that feels heavier than words. Still, the weight in Louis' shoulders sag in relief at the permission even as his stomach lurches when he steps inside, getting hit with an overwhelming smell of alcohol mixed with turpentine.

Crinkling his nose, he glances over to a canvas in the center of the room, smothered in one angry shade of venetian red, then to all of the paintbrushes tossed carelessly beside it. Clearly, he's caught Harry in the middle of some impulsive drunken creation, oil paint splattering across fresh newspapers and seeping into the floor.

"Jesus, Harry," Louis hops over the mess, bringing the collar of his dress shirt up to shield his nose, "You should really open a window." He says, grabbing a hardcover textbook from a random pile and crossing over to the opposite side of the room.

The smell is nearly suffocating, hanging heavy enough to make him gag even through the thick fabric. He pushes against the rickety window, sliding it open with stubborn force, "You know you can't use thinners like this without proper ventilation." Louis grunts, kneeling over the bed for the other.

Harry says nothing from behind, still idling in the far corner by the door, watching Louis lean over for more books to prop in the sill.

"M'alright," He finally mumbles, peeling his gaze away once Louis turns to sit. When he tries to move, he immediately stumbles backward, using one hand to brace against the wall for support.

Louis winces, fingers itching to reach over and grab him, to help steady him right into bed, "You don't look alright," he points out quietly, following his tiny unsteady shifts.

"Hmm," Harry lifts the bottle up to his lips, smirking before taking a short, bitter sip, "Well, neither do you." He drags his sleeve across his mouth where bits of red are smeared into the white fabric, the careless stain betraying just how far gone he is tonight.

Concern surges through him as he glances to the bottle in his hands, nothing but a few more swallows left. Louis can’t help but wonder how much more he’s poured himself since the wedding, whether the whiskey had already been this way, or if he’d opened it the second he got back from the reception, painting, drinking, and drowning.

His studio feels smaller like this, the tension pulling all four corners inward until there's nowhere left to look except for what they've built. Every corner holds a different series of firsts, little milestones of their chaos turned connection: the spot where Harry first kissed Louis' neck, the window ledges where they sit and share cigarettes, the spot on the floor where Louis learned what it means to want something this much.

He can't imagine what it'd feel like to lose all of it in a blink, like the room itself would collapse and take every memory down with it, leaving Louis standing in the ashes of the what could've beens.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He looks back over at Harry, a slight crease forming between his brow.

Harry doesn't meet his gaze as he wobbles to his workbench, somehow avoiding tumbling right into the cluster of plastic cups, "Tell you what?" He scrunches his nose, setting the bottle down to rummage through his drawers, careless as if he's not sitting on anything heavy at all.

"About London, Harry," Louis retorts, "Why didn't you tell me?

The question halts his movements, not long before he slowly refocuses on sifting around his junk drawer for a pack of cigarettes, sloppily working one out with fumbling fingers.

Huffing at his avoidance, Louis stands up to take three determined strides closer. Harry’s eyes narrow in silent warning as Louis grabs the cigarette from his mouth, a flicker of frustration sparking through the glassiness.

"Were you even planning on saying something or were you just going to leave and let me figure it out on my own?" It's oddly calm despite his growing impatience, the tobacco and paper crumbling and falling between his curled palm.

Harry just glares at him, instantly pulling out another, "I was goin' to tell you," He mumbles beneath a quiet rasp, popping it defiantly between his lips.

"Bullshit," Louis breathes out, not at all believing that. He'd hoped that they'd surpassed the threshold for honesty, but even now, Harry's holding all his cards close, making it painfully clear that some parts of him will always remain untouchable.

"How long have you known?" He crosses his arms stiffly, "Just be real with me, please, for fucking once."

That earns a stuttered laugh from Harry, who rolls his eyes as he pats around his pockets for his metal zippo, continuing to ignore Louis' questioning. The mocking sound flares through Louis' veins, locking his jaw tight in self-control.

"Harry," He exhales deeply, tapping an agitated finger on his arm.

"I applied to these residencies ages ago," Harry says after he's lit his cigarette, pausing slightly before taking a drag, "Back in March. Before I met you." He shrugs one shoulder, glancing away again, "Never got an answer, so I didn't think to mention it."

"That doesn't make any sense," Louis rejects with a head shake, "Mina said you were moving, applying to all these places in Shoreditch. She was so sure of it, she—"

"Last we spoke, I told her I was working on a new round of applications," Harry mutters, running the heel of his palm over his drooping eyes. "For the next cycle. Next year."

Relief falls from Louis in the form of a shaky breath, clamping his eyes shut tight like he's been spared from unspeakable disaster. Suddenly, all of the fear feels so far away, almost laughable in hindsight. He turns around, letting his head drop into his hands while he leans over the workbench, trying to make peace with the throbbing wound made in his chest.

Next year, he can do next year.

That's enough time for him to sort all of this out, to spend more time learning how to care for Harry, to watch him paint and laugh, to keep buying him cheesy pasta dinners. Enough time to take him to that gallery over in Bolton he keeps talking about wanting to go to, never finding the time, to watch his face light up at new art supplies, to hear his rough-sleep voice more often than not. Time to learn which tea he prefers when he's sick, what books he reads when he can't sleep, which jumper is his warmest in the winter—

"But either way, she's not wrong," Harry tears the wound wider.

Louis' heart plummets, his blood running cold, then quietly he hears him say, "I got off the wait-list."

"What?" Louis glances over his shoulder, his voice barely a whisper.

Harry shifts on his feet behind him, still swaying on fragile ground, "I…got an email," He swallows, scratching the back of his head, "An…acceptance for my previous application." The ringing in Louis' ears comes back in full force, "Someone dropped out last minute, haven't really told…anyone yet, so I don't really—"

"Forwhen?" Louis cuts him off, it all coming out in one panicked rush, "Whenisitfor?"

The subtle resignation on Harry's face should've been enough of an answer for him, but apparently, Louis is intent on punishing himself. His fingers dig into the wood as he searches for any sign of reassurance, a hint of doubt, anything to let him know that what he just heard is wrong.

"When is it for, Harry?" His voice is sharper this time, urgent.

Harry brings the cigarette back to his lips, taking an agonizingly slow drag before his eyes drift, speaking through smoke, "Fall enrollment," His tone is thinly guarded, even as he hiccups, "September."

Septem—

All of the paralyzing disbelief from the previous hour returns, shattering Louis' feeble composure in one clean break.

That's two weeks from today.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. That's hardly any fucking time at all for anything, and before Harry can even open his mouth again to continue his drunk explaining, Louis stops him with a scrambling hand, "Wait—hold on, when did you get the email?"

Harry blinks at him, then turns away, stubbing the cherry into an ashtray, "A week ago."

"A week—" Louis surges forward, throwing his hands into his fringe, "You've been sitting on this for a week and haven't thought to tell me?" He watches Harry's back, panic rising with every second he stays silent.

Harry takes a deep, patient breath, "I was going to tell you—"

"Are you going?" Louis doesn't hesitate, needing to know whether or not it’s true, before this slips any further from him.

His eyes follow as Harry starts to move across the room, over to his clothing rack by the bed, fingers working clumsily at his dress shirt, "I don't know." The decision is simple, muffled as he yanks the shirt over his head instead, giving up on the buttons entirely.

The lean muscles of his back flex as he tosses it to the ground, searching restlessly through his milkcrates for something else to wear. Louis tries not to get distracted by the sight of it, his throat constricting under the pain of wanting to touch, "What do you mean you don't know, Harry?" He's tugging at the strands now, "September is in two fucking weeks, you can't just say maybe and act like it’s not a big deal."

"I don't fucking know, Louis, okay?" Harry spins gracelessly, almost losing his footing on the scatter of boots. He steadies himself by holding on to the rack, curls gone frizzy and wild from the fabric. "I have a few more days before I can give them an answer."

They hold each others stare, Louis' hands slowly dropping from his head to his sides, "A few more days?" His eyes burn, but he refuses to look away. He can't help the disappointed scoff that escapes him, "That's all you were gonna give me?"

"That's all that I was fucking given!" Harry shouts as he stalks across the room, a black t-shirt clenched tightly in his fist, "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't fucking know! Maybe keep me in the loop before I wake up one day and you're gone!"

Harry laughs bitterly, running his tongue over his teeth as he shakes his head incredulously. His bare chest flushes red from all the alcohol and building anger, slightly heaving now like he's trying to pull himself together, gather his thoughts. When he takes a step back, Louis resists the urge to reach out and hold him, standing there stupidly while Harry slowly paces around himself with his hands tight on his hips.

At some point, the record player stopped entirely, though Louis is not sure when, leaving just the tired creak of the floorboards under Harry's busy feet and his own unstable breathing.

"Do you think this is easy for me, Louis?" Harry mutters, stopping to glance at him. "Do you think this is what I want? To keep living like this?"

He gestures frantically around the studio, over the piles of half-finished work and the mattress on the floor, "To keep fucking old men who treat me like shit just so I can have a proper place to fucking sleep?" Harry kicks aside his red canvas then, with a harsh force that knocks it against the wall, "To keep making useless fucking art that nobody gives a shit about unless I'm blowing them?"

The words come out through gritted teeth, and Louis winces at how they tremble with frustration and hurt, the painful honesty behind a truth he typically buries.

"Your art isn't useless," Louis says softly, his heart shattering at his self-loathing.

"That's not the fucking point!" Harry's voice rises almost unbearably, "They see potential in me. Real potential, Louis."

He weaves carefully over scattered brushes, "These residencies, they offer free housing, travel, food, networking, everything," He counts off his fingers rapidly, each point nailing its validity into Louis' chest, "I could make a real living off my work. I don't have to stay here and fend for myself, hoping someday that maybe I'll make enough if I meet the right person to fund it."

His eyes are wild as he speaks, softening slightly when they catch on Louis' broken ones, "I'd be stupid to not at least consider taking the offer so that I don't have to keep doing this to myself." He adds, glancing away for a second, “I’m done pretending it’s fine.”

Louis feels like he's drowning, clamping his eyes shut in defeat as he slumps against the workbench, taking it all in. The thought of Harry leaving, of waking up in a world where he can't just show up at his door anymore whenever he needs him, is devastating. He'd gotten too comfortable, too nested in the safety, in the familiarity of their routine, and now there's this possibility for all of it to be taken away before Louis can fully grasp what losing this would mean for them.

And part of him knows, agrees even, that Harry deserves a better chance at life than what he was given, to be more than what he was forced to face at the horrific age of seventeen, but the other part of him can't help but stubbornly disagree, his body numb with the weight of all the things he shouldn't say.

Stay.

Let me take care of you. Please, let me be enough.

I'm in love with you.

Instead, what comes out is broken, small, and still inarguably selfish:

"I—" Louis swallows hard, staring down at his hands, "I can't—I don't," His throat burns as he finally admits, "I don't want you to leave."

There's a long, brutal silence as Harry just stares at him, eyes dark, unblinking, holding Louis pinned in place with the force of it. Louis barely cares that his own are welling up again, tunneling all of his anxiety into fidgeting around with his fingers.

Drifting backward, Harry throws the t-shirt over his torso roughly, scrubbing a hand over his face while he thinks. Then, he inhales and sighs deeply, letting a fraction of the tension slip away.

"Why don't you come with me then," He offers, softly, but with quiet urgency.

Louis' head springs back up, unable to see the vulnerability in Harry's expression through his blurring vision, "What?" He breathes out, "Harry…"

"Yeah," He nods as if it's nothing, staggering closer, "Come with me, you can serve coffee anywhere."

The easy, carefree and deceptively simple way he suggests it, like this is something Louis can take and grab, is crushing, adding to the pressure already threatening to burst from his ribs.

"You know that I can't do that…" Louis whispers, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

Harry exhales through his nose, slightly ticking his jaw, "Can't or won't?" his tone is cutting.

"Can't, Harry," Louis emphasizes firmly, as if trying to convince both Harry and himself. He runs a hand over his face, attempting to soothe over the stress pulsing behind his temples, "I can't just up and leave my entire life in only two weeks."

"Why not?" Harry murmurs with a shrug, "You're not happy here."

"That's not—you can't just expect me to drop everything without—"

"Without what?"

"I don't know, proper time to think," Louis' growing frustrated, stuck between two opposing corners, longing and logic, "It's not that simple for me to just—"

"But it can be, Louis." Harry's the one pleading now, hands reaching for purchase on Louis' hips. He pauses, tucking his legs between Louis' thighs, searching his face for the part of him that wishes he could say yes, "What's holding you here?"

"I have responsibilities, Harry…" Louis points out in a strained voice, his gentle touch tugging at his willpower. The tiny flash of possibility in Harry dims slowly as he says it, back to his usual mask of indifference, "A job that I've been working at for years, a flat I pay rent for, a—"

"Girlfriend?" Harry lets go, scoffing a hollow laugh. "It's alright, you can say it. I'm well aware."

"That's—that's not what I was—" Louis stutters as Harry rolls his eyes, reaching past him for the bottle again, "That's not really fair, H…"

He almost leans to stop him, but doesn't, letting Harry take a long, deliberate sip before shaking his head again, curls sweeping adamantly, "No, what's not fair is you expecting me to stay here with you, absolutely fucking miserable, while I sit on the sidelines watching you pretend to love someone you're too scared to leave."

There's an unfiltered hurt behind his accusation, lodging deeper than Louis wants to confront, a denial they’ve both been complicit in for months now. Because in the safety of their bubble, they both can pretend that this splinter doesn't affect them, but ignoring the cracks doesn’t make it any less real or stop them from spreading.

Louis readjusts on the workbench, refusing to meet Harry's glare, "I-I'm not scared." He counterpoints lamely, realizing how weak it truly sounds.

“Then why are you still with her?”

“Harry—I—“ He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Complicated." Harry repeats in wounded incredulity. He takes another sip, placing the bottle down pointedly, not letting up on his judgment, "Tell me something Louis, in all of these months, have you ever once actually thought about leaving her?" He purses his lips, "Or was I just convenient for you? Someone who wouldn't ask for more because you knew that I fucking couldn't?"

It's coming out of him unexpectedly, all these feelings Louis never knew he had, keeping him frozen where he stands, close enough to feel the slurring heat of Harry's impatience and the whiskey-wrapped need on his breath.

And it's not like he hasn't thought about it, of course he has, he's thought about it more times than he can count—lying awake next to Mina at night, over hurried breakfast and quiet dinners, whenever she puts her hands on him, trying to kiss the lips that now belong to Harry. He's thought about it so much it fucking terrifies him, and still, he lets the fear of consequence hold him back, rooted in unhappiness by clinging to guilt and what’s safe.

"Of course," Harry mutters under his breath, "Why did I expect anything different?"

"Harry—" Louis exasperates, not sure how much more of this unraveling he can handle, "please—this is all just so sudden—"

"No, this is exactly what I knew would happen!" He points a wild finger at Louis before turning away, pacing aimlessly again, "I fucking knew you would do this to me, and I still trusted you."

The look of betrayed trust, the trust Louis has worked so fucking hard to earn and protect wholeheartedly, that Harry is acting like means absolutely nothing to him, sends Louis’ pulse spiking out of control.

“…Don’t make it sound like I meant to hurt you, Harry," He straightens up defensively, watching Harry shift around in place, the room too small for all of his agitation, "I didn't mean for any of this to fucking happen."

"Oh, fuck off. Yes, you fucking did," Harry spits dismissively, his expression twisting with fury, "You're exactly what I've been trying to protect myself from, but you couldn't stay the fuck away like I asked you to, Louis. Couldn’t just leave it alone—leave me alone.”

“Don’t you dare make me out to be the only problem here when you’re just as scared as I am!” Louis shouts, enraged that Harry would even pretend he bore no responsibility in this, deliberately planting seeds of self-doubt and second-guessing in him from the very beginning, “You could’ve pushed me out the first time I fucking kissed you, but you didn’t! You came back, you kept letting me in on purpose, admit it!"

Harry ignores him, shaking his head as he starts to pace over to the couch, looking for distance, but Louis marches right after him, following his steps, unwilling to give him any room to snap and retreat.

"You want to talk about betrayal, Harry?" Louis laughs poignantly, stopping just short of him as he whips around with flaring nostrils, "You're supposed to be her best friend!" His voice scrapes against his volume, pointing at Harry in exasperation, "But you're at her parties, in her home, eating her food while you're out fucking her boyfriend behind her back!"

Louis sees the exact moment the accusation lands, watches it slice through Harry fast, his brows shooting up then immediately pulling back together, deeper this time. His throat instantly closes up, regret yanking at his stomach because fuck, that's not what he—he didn't mean to—

But it's too late.

Harry's face crumples again, just for a second, before he swallows, setting his jaw hard enough that Louis can see the muscles twitching through the grind of his teeth, those iron-gated walls snapping back into place.

"Yeah?" His bottom lip trembles, eyes suddenly wet, "Well, at least I'm not the one still fucking her." He bites, wiping them away with force, sniffling, "I'm not the one telling her that I love her every night, letting her think we're going to run off and get married someday because I'm too much of a fucking coward to face what I really am."

Each word strikes, the final blow through his heart, the unrestrained tears falling from Harry's eyes the kill-shot he didn’t see coming.

There's nothing he can say or do, the silence heavy with everything Louis can no longer deny.

"It's my mistake for thinking you could handle being honest about what you feel," Harry continues, and Louis shuts his eyes when he says, "This is exactly why I don't let people in."

"I'm sorry," Louis whispers, as if that could turn back time, "H, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You should leave." Harry sniffs, turning away from him.

Louis opens his eyes, "What? Baby, wait, no—" He stumbles forward, reaching out to lightly grab his arm, "Please, wait, I'm sorry, I just need time to think—"

"Please," His voice cracks, slinking out of Louis' touch. "Just go."

The pain of having to retract his arm is almost too much to bare, Louis gapes at the sight of Harry angling himself away again, scrubbing at his face with his wrist. He wants to fix this, needs to reach out and apologize, beg for forgiveness if he has to. But clearly, he's lost that right, being the one who put those tears there in the first place.

Harry crouches down by the couch, fingers finding Sugarcube's fur as she weaves over between his feet, using a gentle thumb to brush over her pink nose. His shoulders are rigid, like he's trying to hide himself from being seen, as if showing any weakness is impossible, even to himself.

Louis hesitates, debating whether or not to dig this hole even deeper, but he doesn't want to risk provoking him into shutting the door on them entirely.

But Harry doesn't turn around, just keeps distracting himself with running trembling hands over Sugarcube's back, and Louis knows.

There's nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

The first time someone called Louis gay, he was twelve.

It'd been just like any other summer weekend barbecue, where his extended side of the family would come around to theirs with packed cars, trunks stuffed to the brim with coolers, garden chairs, sticky ice lollies, and that weird, cheap cider he'd sneak sips of when nobody was looking.

Sometime after his parents split, Louis' mum became insistent on keeping people around the house, their living room a constant rotating circus of aunties and cousins who would eat through biscuits and traybakes faster than she could make them. He didn't really mind it, he liked all of the noise and chatter, and riding bikes up and down the street with his older cousins let him forget, for a little while, about the quiet left behind by his dad.

And he didn't mean to eavesdrop, coming in through the back door. He was just about to ask his mum for another Coke when his uncle Steve's hushed voice made him stop in the doorway.

"I'm just saying, Julie. He’s almost thirteen for Christ’s sake, he's around them far too much, he's startin' to pick up on all their flouncy mannerisms."

He hovered by the kitchen, poking his head around the archway carefully while listening intently.

"You don’t see it ‘cause he’s yours, but the way he carries on, people are gonna start sayin’ he’s gay." Steve leaned on his elbow, pointing at his mum with the neck of his lager, so definitive in his offhand accusation. "Greg would’ve already had him playin’ footie by now. The boy needs something with purpose, ‘stead of sitting round making bracelets all day with the girls."

Louis glanced down at the friendship bracelet tied neatly around his tanned wrist, the purple one his older cousin, Hannah, taught him how to make earlier that day. His mum had rolled her eyes, urging Steve to drop the bigoted nonsense, but unfortunately, the word had already stuck. Louis cut the bracelet off and let it fall into the bin, knowing it would never return to his wrist again.

He didn't really know what being gay meant back then, only that it was one of the worst things a young boy could be called.

For the rest of the summer, he spent all of his time down by the park, practicing penalties and perfecting his kicks until his feet practically ached, or shrugging off his younger sisters whenever they'd asked him to stay inside and play dolls with them like they used to. He decided that was no longer who he was. He'd no longer be flouncy, policing every part of himself that reflected a softness that was apparently wrong: how to sit, how to speak, which interests to hide. He even started watching the other lads at school, mimicking the way they carried themselves, measuring himself against their confidence and pretending he had it too.

By the time he got to secondary, Louis learned that 'gay' was everyone's favorite insult, a single, harmless word embedded into the everyday vocabulary of ruthless teenagers. He couldn't escape it, the label being tossed around in snickering giggles and pointed fingers, something the boys on the team would call each other when messing about in the locker rooms, snapping towels and bickering over scores.

Anything could be gay if you tried hard enough to make it fit: the way people walked, talked, breathed. But by then, Louis had already become an expert in watering himself down, blurring all of the bits of his personality that might've drawn too much attention.

During lunch, he'd sit at the big round table with all of the other boys, joining in their crude conversations about which girls they fancied that week, betting on who could win over who with their shit jokes and competitive dares. He got good at always choosing the right ones to fancy too, always the prettiest or most popular in their year, the ones always slightly too far out of reach for him to fully land.

It was a surprise to even him when Amelia Clarke told everyone in her circle that she wanted to kiss him, egged on by his jealous peers to meet her on the cricket field after a particularly chaotic day at school.

But what he never told anyone was how his eyes had always been curious, first drifting over to Noah Mitchell in Year 10. He wasn't his closest mate, but they had proper banter. The older boy on their team with the big, contagious laugh and short golden hair, playing striker like he owned the pitch. Sometimes Louis would get a little bit nervous when Noah would march over his way after practice, slinging a supportive arm around his shoulders, both of them sweaty and beat, giggling at some silly mistake they’d made during drills.

He buried those thoughts so deep they almost feel like someone else's memories. But it was easier that way, wasn't it? Better to be the funny one, the loud one, the one who could make everyone in a room laugh because no one looks too closely at the rowdy class clown. The boy who knew he wasn’t like everyone else, trying desperately to hide it while they all waited for his next joke.

Almost thirteen years later, Louis still finds himself performing, even when he probably doesn’t need to. He's still catching himself, still monitoring how his shoulders sit, taming his flounciest gestures, going through the motions of his life, pretending everything is perfectly ordinary while the part of him that’s painfully in love with Harry gets tucked into a spot only he can reach. Far away and safe from anyone else’s questions.

Louis turns his head on folded arms, watching Mina get ready through heavy-lidded eyes on the bed. He follows her reflection pacing through the mirror, the pointed click of her heels deliberately harsh, echoing the overwhelming tension that's been living in their room since the night of the wedding when he'd stumbled back home at almost three in the morning, offering no explanation for his disappearance.

She's been ignoring him for days, completely unaware of the darkness that’s starting to seep into him being ignored by Harry too. Left alone to drown in memories he's spent half of his life trying to escape, replaying them over and over again until there's nowhere else to run.

All of the girls he's dated, all of the ones he found excuses for as to why it didn't work out when his mum or sisters asked—grew apart, wanted different things, too busy with Uni and exams.

Then along came Mina.

Sweet, beautiful, careless Mina, who made sense on paper. His mum loved her from the second he brought her home for Easter, loved how she always pushed for Louis to be better, healthier, responsible. She never cared who was watching or what anyone thought, loving him loudly, where everyone could see it, and she made him laugh too, so he thought that's what he wanted. He thought that's what he should have.

But never in his life has he ever felt anything comparable to the overwhelming brush of Harry's fingers running over his skin, the addictive, all-consuming press of his soft, dangerous lips. He never once lost his breath the way he did catching a quick glimpse of that toothy grin. He never once wanted anyone the way that he wants Harry.

Coward.

Louis shuts his eyes, Harry's dagger still lodged in the pit of his chest. It's not even the first time he's called him that, having spat it at him before in the heat of some lesser moment. But this one was real. This one held such conviction, a venom designed specifically to wound and fuck, it did much worse than that. Because Harry was right, he's always been.

Louis has been cowering in fear his entire life.

From childhood taunts and wandering eyes, from the first uneasy feeling that fluttered in his stomach when he saw long hair and sunglasses lingering outside that club in early March.

"If you're going to lie in bed all day, can you at least make yourself useful and take out the bins?" Mina murmurs through a final swipe of lipstick. She pops her lips twice, angling herself in the mirror to admire her black sequin mini dress. "The recycling needs to be put out on the kerb as well."

A small, absent, agreeable hum is all that leaves his mouth. Louis numbly tracks her movements as she goes to grab her bag from where it hangs off the dresser, barely sparing a glance.

"And don't forget about your interview tomorrow morning," She adds flatly, sifting through her purse now for her wallet, "Since apparently I’m the only one around here who gives a shit about the future."

With that, she storms towards the door, stopping only to throw a biting 'don't wait up' over her shoulder, shutting it with a resounding bang.

Louis rolls over to his back, staring at the ceiling with a defeated sigh. He lies perfectly still, listening to the trailing sound of her stomp down the hallway until the flat settles into a vacant silence.

The future.

He almost wants to laugh at that.

As if he hasn't spent the past week doing anything but thinking about the future. Running endless scenarios in his head until he's so nauseous he has to sit on the tile of the bathroom floor in the middle of the night with his knees tucked tight to his chest, rocking back and forth until the ache settles, begging his brain to shut up long enough to breathe.

Because what would happen if he just told Mina the truth? If he broke up with her, told her that he had spent his entire summer learning how to love a man by heart, seeing everything he never knew he wanted in the folds of his laugh lines and everything he was terrified of in how he pulled at him, in ways he didn’t know how to fight?

That meeting Harry had been both cosmically inevitable and catastrophic in how it made the life he’d built with her, the life he's still fucking convincing himself he needs for some reason, feel suddenly impossible.

His mum would be devastated, throwing the longest-standing anything he's ever had away for a man, a man he's only known for 6 months at that. It’d force him to confront a part of him he’s never shown anyone, least of all his family. The girl they already think he’ll marry, the girl who makes him look stable and steady for once in his life. His sisters would have an uncomfortable amount of questions he's not ready to answer, a few jokes to throw in, maybe. The lads at work—Niall—would look at him differently. And his uncle Steve.

Well, he would've been right all along, wouldn't he?

Louis reaches over for his phone tucked beneath his pillow, opening the incognito browser that's been haunting him every single night this week.

Harry's deadline for the residency must have passed by now, but Louis can't bring himself to ask. He can barely bring himself to think about it. Even though the tabs are all still there, staring him dead in the face like they're the easiest choice to make:

• London restaurant server positions
• Jobs in London hiring now
• Best neighbourhoods to live in London

It'd be so stupid of him. So fucking irresponsible.

He can't afford to live in London. Not with his kind of salary, barely making enough for the flat he has now. But still, he already has an imaginary route mapped out in his head. A tiny flat over in Hackney, picking up doubles at some overpriced cocktail bar or posh restaurant serving canapes, while Harry is away all day, working hard on his art, the two of them starting over in a place where nobody knows them. Being whoever they wanted to be. No history, no expectations.

It's a nice dream, he admits. A terrifying one, nonetheless.

Swiping out of Safari and into his messages, Louis scrolls down until he finds Harry's contact. His last text from two days ago sits heavy at the bottom of their thread, along with all of his other dwindling responses, leaving Louis to stare at the screen wondering if he’s the only one still holding on.

H: Ok.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard, starting to type all of the nonsense crowding his brain. Desperate to hear back, even if only one letter is all he's granted this time.

im sopsorry harry

He starts, deleting it immediately.

i wish i was brave wenough to

Deletes that too.

Nothing feels right, nothing feels enough.

i really fuckinfg missyou H

The constant bleariness makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on getting the letters right, Louis irritated by his own weakness. Without blinking, he presses send with a forceful jab of his thumb, shrugging helplessly as he lets the phone fall to his side. Because why the fuck not? What more can he lose?

He spends the next hour staring at it, watching the message sit there in its sad, blue bubble. No typing indicator appears. Not even a read receipt. Just pure, deafening silence.

Louis attempts to distract himself by finally peeling his tired body off the bed. He takes the rubbish out to the skip like Mina had asked, reorganizes his dresser drawers, does the dishes, sorts through old bills, all while pretending, poorly as ever, that his phone doesn't exist on the edge of his nightstand, accepting that he’s already missed the chance to say what he truly feels a long time ago.

It's past midnight when his phone finally lights up, Louis lying sideways on the couch, half-watching, half-falling asleep to some random sitcom he turned on to numb his mind. Everything in him stutters to a stop when he sees that small, tiny letter ping bright on his screen, diving over to the coffee table and nearly dropping to the floor trying to grab it.

H: Door's open.

Louis sits up straighter, suddenly wide awake, his heart restarting faster than his thoughts can catch up.

He swallows, fixating on the message until the screen completely darkens. He taps it awake again, knowing that while Harry would never say it outright, this was his crooked little version of saying I miss you too.

He reads it over and over again, heat burning through his chest, until finally, he snaps himself out of it.

Because what the fuck is he doing?

“Fuck.” He whispers to himself, trying to get his brain and legs to work.

be there soon

The message sends with an anxious whoosh, and just like that, Louis' out the door without another thought or concern. Not the late hour, or the consequences, or how he's always so quick to fold whenever Harry calls.

He's accepted, maybe ages ago, before he was even conscious of it, that he'll always come running if it's Harry who's the one who asks.

No matter the hour, the distance, or how many times they break each other's hearts.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Everything feels worse at midnight: the creak in the janky lift, the heavy echo of Louis' footsteps, and the way his heart lags pacing up and down the studio's corridor alone.

Harry had said it himself, Door's open, but the nerves didn't come full force until Louis actually got here. He doesn't know what to expect on the other side of it, what to possibly say after saying the worst thing he could, and one million things are swarming him, an apology worth every hour of sleep he’s lost turning it over in his head, along a tangle of questions still begging to be asked.

He knows that all of it would dissolve the moment he opens that door anyway, slipping through his fingers like all the access he’s lost to Harry over the past week.

But maybe, somehow, he can bear through the helpless anticipation, clutching on to the idea that if Harry really didn't want him, then he wouldn’t have reached out tonight at all.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Louis takes a deep breath and pulls his hood up over his fringe, hovering outside of studio 4b with his palm flat against the wood.

Knocking feels too formal after everything, but then again, walking straight in feels too presumptuous. Testing the handle and his bravery, Louis' stomach flips when it gives way under the gentle push of his fingers, quickly moving for a light tap of his knuckles against the door as it eases open.

When it budges wider, he catches Harry standing on the arm of his scratchy couch, head turning straight to where Louis is tentatively glancing in, his hand stilling on the edge of a charcoal sketch pinned unevenly to his wall, seemingly tearing it down.

And it's hard for Louis' heart not to shatter on impact, Harry's overswept curls pulled back into the sweetest bun that perches messily atop his head. The mismatching fuzzy socks and fleece shorts only make everything significantly worse, and he wishes, so badly, that he could crawl up and bury himself in the domesticity.

There's a long pause before either of them blink, Louis unsure whether or not to let himself in, lips parting with bated breath. Harry's stare is unreadable, almost piercing, a look that's all too familiar and devastatingly inescapable, feeling too much like the shield Harry shows the rest of the world instead of the gentle boy Louis knows hides beneath it.

"Hey…" Louis' soft, barely forming a whisper. He deserves this distance, he knows that, but that doesn't stop it from hurting like he's been exiled from the only place he wishes to be.

Harry shifts his jaw once, flitting his eyes over Louis' with a hesitant acknowledgment, then slowly turns away, refocusing on taking down his sketch and letting it fall into a pile that's collecting on the cushions.

He moves on to the next without another word, baring his walls from illustrations, posters, and brown-paper portraits. The state of his studio is the same as it's always been, messy, chaotic, but there's a different kind of destruction in how he's been handling himself lately, made obvious by the cluster of bottles and cans crowding the coffee table.

Louis glances up at Harry, then back to the collection, half-hidden by a pile of discarded canvases, all either emptied or nearing dry with a freshly opened one right on the edge.

Another stab of regret floods through him, completely afraid that Harry's been spending all of his time in here like this, alone, surrounded by nothing but torn memories and the hurtful things they had said to each other. The thought of him using old vices as comfort pushes Louis to finally take a step in, wanting to do whatever he can to fix what's left of this.

"…What're you doing to your drawings?" The door shuts behind him with a soft click, Harry crumpling a figure study and rolling it into a ball in his fist.

He tosses it aside carelessly, shrugging one shoulder, "Hate looking at them." His voice is rough, sleepless, barely glancing over as he steps down from the couch, socked feet pressing in and smearing all over his work.

Louis rolls his bottom lip, leaning against the door handle for support as he watches Harry crush over his art, moving across the room like the space between them doesn't have thorns sprouting from every single step. Anything he wants to say feels truly inadequate, trapped somewhere deep in his throat, no match for the remorse that's also lodged there.

There's an uncertainty crackling in the air that he doesn't quite know how to deal with. Usually, their arguments end in heated words or desperate touches—but this awkward silence, this gaping distance, it's unusual. He can't read whether Harry wants him to stay or leave, changing his mind on his open-door invitation. Can't tell if he's meant to speak or wait.

Harry grips the neck of the bottle on the table, dragging it across the wood as he makes his way over to the corner by his bed. The scraping sound makes Louis wince, no longer able to wade through this unbearable limbo. He opens his mouth, a building word-vomit apology ready to spew right out.

"Harry, I-I just wanted to talk about—"

"Was gonna spray paint this on the roof," Harry cuts him off, already bending over to yank a piece of plywood from where it's stuck behind his easel. The tone is oddly casual, a little bit slurred, as if they're picking up some friendly conversation that never happened. As if Louis hasn't spent an entire week trying to figure out how to breathe properly without him.

The abrupt shift throws Louis off balance, a crease forming between his brow, "Uh, you, um, you have a roof?" He asks, suddenly fixated on why Harry has never thought to mention it before.

Harry tucks the wood beneath his free arm, still never really looking directly his way, "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Louis reiterates, blinking dumbly. "How do you sort of have a roof?"

And of course, in Harry fashion, he doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches over for a black Jansport resting by his workbench, hooking his arm that's holding the bottle around the straps until it hangs free from his elbow. His lack of response would normally frustrate Louis, but any spark of impatience fizzles the second Harry starts walking toward him, his pulse quickening the closer he gets.

Stopping just short of him, the two finally meet eyes properly for the first time tonight, Harry's holding a glassy barrier of indifference. Or maybe, just a mask above the hurt. Either way, Louis' chest pangs deeply, knowing he put that look there, wanting to reach out and smooth away the furrow lines between his brows with gentle fingers. He refrains, though, keeping his hands tucked firmly at his sides.

Harry breaks first, jerking his chin towards the door. "Coming?" He blinks slowly, gaze already sliding away.

Louis nods vigorously, snatching the olive branch with eager hands, because it's not exactly forgiveness, but it's a small sliver of chance. He steps aside to give Harry access to the door, their shoulders barely brushing as he swings it open.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The trek to the roof is quiet, Louis trailing behind Harry two flights up the stairwell.

Neither of them talk, and Louis thinks about how he never really thought about the rest of this building, how nothing ever really seemed to exist to him outside the sanctuary of Harry's room. He wonders, briefly, how many people stay here late at night, working on their projects, busy worrying about gallery openings or setting up installations, completely unaware of the boy who's living in the spaces they pass by every day without noticing.

When they finally get to the sixth floor, he immediately understands what Harry meant by 'sort of'. In the far corner of the corridor is a dilapidated, rusted ladder, barely bolted to the wall and chained off with a sign attached that reads 'Roof Access – Authorized Personnel Only'.

He'd drag something out of himself if he could, mention how unsafe it looks, poking at Harry about the logistics in hopes of getting a playful eye roll or mouthy remark. But he holds off, shifting on his feet while Harry sets down his supplies, climbing onto the rickety old thing with ease, captivated by the recklessness he’s always drawn to.

The ladder swings a bit under his weight, but he's touching the ceiling in two impressive reaches, nudging the wooden slat with the palm of his hand until it props open, revealing a square of night sky.

"Just pass me the plywood," he murmurs, pulling himself up until he's fully settled on the roof.

Louis obliges, handing him the long sheet of wood. Harry takes it without looking at him, disappearing through the hatch without another word, leaving the backpack at the bottom and the bottle abandoned by Louis' feet.

Eyeing the ladder warily, Louis rubs the sweat on his palms against his trackies, tucking the alcohol into the bag and swinging a clatter of glass and cans over his shoulder. He tries not to think about how old the bolts must be as he lifts his leg over the chains, or how far down six floors really is, focusing instead on matching his hands to the spots Harry grabbed onto, the worn-out prints on the metal probably left from him going up this thing, god knows how many times before.

It creaks alarmingly as he makes his way to the top, muscles straining when he finally pulls himself through. The night air greets him instantly in a rush of cool wind, and when he lifts his head, he's met with the faraway skyline of Manchester, lit up and glowing from the cluster of city buildings and apartments below.

A shiver runs up Louis' spine, noticing that the roof has no ledge, just a flat concrete surface that drops off sharply, the precipice making his legs suddenly unsteady beneath him.

"Wow…" He breathes, dropping the bag. Distantly, Harry is standing at the corner like it barely fazes him, hands deep in his pockets, staring out into the night with a cigarette between his lips.

And he can't really help himself, even with this painstaking gulf between them. His heart is barely hanging on as is, he doesn't need it falling off the edge with Harry.

"Hey, maybe you should come back over here, yeah?" Louis blurts out, daring an inch further. "It's not… really safe to stand there like that." It's mostly because he's also been drinking, swaying lightly against the breeze.

Harry shoots him a glance over his shoulder, hard to make out in the dark, then flicks the cigarette into the air like nothing. Christ, he really needed him to sit.

Louis’ shoulders sag in relief when Harry turns back around, crouching to drop the wooden slat back over the opening before fussing with his bag. Had he always been a person who worried this much, or was this restless, unstoppable feeling something that only came the second he met Harry?

Eventually, he finds a safe perch by some old stacked pipes, tucking his knees up to his chest. The silence drags for ages, Harry organizing his cans and setting up his plywood under a dim strip of light, until he finally pulls the bottle from his bag and sets it down beside Louis.

"Sorry, it's vodka." He mutters, grabbing a blue can and rattling it around. "Didn't have anything else."

"It's alright," Louis responds, perhaps too quickly. He probably shouldn't be drinking at all with this interview hanging over him early tomorrow morning, but truthfully, he needs all of the courage he can get, and at this point, he barely cares about anything else, desperately trying to find the right moment to bring them back to the very reason he came.

He watches Harry shake the can around absently, glaring down at the plywood in search of a good place to start. Louis knows he needs to speak now, or they’d just keep circling like this forever, both of them infuriatingly skilled at avoiding conversations that actually matter.

Taking a long, harsh sip of the vodka, Louis finally clears his throat, wiping his mouth with the end of his hoodie sleeve to break the tension, "Harry?" He asks softly, wincing at how uncertain it sounds.

Harry's shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before he forces them loose, keeping his attenton fixed below. He keeps working, testing the nozzle on a corner of the wood, spraying thick, dark lines across the length of it, "Coverage's shit, but it'll do."

Louis' throat tightens, slightly discouraged as Harry’s arms move carelessly, continuing to paint as if he hadn't said anything at all. He scoots a few inches closer then, trying again, "Hey, H…can we talk?"

The strong breeze whips around the wild strands escaping Harry's bun, his free hand brushing them aside almost violently, like they were interrupting his thoughts, "About what?" He furrows his brow, the tone both dismissive and concentrated.

Louis sighs, trying to meet his line of sight, "You know what I'm talking about…"

"What?" Harry scoffs, switching to a purple can and tossing the cap. "The wedding?" His movements get faster, less precise as he starts to spray again, opposite the rigidity in his jaw, stopping only to fill the silence with the can’s loud rattling, resetting his grip.

And Louis is nearly on the verge of pushing now, demanding Harry to stop fucking pretending that he's not hurting when it's heartwrenchingly obvious that he is, to listen, admit that this is just as hard for him too. But the wound of his own words feels deep and permanent, the sting of making Harry cry still painfully fresh in the back of his mind.

He can see those walls towering high over him again, and Louis knows he won't be able to get Harry to lower them, not without patience, "Yes, H, the wedding—"

"Emmy tried to set me up with one of Anna's mates," He murmurs suddenly, pulling back to assess his work. His shoulders are drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the spray while he squints. "Some arsehole art director, apparently." He gnaws at his lip, deep in thought before spinning the wood around on a new angle, "Got stuck talking with him earlier in the night, made me show him some pictures of my work."

A stuttered sound leaves Louis' lips, too focused on trying to ignore the diversion to pay mind to the smallest twinge of possessiveness picking at him, the passing thought of Harry being set up with someone else making his stomach turn unpleasantly. "Um, that's not what I was—that's not what I meant—"

"Looked at everything for about thirty seconds before telling me my work was too 'aggressive'." He continues, huffing a bitter sound. "Wanna know what he said?" The can clanks as he sets it down harshly, Harry letting it roll away from him, not bothering to reach, "If I want to 'succeed' in this industry, I need to learn how to make myself more 'palatable', digestible for wider audiences."

Another louder, more incredulous laugh burst out of him then, as he fights to push down whatever emotion's trying to surface, "Took about everything in me not to punch him clean in his jaw."

Scooting closer, Louis swallows with worry, "Harry…" He says, trying to steer him back gently. He can see the anger building in his expression, the flare in his nostrils sharpening with every word, barely containing the cracks in his composure.

Harry just shakes his head, snatching another paint, muttering to himself, "As if watering myself down for painting frilly flowers on a pair of fucking throw pillows is the only way anyone will ever take me seriously." His words slur together the faster he speaks, "These people don't really know what they're fucking talking about, they just don't give a shit for what's real—"

"Harry!" The name scrapes from Louis' chest, a choked plea of anguish. He pushes himself up to his knees, placing a trembling hand over Harry's, stopping him from pressing down on the nozzle again.

"Can we talk?" His beg is a desperate, shaky breath. "Please, like, properly fucking talk?"

Harry stills with his eyes trained to the wood, barely blinking as Louis lowers their hands until the can rests delicately at his side.

"Please, Harry." Louis' voice catches, "I'm serious."

Nothing else is said for a few tense minutes, the hum of nearby trains carrying over the unforgiving wind. Harry's head turns away as he contemplates, the set of his jaw releasing the longer Louis' hand stays over his, rubbing an apologetic thumb against his skin in a quiet effort to soothe.

"…Are you cold?" He ducks his head closer, noticing the goosebumps running along Harry's arms. Whether it's from his touch or September making an early welcome, he doesn't know for sure, but Louis inches further in the small space anyway, hoping the small gesture reaches him.

After another long pause, Harry's grip finally loosens, setting the can down lightly.

Taking the chance, Louis unzips his hoodie, shrugging it off to offer better warmth to him, "Here." He nudges Harry's arm with the fabric, "Take it." It's both a peace offering and a subtle invitation, Louis determined to win back any piece of Harry's trust that he can.

Louis' heart pounds in his throat as Harry's shoulders slowly drop, peering down at the grey zip-up through his peripheral with cautious consideration. Then, to Louis' miraculous relief, he takes it, holding it awkwardly but acceptingly.

He watches as Harry slides his arms through the sleeves, curling his hands into the opening with fingers barely slipping through, the grey material falling loosely over his knuckles. It's much larger on Louis than it is on him, somehow fitting perfectly like it was always meant for him to have.

The sight alone does dangerous things to his chest, Louis holding his breath while Harry struggles with the zip, contemplating whether to do it up or leave it open. He settles for somewhere in between, pulling it halfway up his chest before letting his hands fall away.

Their eyes meet then, the silence a lot different than before—just as heavy but expectant now, almost like Harry's finally giving him the floor, waiting to see if Louis will actually say what he came here to say.

All of the nerves in his gut tighten under that look, his voice faltering before it even forms. "Harry, um." Louis clears his throat, not knowing exactly where to start, but just needing to get it out before he loses the courage entirely, "Listen, I-I came here because I wanted—needed—to apologize." He forces himself to continue, "For what I said about Mina, about you—fuck, for all of it." His words are shaky, tumbling out fast like he’s afraid Harry will stand up and walk away before he even gets the chance to finish.

Harry stares blankly as Louis rambles, his expression still unreadable beneath the light, "I had no right to say that, make you feel like you were just—" Louis cuts himself off again, brows pulling together as he struggles to articulate the depth of his regret. He gestures between them, "Like what we have isn't—" Another false start. "Shit, Harry—I don't know. This has been eating at me for fucking days."

Louis shifts his weight, trying really hard to focus, his gaze nervously darting away each time they meet Harry's. But it's like all of the thoughts in his head are fighting each other to come out, piling up so fast that his mouth can’t keep pace.

"I don't really know how to do this." His voice is a low rasp. "I don't really know how to be honest about what I feel because I've spent so long trying not to feel it all."

Harry leans forward then, inching near Louis as he reaches for the vodka tossed aside. The movement breaks their tenuous eye contact, a tiny reprieve for Louis' growing anxiety. He shuts his eyes as he takes a deep breath, listening to the sounds of Harry sipping, tucking his trembling hands beneath his legs.

"I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me, Harry," Louis admits after another pause, barely a whisper. "I don't know why I'm like this, but I never wanted to hurt you." He opens his eyes to find Harry looking directly at him, throat working silently. So he makes sure that his next words are clear, fully heard, "But I did. I hurt you, and what I said was wrong. So fucking wrong. I'm sorry."

The magnitude of his sorrow hangs thick in the night, not nearly enough for all of the things he still needs to say. Louis can see Harry trying to process it slowly, using the moments between sips of vodka to buy more time before choosing to respond.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough but certain, setting the bottle down between them with a clink. "There's nothing wrong with you."

Louis shakes his head immediately, "But there is." A broken, wet laugh bubbles out of him, "There's so much wrong with me, Harry." He brings his knees up to his chest again, wrapping his arms around them in hopes of keeping the burn in his eyes hidden. "You were right. I'm a coward—"

"No—Louis," Harry sighs quickly, his body sagging in resignation. He pauses, rubbing his hands over his face. "You're not—you're not a coward, I should've never said that." The words are muffled through his palm, but Louis can feel the distress behind them.

"I am a coward, Harry," He can't help but disagree. "Look at what I've done, I've created a fucking mess." Louis' voice rises slightly, edged with a frustration that's only directed at himself because now there's tears forming, "Can't even fucking face myself, and I'm hurting everyone the longer I do that. I'm—"

"S'not true, Lou…" The gentle sound of his nickname slips out, drawing Louis right back to him, despite himself. It's like he always forgets how truly, utterly powerless he is against Harry's buried softness, instantly folding into himself under the weight of just three words.

There's an apologetic look on Harry's face as he shifts over, knocking their knees together, "Wasn't fair of me to throw that in your face when you're just trying to figure yourself out." He leans closer, offering an understanding that settles into the silence.

Louis can barely see him through his blurring vision, all of his suppressed emotions coming to the forefront, threatening to spill out of him like a dam breaking free. He bites the inside of his cheek, needing to look away before he shatters entirely under Harry’s forgiving gaze. He doesn't deserve it.

"I'm trying." The words are broken, small. "I'm really fucking trying, Harry. I'm just—I'm scared, I'm—"

"I know." Harry nods, "It's not your fault—"

"No, just let me—" Louis huffs, getting impatient again. What he really wants to say is right there, wanting to break through his chest, but refusing to come out. Shaking his head, he fidgets with his trackies, trying to steady himself against the violent surge of longing. "I'm—I'm scared because I'm terrified of what I feel for you." It comes out slowly, Louis still staring off into the vacant lot across the street.

A warm hand finds his, stopping his fingers from anxiously twisting around the fabric, the final threads of Louis’ self-control. He takes a deep, shuddering breath in one last attempt to ground himself. And then, like a flood, it all comes rushing out.

"I've never felt anything like this before in my life, not with anyone," Louis admits in another wavering breath, a lot shakier than the first. "It's like when I'm with you, everything goes fucking quiet, and it's never been quiet for me. Not once. And I can't—I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since the day that I met you, and I'm afraid I never will. But, it's like, I don't care, I don't want it to—don't want you to."

God, he'd spent so fucking long fighting himself, fighting this, afraid of what his attraction to Harry meant, of who that made him, that he'd lived in fear of his own heart. Now it's all coming to a head, whether he likes it or not, and he can't ignore it anymore. Because part of him knows he’d felt that gravitational pull toward Harry from the very moment they met, and the more they both fought against it, the less forgiving the fall became.

Feeling particularly bold in his confession, Louis risks meeting Harry's gaze again through damp lashes, "I can't—I can't really explain it, Harry." He inhales, pulse beating so hard he’s sure it’ll burst, "I'm just… I'm in love with you."

Harry's breath catches audibly, his grip on Louis' hand slipping as it falls back to rest by his side. His brows knit together in confusion, then lift in surprise as the weight of Louis' admission finally hits him.

He parts his lips, half-mouthing words that don't come out.

But Louis isn't done, unable to stop now that he's started. "Everything I thought my life was supposed to be just... doesn't make sense anymore." He continues, trudging forward even though his words are raw and strained. "Not when I compare it to how I feel when I'm with you."

Those five words hang between them, carried away by the wind that whistles past the edge of the roof. For several long, anxious seconds, the only sound is the vicious thud of Louis' heart, reverberating through his skull in nettling bursts of fear and anticipation.

Harry just stares at him, wide-eyed and stricken. "Louis, I—"

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything back," Louis rushes to add, sniffling and wiping at his face as hot tears fall against his will. "I just—I really needed you to know, okay? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Harry's expression softens completely, the last of his walls crumbling while he watches Louis break down in front of him. His fingers twitch forward, like he's fighting the urge to reach out.

And then his lashes flutter, "Baby…" He says gently, grabbing for Louis' hand now. "No, it's not...it's not that. I just—we should probably talk…"

Baby.

The endearment practically knocks Louis dizzy, constricting his lungs. Maybe it's the onslaught of emotions puddling together in ways he hasn't let himself fully sit with yet, but anything else Harry tries to say becomes distant, muffled as blood rushes through his veins. His heart stutters, then restarts at twice the speed, caught completely off guard by the surprisingly sweet endearment falling so naturally from Harry's lips.

It becomes hard to focus on anything else, hard to breathe past the overwhelming want crashing through him. Before Louis knows it, he's closing the distance, trembling hands reaching to cup Harry's jaw, pulling him in, and kissing the words right off his mouth.

Harry gasps, seemingly startled by the sudden force, but instantly slacks when Louis parts his lips to deepen it, yielding with a quiet, desperate sound. The tiny shudder brings butterflies alive to Louis' stomach, loosening the knot that's lived there for days.

He needs to show him, prove to Harry that his words were honest, that if he could turn back time and do it all over, but better, he would in a heartbeat. He'd be better this time, really. He'd be so fucking brave, knowing that it all led to this, to Harry in his arms, where every single fear suddenly feels minuscule, insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

The kiss is slow but powerful, full of yearning and regret. Louis pours almost everything he has left into it, tugging Harry fully into his space and pressing deeper into him until their chests connect, desperate to convey everything his words couldn’t.

When Louis breaks to nose into Harry's neck, Harry's breath catches sharply, one hand gripping tight around his waist, "Lou, w-wait—" his other flies up to ground in Louis' hair, fingers threading in the wisps at the nape of his neck. "Hold on, we really should talk about—oh," he moans, Louis sucking into the tender spot that makes him shiver. "Fuck."

Tilting his head, Louis murmurs, 'not now,' into the skin, trailing passionate, heated kisses along the curve of his throat. It's unbearably urgent, almost blistering with need, bruising sweet little love bites as he maps his way back to his mouth.

"Fuck—ah, but, Lou, I—" Harry's protest is instantly swallowed by Louis' lips, dissolving into a whiny plea.

"Later," Louis whispers, slipping his hands beneath the hem of the hoodie, roaming greedily. He adjusts his body so that Harry's legs intertwine with his, letting nothing else stand between them any longer, too lost in the now to care about words or reason, "Never needed anyone like you."

As soon as he says it, Harry squeezes his eyes shut like the confession physically hurts him. And before Louis can register that or think too much of it, he simply melts into the claim, letting himself be consumed, "Okay, Lou." He rasps impatiently, nodding into the kiss. "Fuck, okay, yeah, later." Then he's tilting them backwards until Louis' back softly meets the concrete.

Everything that comes next happens in one frenzied blur, Harry crawling over Louis, lean thighs bracketing around his hips, neither pulling away. They move together in tandem, tongues clashing hungrily, fighting for control, or maybe just trying to mollify the heartache that's still buried between them.

Louis' fingers drift to where Harry's hair is still tied back, a little messy and frizzy now from all their fumbling. Finding the elastic, he tugs it loose, letting soft, unruly curls blanket over his face. Without really thinking about it, the hairband slips onto his wrist, a simple keepsake tucked away absently.

His hands ghost along the sides of Harry's waist and thighs, gripping onto his ass to better guide the sway of his hips. Harry whimpers into his mouth as Louis rocks back up to meet him, the pace almost frantic, restless, heady with feeling. The sweet, desperate sounds echo off the rooftop, building a new kind of heat that forces them to forget about the breeze.

Words aren't really needed anymore, Louis hurriedly peels his hoodie from Harry's shoulders and tosses it aside without care, rolling them over onto the fabric so he's hovering above. Harry helps with the rest, hips lifting to undress himself between fevered kisses, legs locking around Louis' waist like he belongs nowhere else.

Louis' clothes stay mostly intact, Harry only bothering with what's absolutely necessary, untying and tugging just enough of his trackies to get what he needs. The spare condom Louis keeps in his wallet, for moments like these, finds its way into his hands, and then he's settling over Harry again, pressing their foreheads together.

Harry stares up at Louis, holding his gaze with an almost magnetized intensity, tenderly wiping away what's left of the drying tears on his cheeks.

There's something conflicted there, a look nearing close to guilt, or maybe just longing.

Running a loving thumb along Harry's jaw, Louis leans closer, brushing his lips against Harry’s again, "Only you."

Because even if he can't say the words back, his pupils are unmistakably large, dark, giving him away with what Louis already knows is deep in his own.

"Oh, fuck, Louis—"

Harry's mouth falls on a guttural moan as Louis slowly bottoms out, his hands sweeping under the hem of Louis' t-shirt, digging roughly in his back.

He looks as devastating as always, the moon highlighting what Louis finds is now his favorite shade of baby pink, staining high on Harry's cheeks. Slowly, he presses delicate kisses along the flush, savoring the stillness before starting to move.

They've had sex plenty times before, but not quite like this. It's different this time, every motion deliberate, intentional. Louis almost feels hazy, drawing back his hips and fucking into Harry in tender, lengthy strokes, drinking in how easily he always seems to fall apart, like this part of Harry is meant for only him.

"LouisLouisLouisPlease—"

He captures Harry's broken cries in open-mouth kisses, aching to grab onto any part of him that he can. Louis wants to memorize this, the way that he feels and tastes, ingraining the smooth curves of his muscles against his palms, mapping every taut line from his stomach to his waist and chest.

He's almost certain Harry's doing the same, his hands sliding over his shoulder blades and trickling down along his spine, soothing him over with a touch so fragile, it nearly breaks him. Louis picks up the pace then, pulling out swiftly and slamming his cock back inside him with relentless need, driving them both closer and closer towards the edge.

Harry can barely keep up, his chest arching high, mumbling incoherently between ragged gasps. It doesn't take very long for either of them to spill over, Harry always first and Louis not far behind, eventually collapsing in on one another, breathing heavily under the stars while staying purposefully tangled.

Neither of them say anything as they slowly recollect themselves, listening to the calming sounds of the trees and each other's heartbeats. Harry's arms wrap around Louis' shoulders, drawing him in, carding gently through the sweaty strands of his hair, twirling his fingers through the ends of it. He doesn't want to move, and probably can't anyway, lost in the sensation of Harry’s mending touch, as if time itself had paused for them.

Soaking it all in, Louis lets his exhausted mind wander over to the version of them that's been living in there lately, slowly drifting with the thoughts of who they could be together in a world without massive complications.

No secrets, no walls, no stress.

Selfishly, he lets himself think about what it would feel like to wake up to Harry every day, spending nights in whatever studio he finds himself in next. Hopefully, one with a proper kitchen and a stove, so he can make tea for him in between painting sessions. He could cook for him too, make him the only proper meal he knows how to make, and they could argue over what films to watch over dinner, curling up on a couch with a spliff, poking at each other's tastes.

He wonders, for a moment, what it would be like to just let go, to take him out on a real date, to kiss him just because he can, not having to check over his shoulder or worry about who might catch them or see, for more reasons than just one.

No more hiding, no more pretending, no more of this hollow fucking ache that rips through him whenever they spend too much time apart. Just the version of him that can be honest, real, not completely terrified to love openly, the way Harry deserves to be loved.

And fuck, Louis wants that version of the future more than anything else, the one where loving Harry isn't something that has to hurt.

Chapter Text

Snap

The elastic hits Louis' pulse point again, drawing the glare of the woman sitting beside him, her disapproval sharp enough to make his hand still mid-tug. She looks down at his wrist, then back up at him, crossing her arms over her purple blazer as if she’s finally piecing together that he really shouldn't be here.

"Sorry…" He mutters, forcing a small, polite grin before turning his attention over to literally anything else. The office feels too sterile, too soulless to stare at for too long, and painfully quiet, an eerie contrast to the nonstop thump of his heel softly thudding against the bleak, low-pile carpet.

The day had already started with a frantic jolt, Louis somehow waking up right before sunrise, still in Harry's bed with his clothes fully off. He had to have been asleep for less than an hour with how heavy his head felt, instantly greeted by a lingering taste of vodka and pounding temples. It was a fogginess that only comes from excessive drinking and baring your heart, time slipping by in hazy sex that's more than just physical, leaving no time for breath or rest.

Harry was wrapped around him lazily, sweetly snoring against his chest, curls wild across his skin, barely budging as Louis cursed to himself in absolute panic. He leaped off the mattress, searching for his belongings and dressing quickly, not bothering to grab for his hoodie as he trailed soft, loving kisses along Harry's jaw. "We'll talk later, baby, alright?" He promised in a raspy whisper, "I've got to go, but I'll be back, okay?" And Harry incoherently mumbled something that tugged tight at his chest, nuzzling deeper into the warmth Louis was about to steal away.

Louis knew, somewhere in the back of his barely functioning mind, that he should stay. That this interview was the last fucking thing he wanted to do, that Harry's warmth was everything he needed, especially in that moment. But the burden of expectation doesn't just crumble in one night, no matter how life-changing. So he ran back home to shower, to change, all while internally reassuring himself that he would figure it all out once he could get this major obligation off his back.

After all, later was the only thing they really had for themselves.

He'd finish the interview, rush back over to Harry's, crawl right back into his bed, and finally ask him about London. The rush of his confession's still buzzing wild under his skin despite it all, enough to make him believe they can truly work something out either way.

Louis texted Harry as soon as he'd gotten home:

missing you already talk soon x

Still no response, but it was early. They had time.

Five hours later, there's a tiny red spot blooming across his wrist, dread taking form in how he's seeking comfort from Harry's hair band. He spent half his time here trying to find the right way to sit, whether to fold his hands or cross his ankles, and the other half people-watching, observing how everyone moves so effortlessly with their briefcases and pressed collars, like they’d all been born knowing exactly where they belonged, and it's painstakingly obvious he's still trying to work it out.

It's doubtful that anyone here is as much of a mess as he is, hungover and out of sorts, trying to stay alert against the tile lights threatening to smite him. His mouth tastes like cheap, burnt coffee and the winter-fresh gum Harry leaves in his center console, a stupid attempt to mask the alcohol he'd thrown up in the office's car park this morning. The collective sounds of typing and incessant ringing of phones hammer against his head, each beep and mechanical whirr driving home just how truly unprepared he is.

He hasn't even properly prepared a single answer, hasn't even considered what sort of questions they'd ask him, even when Mina had gone over them with him ages ago, back when this future still felt like something he could maybe learn to want, if he just tried hard enough. She'd curl up on his bed, back in his old, tiny flat, hair freshly wet from the shower, flipping through a stack of cards she'd made just for him.

"And where do you see yourself in five years, Mr. Tomlinson?" She'd laughed in a mock-serious voice, swatting at him playfully when he'd grabbed the cards right from her hands, tossing them carelessly in the air, both of them falling into a mess of giggles as he pinched her sides instead of answering. "Lou, come on," she'd said, trying to be stern but smiling too widely. "You need to take this seriously."

But he never did, did he?

Never actually tried because he never really believed that this day would come, hoping he'd somehow get out of it by stalling long enough, or by some convenient stroke of fate that’d end up making the choice for him. That maybe Mina would finally see him through, listen to all his pleading and complaining, and not crush him beneath the weight of all the promises he made, even if they stopped meaning the same thing a long time ago.

And still, here he is, sitting in a stiff leather chair that creaks with his every self-conscious move, stuffed in an expensive navy suit that belongs more to Mina's father than himself, with an anxious mind full of Harry, and absolutely nothing useful to say about his apparent all-burning passion for corporate law.

Because maybe this is what being an adult really means, convincing yourself it’s pure responsibility and ownership when your heart’s still beating warm in bed, curled up in cotton white sheets that smell like paint-thinner, leathery spice, and cigarettes, even as the guilt of trying to keep everyone safe from the wreckage eats you alive.

Two years of trying to be what Mina needs him to be, what her father expects him to become for her. The least he can do is fucking show up and not embarrass her after all the damage he's already done. He owes her that much, at least even if it means clinging to the idea that doing the right thing still has to count for something.

Besides, it's only an hour of his life.

The interview doesn't have to mean anything. He doesn't even have to accept it or get it right. It's merely ticking a box, getting it done so everyone will stop worrying about him for five bloody minutes. Then he can focus on making everything else right.

Breathe.

Louis snaps the band again, this time fully ignoring the loud, dissatisfied scoff of the other interviewee. Clearly, she's never been in a position of having to live in tiny, scattered pieces, all while expected to look whole, gluing yourself together with nothing but wearing-thin guilt and the ache of wanting to believe that, somewhere deep down, there are still remnants of a good person in there.

"…Mr. Tomlinson?"

His head snaps to the right, where a taller woman in a matching grey suit and short honey-blonde hair is waiting to greet him. Her grin is tight, but polite enough to pass, and he knows, just by the way that she's tapping her manila folder against her thigh, that she must be Claudia, the cordial but intimidatingly sharp hiring manager Mina mentioned doesn’t forgive a bad first impression.

Quickly, he stands to full height, dusting his blazer of any odd wrinkles before equipping the most presentable smile he can, feeling the attention of the room zoning in on the nervous tremor of his extended hand.

"Hi there, Good Morning!" She gives Louis a firm shake, her eye contact a bit too precise for the chirp in her tone. "I'm Mrs. Shaw, but you can call me Claudia. I'll be conducting your interview today."

"Pleasure to meet you," He nods, the painful drag of exhaustion in his sleep-deprived voice still present as ever, apparently. "Louis."

The handshake goes on for a second too long, Claudia pulling back first with a pursed lip, "Oh, wow, with an 'e'." She arches an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Had it in my mind that it was pronounced Lewis. Good thing to know, I suppose."

Louis lets out a forced laugh, shrugging it off, "Ah, that's alright. Happens more than you think." He clears his throat, trying to seem as relaxed as possible, though his stomach knots tighter with every second of lingering eye contact, wondering if she could sense all of the conflict on him.

"Well then, Louis with an e," Claudia steps back, gesturing toward the corridor with her folder, "Why don't you come with me, and we'll head over to the conference room and get started."

She starts leading them past the paintings lining the beige colored walls, a series of motivational quotes slathered over abstract blobs or muted city landscapes. Louis can't help but think about how utterly boring they all look as he follows, quite amusing in its forced serenity. It's the kind of art Harry would definitely hate, rolling his eyes at the lifelessness without a second thought, probably muttering something under his breath about it lacking any real depth.

He bites his lip as he smiles at the thought, softly running his index finger along the hairband once more, a tiny thread that floats his racing thoughts back down to something safe.

"And how are you finding the building?" Claudia glances over her shoulder as they turn a corner, "A Bit different from where you usually work, I imagine."

Louis drops his grin, tucking his tentative hands behind his back, "Yeah, um, it's...a bit different." The shuffle of their footsteps click as they step onto hardwood. "A lot quieter." He'd gotten so used to the constant bustle of The KettlePot over the years that anything but is jarringly still.

Claudia just chuckles, stopping right at two large ceiling-to-floor doors. She gently slides them open, revealing a windowless room with a large round table in the center, "Well, that'll change once you're dealing with angry clients all day instead of hungry ones." She winks at him, offering for him to head inside first.

He glances around the large space as he takes initiative, that low, nagging sort of uneasiness kicking right back up. It looks more like an interrogation room than anything, the way the tracklights halo like a spotlight over his supposed seat.

"Hope your travels weren't too hectic this morning," Louis startles when the doors slam shut behind him. Claudia moves towards the water cooler by an overgrown peace lily, filling up two mugs labeled 'Bridgewater Legal' in dark blocky text, "Lots of morning rush today."

Swallowing down his nerves, he slinks into one of the rolling chairs at the far end of the table, settling in cautiously, "No, not at all, managed to dodge most of the chaos, luckily." God, he really hates the empty banality of small talk. Interviews. All of it. "Can’t really say the same for my nerves, though."

It was almost too easy at The KettlePot, how he'd basically just waltzed in after seeing a sign on the window during a walk back from campus, instantly hitting it off with Jeanine, cracking jokes with her about server life and stories about ridiculous customer experiences to the point of forgetting there was even an interview happening. He'd only ever been a barista at that point, but the banter gave him a rare, easy confidence he wasn’t used to.

And maybe it was a bit unprofessional, but that was the whole appeal. The very reason why he accepted the offer in a blink, and stayed for years after, because he truly could not imagine working anywhere else.

“You really have no need to be nervous,” Claudia waves a hand, half laughing as she plops one of the mugs down on a granite coaster, "I've only ever heard good stuff about you."

"Thank you," Louis takes the ceramic, then furrows his brows, doing a double take, "Wait, what—really?" The shock slips out automatically.

He allows himself to relax slightly. Maybe this wouldn't be as terrible as he'd thought. Maybe he could get through this quickly enough to get back to Harry before he wakes up. The thought of kissing that sleepy smile off his face soothes something in Louis' chest.

"Oh, absolutely," She grins at his slightly stunned expression, settling into the seat opposite him, "It's quite rare that we ever get a recommendation from Mr. Patel himself."

And just like that, the momentary peace evaporates. The mention of Mina's father makes Louis' heart drop, his expression faltering back to uncertain, "He doesn’t hand those out lightly, you know. So we're thrilled to have you as a candidate.”

He has to clamp his mouth shut to prevent himself from either scoffing or laughing nervously at that. In all of the two years that he's known Mr. Patel, the man has barely managed more than a few curt nods in his direction, their conversations always leading back to either his career or potential, whether he's started properly investing or still blowing his money on takeaway and pints. Even at their first meeting, when Mina had proudly brought him home, introducing him as her boyfriend, Mr. Patel had barely seemed impressed, turning the conversation to his daughter's accomplishments instead, making it painfully clear that he doubted Louis' ability to keep up.

A brilliant, raving review from him? It had to be for no other than Mina's sake. Giving an opportunity to interview is one thing, but believing Louis actually earned it? Yeah, right. It's all just another attempt to shape him into someone worthy of his daughter's future, to mold him into the kind of man who belongs in places like this, a man he's unfortunately not.

"Alright…" Claudia hums to herself as she sifts through a laminated copy of his resume, fingers tapping lightly against the page as her eyes scan over the lines. "I see here…graduated from Manchester Metropolitan with a degree in Sociology…" She glances up at him with a brief, unreadable smile, flipping it over to review the back.

Louis just nods politely, shifting forward in his seat, and resisting the urge to let his knee bounce wildly, tension humming throughout his tendons as he forces himself to keep still.

Claudia arches a brow then, tilting her head gently, "Background is mostly in hospitality as mentioned…The KettlePot for a few years…" She brings the page closer, squinting for a better look. "And you're currently still employed there, correct?"

"Yes," Louis answers too quickly, dragging his attention back from the faint pattern on the wall behind her. "I still—I still work there."

"Hmm…" There's a small, deliberate pause. "Okay." And he can't tell whether that's a good okay or a bad one.

Finally setting his resume aside, Claudia meets his gaze again, the smile gone this time. She folds her hands on the desk, leaning over her elbows, "So tell me, Mr. Tomlinson, what made you interested in working this particular field? It's such a complete turn from what I see you've done previously."

There it is, the dreaded question. The one Louis doesn't have an actual answer for, other than that it’s always been about the money or the benefits, or so he doesn’t feel like a failure. Even sitting here now, wasting both of their time trying to come up with something that sounds convincing, all while mentally counting down the seconds until he’s back with the man he’s still trying to figure out how to have a real future with.

His palms start to sweat the longer they exchange glances, so he clears his throat, scrambling for words, "Well, uh, I suppose what drew me to law was, um—" He almost says Mina's name, but catches himself, forcing the thought back in before it slips out. "Well, um, law structures things, right? Makes everything make sense, you know. And I, um, enjoy the challenge of getting—"

A loud ping coming from his pocket suddenly chimes through the room, alarming Claudia and making his heart jostle against his lungs. She gasps, widening her eyes at him as he stutters, "Oh, Christ. I am—I'm so sorry…" Fuck, he totally forgot to turn off his notifications when he was waiting for Harry's reply earlier, "I should probably…um, should probably silence this thing, right?"

He chuckles nervously as Claudia relaxes, seemingly amused by it, "It's alright, no worries at all." His shoulders sag in relief as she smirks, "Won't take anything off your score."

Inhaling deeply, he shoots her an apologetic look, snatching the device from his inner jacket pocket. The embarrassment quickly leaves him when he sees that little 'H' at the center of his screen, Harry finally awake, probably wishing him a good morning like he always does.

But it isn't until he shuts off the ringer that he actually reads over the text:

H: I'm sorry Louis.

The three words throw him off, the crease in his brow deepening.

I'm sorry Louis?

Sorry for fucking what?

Louis frowns, staring at it.

What could Harry possibly be sorry for?

His mind races through the memories of last night, flipping through every single blurred detail: his honest confession, the long night of sex, Harry's soft breaths against his chest. Had he said something wrong? Was Harry regretting letting him come over?

Fuck.

Does he not feel the same and is now feeling bad for it?

"…Everything okay, Mr. Tomlinson?" Claudia's muffled voice draws him back up, a concerned but assessing look on her face, like she's trying to gauge whether or not he’s still in the room with her.

Blinking rapidly, Louis peers down at the text, then over to her, thumbs twitching over the screen, "Yeah, um, yes," He nods vigorously, trying to refocus, but can't really ignore the small pinch of worry tugging at him, "Sorry, I just—um.. I just.." He turns his attention back to his phone, swiftly unlocking it.

Perhaps it's a bad look, and it could probably really wait until after he's done here, but something feels off, a heavy kind of off he can’t really talk himself into ignoring:

you dont have to be sorry for anything? promise x

He sends back, ready to shove the phone back into his pocket.

But it doesn't deliver, despite his full signal.

The message just sits there.

Readjusting in his seat, Louis' pulse slightly rises as he retypes the message, attempting to send it again, fully aware of Claudia's stare at him.

When it doesn't go through the second time, he gapes at it, a cold spike of dread sweeping over him, "I, um—" He looks back up, letting out a weary breath, "I…I'm so sorry, Mrs. Shaw. What was the, um, what was the question again?" There had to be some sort of explanation, maybe a networking issue in the room that was interfering with his service.

Claudia seems taken aback by his sudden fluster, eyes narrowing a bit as she registers the shift in his demeanor. After another few, silent seconds, he realizes she's waiting for him to put his phone away, so he does, starting to fiddle with the edge of his sleeve instead.

"The question, Mr. Tomlinson…" She exhales, her voice less friendly than before, now a tad clipped, "…was with your particular background, how do you intend to transition from restaurant work into legal administration?" Her pen starts to tap against his resume, drumming in time with his fretful heart. "Mr. Patel did mention that you're interested in our litigation department. Do you have any experience with contract law or commercial proceedings?"

But the words ricochet right off the fog forming around him, mind still stuck on different variations of what Harry's message could mean.

The weight of his phone feels heavier than ever, the urge to check it again nearly vital, to try calling, to do anything but sit here, frozen, pretending to give a shit about litigation when Harry could be upset about how the night went, thinking he’s made another mistake for drinking and letting Louis back in.

It had to be a misunderstanding, right? Harry wouldn't possibly shut him out like this?

"Mr. Patel also mentioned you're already familiar with the firm's culture through one of our paralegals, Mina..." Claudia leans forward, folding her hands on the desk as she searches his face for any sign of engagement. "That must make the transition easier, having that...inside perspective." She glances down at his resume again, eyebrows lifting. "But I do see you've listed proficiency in document preparation. Could you maybe tell me about any legal documentation you've handled in the past?"

"Uh…" The sound is thin, distant, a very weak attempt at composure as panic starts to climb up his chest slowly. He tries to shake it off, smoothing his hands over his thighs to ground himself, but his voice wavers, brain stuttering, "I—well…"

He can barely think, barely get any words out, the walls starting to press in as his vision tunnels on Claudia's expectant glare, becoming more concerned as silence drags between them. Her pen stills mid-tap as he completely blanks, the air stifling, broken only by his tiny, shuddering breaths.

Because sorry for what?

Sorry I can't do this anymore? Sorry this isn't enough? Sorry you're too late?

Did Harry already make a fucking choice?

The thoughts consume him as new scenarios flood his mind, each one worse than the last.

"…Perhaps we should take a short break?" Claudia says, setting her pen down carefully. She's looking at him now like she's worried he might puke. "I understand that this might be nerve-racking, but surely—"

"No, I just—" Louis shakes his head, swallowing hard. There's absolutely no point in explaining now. He's clearly fucked everything up by coming here in the first place, and Harry's decided to absolve him of any responsibility, any chance to make things right. "Please tell Mr. Patel that I'm sorry—I've just," He stands abruptly, somehow knocking over the mug with his arm, sending water splashing across the polished table.

"Shit—I'm sorry, fuck." He scrambles to mop it up with his sleeve, only managing to send the mug skittering toward Claudia, who jerks back in her chair with her hands out to catch it, "Fuck, I'm sorry." He repeats, pushing back his chair now. "I've just, I've got to go."

He's already on his feet when Claudia's voice trails behind him, "Mr. Tomlinson, we can easily reschedule if today isn't suitable…." But it's drowned out with the groan of the sliding doors as he bursts into the hallway, fumbling for his phone with trembling fingers.

He moves quickly, swiping to Harry's contact and hitting dial, pressing the phone to his ear as he half-runs through the lobby, nearly colliding with the receptionist who turns the corner holding a stack of papers.

Straight to voicemail.

Cutting off the automated message, Louis tries again.

Again. And again. And again.

His steps falter as reality finally catches up.

Harry's fucking blocked him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

With Louis rushing over to Harry's again, an impending flood of loss engulfing him, sweeping away the relief he’d foolishly expected. Still in his suit, still trying to call him, still gripped by the denial of Harry actually cutting him out for good.

He's never been much of a crier, but Louis can’t really recall his heart ever having this much to lose.

And maybe that’s what happens when you finally realize that it’s all your fault.

That maybe, if he'd just stopped and better explained last night, this wouldn't be happening. If he just let Harry fucking talk like he needed to instead of getting overwhelmed with emotion, kissing him like that could rebuild what words couldn’t, like love alone was enough to undo what he'd broken.

But he let himself think that his confession could be enough, that his first time stepping up, being brave, declaring what he actually wants—in pretty words and promises of later, later, always fucking later—would fully stop Harry from slipping away from him again.

He should've known better.

Should have just stayed.

When Louis pulls up, the signs are all there.

A clutter of overstuffed bin bags line the entrance, bags that weren't there this morning, ready to be picked up by the trucks. He slowly drags his gaze over the canvases, sticking out of them, his face pinching together in confusion, then curdling into gutting disbelief.

"No, no, no, please, fuck…" He wipes at his eyes with his arm as he shuts off the ignition, fingers trembling around the phone still clutched in his hand, "Not like this, please, not like this."

He recognizes all of them immediately, the ones he's spent months admiring, trying to figure out or understand the meanings of, the art he watched Harry pour himself into every single day, and that broken-down easel he loved, thrown aside with a pile of books like some discarded proof of a life soon to be forgotten.

All of Harry's things, packed up and tossed away, like it was that easy to wake up and disappear. Louis had stupidly—naively—sat in that suffocating interview room, thinking of all of the ways he could try to make London work, convincing himself they still had time. All while Harry was dismantling the life he built here, piece by piece, erasing the days they could’ve had.

And he doesn't know how he does it, but he manages to drag himself out of the car, walking over to stare out at the mess, each step falling heavier with the realization that he’s too fucking late.

Harry's already gone.

Knowing him, he probably sent that text halfway to London, already miles ahead just like he always is, ripping Louis the chance of a proper goodbye before he even knew he needed one.

Louis’ knees give out first, his body crumpling down into a small, defeated crouch. He reaches over to pull out a smaller canvas left unfinished, the rough layers of acrylic paint catching on his thumb. It's devastating, seeing it all carelessly stuffed between black bags like this. Like none of it ever meant anything at all.

A choked sound escapes him, his vision blurring as he traces over the colors. He doesn't even care how pathetic he might look to anyone passing by, not bothering to wipe away the tears anymore. Louis lets them fall freely onto his wrinkled trousers, onto the pavement, darkening the concrete in uneven spots.

When the front door to the building swings open abruptly, he barely thinks anything of it, muttering a tiny excuse of a sorry to whoever it is catching him out here like this, not exactly wanting to move. But when the person on the opposite side skids to a stop, Louis glances up, the shattered pieces of his heart dropping clean out of his chest.

Harry stands frozen in the doorway, peering down at him with one hand paused over the handle, the other clutching another overflowing bag, pieces of crumbled sketch paper poking out of the folds. His eyes are wide, almost startled, like he hadn't expected Louis to be here at all, hadn't exactly expected having to face this part of his swiftly planned departure.

For a few tense seconds, the two just stare at each other, the morning wind blowing Harry's curls wild across his face. Louis pushes himself up from his stance, legs a bit unsteady as he rises, and Harry's gaze follows him, only glancing away when the moment becomes too much.

And then his mask slips right back on, the hard set of his jaw tightening.

"How was the interview?" He murmurs, staring off at the lot across the street. It's then that Louis notices he's wearing the hoodie he'd left behind this morning, the grey fabric hanging open, loose over a paint-stained t-shirt. 

"Harry…" Louis mumbles wetly, sweeping a finger across his eyes. His chest tightens, the hurt inside it digging deeper into his gut, sinking in a painful, unfamiliar way. He watches helplessly as Harry walks around him, tossing the bag into the pile along with the rest, turning back inside the corridor to retrieve another.

Louis involuntarily follows him in, feet still tethered to Harry's gravity despite it all, "Please, don't do this." His voice grates against his throat, "Don't shut me out."

In front of them is what looks like the final bin bag, propped against Sugarcube's cat carrier and his big red duffel. Harry glances at the three of them, contemplating for a second before swinging the duffel over his shoulder, lifting the rest easily, careful not to let anything fall.

"Think you'll get it?" He hoists the bag up higher, the weight of it crashing against Louis' hip as he trots back onto the pavement.

"Harry—" It's a desperate sound, between a groan and a cry, echoing off the walls as Louis bursts after him. There’s not a single thing that he doesn’t love about Harry, but his stubborn avoidance makes Louis’ blood boil, even as his heart aches for him. "Please, I'm sorry," He gasps out, hand clutching at the door. "I know I shouldn't have left this morning, but if you'd just let me explain…"

Without a glance, Harry chucks the rubbish aside, bottles clinking in the catastrophe. He keeps his back to Louis as he shakes his head with a simple shrug, murmuring, "There's nothing to really explain."

The careful restraint in his demeanor feels far from Louis' reach, like he's somehow managed to move past this, already accepted their ending, while Louis is still here, begging for something that's gone.

He watches as Harry sets down the carrier, pulling out his phone to check the time. The casual gesture makes it all that urgent, Louis’ words tumbling out fast, "I-I couldn't just—" He grabs at his dress shirt, sniffling. "I couldn't just do her like that, Harry. You have to understand, this isn't easy for me, hurting everyone."

God, it sounds so pitiful, even to his own ears. But he can't hold back, every syllable is desperate, shaking with the fear that this might be the last chance he ever has.

Harry glances over his shoulder, lowering his voice imperceptibly, "I understand."

But Louis is too wound up to let it go now, taking a hesitant step forward. "I was going to come back, I-I have a plan, yeah?" His words crack, running a trembling hand through his hair, "Please, I can make this work. I really want to make this work."

Blinking through the bleariness, he catches the slight pause in Harry's thumb, picking at the edge of his phone case like he’s not as sure as he wants to be. There's a softness slipping through that Louis has seen many times before, every time he's stumbled in his own self-doubts, scared as ever about who he is or what he wants, and Harry’s gaze met his with gentle patience.

Before it can vanish completely, he staggers even closer, "I meant what I said last night." He swallows thickly, nodding with all the conviction he can muster, "All of it, H. Every single fucking word." Just behind Harry, at the edge of the block, is a black taxi starting to make its way down the street, sparking a jolt of panic in Louis' chest.

Harry pulls his lips together, letting the pause stretch. His eyes roam over Louis, watching the tears streak down his face. He hesitates for a second before dropping his head slightly, trying to force away his expression, though the crease at his brow betrays him. 

"I know," He finally says, wetting his lips. "I believe you."

"Then, please." Louis chokes out as the car pulls up on the kerb, just a few meters away. "Please, don't leave yet." He tries to steady his breath, but his lungs are starting to constrict the way they do when the edge of an attack begins to kick in. "Not until we can figure this out."

His hands reach out before falling uselessly to his sides, frantically searching Harry's face for any sign of wavering, "I'll drive the three or four hours every weekend, I'll–I'll do anything. I just, I can't lose you like this."

Their painful eye contact breaks momentarily, Harry’s attention shifting toward the pavement, then over to the taxi waiting for him. Louis’ pulse takes off as apprehension grips him, catching and stuttering with growing fear and ache.

"I'm not angry with you," Harry says softly, something resigned in how he adjusts the strap of his bag. He bends over to pick up the cat carrier then, turning around to face Louis fully, "Really, I understand."

The tone in his voice carries a quiet finality, weighed down with the consideration of someone who has already given all he can. 

"I just can't wait for you."

As soon as the declaration leaves Harry's mouth, Louis drops his head into his hands, the silence that follows as heavy as his words.

He can't bear it, the feeling insurmountable to anything else. It's as if all the air has been drained from his lungs, each breath punctured by a dull, rusted knife, carving his heart straight out of his ribcage and leaving him hollow.

The worst part of it all is how much he understands, deep down. He can't possibly expect Harry to wait for him, to hide away while he figures himself out, his patience and tenderness having their limits. Maybe, for a fleeting moment last night, he had thought of changing his mind, but Louis had proved him wrong, hadn't he? Showed Harry that he can't love someone who'd only pull him back into a life he fought so hard to escape, a life that would erase everything he's become.

He's not nearly ready to meet himself in all the ways Harry already has. Asking him to step back and try would only hurt him further.

"Okay," is all Louis can manage in one broken whisper, dragging his palms over his face until they’re staring at each other again, eyes locking in an agonizing, final truce.

"I'm really sorry, Louis." Harry's voice catches, his eyes slightly wet. He shifts on his foot, tightening his grip on the carrier, "I have to catch my train."

Louis says nothing else, Harry's gaze peeling away first as he makes his way over to the taxi. When the door opens then softly thuds, he lets out the sob he's been holding back, a small, useless protest against the inevitability of Harry leaving.

He stands there, rooted in his trembling until the taxi drives off, disappearing around the bend of the corner, taking Harry away and all of their what-ifs and maybes with it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Louis stares blankly out the window, his mind as vacant as his insides, tears drying tacky on his cheeks. There's not much to look at, just the broken pattern of clouds in the late afternoon sky, heavy in some places, lighter in others, but it offers him a quiet kind of peace as he comes down from his panic attack, each exhale a little less ragged than the last.

His arm has gone numb from lying pressed on his side, though he doesn't really know how long he's been here like this; what feels like hours ago might've only been minutes. Still, he doesn't move, focusing on the occasional flutter of birds flying in and out of the gaps, up and down, back and forth, tiny flits of life against the brutal silence.

"...You okay?" He hears Niall's voice distantly, coming from the opposite side of the room.

He hadn't planned on coming here. Hadn't planned on doing anything at all past watching Harry's taxi drive away. But shortly after, the panic took over him again, Louis unable to keep himself together, with nowhere left to go. His feet had carried him all the way to Niall's, leaving his Fiat far behind, abandoned like everything else he couldn’t control right now.

When Niall opened the door, Louis had been heaving through tears, barely able to get a single coherent word out besides something that sounded like, “I fucked it all up.I fucked everything up” before falling apart completely.

And despite everything, the months of distance, the tension, the ignored calls, and awkward silences—Niall had just pulled him in without any hesitation, wrapping his arms in a grounding hug as if none of it had ever mattered.

Louis drags his sore eyes over to Niall, the answer obvious to them both. He doesn't reply as Niall moves over from his kitchen, placing a steaming cup of tea down on the coffee table. He takes a seat on the carpet, keeping in Louis' view, holding his gaze with quiet steadiness, allowing whatever space or time Louis needs before speaking.

But Louis just shakes his head against the pleather of the couch, not ready to put his feelings into words.

Niall nods like he understands the ache beneath it, gnawing on his lower lip as he observes. "Why didn't you tell me?" He asks, bringing his knees up to his chest.

Louis shuts his eyes at the question. There's no accusation in Niall's voice, just concern and maybe a twinge of hurt, making his chest cave in all over again, because how can he even begin to explain?

"I didn't know how," Louis' voice scrapes, rough from all his crying, and for once, it's not a lie. How do you tell your best mate you've been having an affair? That you've been lying to everyone who loves you? That you're not the person they think you are?

"Yeah, but you used to tell me everything." Niall’s soft, gentle with it. The pain on Louis’ face must reach him, his shoulders sag as he tries to offer something light. "Remember when you backed your mum’s car into that lamppost outside Tesco’s? And you made me help you fix it before she got home?"

A weak laugh escapes Louis despite himself, remembering the night all too well. He'd been home for a brief Saturday after a stressful exam week at school, and his mum had specifically told him not to borrow her car for absolutely anything. But of course, he did. Too high to pay attention to the bloody pole right in the rearview, the one he swore wasn’t there before.

"We made it worse."

"So much worse." Niall shakes his head, scrunching his nose."But you called me first, didn't you? You always called me first before anything."

Louis exhales deeply, getting hit with his third, fourth, or fifth wave of guilt. Niall had always been his first call, that's true, his constant, until suddenly he wasn't anymore. He’d gotten too wrapped up in Harry, busy shoving everyone out of his orbit to keep his own secrets safe, too afraid of what they’d see in him if they got too close.

He glances back out the window again, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

"I've been cheating on Mina," He admits, barely above a whisper.

The truth finally drifts out of him, slowly, muffled, almost like he’s listening to himself confess from another room. He’d spent all this time feeling horrible for what he’s done, never really thinking about how it’d actually feel to hear it in his own voice.

Somehow, it doesn’t make him feel any lighter.

"For months now," He adds, when the ringing in the air refuses to fade. He's too exhausted, too emotionally spent, to brace himself for what's to come next, already knowing he deserves it. Whatever it is.

The silence stretches until Louis thinks he might suffocate in it. His eyes start to sting with the thought of Harry curled up in his hoodie somewhere, tucked away on a train cart, moving further away from him with every passing stop.

The image replays over and over again in his mind, until his own self-inflicted punishment overpowers anything Niall could say.

Niall finally inhales, blowing out a long, shaky breath between his cheeks. "Shit, Lou…" He scratches at his neck as he processes, "With who?"

Louis can’t look at him, doesn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. He rolls back over, pressing his cheek further into the couch, "Does it matter?" He mumbles, and it’s not bitter. Just a weak acknowledgment of Harry being right, knowing that he isn’t ready, and maybe never will be, to say aloud what Harry fully deserves.

"Guess not…" Niall mumurs, and Louis can feel him studying his face, maybe looking for further signs or clues, wanting to know what name he’s not saying.

"…How's Sara?" Louis changes the topic. He’s desperate to think about anything other than how much he’s failed himself and the person he wants most. His fingers find the hairband still on his wrist as he self-soothes, twisting it roughly.

Niall sucks on his teeth, wincing slightly, "Oof, mate..." He stutters out an awkward laugh, rubbing at his temples, "We, uh, we broke up ages ago."

Louis lifts his head quickly, furrowing his brows as he glances back over at Niall, leaning on his elbow. 

"Fuck, are you serious?" He sighs, his body slumping with it. The tears start to fill again, laden with a new round of remorse. "Ni…I'm so sorry. I've been such a shit fucking mate."

All of this time, he'd been pushing Niall out the door when he probably needed him, just like this, and now here he is, showing up for Louis with his own broken heart, letting him lean on his shoulder even when he doesn’t even have to.

Niall glances away, shrugging. "I mean, I knew something was going on with you," He admits, the worry clear on his face. But he softens slightly, as if choosing not to hold it against him. "Trusted you’d come 'round in your own time, you know? Whenever you were ready."

"Yeah," Louis breathes, though he's not sure he even knows what he’s feeling anymore, only that it's too much to hold inside. "I'm sorry for not—" He pauses, staring up at the ceiling as his voice trembles with emotion. "I just...I couldn't..."

"Hey," Niall's hand lands on his arm, squeezing gently enough to make him close his eyes. "It's alright, Lou. I get it. Sometimes we fuck things up, but that doesn’t mean we stop caring."

The simple acceptance in his voice is undeserved, along with everything else. Louis feels too fucking flawed for the kindness Niall is still offering him, having taken this unwavering friendship for granted.

He forces a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rein it all in. "It's over now anyway," Louis lets it out, a stray tear slipping and falling to his bottom lip. "The person. They're gone."

Niall must catch it as quickly as Louis tries to swipe it away, because he tilts his head, watching the movement Louis makes absently.

"How deep was it?" He asks carefully after a thoughtful pause, another question that feels nearly impossible to fucking answer. 

Louis’ fingers still on the hairband as the smallest whimper leaves him, unable to open his eyes and face Niall. Because admitting that he fell in love, like a hopeless, screwed-up idiot, would only hurt him more to say.

"Fuck…" Niall pieces it together eventually. He pauses, hesitating first before lowering his voice, "…You know you have to break up with Mina, right?" He says as tenderly as possible, understanding how hard this might be for Louis to hear. "You've, like, really got to tell her, mate. You can't—"

"Yeah," Louis' voice cracks, "I know."

He feels Niall shift closer towards him as he starts to cry again, throwing an arm around his shaky shoulders and dragging him into his chest. Louis’ hand clutches around the fabric of his t-shirt, almost wishing that it was Harry in his place instead.

They stay like this for a while, Niall offering Louis the comfort he doesn’t even realize he’s giving, and Louis lets himself feel the weight of everything he’s been burying for so long. All his mistakes, all his broken promises, all his fears, and the endless guilt he’s been holding in.

For Harry, for the way his heart feels scraped raw, drained of everything but this haunting grief, for Mina, who deserves so much better than him, and for the life he'd carefully built to protect himself that's about to shatter right after this.

And maybe someday, when it's all said and done, he'll finally understand, though not for a long while, that this unbearable heartache was somehow necessary. That losing everything he thought he once wanted was the only way he'd ever find himself.