These Inconvenient Fireworks

What do I do, what do I do

With a love that won't sit still
Or do as it's told?
2
 ONE

It‟s six o‟clock in the morning, and Louis‟ cat is on his face.

This, Louis thinks, is probably a metaphor for the state of his life.
Perhaps. He‟s not up to contemplating it further yet. He hasn‟t even had
his tea.

“Off,” he says, the sound muffled by a mouthful of fur. He rolls over

and dumps Duchess onto the floor, and she makes an unhappy noise as
she slinks out of his room, probably to go throw up in his shoes out of
spite.

Right. First day of the term, then. Starting the year off with cat hair in
his mouth.

He hauls himself out of bed and puts a kettle on, almost tripping over
the stack of books and scripts by his bedroom door before he finds his
glasses. He should really finish going through all that shit eventually.
They‟ve been piling up for almost a year now, odds and ends that he
always means to get around to but never does. Zayn calls it his bird‟s
nest. Zayn can fuck off, really.

It‟s been a boring summer, like the one before it and the one before
that. He read a book. He bought a new set of bath towels. He spent
three days marathoning trashy American reality television on his laptop
and getting food delivered to his flat. He definitely did not get asked on
any dates.

3
He leans against his kitchen counter and stares at his collection of
mismatched mugs and tries not to think too hard about it.

He turns the shower on and leaves it running as he makes his tea,

having learned years ago how to arrange his morning routine around
the ten minutes it takes for the dodgy water heater in his building to
kick in. He‟s lived here ever since he moved to Manchester when he
was twenty-two, and it‟s full of the last three years of his life, the
curtains from his mum and the programmes on his bookshelf. He‟s
managed to slowly accumulate a respectable collection of furniture, all
of which actually matches. It‟s nice enough, even if he can‟t do
anything about that place on the living room wall where Niall got too
drunk and pitched a beer bottle at it.

When he‟s finished his tea and dried his hair, he pulls on some pants
and pads over to his closet. Dressing for work is always a bit tricky.
He‟s not like Zayn, who effortlessly charms all of the mothers (and
some of the fathers) just by existing. Zayn can get away with having an
edgy haircut and dressing like a hipster librarian with a motorbike
fetish because he‟s Zayn. And anyway, Zayn‟s an English teacher;
fashion sense just makes him seem more sensitive and artistic. Louis
teaches drama, which comes with different stereotypes. There‟s a fine
line between artistic and camp, and wearing leather boots would take
Louis right over it.

So it‟s braces and trousers and dress shoes for Louis, pressed shirts
with the sleeves rolled up, the occasional sensible jumper when it‟s
cold enough. It‟s a classic look, and he takes pride in it. It takes time to
get his hair to that state of artfully windswept, though, so he has to set
his alarm for six and try not to let the ungodly hour send him into a
homicidal rage for the rest of the day.

As much as he hates getting up early and spending most of his evenings

marking, he likes his job. Well, most of the time he likes his job. On
the days when nobody asks him for the ten millionth time to explain
something he‟s already gone over or breaks one of his lighting trusses
right before a dress rehearsal, he likes his job. He likes working with
kids, likes putting on shows and getting paid to talk about theater all
day.

4
“You like your job,” he tells his reflection in the side of the toaster,
waiting for his bread to brown.

He leaves Duchess with a bowl of food and a pat on the head as

recompense for kicking her out of bed earlier, ignoring the icy glare she
gives him in return. Then it‟s a final check in the mirror and out the
door, bag slung over his shoulder. He spends the drive to school
contemplating what the year might have in store for him and hoping to
God for anything other than a repeat of last year‟s flu pandemic. He
had to burn a set of of 800 thread count sheets. It was a dark time for
everyone.

His regular parking space awaits him when he pulls into the carpark.
He‟s come back during the break for meetings and workshops and days
of preparing his classroom, but it still feels like he hasn‟t been back in
months. The same brick buildings, the same football pitch, the same
scuffed bumper of a French teacher‟s car staring back at him. Another
year. Nothing at all has changed.

He happens to catch sight of Zayn as he turns down his hallway, mostly

just a quiff and a cloud of cardigan-wearing gloom coming down the
hall with a giant book tucked under one elbow. He‟s nursing a thermos
of coffee and still seems to be half asleep, and Louis really can‟t be
expected to let that grumpy face go unharassed.

“First day of school!” Louis says brightly, cuffing him on the shoulder
as he passes. “Perk up, sunshine!”

Zayn scowls at him, and Louis smiles back, pleased that at least one
person in the world hates mornings more than he does. “Go fuck
yourself,” Zayn mumbles.

“Now, now, mind your language,” Louis teases. “We are the moulders
of tomorrow, remember?”

“I‟m going to mould this book into your face,” Zayn says.

5
“Love you too,” Louis says, and they split apart, Zayn off to the stairs
and Louis continuing down the hall to his classroom.

He and Zayn came on staff the same year and became best mates
almost immediately through the shared terror of their first year in the
faculty and a mutual appreciation of each other‟s fashion sense amidst a
sea of tartan and beige. Zayn started out as a teaching assistant, but
took over the spot when the previous English teacher retired. They‟ve
since earned a bit of a reputation for mischief, which Louis‟ not sure is
really fair. So maybe they‟ve been known administer field sobriety tests
to random students in the hallway, and maybe they accidentally-on-
purpose planted the idea of putting glitter in the air vents as a
graduation prank. They both have sound alibis for the time the assistant
headmaster‟s car wound up on the roof, and even if they had
hypothetically been involved, it would have been all Zayn‟s idea.
Hypothetically.

Their second year, Niall got hired fresh out of uni as the assistant
orchestra director, and he fell in with the two of them right away. He‟s
a good sort, relaxed as can be and always reliable, though he‟s
generally more likely to sit and laugh at their schemes than participate
in them.

Louis knows they‟re generally regarded as the “cool” teachers, the

youngest ones and the ones least likely to write you up for a uniform
infraction. He also knows that Zayn is “the fit one,” the one whose
classes are always anxiously anticipated at the start of every new year.
It‟s understandable. Louis honestly pities any unsuspecting, pubescent
teen who shows up for their first day of school and is confronted with
Mr. Malik reading Wordsworth with his soulful eyes and dramatic
cheekbones.

Zayn‟s eyes, soulful or not, are irrelevant now, because he‟s got a full
day of trying to keep a bunch of teenagers from slipping into a
vegetative state while he goes over syllabi. His first year he‟d been
given the typical arrangement of teaching his class in the theatre, but if
there‟s one thing Louis needs it‟s his own space, and after a year of
nagging the administration and being interrupted by assemblies and

6
spelling competitions, he‟d been granted his own classroom. It‟s not
much, but at least it‟s his.

That should really be the tagline of his life, to be honest.

The students start filtering in slowly, small clusters that settle into
desks at random. Louis notices a lot of familiar faces. He‟s been around
long enough to have seen most of them in the halls at some point or
another, and many of the ones who end up in his classes have already
been in at least one of his productions. By the time the bell rings, there
are only a few he doesn‟t recognize, new students or ones that managed
to fly below his radar. Excellent. Always fun the first day. Nobody ever
really knows what to expect from him.

Louis shuts the door and hops up on his desk, sitting cross-legged in
front of the class.

“All right,” Louis says, adjusting his glasses. “Let‟s skip the part where
I tell you good morning like I‟m not already on my third cuppa and you
say it back like you‟re happy to be wearing ties this early in the
morning.”

A nervous sort of laugh ripples through the classroom, and Louis

smiles. He forgets sometimes that he‟s actually quite good at this.

“As most of you already know, my name is Mr. Tomlinson,” he goes

on. “Before anyone asks, I‟m from Doncaster, I‟m a Capricorn, I enjoy
long walks to the vending machine on the third floor, and yes,
McDonnell, I‟m expecting your mum to send toffee again for the night
rehearsals this year.”

Another laugh. Louis feels a bit more of the tension ease out of the
room.

“I‟m sure some of you are thinking this course will be an easy way to
get high marks without having to do much work. It‟s okay, nothing to

7
be ashamed of. I did it myself when I was your age,” Louis says mildly.
“But I regret to inform you that if you‟re expecting to pass this class
without ever cracking a book or doing your coursework, you are
tragically mistaken. We‟ll be covering some of the basics of theater,
learning about some of the great playwrights, practicing acting and
improvisation as well as some writing. It‟s going to be fun. I swear. If
you don‟t have any fun all year, you have full permission to smack me
„round the head.”

Ice sufficiently broken, Louis passes out packets listing important dates
for the term and explaining his marking policy. The rest of the day goes
by in the same vein, and come lunchtime, Louis is feeling rather
pleased with his work indeed.

There‟s more than one teacher‟s lounge in the school, but one in
particular is on the same hallway as Louis‟ classroom, so naturally he
claimed it as his by the end of his first month. It‟s the smallest of all of
them, just a table with four chairs and a small adjoining toilet. Small,
but definitely good enough, and everyone in the faculty knows that
lunches there belong to Louis, Zayn, and Niall.

Louis thinks, as they sit laughing about their plans for the year around
their own personal table, that his gift for expanding into the space
around him is probably his most useful attribute. Starfishing, he calls it.
He is a starfish.

“Obviously I‟m keeping the spring musical,” Louis tells them, “but I‟m
thinking about doing a Shakespeare in the fall. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds like you‟re going to make me help you with two
shows instead of one,” Niall says.

“There‟s a good man,” Louis says, patting Niall on the back. “Thank
you for volunteering.”

8
“You‟re going to consult me on this, right?” Zayn cuts in, giving Louis
a look over his coffee. “You‟re not going to let a bunch of fifteen-year-
olds butcher the poor bard, are you?”

“Believe it or not, Zayn, I know a thing or two about Shakespeare,”

Louis says. “Just because I don‟t spend my life analyzing sonnets
doesn‟t mean I‟m an idiot.”
Zayn laughs and elbows him. “You might be an idiot.”

“What‟s on the reading list this year, Zayn?” Louis says. “Fahrenheit
451? „It was a pleasure to burn...‟”

“Ha ha,” Zayn deadpans while Niall snorts into his lunch. “Fireman
jokes. You‟re hilarious.”

The rest of the first week rolls by smoothly, and Louis starts to settle
back into his work routine. It‟s nice to feel like he has some kind of
purpose again after months of treading water. For the most part, his
students seem genuinely enthusiastic about the more hands-on parts of
the class already, and they only groan a little when he assigns them
reading over the weekend. All in all, it‟s a good start, and when Louis
settles down on Friday evening with Duchess and a takeaway, he‟s not
unhappy with himself.

It‟s his life, and it‟s mostly quiet nights alone and the places where
bitterness made him harder years ago, but it‟s all right, and he does his
best to ignore the stagnant feeling in his stomach.

Louis isn‟t sure why, in a world that contains iPhones, basic sound
equipment still requires enough cords to strangle an average-size ox.
Surely this should have been sorted out by now. Surely there are

9
scientists who could be using their science to fix this. Surely that is
what science is for.

Niall brought the speakers by, wheeling them in on the AV cart, and
then returned with a giant cardboard box. “Anything you need should
be in there somewhere,” he said, probably perfectly aware of the hell he
was casting Louis into. The bastard.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis is still digging through the box, looking for
the cord to connect his laptop to the speakers. He‟d planned to play
some songs from La Boheme and Rent so his students could compare
the two interpretations, and he would be damned if they were going to
listen to opera through his shitty laptop speakers. Some things are
sacred.

Some sacred lesson plans are going to have to be scrapped, though, if

he can‟t find the goddamned cord he needs. The box is half as tall as
Louis himself, and he‟s bent nearly double, hunting through the dozens
of seemingly-identical black wires that remain.

After an eternity, he spots what he thinks is the right cable, all the way
at the bottom. Thank the sweet USB-compatible baby Jesus. Holding
his glasses on with one hand, he reaches, reaches, brushes it with his
fingertips, and……loses his balance, his torso falling into the box, his
legs flailing above him before tipping over and carrying him through
what is almost certainly the least graceful somersault of all time. He
lies there for a moment, sprawled on his back, his upper body and head
still inside the box and covered with speaker cables. The cord he needs
is draped over his face. Mocking him.

“Um, you all right in there?” says a voice, obviously holding back
laughter.

There is a person in his classroom. A witness to his current state. Louis

stares at the roof of his cardboard cube of shame and considers
remaining in this box for the rest of his life.

10
No. This will not do. A Tomlinson never admits defeat.

“Yes, perfectly all right!” he says cheerfully. “That was entirely

intentional.” He begins to shimmy out of the box with what he assumes
can only be the utmost agility. “Gymnastics, you know. Working on
my floor routine.”

Free of his recyclable prison, he looks up to see who has caught him in
this predicament.

Oh. Oh.

Louis is struck with the sudden urge to light himself on fire. His would-
be rescuer is a young man, which Louis had known from the voice, but
he had not been prepared for this. Dark curly hair, green eyes, and a
smile that Louis likes so much that he feels slightly violated. And no
one should look that good in a plain white t-shirt and cargo shorts. He‟s
leaning against the doorway to Louis‟ classroom, staring at him.

Louis blinks. He‟s still there. Self-immolation is looking more and

more appealing. At least Zayn could flirt with that hot fireman he‟s
obsessed with over Louis‟ smoldering remains. Some good could come
of this yet.

Louis has never seen this person before in his life. He is sure of that. He
would remember.

He pulls up his braces, which have fallen on one side, and fumbles for
words that won‟t make him sound like a complete idiot. What comes
out of his mouth is, “Who the fuck are you?”

Smooth, Tomlinson. Very nice.

The newly-discovered bane of his life just laughs—Jesus, he‟s got

dimples—and pushes away from the doorframe. “I‟m Harry,” he says.

11
“Was passing by, heard a crash, figured you might need a hand,” he
continues, holding out said hand to Louis. Louis grabs ahold, and Harry
pulls him up.

Somewhere between the ground and standing upright, Louis realises

that his legs are entirely entangled in cords, and he can do nothing but
look on in horror as his momentum carries him directly into Harry‟s
chest. It‟s a very nice chest. Broad, solid, warm. Oh, God. He should
have stayed in the box. He hadn‟t fully appreciated his time in the box.
He had been so young, so foolish.

Harry just laughs again and holds Louis upright by his waist with one
hand, and fuck, Louis hates him already.

“Hold still, we‟ll get you sorted,” he says. He drops to his knees and
gets to work untangling the cables around Louis‟ legs. Louis stares
stoically at the wall and refuses to contemplate the state of his life.
There is an extremely attractive stranger kneeling at eye level with his
crotch. No. Nope. Not going to process this information.

“There we go, almost free,” Harry says, rising to his feet with the end
of a cord in one hand. “Give us a twirl, then,” he says, tugging slightly
on the cable.

Louis complies, his ears burning, and pirouettes his way to freedom. If
he‟s going to be made to look ridiculous, he‟s not going to do it
halfway.

Harry outright giggles. “You‟ve got the gold medal in the bag, I think.”

Louis gives an exaggerated bow. “You‟re clearly a man of taste.” He

pauses a moment, shifting his weight. “Um, thanks for your help. Do
you think you could be convinced to, er, never tell anyone about this?
Ever.”

12
Harry just smiles his horrible smile. “Not a problem. I won‟t reveal
your routine to the Russians. You need any help with the rest of this?”
he asks, gesturing to the audio equipment. “I‟m handy with a speaker.”

The idea of spending another full minute in his presence makes Louis
want to rip off his own skin. “Oh, no, I think I‟m all right, thanks,” he
says hurriedly. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr…” Harry trails off.

Louis briefly considers giving a fake name before remembering it‟s still
written across the damn board from the first day of school. “Tomlinson.
Louis,” he adds, holding out his hand.

Harry‟s grin widens. “Louis,” he says, grasping his hand. “I‟ll see you
around.” And then he‟s gone.

Louis lets out the breath he‟s apparently been holding the entire time,
and turns toward the box to find—or re-find, he supposes—the cord he
needs. This is all Niall‟s fault.

He nearly trips over himself again when a thought strikes. He asked for
my last name, not my first. Oh God. Oh no.

At lunch, Zayn shrugs off his concerns and continues shoveling chips
into his mouth. “He doesn‟t have to be a student. And anyway, the way
you described him? Sounds way too hot to be a teenager.”

Louis keeps his head buried in his hands. “Maybe he‟s just freakishly
developed.” He peers out between his fingers. “Who knows what the
hormones in our food are doing to the youth, Zayn.” He had been
ogling a student. A child. He had been contemplating the pectoral
firmness of a child.

13
Zayn reaches out and snatches a piece of grilled chicken from Louis‟
salad. Louis makes an outraged noise and bats at his hand, but to no
avail. “Hey, I‟m just protecting you from the hormones, man,” Zayn
says smugly, before popping the chicken into his mouth. “But back to
how you‟re probably going to prison.”

Louis groans and drops face-first into his salad.

He doesn‟t see the possibly hormonally-overdosed teen for two days,

and is beginning to think that he must have imagined the whole thing in
a concussed haze. Head injuries could cause hallucinations, right? Of
course they could. And you probably can‟t go to prison over
hallucinations.

He should have known his luck would run out eventually. He‟s walking
to his car Friday afternoon, contemplating whether it‟s going to be a red
or white wine kind of night, when a football comes careening into his
field of vision and hits his car squarely on the back bumper.

Normally he‟d be angry, but as it is he just slumps slightly in defeat.

He‟d probably be able to summon up more outrage if his car weren‟t
such a piece of shit. Or if he weren‟t so exhausted.

“Sorry! Sorry,” a voice says behind him. He does his best to put some
energy into a withering glare as he turns around, but his face drops into
something closer to “cornered animal” when he sees who‟s
approaching.

“Hey, Louis!” Harry says, all smiles and sweat. “I‟m really sorry about
that, the lads don‟t know what they‟re doing quite yet.” The lads. Louis
takes him in. Trainers. Football shorts. Another thrice-damned white t-
shirt. Christ in heaven, he‟s on the football team.
He starts composing headlines in his head. JOCK SHOCK! Local
teacher huge pervert, shunned forever.

“It‟s… it‟s fine,” he chokes out.

14
“Not really, since it‟s my job to make sure they don‟t embarrass
themselves,” Harry says, picking up the football. It‟s only then that
Louis sees the silver whistle hanging from a cord around his neck,
bouncing against his chest when he stands back up.

“You‟re,” Louis swallows, “you‟re a new P.E. teacher, then?”

“Sort of,” Harry says. “Technical title is „assistant instructor.‟ Mostly

my job is showing up in the afternoons to help with the footy. But yeah,
I‟m supposed to keep that lot from kicking balls into the carpark, so
feel free to yell at me.”

Fireworks are going off in Louis‟ head. “Ah, it‟s not a big deal.”
Marching bands in his brain. “My car‟s majority dents at this point
anyway, one more won‟t hurt.” Harry laughs. Louis isn‟t going to
prison.

“I didn‟t ask earlier, what do you teach?” Harry says, tossing the
football in the air and catching it.

“Drama,” Louis says, tracking the ball‟s movements with his eyes.
“The, um, incident you witnessed earlier was part of an attempt to
interest my students in opera. Didn‟t quite work out.”

“So are you in charge of putting on plays and all that?” Harry asks, still
tossing the football.

“Yeah, that‟s me. Some of the other teachers help out though, with the
set and all that. Niall Horan usually ends up being our sound guy for
the musical.”

Harry‟s face lights up. “Niall the orchestra director? Niall‟s brilliant!
I‟m actually going to be helping him out with some AV stuff this term
on the side.” He finally catches the football and puts it under one arm.
“To be honest, I don‟t have much on my plate during the afternoons, so
I‟m pleased to have something to do.”

15
Louis smiles as if his to-do list for the entire year hasn‟t just been
rearranged around his afternoons. “Well I‟m hopeless with electronics,
so I‟m glad to have someone besides Niall to harass for help.”

Harry looks like he‟s about to say something, but a voice comes from
the football pitch. “Styles! Did that football roll to Siberia? Hurry up!”

He turns toward the pitch and shouts back “Coming!” He looks back at
Louis, walking backwards. “Well, feel free to harass me anytime, Louis
Tomlinson,” he says with a cheeky grin before turning around and
jogging back to the pitch.

Louis holds off a minor panic attack long enough to admire the view.

It‟s not until he gets home that he thinks to text Zayn.

he‟s not a student. u r officially still crazier than me.

It seems like there‟s some kind of cosmic force at work here, because
Louis keeps running into Harry over the next few days. When he stops
by the front office to pick up some forms, Harry‟s there, posting a
schedule of football matches on the bulletin board by the desk. When
he drops in on Niall after school to ask about some sheet music,
Harry‟s just hanging out in the percussion storage closet, fucking
around on some tenor drums.

They make friendly conversation every time, never much awkwardness

between them. Louis would chalk it up to the fact that saving someone
from being strangled to death by a box full of wires goes a long way in
breaking the ice, but it feels like more than that. There‟s a natural kind
of ease there. Louis hasn‟t really clicked with a person right away in

16
years, but every time he runs into Harry, he can feel pieces falling into
place.

Louis is just on his way to buy a drink from his favorite vending
machine, the one on the third floor, when it happens again. He‟s
minding his own business, really. All he wanted was a nice refreshing
beverage, not to be blindsided with the sight of Harry in a v-neck with
the sleeves rolled up, one arm braced against the vending machine.
Harry is attractive. Harry is very, very attractive. This is not news.
When is he going to stop feeling like he‟s been concussed every time
he sees him? Is this some kind of psychophysical conditioning from the
first time they met? Does he have brain damage?

Harry is so attractive he makes Louis feel like he‟s got brain damage.
This is not a good situation.

Louis has half a mind to turn around and flee back down the stairs to
the safety of his starfishy home, but he finds himself powerless to do
so, propelled mindlessly forward by some force he doesn‟t understand.
Brain damage. Definitely brain damage.

“Hello again,” Louis says as he draws up within earshot, tone

deceptively casual. Harry looks up at the sound of his voice and grins.

“I‟m starting to think you‟re stalking me,” Harry says, mischief in his
eyes.

Louis laughs. “You‟ve caught me. I like to attach myself to people who
remind me of a time when I humiliated myself over AV equipment. It‟s
a hobby of mine.”

“I see,” Harry says, still grinning. “Out of curiosity, would another

hobby of yours happen to be getting crisps unstuck from machines?
Because I‟m sort of out of money and that was supposed to be my
lunch.”

17
Louis manages to pull his eyes away from Harry‟s face to assess the
scene and, yes, there‟s a packet of crisps lodged up high in the
machine.

“Ah, yes,” Louis says. “This one is a bit dodgy. Best food selection of
the lot around here, but very moody as well. You‟ve got to have some
finesse with it.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Show me.”

Louis has done this exact routine dozens of times on his own, but it has
never really occurred to him how ridiculous it actually looks until
Harry‟s standing there, watching him expectantly. Luckily, Louis has a
great deal of experience taking shelter behind ridiculousness. He grabs
the machine with both hands, gives it a few hard shakes, kicks the
bottom left corner, and then slams his hip into the right side.

The packet of crisps falls down with a sound of quiet defeat.

“You‟re amazing,” Harry says gratefully, and Louis can do nothing but
smile dumbly and step aside to let Harry retrieve his food.

“Is that really all you‟re having for lunch?” Louis asks him.

Harry shrugs. “I‟ve got to go to a coach‟s meeting in an hour. Didn‟t

really feel like going all the way back to my flat just to turn around and
leave again. Figured I‟d just go eat in my car or something.”

“That‟s rubbish,” Louis says, speaking before he even realises he‟s

come to a decision. “You‟re one of us now. Come sit with me.”

Harry‟s face lights up before Louis has a chance to consider

backpedaling. “Yeah, all right. Have you got a lounge? I‟ve never
actually been in one of those.”

18
“Oh, Harry,” Louis says. “We‟ve much to teach you about the ways of
the world.”

“I swear to God, if you come out here in anything leather, I am locking

you in a supply closet,” Louis is shouting.
Zayn pulls a face at the door, knowing Louis is sitting on the other side
with his salad, taking up as much space as possible at the lounge‟s only
table with Niall and that fit footy coach he‟s made friends with. With
whom he‟s made friends. God, the thought of this afternoon has already
got him so flustered he‟s dangling his prepositions.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror of the tiny bathroom and shrugs
his leather jacket on over his undershirt, smoothing out the collar. He‟s
finally got his hair just right, artfully disheveled quiff like it happened
by accident, and he knows how good his arse looks in these trousers.
Right. Okay, boots on, stuff the cardigan in the bag, and then a final
once-over before he‟s ready.

“Should I wear the glasses?” he yells back through the door, frowning
at his reflection. “I want to look, like, smart and adult, but I don‟t
know. Are they too hipster-y?”

“Zayn, darling, that man is so oblivious you could sashay up to him

wearing gold lamé shorts and he‟d just thank you for coming to the
assembly,” Louis tells him. “Now come out before you sprain
something. I know you‟re in there pouting at yourself in the mirror.”

Zayn sighs. Louis isn‟t wrong on either count. In the end, he decides to
leave the glasses on. They sort of balance out the whole rocker look,
like, yes, I am edgy and mysterious, but I also read Byron and enjoy
expensive cheeses.

He scoops up his duffle bag and opens the door, and Louis immediately
throws down his fork.

19
“Christ,” Louis moans. Next to him, Niall lets out a wolf whistle.

“Don‟t start,” Zayn says. “Either of you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, kneading his temples with his fingers. “I‟m
just having war flashbacks to the last time I had to spend my afternoon
trying to contain a teenage sex riot because of this shit. Are you trying
to get arrested?”

“It‟s not that bad,” Zayn mumbles, sinking into his chair.

Louis scoffs. “You look like you fell out of a music video.”

“You know what day it is,” Zayn says.

“That‟s no excuse!”

“What day is it?” the football coach—Harry, Zayn thinks—says,

squinting between Louis and Zayn over his bag of crisps.

“Fire Safety Awareness Day,” he, Louis, and Niall say in unison, Louis
with an air of dread and Niall through a mouthful of chips. Harry just
stares at them.

“You see, dear Harry,” Louis says, “when a man loves another man
very, very much—”

“Shut up!” Zayn says. He can feel his ears going hot.

“I was just going to tell the story!” Louis says.

“Don‟t,” Zayn says. “You tell it wrong.

20
“I do not!” Louis says, doing his best to look deeply affronted. He
throws a wink toward Harry, who bites back a grin. He doesn‟t seem to
react otherwise, though, and Zayn is briefly thankful that, even if Louis
is a trivialising arsehole, he doesn‟t make friends with homophobic
dicks. “I tell it with the drama and theatricality it so richly deserves, as
is my gift as a purveyor of the arts.”

“Who's the one with the book deal, here, you or me? Anyway, you
make it sound stupid!” Zayn says. He looks down, fingering the handle
of his mug. He spent too long in the bathroom. His coffee‟s gone cold.
“It‟s not stupid.”

“All right then,” Louis says. “You tell it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He drops his elbows on the table and props his
chin up on his hands, crisps completely forgotten, blinking at Zayn
expectantly.

Zayn takes care to heave his best long-suffering sigh, lest anyone catch
on to the fact that he basically spends most of his life waiting for
someone to bring up the subject. It‟s his favorite story to tell, and he
knows Louis is going to call him out on it if he doesn‟t start now.

“Well,” Zayn begins, “it started about a year ago. It was—”

“The end of September!” Louis interrupts. “The first crisp chill in the
air seemed to speak of new—”

“I‟m telling the story!”

“Right, sorry,” Louis says, grinning across the table at him, “carry on.”

“Anyway,” Zayn continues. “It was about a year ago. I had borrowed
this ancient Yeats book from the library—you know, the poet? So I
returned it, and a week later I realised I‟d left this photo of my mum

21
stuck in it, so I went to the library to try to get it back out, only the
book was gone.

They‟d started running out of shelf space, so they‟d sold a bunch of

books to make room for new ones, yeah? And somebody‟d bought the
book, and they‟d paid in cash so I couldn‟t even find their name to try
to get it back.

“A couple of months later, I was just sitting around my apartment

watching telly when somebody knocked on the door. I almost didn‟t
open it because I wasn‟t expecting anyone. I don‟t know why I
answered the door, but in the end I did. And there was just this... man.”

Zayn can feel himself starting to smile now, not at any of them but at a
fixed point high on the wall opposite him and the memory of a warm
hand and a crinkled up smile. He knows himself, knows his brain and
knows that he could wax poetic about Liam for hours if anyone would
let him. He once got drunk and spent the entire night hunched over
Louis‟ coffee table rhapsodising, half sloppy poetry quotes and half
long-winded descriptions of the shape of Liam‟s lips. Louis has never
fully recovered from what he claims was a “traumatic life event” and
still flinches any time anyone says the word supple. Zayn‟s learned to
try to keep most of it reined in, even if it is his own personal ongoing
literary masterpiece.

He pulls the memory of that night up again for the millionth time. By
now it almost feels frayed at the edges, worn in and comfortable,
himself barefoot in bleach stained track bottoms and Liam in the dim
light of the hallway, collar of his t-shirt pulled too far over on one side.

“He was gorgeous,” Zayn tells them. “These big brown eyes that were
just like, you could tell he was the nicest person on the planet just from
looking at them. Just standing on my doorstep in jeans and a t-shirt,
smiling at me like we‟d known each other forever, and he hands me the
picture of my mum. Says he bought the book a few months ago but
didn‟t find the picture until last week, and he thought I might like it
back, so he went to the library and got my name and address from their
records. And I just sort of... gaped at him until he shoved the picture

22
into my hand and managed to get my head sorted enough to thank him
before he left, and then he was gone, and I didn‟t realise until ten
minutes later that I hadn‟t asked his name. Literally the perfect man
showed up on my doorstep—gorgeous, nice, reads fucking Yeats—and
I just let him walk away like an idiot.

“And then, right before Christmas hols, a transformer blew right in

front of the school and the fire department came. They sent one of the
blokes in to check to make sure no students were hurt, and it was him.
In full fireman gear. And he remembered me. Stopped what he was
doing and went out of his way to come talk to me, shook my hand,
apologized for not introducing himself before, told me his name was
Liam Payne.”

“And then,” Louis puts in, “you decided that the best way to his heart is
to spend the rest of your life creating small emergencies so you have to
call the fire department, instead of asking him to dinner like a sane
person.”

“It sounds worse than it is when you put it like that!” Zayn says,
dropping his eyes to glare at Louis. “I don‟t even know if he likes men
yet! This, this is destiny. This is my Pride and Prejudice, all right, and I
only get one shot at it, and I‟m not about to fuck it up by going for it
too early. I‟m just, you know, nudging destiny along a bit.”

“You could also fuck it up by giving him the impression that you‟re an
arsonist. Generally a turn-off for a person who saves people from fires
for a living,” Louis says. “Jane Austen never tried to cause a chemical
explosion in the science lab.”

“You can‟t prove that was me,” Zayn says. “Look, I‟m just saying,
there‟s no way this was all a coincidence. One day everything is going
to fall into place, and it‟ll just happen perfectly, and okay, maybe I
have to have a cig under a smoke detector or two for that to happen.
I‟m only a man, Louis. Who am I to argue with destiny?”

23
“Holy shit,” Harry speaks up finally. And then he leans forward in his
seat and says, “How can I help?”

“Oh God,” Louis groans, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Don‟t
encourage him!”

“But this is brilliant, though!” Harry says. “Besides, didn‟t you hear?
I‟m not encouraging him, I‟m encouraging destiny, you scrooge.”

“I‟m not a scrooge,” Louis huffs, “I‟m a realist.”

“You are, though! You‟re Ebenezer Tomlinson,” Zayn agrees with

laugh, and Harry laughs too. Louis is looking at Zayn like he‟d like to
strangle him with his scarf, which just makes Zayn laugh harder.

“The scroogiest,” Harry adds.

“I like this one,” Zayn says, extending a fist to Harry, and Harry
doesn‟t miss a beat before bumping his own knuckles against it. “I
think we‟ll get on just fine.”

“Great, now I‟ve got two daft romantics getting feelings all over the
place,” Louis sighs. “This won‟t do at all. Niall, tell me you still don‟t
give a fuck about anything but where your next meal's coming from.”

“I think you‟re all mad,” Niall says with a shrug. “You too, Louis.
You‟re mad for caring so much.”

“Shove off, Horan.”

Niall just shrugs again and goes back to his chips.

24
“Anyway, as I was saying before I was ruthlessly betrayed by everyone
in this room,” Louis says, adjusting his glasses with what he must think
is utmost dignity and switching his attention back to Harry, “the point
of all this is that once a term there‟s Fire Safety Awareness Day, and
they send a couple of firemen to come talk to the school about not
setting your mum‟s drapes on fire or whatever—don‟t get any ideas,
Zayn—ow!”

Zayn just grins as Louis makes a production of rubbing his shin where
Zayn kicked it under the table. Justice served.

“They always send Liam because he‟s so good with the students,” Zayn
tells Harry. “He‟s charming.”

“He‟s hot,” Louis says. “They‟re almost as bad over him as they are
over you.”

“Can‟t blame them really,” Zayn says.

“I don‟t know if that was a reference to your fireman or your own

vanity,” Louis says, “but either way, ugh.”

“You‟re just as vain as I am and you know it,” Zayn says. “Don‟t make
me dig your Bebo back up, because I will.”

“I don‟t know what you‟re on about,” Louis says, kicking him back. He
glances at his phone, checking the time. “Well, if we don‟t leave soon,
you‟re going to miss your chance to talk to your man before the
assembly, and as much I loathe assemblies, I do so love watching you
melt into a warm, stuttering puddle of pomade.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, but as he‟s getting out of his chair he feels his
heart already starting to kick up into his throat a little. It‟s kind of
ridiculous, really, because he‟s spoken to Liam dozens of times before.
The time with the flooded basement, both times Louis‟ cat got stuck up
a tree. They had a really nice conversation about ceiling tiles that one

25
time someone—Zayn‟s not saying who—called in an anonymous
report that the sprinklers in his hallway weren‟t up to code. They‟re
friendly acquaintances by now. Zayn has plenty of friendly
acquaintances. He‟s a grown man and he‟s pretty damn far from a
blushing virgin by now in any regard.

So it‟s ridiculous that by the time they reach the theatre and Zayn‟s
eyes hone in on Liam in a t-shirt and the bottom half of his fireman
suit, his entire brain has gone fuzzy.

“Go on,” Louis says, pushing Zayn in Liam‟s direction. “Go say hello.”

“Right,” Zayn says. He sets his shoulders. He can do this. He is sex on

legs. Lesser beings fall in his path.
He makes his way down the aisle while the other three slide into a row
of seats near the front. Liam is in the middle of a conversation with one
of the other firefighters, looking as always like the world‟s most
attractive boy-next-door. But in a fireman suit. Zayn wonders what he
ever did to deserve this.

He‟s been rehearsing for days exactly what he would say. He‟s recited
it in front of the mirror a thousand times, practiced exactly what the
look on his face should be when he says it. It‟s the perfect opening line,
smart and casual and just funny enough to be intriguing.

As he‟s on the last few steps, Liam turns and sees him and breaks into a
grin, and Zayn cannot for the life of him remember what the hell he
was going to say.

“Hello,” he says lamely. He can‟t feel his face.

“Hi, Zayn!” Liam says, reaching out to shake Zayn‟s hand. “How are
you?”

He doesn‟t know. Zayn does not know how he is.

26
“All right,” he manages.

“Glad to hear it,” Liam says, and he actually sounds like it. “Ready for
the assembly?”

“Same every term, isn‟t it?” Zayn hears himself say and immediately
wishes he could take it back because why the fuck did he say that?
Now just he sounds like a fucking dick.

Liam just laughs, though, unfazed. “Spot on. I love talking to kids, but
between you and me, I‟m getting a bit sick of reading these cards.”

“Cool,” Zayn says. “I have to go now.”

Liam looks a bit disappointed, but Zayn‟s tongue is stuck to the roof of
his mouth and he‟s already slowly backing away. “Oh, okay!” Liam
says. “Good to see you!”

Zayn turns and flees back up the aisle, already thinking about the bottle
of vodka in his freezer at home. That was it. The thing he‟s been
working toward all week, and he fucking blew it, again, because he
always blows it, because he can get anyone in the world to fuck him
except for the one person in the world who actually matters. He should
be studied by scientists, honestly. Something is wrong with him.

“How‟d it go?” Louis says as soon as Zayn sits down between him and
Niall. Harry‟s leaning forward in his seat on the other side of Louis.

“Leave me alone,” Zayn says, trying not to sound as miserable as he

feels.

“Did you tell him you‟d like to slide down his pole?” Louis says.

“Shut up,” Zayn says.

27
“Did he ask to climb your ladder?” Louis asks, poking Zayn in the side.

“You‟re not funny,” Zayn says.

“You should ask to see his hose,” Harry chips in, and Louis looks like
he‟s just won the fucking lottery.

“I hope you all die of dysentery,” Zayn tells them.

At least, Zayn thinks, he may not be floating alone in this particular sea
of despair for much longer. He can see the way Louis looks at Harry,
the way his elbow is hanging over Harry‟s side of the shared armrest,
the way he laughs when Harry leans in and says something in his ear in
the middle of the assembly. It‟s too early to tell, really, but he makes a
mental note, sets the date of Louis‟ downfall some day in the near
future.

28
 TWO

Classes have really started to pick up momentum now that everyone‟s

had a couple of weeks to adjust to new people and new schedules. He
can hear Niall putting the brass section through their paces when he
passes the orchestra room, already preparing for their autumn concert,
and Zayn won‟t shut up about the unit he‟s doing on Wordsworth,
which is almost worse than when he won‟t shut up about Liam. Even
Harry is starting to get serious about putting the lads through drills,
although he still takes the time to eat lunch with them every day.

For his part, Louis has chosen Much Ado About Nothing as his
Shakespeare, reasoning that it‟d probably be better to break the students
in on a comedy than one of the heavier plays. He‟s posted flyers
already, and he‟s holding auditions next month. Until then, though, he‟s
got classes to focus on as well. His strategy with teaching is to start the
year off with movement, the fun parts that loosen everybody up and
make the kids actually want to show up for class, and then gradually
segue into scripts and writing assignments. He made the mistake of
trying to open with fundamentals of theater theory in his first year as a
teacher, and he thought he was going to off himself by the time they
were trudging through Othello. Let no man say Louis Tomlinson does
not learn from his mistakes.

Today, he‟s sitting on his desk again, supervising one of his classes as
they try to make it through a group improv exercise. It‟s actually
hilarious, really. The kids are still learning, and there are a lot of
awkward pauses and panicked expressions, but they really are trying.

29
Up now is Stuart Standhill, imitating a drunk wildebeest to the best of
his ability. He turns out to be brilliant at this game, which Louis was
expecting. He‟s worked with Stuart in his plays before. The boy has a
natural gift for drama and excellent comedic timing. That‟s not really
what Louis is watching, though.

Louis watches him bound across the floor, hands above his head,
stretching himself up to the laughter of his classmates like a plant in the
sun. He smiles a little to himself, but it‟s almost painful to watch,
because he knows. He knows, and it feels like being an immobile
spectator in his own memories.

He remembers two years ago, when Zayn rang him after school
sounding absolutely wrung out and told him about how he had to break
up a fight in the boys‟ room on the second floor, how poor Stuart
Standhill had had the shit beaten out of him by two of the boys in his
year. He remembers how Zayn told him the kid had begged him not to
report it, and Louis understands that so well. He remembers what it‟s
like to just want so badly to be normal, and he‟d believed too at that
age that turning in the people who hurt you just let everyone else know
that you deserved to be hurt.

He‟s seen Stuart in the halls and on his stage plenty since then, seen the
way he is around his friends and the way he is in his classes. He was
quieter when he was younger, but in recent years he‟s become a new
person, all jokes and funny faces and high energy all the time. Louis
knows that particular song and dance all too intimately, spent most of
his teen years hiding behind that line of defense. He remembers that
constant restless energy, trying so hard to be the loud one or the funny
one so that nobody would notice the other way he was different. You
only get one identity at that age, and you can‟t be “the gay one” if
you‟re already “the class clown.”

Stuart‟s doing his best, really making a go of it. He has a girlfriend

every once in a while, a close friend that he‟ll suddenly be holding
hands with in the halls and kissing by her locker. For the most part,
though, Louis can tell that everyone sort of knows. The girls treat him
like just another one of their friends, the one who knows six ways to
make the uniform jumpers look less tragic and touches up their hair for

30
the spring musical before he reports for mic check. The boys seem torn,
half-fascinated by the brilliance of his personality and half-wary of
something they‟d never say out loud, or at least not in front of him.
Louis knows Stuart must just pretend not to think about it and pretend
not to know it himself, keeps hoping that one day he‟ll try hard enough
and it‟ll work and everything will be fine.

Sometimes Louis wonders how long the similarities will last, wonders
if Stuart‟s life is going to end up exactly like his own. He wonders if
Stuart will finally stop lying to himself when he‟s eighteen, if he‟ll cry
into his mum‟s jumper when he tells her and if there‟s anybody at home
who‟ll take care of him. He wonders if he‟s already had that first awful
crush on a straight friend who loves him in every way but the right one.
Louis almost hopes he has, hopes he‟s gotten that rib-cracking
frustration out of the way early enough that it won‟t follow him out of
his teens. He wonders if, when the time comes, the relief of finally
being out will make Stuart a little reckless for the first few years too, if
he‟ll end up with his heart broken enough times that he starts holding
people at a safer distance. If he does, he‟ll be well prepared, ready to
fall back into those old habits of keeping his guard up all the time. He
wonders if Stuart will be just like him by the time he‟s twenty-five, a
jaded cat owner whose last five shags were meaningless one-night
stands that he only halfway enjoyed.

And the thing is, he wants to help him so badly. He wants to sit the lad
down behind closed doors and tell him that this won‟t make him happy,
that the parts of him that are bright and safe aren‟t the only parts of him
worth showing people. But he knows that if somebody had done that to
him at that age—if somebody had reached in and shattered the illusion
that he was fooling anybody—it probably would have destroyed
whatever small sense of security he‟d had. It would have sent him
retreating back into himself or lashing out, horrified that somebody had
seen right through him.

Plus, if he‟s honest, he doesn‟t know how to convince someone of

something that he‟s not quite sure of himself.
So he watches, and he does what he can. His class and his productions
are safe spaces for everyone, Stuart included and especially. Or at least,
they‟re as safe as Louis knows how to make them. He hears a couple of

31
lads in the back of the class talking about Stuart once and tells them
they can each do an extra hundred pages of reading for the next day,
since they seem to have so much free time on their hands. He knows
that they‟ll just keep talking outside of his classroom, but he‟ll be
damned if it happens within those walls. He doesn‟t have any delusions
of being able to fix anybody‟s life, but he won‟t let it get worse right in
front of him.

And he waits for Stuart to maybe, one day, come to him. He‟s one of
the youngest teachers at the school, and he‟s got a reputation as being
one of the more open-minded ones. Even if Zayn claims that directing
sometimes turns him into “a prick of volcanic proportions,” he‟s fairly
well-liked, at least by the Island of Misfit Toys that constitute his
drama students. He tries his best to make it clear that he‟s a person his
kids can talk to, and he hopes that‟s enough.

“And, scene!” Louis shouts, hopping down from his desk. Stuart
freezes in the middle of an elaborate drunk wildebeest mating dance.
Louis kind of just wants to pat him on the head. “Good work today, all
of you. Not afraid to push boundaries. I like that. Maybe no more jokes
about the headmaster‟s Y-fronts though, Miss Harrison.” He points to a
freckly girl near the front, who just shrugs in response, and Louis
suppresses a grin. His kind of girl. “That‟s all the time we‟ve got for
today. Give yourselves a hand.”

The class applauds and starts gathering up their things and filing out,
still laughing about the best bits of the game amongst themselves.
Stuart‟s one of the last ones out, arm around Shelley Harrison, and
Louis gives him a small nod as he passes. Stuart blinks at him, unsure
of how to respond, and then he‟s off down the hall and Louis is left
standing in the doorway watching himself from nine years ago head off
to lunch.

32
It took Harry about a day to figure out that Louis has a free period after
lunch, and he‟s been coming around every day ever since. Sometimes
he just sits quietly while Louis grades papers or works on lesson plans,
but most of the time they‟re talking, constantly talking, curled up to this
new warmth of each other‟s company.

Louis learns that Harry is originally from Holmes Chapel, but he ended
up alone in Manchester when one of his friends promised to let him
move in but then got a work transfer at the last minute. He dropped out
of uni when he was nineteen and tried his hand at a couple of different
things—baking, law classes, singing in a band—but none of them ever
quite worked out for him. In the end he kept coming back to
photography, so he decided to make a go of it for real. He‟s in his last
year of school now, taking photography classes at a university nearby
in the mornings. He‟s got his eye on a couple of internships, one in
London that he seems particularly interested in, but he talks about it
like he doesn‟t think he really has a chance at it. The friend he was
supposed to move in with in Manchester is friends with the head P.E.
instructor, and he‟d felt so bad about leaving Harry without a place to
stay that he‟d set him up with the coaching job to help him pay the rent.

It's easy to tell that Harry loves photography; he's constantly snapping
pictures of things, either with his phone or on the massive camera he
carries around sometimes. Louis learns quickly to dodge out of the
way, ducking out of frame when Harry lifts his camera to take a picture
of him for no apparent reason. When Harry asks him why he just
shrugs. "Doing you a favor, Harry. I'm so beautiful I'd shatter the lens.
Should be thanking me," he says with a wink, and Harry leaves it at
that, for the most part. Still, Louis stays vigilant, even as he starts
collecting facts about Harry.

He learns that Harry loves mushrooms but hates them on pizza, that
he‟s completely serious about Love Actually being his favorite movie,
that he‟s twenty-three years old and has somehow managed to make it
this far in life without developing a casual distaste for everything and
everyone around him like Louis has. He still likes to bake things when
he‟s happy. He has a sister he loves and a mum he phones every day,
and Louis is the first friend he‟s made since he moved to Manchester.

33
He has more than 20,000 songs in his iTunes, half of which are by
bands Louis has never heard of. One afternoon, after Harry plays Louis
five songs in a row that he claims are his “favorites” and Louis doesn‟t
know a single one, he seems to reach the end of his rope.

“That‟s it,” he says, slamming his iPod down with a forcefulness that
has Louis concerned for its well-being. “When the festivals come
around this year, we are going, and you are going to be educated
whether you like it or not.”

“I‟m really not sure that‟s necessary—” Louis starts, but Harry cuts
him off.

“Trust me. It‟s necessary. We are going to Leeds Fest, I am choosing

what acts we watch, and you are going to listen to songs that don‟t have
dubstep remixes or verses from Pitbull in them.”

Louis chews on his pen. “I‟m pretty sure if you look hard enough on
YouTube you can find dubstep remixes for pretty much anything.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says, laughing. “Don‟t try to get out
of this on a technicality.”

“I just don‟t see anything wrong with a bit of pop, sue me,” Louis says.
He also doesn‟t get the appeal of listening to what sounds like several
men and possibly a goat weeping into their beards, accompanied by
ukelele.

“Me neither!” Harry protests. “It‟s just that your opinions on pop are
also terrible. Katy Perry over Beyonce, Lou? Really? Are you even
human?”

That starts an argument that lasts the rest of Louis‟ free period and
continues for days. Louis eventually admits defeat, but that only makes
Harry more eager to “educate” him. After that, Harry starts bringing in
a flash drive full of new music for Louis almost every day. Louis just

34
thanks him and tries not to think about what Harry could have intended
when he said they would go to festivals together. That‟s a thing friends
do, right? And they‟re friends now. So if Louis falls asleep listening to
the music Harry‟s given him, he‟s just being a good friend. Doing his
research.

If he‟s honest, he also finds that some of it is so boring that it provides

a welcome cure for his occasional insomnia, but he‟s not going to tell
Harry that.

There‟s one thing he doesn‟t learn about Harry, though, and it‟s starting
to drive him slightly mad. It‟s not like it really matters. It shouldn‟t
matter. But Louis‟ curiosity is killing him. He tries as hard as he can to
figure it out without outright asking, dropping hints and chances for
Harry to comment on things, but it never works. The fact remains:
Harry Styles‟ sexuality is a fucking mystery.

One afternoon over lunch he manages to manipulate the conversation

toward their respective sexual histories, angling it like he‟s joking
around. Zayn is utterly predictable, describing an equal number of men
and women while looking extremely pleased with his own ability to
pull, then adding dramatically that nobody has seemed to measure up
ever since he met Liam. Niall throws a napkin at his face and mentions
his own knack for picking up American girls at pubs, which they all
already knew about, and then Harry starts speaking.

“I dunno,” Harry says, shrugging as he swallows a bite of his sandwich.

Louis tries very, very hard not to appear to be hanging on every word.
“I haven‟t really dated anybody since I turned twenty.”

“But you‟ve slept with people,” Zayn prompts with studied

nonchalance, and Louis can tell by the way he‟s carefully avoiding his
eye that Zayn knows exactly what the point of this conversation is.
Louis honestly forgets sometimes what a good friend Zayn is. He
should buy him a fruit basket one of these days.

35
Harry laughs a little. “Yeah, a few people. You know. Casual stuff.
None of them were, like, my soulmate, you know? I mean, I liked them
all, but nothing serious.”

People. Them. God damn Harry and his fucking aversion to gendered
words. Louis is going to shove him into a pit of bears.

He needs to change his approach. If he wants information out of Harry,

maybe he has to give up some of his own. All right. He keeps his eyes
closely trained on Harry‟s face, planning to memorize and analyze any
change in his expression.

“Soulmates don‟t exist, Harold, no matter how many times Zayn‟s

wanked to Liam in the shower, so it‟s not surprising you haven‟t found
yours.” He ignores Zayn‟s affronted shout and continues. “I, like you,
have sought and found comfort in the realm of casual sex, and haven‟t
found a single gentleman worth committing to in years.”

So there it is. Out there. His eyes didn‟t leave Harry‟s face the entire
time he was speaking, and he observed, well, nothing. Not a damn
thing. Not a flicker, not a blink, not a twitchy fucking eyebrow. Either
Harry Styles has the poker face of a boulder or he really just does not
give a shit about who other people fuck. Overall, one of Louis‟ least
traumatic yet most aggravating coming-outs.

“That‟s because you‟re a cynical dick, though,” Niall says.

Louis finally shifts his attention away from Harry to bat his eyelashes
at Niall. “Oh, sweetie, you do know how to make a girl feel special.”

“How are you supposed to know if you like them or not if you don‟t
actually, you know, speak to them? Or know their names?” Zayn says.
“Actually, that would be an improvement at this point, when was the
last time you even got laid?”

36
“Ooh, that reminds me, Zayn, how is your father doing?” Louis
simpers, dodging the fork Zayn pegs at him.

All four of them laugh, and conversation meanders away to topics that,
if anyone asks Louis, are far less interesting than figuring out where
Harry puts his dick.

Normally, if a guy were as on board the Zayn and Liam‟s Epic Destiny
train as Harry is, Louis would assume he was at least a little bit gay.
Then again, Harry is a university student—an art student, even, if
photography counts—and who even knows what counts as normal
straight-guy behavior for them? Plus, if he weren‟t straight, why
wouldn‟t he have said something about it when Zayn and Louis did?

Louis resigns himself to ignorance, but that doesn‟t stop him from
keeping a close eye on Harry over the next few days. If he had ten
pence for every guy who‟d played it cool when he first came out only
to avoid him like the plague later, he‟d have at least seventy pence,
which can‟t really buy much but still seems like a lot in context. Three
more and he can buy a soda from the third floor vending machine.
Metaphorically.

But he‟ll be damned if he can spot a single difference in Harry‟s

behavior. He keeps coming around all the time, keeps stealing food off
his plate, keeps exhibiting zero sense of personal space. Louis has no
idea what his angle is, but he‟s going to figure it out eventually. He‟s
dealt with his fair share of charming men in the past, and in his
experience, there are no intentions pure enough that he hasn‟t been able
to find the ulterior motives eventually.

Until then, he guesses he‟ll just enjoy Harry‟s company, biding his time
until he can figure him out. After all, Harry laughs at Louis‟ jokes,
which is more than enough to justify having him around. Plus, if Louis
is being honest, he likes what Harry brings to the lunch group. It had
started to devolve into Zayn and Louis bickering half-heartedly to pass
the time while Niall looked on and contributed the occasional sarcastic
remark, all of them knowing exactly how the other two would react to
everything they did. He and Zayn are both troublemakers in their own

37
right, and when they don‟t have something to poke at they turn to each
other for entertainment, trading smart remarks for lack of anything
better to do. Niall would be the target, but he cares so little about what
they say that there‟s no fun in it. They work as a trio, Niall balancing
out Zayn and Louis‟ mania, but it had been getting predictable, their
banter sliding into routine.

Now there‟s a new variable, and Louis is finding he enjoys having

Harry in the mix. He never knows who Harry will side with during his
mock arguments with Zayn, or if he‟ll just play the two of them off
each other for his own amusement, and having Harry around makes
Niall more likely to speak up, too. Suddenly voices fly across the table
in new patterns, laughter ringing with real surprise. Louis hadn‟t
realised that the three of them had been having the same conversations
over and over again until Harry changed the script.

Without even trying, Louis finds himself shifting into a new normal
with Harry as an integral part, and he isn‟t even surprised when he sees
that Harry has left his iPod in Louis‟ room as he packs up to leave on a
Tuesday afternoon. Harry doesn‟t have a classroom of his own; where
would he be leaving his stuff if not Louis‟ room?

He grabs it as he leaves, taking the long way out to the carpark so he

can swing by the pitch and return it before heading home. He‟s silently
pleased that this time, at least, he has a legitimate reason to stop and
talk to Harry, instead of his feet just carrying him that way against his
will. Until now, he‟s always just walked by, maybe giving Harry a brief
wave if he sees him, but there‟s never been any justification to go over
and say hi, and Louis has never really been one for idle small talk.
Apparently he‟s become one for altering his daily routine for the sake
of a wave, though, which doesn‟t really bear thinking about.

He makes his way over and approaches the fence. It‟s the closest he‟s
actually come to the pitch while they‟re practicing, and he finds himself
squinting at the players darting around the field, unsure of where to
look to find Harry.

38
“Come on, Richards, I know you‟ve got more than that,” Louis hears
over the noise of practice, and his eyes follow the sound until they land
on Harry.

He‟s running drills. Not just supervising drills like Louis always
assumes he does, but actually running them alongside the boys,
shouting instructions and encouragement as he goes. Louis watches as
he zig-zags in between the flags they‟ve set up, hair falling damp in his
eyes, t-shirt soaked through with sweat. The sunlight is glistening on
his arms. Like, not Mills & Boon glistening. Dirty, rough-and-tumble
sports glistening. Louis was not exactly prepared for this.

When Harry reaches the end of the flags, he looks up and spots Louis.
“Run it again!” he says, and gives a blast on his whistle. The players
take off, and Harry jogs across the pitch. He slows to a stop in front of
the fence and twines his fingers through the chain links.

“What‟s up, Lou?” he says, breathing heavily but grinning through it.
Louis is almost having trouble looking directly at him this close, all
muscle and energy and control. Harry looks like what bodies were
invented for.

It‟s fucking inconsiderate, is what it is.

“You left this in my room. Figured you‟d need it before tomorrow,”

Louis says, slipping the iPod through a gap in the fence. Harry‟s face
lights up when he sees it, and he grabs it happily.

“Oh thank God, thought I‟d lost it,” he says. “I was going to have to
lead a two mile run with no music. I probably would have died, thank
you so much.”

Louis swallows and smiles at Harry as if there is not currently a live-

action film of Harry running in slow motion to the theme from Chariots
of Fire playing in his head. Because that would be crazy.

39
“You look good,” he blurts out. “Er—the team, I mean. They seem...
well-conditioned.”

Harry breaks out in a grin and, wow, Louis really needs to get out of
there as quickly as possible. “Thanks! We‟ve been working really
hard.”

“Right, hard. Very hard. Um. Er, well—” Louis starts, preparing to
make an excuse to escape.

“You should come to the match at the end of the week,” Harry
interrupts.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, sounds great!” Louis says, because it‟s his best
strategy to get out of there as quickly as possible, and not at all because
he has trouble saying no to dirty boys. Not that Harry is a dirty boy. Oh
God. Abort. Abort. “Right. Anyway. See you tomorrow!” he says with
a slightly manic wave, and then he turns tail and flees.

“See you!” he hears Harry call after him, and his blush doesn‟t fade
until he‟s halfway home.

It‟s been a long day for Zayn already. He‟s an hour in and he hasn‟t
even managed to get a full cup of coffee yet, the first one too weak and
the second spilled all over the passenger seat of his car. He can‟t make
a bunch of teenagers care about dark romanticism versus
transcendentalism without some caffeine in his system. He just can‟t.

It doesn't help that his editor has been on his back all week about
getting the next few chapters of his book fully drafted. He's thankful to
have an editor at all, completely blown away that anyone looked at the
few short stories he's had published and said we want you to write us a
book, but it's still stressful to suddenly be writing on someone else's
schedule. There's no way she's going to take it well when he tells her

40
he's thinking about changing up part of his plot. His protagonist is a
singer, but something about it isn't feeling right; there needs to be more
people. Two singers? Can he make it about two singers? He definitely
needs caffeine.

He‟s in the lounge on the second floor, the one with the really nice
coffee maker, finally clutching a mug of strong coffee in his hands with
nobody to ruin it, when Louis comes in and sidles up next to him. He
looks aggressively pleasant, and Zayn is immediately suspicious. Nine
times out of ten, Louis only looks aggressively pleasant when he wants
something or he‟s hiding something. The rare times when he is actually
being aggressively pleasant are also somewhat terrifying, so no good
can come of this.

“Zayn, my boy. Have I ever told you that you‟re my favourite?” Louis
says cheerily, slapping him on the back. Yeah, Zayn is never ignoring
his instincts again.

He sighs dramatically. “What do you want, Tomlinson?”

Louis clutches his imaginary pearls. “Surely you aren‟t questioning my

sincerity? Can‟t a man just pay an innocent compliment to his friend,
devoid of any ulterior motive?”

Zayn takes a sip of his coffee and feels a little better already, enough to
laugh and shove Louis away from him lightly. “A man can. You can‟t.”

Louis just grins, wrapping an arm around Zayn‟s shoulders. “I am

stunned, stunned, I say, at your accusations. Wounded, even. Luckily, I
know just how you can make it up to me.”

Years of experience have taught Zayn not to bother putting up a fight

when Louis gets like this. Last time he tried, Louis had sulked for days
and somehow Zayn had been the one who ended up apologising. He
really needs to get more friends. “Fine, fine, Jesus. What do you want?”

41
“That‟s the Zayn I know and love,” Louis says. “You‟re free tonight,
yes?”

God, Zayn would love to have something planned, something written in

red on his social calendar, but a thorough search of his brain turns up
nothing. Not even the biweekly English department happy hour, which
he always finds an excuse to skip. Damn, damn, and thrice damn.
“Yes, I‟m free,” he sighs.

Louis claps his hands gleefully. “Not anymore! You‟re coming with me
to the football match tonight.”

Zayn furrows his brow at his coffee “The football match? Why‟re you
going—“ and then it dawns on him. “Oh.” He turns to look at Louis
with amusement. This is too good. “Oh.”

Louis scowls. “Don‟t make that face at me.”

“Face?” Zayn says. “What face?” He grabs the coffee pot and goes
about topping off his mug. “I‟m just pleased to see that little Louis is
learning to play well with others.”

“Fuck off, Malik,” Louis says, but Zayn can hear the laugh behind it.
“Look, he mentioned it, I said I‟d go, and it‟d be weird if I have to sit
there alone the whole time, all right? I‟m just doing him a favour.
That‟s all this is.”

Zayn just raises his eyebrows as he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar.

“I hate you,” Louis says petulantly. Zayn says nothing, just turns to
look at Louis over the rim of the mug as he takes another sip.

“Fine,” Louis says. “Maybe I wouldn‟t mind seeing him run back and
forth down the sidelines for ninety minutes, but you don‟t get to be

42
smug about it. I‟m only human, and you said yourself he was fit.” He
looks at Zayn expectantly. “Okay?”

Zayn sets the mug down and smirks. “Fine, I‟ll go. But after this we‟re
even, all right?”

Louis snorts. “You tried to set a grease fire in my kitchen once, Malik,
we are not anywhere near even.” He turns to walk out of the lounge,
looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You blew that whole thing way out of proportion!” Zayn calls after
him.

“See you at seven!” Louis sing-songs back as the door swings shut.

Zayn curses and starts another pot of coffee. Yes, definitely a long day.

Stealing art supplies from his own classroom makes Zayn feel like a bit
of a weirdo, but it more than pays off that night when Louis spots him
in the stands with a giant "GO TEAM" sign covered in glitter. His face.
Half baby tasting lemon for the first time, half cat being given a bath.
Beautiful.

Louis makes his way up to where Zayn is sitting. “I‟m going to murder
you and feed your body to Duchess,” he says, snatching the sign from
Zayn‟s hands and shoving it under his seat before anyone sees him with
it. “And she will vomit you back up, because you are not worthy of her
digestive tract.”

“Oh, hello Zayn, thank you so much for coming!” Zayn says in a high-
pitched voice. “You‟re doing me a huge favor, and I really owe you
one. You‟re the best friend a complete wanker like me could ever
have.” He looks at Louis pointedly. “Sorry, just filling in the bits you
forgot to say.”

43
“Shut up,” Louis says. “It‟s about to start.”

He turns his attention to the pitch, where the players and coaches are
shaking hands. Zayn spots the object of Louis‟ myopia, dressed in a
white shirt and black slacks. Yeah, he still gets it. The guy is very, very
easy on the eyes. And he‟s a decent sort of bloke, too, which is always
a plus. Sure, he doesn‟t have the soft brown eyes or saint-like demeanor
of other, more desirable men, but when has Louis‟ taste ever been as
good as Zayn‟s?

The clock starts, and the players take off across the field. Zayn soon
gets immersed in the game, to his pleasant surprise. For a bunch of
teenagers, they‟re not bad, and the match is hard-fought. Perhaps
there‟s something to be said for Harry‟s coaching abilities. Before long
it‟s halftime, with a score of 1-1.

He turns to look at Louis, who‟s been uncharacteristically quiet the

whole match. When they watch football together, he‟s usually yelling
at the screen, screaming at players and refs alike. “Not bad so far, eh?”
Zayn says, nudging Louis with his elbow.

Louis startles, as if waking from a dream. “Oh, um, yeah,” he says,

“It‟s good, the, uh, the football.” He squints at the pitch. “Where are the
players?”

Zayn looks at him questioningly, waiting for the punchline. It doesn‟t

come.

“It‟s… it‟s halftime, Louis.”

“Right!” Louis says cheerily. “Halftime. Yes. I knew that. One of my

favorite times, halftime.”

“Are you—have you been watching the game at all?” Zayn says,
incredulous. Louis loves football. Well, Louis also hates football, but to
be fair that‟s a big part of loving football.

44
Louis puts on a defensive face. “Of course I have! I don‟t know what
you‟re talking about.”

Zayn sits back and folds his arms. “All right, then. What happened
when our side got awarded a penalty? Did we convert it or not?”
Louis opens and closes his mouth, glances at the scoreboard, and says,
“We made it, obviously. As if we‟d miss.”

Triumphant, Zayn leans forward. “There wasn‟t a penalty, you tit. Did
you go into a coma or something? What‟s wrong with you?” he says,
but Louis is already distracted, looking down toward the sideline.

Zayn follows his eyeline, and suddenly everything makes sense. He can
see the little blank square in his mental calendar dancing smugly before
his eyes, and the song it‟s dancing to is called Louis Tomlinson‟s
Ruination.

“Oh, I see,” he says, smirking. “It‟s a lust coma.” Harry‟s gesturing

wildly to some of the players, outlining tactics in the air, his
shirtsleeves rolled up. Louis might as well be drooling. “Man, you are
out of your fucking depth, aren‟t you?”

“Fuck off,” Louis says lightly, still looking at Harry. He‟s even half-
smiling, the poor bastard. “He‟s hot, I‟ve got eyes. There isn‟t any
depth for me to be in or out of.”
“I‟ve got eyes too, in case you‟ve forgotten,” Zayn says. “And I have
never seen you like this, no matter how hot the guy.” He flicks Louis
on the ear and grins when he curses. “I‟ve been reliably informed that I
am extremely hot, and you have never once ignored football to stare
longingly at me. Or any of the blokes you‟ve shagged and then
callously tossed aside, for that matter.”

Louis rubs his ear. “I am not callous, you twat. It‟s not my fault so
many men are so… toss-aside-able. Anyway, you don‟t know what
you‟re talking about. This is a purely aesthetic appreciation.”

45
Unfortunately for Louis‟ point, Harry picks this moment to glance up
into the stands. He spots Louis and waves excitedly, grinning like a
loon. Louis waves back, with a look on his face that‟s pure sunshine
under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

Normally Zayn would be thrilled to know he was right, to see Louis so

thoughtlessly delighted, but for just one moment he feels terribly sad.
Louis swore off getting into relationships with actual feelings before
Zayn even met him, and Zayn wasn‟t kidding when he said he‟s never
seen him like this. He hadn‟t realised how rare it was for Louis to be at
ease, to be happy, until he actually saw it happen. It‟s amazing, and
sad, and terrifying, and he wonders if Louis honestly doesn‟t realise
what‟s going on, or if it‟s just an act. Louis doesn‟t like to talk much
about the lads he dated before he moved to Manchester, but Zayn
knows he keeps himself locked up for a reason.

Zayn reaches out to ruffle Louis‟ hair, knocking his glasses askew.
“Whatever you say, man,” he says, and tries to put his worries away for
the rest of the match.

It works, and he goes back to enjoying the game without thinking about
his best mate slowly descending through the stratosphere of his own
disillusionment with romance and hurtling toward the hard reality of
Harry Styles. Toward the 80th minute, Zayn glances over to see Louis
staring at Harry like Louis is stranded on a desert island and Harry‟s
just turned into a giant, dancing steak, and okay, yes, this is definitely
funny again.

“You know, Louis,” Zayn says idly, “There‟s this place called the
Internet, where you can look at all the attractive men you want. For
free, even. Some of them haven‟t even got pants on.”

“Piss off,” Louis says dreamily.

They win the game, 3-2, though Zayn doubts Louis could tell you the
final score with a gun to his head.

46
“Come on, I want to say hi to Haz,” Louis says as the sparse crowd
starts getting to its feet and filtering out of the stands.

“Haz?” Zayn says. He turns around, effectively blocking Louis‟

progress out of the row. “When did you two progress to nicknames?”
“Move your arse,” Louis says, ignoring him with a shove.

They file down the stands, heading toward the fence that divides the
spectators from the sideline. When they reach it, Harry jogs over,
clapping some of his players on the back along the way before coming
to a stop in front of the fence.

“Hey, I‟m so glad you could make it,” he says, flushed with victory.
“You too, Zayn, thank you so much for coming.”

“Not a problem, mate,” Zayn says, pretending that even a tenth of the
attention in this conversation is focused on him. “Your lads put on a
good show.”

“Yeah, they were great,” Louis says, the liar. “Brilliant.”

Harry smiles at him broadly. Zayn is going to throw up. “Well, it

always helps to know we‟ve got friendly faces in the stands,” Harry
says. “And you, um, the two of you are pretty much the only faces I‟m
friendly with so far, short of Niall. So seriously, thanks a lot.”

“Anytime,” Louis says, and Zayn‟s future spreads out before him, filled
with nights spent sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats, watching Louis
swoon. “Anytime” his arse. He‟s going to have to develop a social life
purely out of self-defense.

Harry scrubs a hand through his ridiculous hair and looks apologetic.
“I‟m really sorry, but I‟ve got to go help with the post-match talk. It‟s,
um, kind of my job,” he says, grinning ruefully.

47
“Yeah, no, go on,” Louis says. “Go congratulate the troops.”

Walking backwards, Harry salutes them both. “See you tomorrow?” he

asks, looking at Louis.

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, and Zayn can‟t help but roll his eyes at
the way his cheeks color. “Tomorrow.” He watches Harry turn and
walk off the pitch with the last straggling players.

Louis turns and looks at Zayn with sad, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes.
“See? That was a perfectly platonic, friendly interaction.”

Zayn gapes at him a moment, then turns on his heel and walks toward
the carpark.

“What?” Louis calls after him. They‟re all doomed. “Zayn, you‟re
imagining things!” Doomed.

“Not liking things that are delicious doesn‟t give you class, Lou, it just
makes you a snob,” Harry says, dropping his hand down on the hole
puncher as if to emphasize his point.

They‟re in Louis‟ classroom again, papers spread out on the desks

before them. Harry is always nagging Louis about letting him help with
his work, which would normally be sweet, except that Harry‟s
interpretation of “help” often consists of him doing dramatic readings
the scenes Louis‟ students write for practice, complete with funny
voices. While that certainly eases the pain of marking, it doesn‟t
actually make Louis get his work done faster. Today, since Louis is
swamped with menial tasks, he‟s put Harry to work punching holes in
pages of the script for Much Ado About Nothing while Louis puts them
into binders. That‟ll teach him to try to be nice.

48
“It‟s not that I don‟t like things that are delicious,” Louis says. He
straightens a stack of pages and threads them through the rings. “I just
don‟t like things that make me violently ill in the cab on the way
home.”
“So-called „girly drinks‟ are made of sunshine and booze,” Harry tells
him as he punches another set of holes. “If you don‟t like them, that
just proves that you‟ve got an allergy to happiness.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You mean to tell me that you‟re the one always
parading around the pub with one of those drinks in the giant glasses
with the little umbrella on top?”

“Yeah, in case of a tiny rainstorm,” Harry says logically. He does a

little pantomime like he‟s holding up a tiny umbrella over his head,
and, what? God. It‟s so endearing that Louis can‟t even say anything
mean back. Who is this person? Where did he come from? Is there
some magical tropical island somewhere where Harry Styleses drop
from trees like coconuts?

“Fair enough,” Louis says, hiding his laughter behind Act II. “Still,
there‟s something to be said for good scotch.”

“There‟s something to be said for bingo on cruise ships, too, but since
I‟m not a million years old I think I‟ll pass,” Harry says, wrinkling his
nose.

Louis makes a noise of indignation. “What‟s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that scotch—like all the other brown drinks—” he says,
pulling a face of childish disgust, “Is for people who are old and boring
and have no imagination. So neither of us should drink it.”

“So I should be like you and give myself diabetes?” Louis counters.

49
“Right, you don‟t drink them because you‟re so health-conscious,”
Harry teases, poking him in the ribs with the hole puncher. “Sure.”

“All right, fine,” Louis surrenders. “Maybe I do enjoy the occasional

mojito. When I‟m in the mood.”

“A good choice! And they‟re fun to say, too. Mo-ji-to.” Harry rolls the
word around in his mouth, accentuating each syllable. Louis supposes it
is a pretty enjoyable sound.

“Mooo-jiiii-toooo,” he tries. Okay, it‟s a fun word. Harry smiles and

answers back.

“Mooooooooooooo-jito.”

“Mo-jiiiiiiiiiiii-to.”

“Mojito-mojito-mojito.”

“Mo-ji-TOOOOOOOOO—” The last one is almost a shout, one that

Louis cuts off when he sees Niall standing in the doorway, looking
perplexed. There‟s no telling how long he‟s been there.

The three of them look at each other in silence for a moment. Niall
furrows his brow. “Mojito?” he asks.

“Mojito,” Harry answers firmly. Niall looks at Louis for confirmation.

“Mojito, mojito,” he says quickly, nodding his head.

Niall nods back solemnly and leaves, looking satisfied.

50
Louis stares after him, then turns to look at Harry. He shrugs, trying to
hide a smile, and goes back to punching holes in scripts. The charade
lasts less than a minute though, and when Harry whispers “mojito” in
the tiniest possible voice, Louis slides off his chair and laughs until he
cries.

It‟s not the first time that Harry “helping” him ends with Louis half-
laughing, half-sobbing underneath his desk, and it isn‟t the last, either.
As the semester progresses, most of their individual projects become
shared somewhere along the line, and while Harry helps out with
whatever Louis asks him to, half the time he winds up being a
distraction. It goes both ways; Louis is still powerless to say no to
almost anything when Harry‟s doing the asking, and going to football
matches is hardly the end of it.

Harry watches some ridiculous American movie and comes up with the
idea of putting on a carwash to raise some money to buy the team some
new uniforms, and the next thing Louis knows, he‟s standing in the
carpark in October with his trousers rolled up to his knees and a small
arsenal of sponges. Louis doesn‟t even like washing his own dishes.
Things may be getting slightly out of hand.

Then again, Niall and Zayn volunteered as well when Harry mentioned
that he‟d need a couple more hands to keep things running, so really,
Louis is just doing this out of the goodness of his heart. To help his
friend. And, you know, school spirit and all that. Plus, the sun gives
him an excuse to wear his new aviators, and that‟s honestly just a
public service.

So it‟s been a Saturday afternoon of filling up buckets and passing

bottles of soap along and generally overseeing, because as much as
Louis may want to do things for Harry, he does not deign to wash other
people‟s cars. Besides, the boys from the team have mostly got that
covered. There‟s a lot of shirtlessness and scrubbing and throwing
sponges at each other despite the chill in the air. Louis privately thinks
the whole thing is a bit homoerotic, honestly, but then again he‟s never
fully understood the thought processes of the heterosexual male, much
less the sporty teenage ones.

51
Harry and Zayn have been flitting between cars making sure the drivers
know where to go and occasionally grabbing a rag to help, and Niall
has set up some speakers a little way down the carpark, bumping a
mixture of top forty pop and Jay-Z while they work. One of the players
must have tipped off a friend or something, because about an hour after
Zayn showed up, a small crowd of female students started congregating
at the edge of the carpark and have been watching the proceedings like
giggly, hormonal hawks.

The flow of cars is steady, and by mid-afternoon they‟ve raised a

decent amount of money, more than half of their goal. Harry has also
kept his shirt on the entire day, which Louis thinks he should probably
count as another victory. Whoever the patron saint is of avoiding public
arousal, Louis owes them one. He‟s beginning to think that they may
make it through this whole thing without incident.

That bubble is summarily burst as Harry comes over to where Louis is

loitering by the hose and refreshments. Pouring water into buckets is
thirsty work, all right. “Hey, Louis,” Harry says, looking at something
in the distance over Zayn‟s shoulder. “What does that fireman of
Zayn‟s drive?”

“Something really boring and sensible, I think,” Louis tells him. He‟s
so busy refilling a bucket of suds that the implication of the question
doesn‟t actually hit him for a few moments, but then— “Oh God, no.”

Louis follows the line of Harry‟s eyes to the dark gray SUV that‟s
idling a couple of spots back in the line and then zeroes in on the driver
and, yes, of course, there‟s a handsome, good natured face smiling
pleasantly at the world around him. Obviously he could never pass up
an opportunity to be philanthropic. Leave it to Zayn to become
obsessed with the actual most wholesome human being in this
hemisphere.

“Zayn is going to have a fucking meltdown,” Louis says. “He hasn‟t

even got on his tight trousers.”

52
“We‟ve got to do something,” Harry says, his eyes going huge. “Can
you text him or something? Just, you know, heads up, love of your life
is here, probably stop making that face when you‟re washing tires?”

“Can‟t, he gave me his mobile so it wouldn‟t get wet,” Louis says,

fishing it out of his back pocket to show Harry.
“Shit,” Harry says, but then his face splits into a look that Louis can
only describe as trouble.

“Oh, no,” he says.

“I‟ve got an idea,” Harry says, whipping out his own phone. “Run get
Niall and a hose. Have him bring the sound system over here.”

Louis knows he should be asking questions, but Harry‟s enthusiasm has

him springing into action without a second thought. Niall seems
skeptical when Louis approaches him, but as soon as he hears that it‟s
in the service of Zayn‟s destiny and also taking the piss out of him, he‟s
wheeling the cart with the stereo system on it over eagerly. The dark
grey SUV has crept forward a spot in line, but Louis thinks they‟ll still
have time for whatever Harry‟s got planned.

“Brilliant, Niall, you‟re the best,” Harry says when he sees them
approaching. “Can we hook my phone up to these speakers?”

Niall shrugs. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the proffered phone and starts
plugging in cables.

Louis turns to Harry. “Want to let us in on what hijinks we‟re up to,

exactly?”

Harry grins evilly. “We‟re throwing Zayn a wet t-shirt contest for one,”
he says, looking over at the line of cars. “Shit, it‟s almost showtime.
Louis, fold the hose in half and turn the water on. Niall, is the phone

53
ready to go?” Louis sees Niall give a double thumb-up and moves to
follow Harry‟s instructions.

Harry picks up his phone, his finger poised over a button. “Louis, on
my say-so, release the water and soak Zayn.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Louis says, grinning. He has privately thought that

Zayn needed to be hosed down on more than one Liam-related
occasion, but this is even better. Harry is possibly a genius.

All three of them have their eyes trained on Zayn as he finishes up the
car in front of the SUV, blissfully unaware of their plans for him. He
walks to the driver‟s side window and says something that makes the
woman inside laugh, then points to the station ahead where she can
give her donation to one of Harry‟s lads from the team. The car
accelerates, pulls away, and...

“Now,” Harry says.

Louis releases the kink in the hose and points it straight at Zayn‟s back.
The jet of water strikes him square between the shoulder blades,
soaking his white t-shirt through and through immediately. On some
terrible instinct Zayn turns around, trying to shield himself with his
arms, but all that does is drench his chest as well. When he‟s looking
good and soggy, Louis lowers the hose, satisfied with his handiwork.
Zayn just stares at them, murder in his eyes and water in his quiff.

“Sorry, Zayn!” Louis says cheerfully. “Completely lost control of the

hose there!”

“Yeah, Louis, I noticed,” Zayn shouts back, and Louis knows the fact
that they‟re surrounded by students is the only thing keeping Zayn from
adding “you fucking arsehole” to that.

He turns his back on them, reaching to pull off his soaked shirt, and
Harry hits play. For a moment, for one glorious moment, Louis thinks

54
there must actually be something to this whole destiny thing Zayn
believes in so adamantly, because in that moment, everything aligns.
The first chords of “Rock You Like a Hurricane” rip through the
carpark in perfect time with Zayn‟s footsteps as he walks toward
Liam‟s car, peeling his sticking shirt off over his head, and just then a
cloud moves and the late afternoon sun hits him from behind, and okay,
wow. Zayn shakes his hair out just as the guitar really kicks in, and if
Louis didn‟t know better, he‟d swear that Zayn is moving in slow
motion. It is actually the most ridiculous thing Louis has ever seen, but
it‟s also kind of the best thing that has ever happened.

Then Zayn looks up.

“Fuck,” Louis says under his breath, glancing back. Harry‟s got one fist
pressed to his mouth in anticipation, eyes darting from Louis to Zayn to
Liam and back again. Niall is next to him, whispering, “Yes, yes,” to
himself, his eyes wide.

For half of a second, Zayn seems frozen in place. He stares at Liam.

Liam stares back, and then gives a tiny little wave.

This, it seems, is enough to snap Zayn out of his stupor. A change

comes over him, rippling through his body from head to toe. He slings
his shirt over one shoulder, rolls his hips just a little to the side. As he
covers the last stretch of pavement between himself and Liam, he is
positively feline.

The bitch is hungry, scream the Scorpions, and Louis could not agree
more.

Zayn downright saunters up to the window of Liam‟s SUV, leaning

languidly against the side as he greets him. Liam, for his part, is wide-
eyed but appears to be trying to carry on a normal conversation, bless
him. The music blasts on and, oh, this is good.

55
Not taking his eyes off of the scene unfolding in front of them, Harry
clasps Niall‟s hand, shaking it firmly, and then does the same to Louis.
“Gentlemen, we have a lot to be proud of today.”

Louis can see Zayn flexing his pecs from here. A victory of this caliber
deserves refreshments. He reaches down into the ice chest, snagging a
can of soda and cracking it open.

“You two are officially on the crew for the spring musical, because that
is the highest production quality this school has ever seen,” he says. He
lifts his drink toward them briefly in a mock toast before taking a swig.

“I don‟t think that bloke is prepared for how clean his car is about to
get,” Niall says sagely.

“Oh, I‟m sure Zayn will take care of all his crevices,” Harry throws
back, and Louis chokes on his drink.

Liam says something and Zayn makes a show of laughing at whatever

it is, rubbing his hand over his stomach like it‟s the funniest thing he‟s
ever heard. When he pulls his hand away, there‟s a smear of grease
spanning half of his waist, too perfect to be accidental. He looks down
and laughs again, and then bends down to the bucket, picks his rag back
up, and deliberately wrings it out over his skin before beginning to
slowly, thoroughly, actually rub himself down.

“Jesus Christ,” Niall says, both hands clutched to his face. Harry buries
his face in Louis‟ shoulder.

“Observe, the Zayn in its natural habitat,” Louis says, slipping into his
announcer voice. “A Zayn in the mating season is truly a magnificent
thing to behold. See how he carefully greases and prepares his body for
his mate. So majestic.”

“I can‟t handle this,” Niall says. “I. I wasn‟t prepared.” He takes his
phone out and starts snapping pictures.

56
“This is the best thing I have ever done,” Harry says, fingers digging
into Louis‟ side. “Do you think it‟s working?”

“It‟s hard to say,” Louis says. “This particular species of Tragic

Fireman is often immune to the Zayn‟s potent pheromone.”

“Nature is amazing,” Harry says.

From what Louis can tell, Harry seems to have an entire playlist of „80s
rock already on his iPhone. Louis wonders exactly what kind of life
Harry has led up to now that would necessitate such a thing, but really,
knowing Harry, it‟s not that surprising. He probably spent a summer
abroad as part of a hair-metal nudist circus or something. “Rock You
Like a Hurricane” fades into “Here I Go Again” and Louis half expects
Zayn to climb up on the hood of Liam‟s car and writhe around for a
while. He‟s thankful that he doesn‟t, though, because the girls on the
side seem to be convulsing already, and he doesn‟t fancy having to turn
the hose on any of them. He and Zayn get away with a lot, but that
would still probably get him fired.

Zayn just carries on, washing Liam‟s car like he‟s in a damn calendar
shoot. Louis wonders if Harry‟s managed to accidentally stumble upon
the cure to Zayn‟s hopelessness with Liam. It sort of makes sense,
when he really considers it. Two of the main driving forces behind all
of Zayn‟s actions are his vanity and his inflated sense of romance, and
creating a gratuitous public spectacle combines both of those into a
Zayn Malik sex crème brûlée. Louis wonders why he never thought of
it before.

“D‟you think it‟s really necessary for him to stick his arse out like that
while he washes tires?” Niall says, head tilted slightly to the side like
he‟s watching an interesting program on the telly.

“Technique is the key to a good rim job,” Louis says, and Niall doubles
over in laughter. Harry looks like the cross between a proud parent and
a scandalized nun, which, when Louis thinks about it, is exactly what
he was going for.

57
They‟re both distracted, though, by Zayn standing up, dipping the
sponge back into the bucket of suds, and wringing it out over his face
and neck. He shakes his head like a wet dog, scattering droplets
everywhere before running his hands through his hair to get his fringe
off his face. The suds run down his torso slowly, leaving behind
shining trails that criss-cross his tattoos. Def Leppard wails on
somewhere in the background. Pour some sugar, indeed.

“Not subtle,” Harry swallows. “But not ineffective either,” and Louis is
too stunned to even try to interpret that.

“Christ, I think I felt something there,” Niall says. “Well played.”

“Well, let‟s hope that one did the trick,” Louis says, “because it looks
like Zayn‟s time is up.” Every inch of Liam‟s car is sparkling, and the
line behind it is going to get out of hand if things don‟t keep moving.
Harry‟s been waving the boys toward other cars to keep them away
from Zayn‟s blast radius, but even so there are too many people waiting
for Zayn to keep this up.

Harry heaves a sigh and picks up his phone. “It was fun while it
lasted,” he says, and cuts the music.

Zayn, who had been talking to Liam again while leaning up against his
car in a ridiculously arched position, looks like a puppet with his
strings cut, his posture suddenly slouching back to normal. He looks
over at Louis, who jerks his head at the line of cars forming. Zayn
pouts but turns back to Liam, pointing out the donation area up ahead.
Liam nods frantically and pulls away. Instead of going to the next car
in line, though, Zayn jogs over toward the three of them.

“Tell me, Jessica Simpson, are your boots made for walking?” Louis
says as he approaches.

“Fuck off, where‟s the hose?” Zayn says, shivering and looking around
desperately. “I have so much soap in my eyes, Jesus Christ.”

58
Louis holds out the hose, but then pulls it back before Zayn can grab it.

“So you‟re saying you risked blindness to throw yourself at this guy,”
Louis says. Harry and Niall are both laughing so hard they look like
they‟re about to wet themselves.

“Fuck you, Louis, this fucking burns.” He snatches the hose from
Louis‟ hands and starts washing the soap off his face. “Go distract him,
I can‟t let him see me like this,” he says, cupping handfuls of water and
bringing them up to his eyes.

“Are you seri—” Louis starts, but Harry interrupts.

“You can gather intel, Lou, go on,” and well, the man does have a
point. Thankfully, there‟s a line at the donation area too, so Louis has
time to saunter over before Liam‟s left. Louis walks up to the driver‟s
side window and leans over, doing his best to look normal-friendly and
not your-discomfort-delights-me-friendly.

“Hello, there,” he says, offering his most winning smile.

“Hi,” Liam says. His face, Louis notices, is a very interesting shade of
red, but beyond that, he still seems to be behaving as if this is an
ordinary thing to happen to a man who just wanted to get a wash and
wax for a good cause. “I, um, I think this is where I‟m supposed to give
a donation?”

“Yes, right this way,” Louis says, gesturing elaborately to the group of
teenagers just ahead. “We appreciate your contribution.”

“Great, thank you,” Liam says. “I‟m happy to help.”

Poor sod. Poor, oblivious sod.

59
He pulls up, and Louis watches as he pulls out his wallet, counts out a
couple of notes, pauses, and then empties the entire thing into the
bucket.

60
 THREE

"Rod Stewart," Harry says. Louis stares blankly at the contents of his
refrigerator, phone wedged against his ear. Just moments ago he was
standing here wondering how long ago he bought that feta cheese, and
then Harry called and effectively commandeered all of his attention.

"What?"

"Rod Stewart,” Harry says again. “I was right. It was totally Rod
Stewart, not Barry Manilow."

Louis leans against the door of the fridge, trying to pin down the
sudden smile inching up his face. "Christ, that was like two weeks ago,
Harold."

"Yeah, but I just remembered to google it," Harry tells him. Louis can
almost see his shrug, the smug set of his mouth, and he‟s thankful
Harry can‟t see the way his own smile keeps spreading.

"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself," Louis says. He snags a jar
of cherries off of the shelf and closes the door with his hip, twisting the
lid off as he pads over to the kitchen counter.

"I am,” Harry says, and then he drops his voice and rasps down the
line, “If you want my booody, and you think I'm seeexy, come on sugar
let me knooow."

61
Louis squeezes his eyes shut for a moment but doesn‟t miss a beat.
"Did you only call to serenade me with the smooth, sultry sounds of
Not Barry Manilow?"

"Pretty much, yeah,” Harry says. “And there are a lot of songs by Not
Barry Manilow, so you should settle in. It‟s going to be a long show."

Louis sets the jar down on the counter and leans against it. “Is that so?”
Duchess leaps up to the counter, and Louis pets her absentmindedly.

“Mhmm,” Harry hums.

Louis can‟t help himself. “So you‟re going to keep me up all night,
then?” he purrs. He hears a sharp intake of breath down the line that
could be the start of a laugh, but before he gets to find out, Duchess
swipes out a paw and bats the jar of cherries off the counter.

It hits the floor with a crash and shatters into a puddle of glass, cherries,
and syrup that starts spreading alarmingly fast. “Shit, shit, shit,” Louis
says, jumping across the kitchen to grab a dishtowel off the side of the
sink. Duchess just watches him, her tail swishing angrily.

“Lou?” Harry‟s tinny voice reminds him he still has his phone between
his ear and shoulder. “You all right? What happened?”

God, should he try to soak up the syrup or sweep up the glass first?
“Jesus! Haz, I‟ve got to let you go, my cat‟s just broken a jar all over
the floor, there‟s shit everywhere.”

“Have you got shoes on?”

“No.” Does he need a mop for this? Does he even own a mop?

62
“Are you at least wearing socks?” Harry‟s voice cuts into his thoughts
again.

Louis makes a face, half at the sticky morass on his floor and half at the
question. “When have you ever known me to wear socks?”

Harry sighs on the other end of the line. “See, this is why you should
wear socks!”

“Really? This is why?” He pauses with his head in the cabinet under his
sink, looking for a sponge. “Does this sort of thing happen to you
often?”

“Just be careful,” Harry says, laughing a little.

He pulls a sponge and some rubber gloves out from under the sink.
“Hazza, if I manage to be seriously injured by a broken jar tonight, I
will deserve what I get.” He slides on the rubber gloves and starts
picking up the biggest pieces of glass, dropping them in the rubbish
bin. “But I might actually cut myself if I get distracted, so I‟m going to
go now.”

“G‟bye,” Harry says cheerfully, and Louis takes the phone from his
shoulder and hangs up.

As he finishes with the glass and starts sopping up the syrup, he glances
up to the counter to see Duchess watching him, her ears lying back and
her tail still thrashing.

"What?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What's that look supposed to

mean?"

Duchess just lifts her chin haughtily and squints at him.

63
"Oh, don‟t you start,” Louis says. “Look, just because I like him as a
person, and just because he's extremely fit, and just because he makes
me laugh and also sometimes makes me want to drown myself in a
ditch, does not mean I fancy him.”

She tilts her head slightly to one side, a mixture of condescension and
pity that Louis frankly finds insulting coming from someone who shits
in a box.

Louis points accusingly at her with one rubber gloved hand. “Stop
looking at me like that!”

Duchess lifts a paw and grooms it daintily. I have resigned myself to

the fact that my owner is a pathetic idiot, her face seems to say.

“What do you know, hmm?” Louis says, glaring. “What do you know
about human emotions? You‟re a fucking cat, you don‟t even have
feelings.”

She lowers her paw slowly, looking wounded, and Louis feels guilty
immediately.

“Okay, I shouldn‟t have said that, I‟m sorry,” Louis says, hopping over
the mess and reaching out a hand to pet her. She recoils from his hand
with a glare. “I‟m sorry! Don‟t give me the eyes, oh God. Here.” He
plucks up a cat toy from nearby and shakes it in front of her impassive
face. “You want the little jingly feather ball on a stick? Look, it‟s your
favorite!”

Duchess just keeps staring at him as if he is something she threw up on

the carpet.

“Oh for God‟s sake, don‟t pout,” Louis says, dropping the toy. “Okay,
fine. Maybe I fancy him. Just a little.”

64
The look on her smushed cat face remains deeply unimpressed, and
Louis moans in exasperation. His cat is an arsehole, but she‟s not
wrong.

The thing is, he knows how he feels about Harry. He‟s known for
weeks, really, maybe even longer. He‟s not an idiot, as much as his cat
seems to think otherwise. He knows that giddy, restless feeling in his
fingers and that electric warmth in his chest and what it means when his
head fills up with noise every time Harry says his name. But it‟s one
thing to know something about yourself and another thing to really
accept it and deal with the consequences, and Louis doesn‟t have any
interest in the latter at all. He‟s twenty-five years old, and he told
himself long ago he can‟t afford to have feelings like this anymore. It
always ends the same.

As long as he doesn‟t deal with it, doesn‟t put a name on it or make it

real, it doesn‟t matter. It can just stay in the places between his bones,
this unspoken thing that doesn‟t change anything or make him forget
the reasons he shored up all these defenses in the first place. And if
sometimes when he thinks about Harry he catches himself smiling for
no reason, that‟s nobody‟s damn business but his own.

But Duchess is still looking at him like that and, God, he‟s never
forgiving himself for the one time he let his mum keep her while he
was out of town, because he‟s sure Duchess picked this up this from
her.

“Okay, I fancy him a lot!” he half-shouts. “I have a big dumb crush on

Harry. Are you happy now? Is this what you want from me?”

He slumps over the counter, head in his rubber gloves and feet sticking
to the floor and guilted into emotional honesty by his cat. Duchess
makes a satisfied sound and leaps down onto the floor, leaving a trail of
sticky pink paw prints out of the kitchen.

65
They all ribbed Zayn for days after the car wash, teasing him about his
performance and Liam‟s sizable donation and suggesting he pursue a
career as an exotic dancer since he seems to have such a high profit
margin. In the weeks since, though, Liam hasn‟t so much as popped by
for a visit, and they‟ve given up, chalking the contribution up to Liam‟s
ridiculously good nature. Zayn has once again returned to looking
consumptive and tragic all the time. Business as usual, really.

As is traditional when Zayn sinks into a particularly deep funk, Louis

takes it upon himself to stage Sad Movie Night. Maybe it's something
about Zayn's penchant for high drama and tragic romance, but it seems
that lying on the couch with a bottle of wine and crying his eyes out
over a couple of star-crossed morons always makes him feel better
immediately. Whatever. Louis hates watching this kind of shit on a
normal day, but he'll take one for the team. Besides, if it gets Zayn to
stop haunting the halls like he's in a damn Bronte novel and tweeting
things like loving you is painful x all i want is you :( it'll be worth it.

Harry‟s been missing in action for a few days, too busy working on a
big project for school to come around in the afternoons, but he‟s up for
it as soon as Louis texts him about it. He claims that Titanic is his
second favorite movie and offers to bring his own DVD, which, really,
Louis should have seen that one coming. As usual, Niall only agrees to
sit through it when promised that free beer and nachos will be provided
for him, and the four of them set a time on a Friday night to meet at
Zayn‟s flat.

Louis is halfway down Zayn‟s hall when he hears footsteps coming up

fast behind him, and he has just enough time to think oh shit I am about
to be mugged before he drops his bag and turns around and finds
himself with his arms full of Harry Styles.

66
The collision knocks him back a few steps and his arms come up
around Harry‟s waist on reflex, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. Oh, God.
Perhaps a mugging would have been kinder.

“Hi!” Harry says. Louis is pretty sure some of Harry‟s hair is in his
mouth. He is focusing on this because if he thinks too hard about the
feeling of Harry‟s arms around him and Harry‟s body pressed up
against his he might not make it out of this hallway.
“Hello,” he manages.

Harry lets him go, moving back a step or two as Louis regains his
balance. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Haven‟t seen you in a while.”

Louis ignores the flush threatening to spread across his face. “How‟d
your project go?”

“Brilliant!” Harry says. “Got my critiques today, my professor loved

it.”

“A man of taste, then,” Louis says, and the way Harry smiles at that
makes Louis stupidly proud of himself. They fall into step with each
other, Harry with a couple of shopping bags hanging off his arms and
Louis shouldering his own bag. It‟s nice just to have Harry next to him
again chattering on about his project, and all the positive energy
radiating off of him has Louis starting to feel a bit giddy himself.

When Zayn opens the door, he‟s wearing his oldest hoodie over his
slouchiest tank top, looking like the droopiest, most pitiful version of
himself.

“Awww,” Louis says, “look at my favorite sad laundry pile.”

“Did you bring the wine?” Zayn says in lieu of greeting.

67
Louis leads the way inside, Harry following close behind. “Yes. Three
bottles. Tell me you love me.”

“I hate you less than I hate everything else right now,” Zayn says. He
takes one of the bottles and makes his way into the kitchen where Niall
is already at the counter, sprinkling a mountain of cheese over his
nachos.

“Thank God you‟re here,” Niall says. “Another five minutes alone with
this one and I may have killed myself.”

“I‟m in an emotional state,” Zayn says hotly. Louis reaches over and
gently takes the corkscrew out of his hand, deciding that Zayn should
perhaps not be allowed to touch any potential murder weapons tonight.

“I brought the movie, and also popcorn,” Harry says as he starts

dumping his bags out on the counter. “And chocolates, which we can
mix in the popcorn.”

“I love you,” Niall says, abandoning his cheese momentarily to snatch

up a bag of chocolates. Harry beams at him.

“How come you never talk to me like that?” Louis says, pouting at
Zayn.

“Because you‟re a twat,” Zayn says. Louis winks at him as he takes the
bottle back and starts uncorking it himself, and Zayn turns to glower
across the kitchen at Harry. “You‟re in an offensively good mood.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, still smiling. “Just one of those days where you
feel like you can do anything, you know?”

“No,” Zayn says.

68
Louis gets the bottle open while Harry and Niall fight over who gets to
use the microwave first, and Zayn snatches it out of his hands,
foregoing the glasses on the counter to drink directly from the bottle.
He slumps over to the sofa with it, and Louis sighs. Rule number one of
Sad Movie Night: make sure to bring Zayn his own bottle.

He pops into the bathroom for a minute and returns to discover that
everyone‟s shifted to the living room and the DVD menu is open on the
television, playing a loop of “My Heart Will Go On.” Louis loves
Celine Dion as much as the next theatre-worshipping gay man, but the
sound is already making him grit his teeth. The things he does for his
friends, Jesus.

Niall‟s already staked out the only armchair and made himself at home
with a beer between his knees and a plate of nachos balanced on one of
the armrests, and Louis wonders how greasy his phone will be by the
end of the night after playing Bejeweled with nacho-fingers all the way
through the movie. On one end of the sofa, Zayn has curled up into the
fetal position around his personal merlot, and on the other, Harry‟s
sprawled out with his feet up on the coffee table. The only seat left is a
narrow strip of space between Harry and Zayn, and Louis feels his
stomach go funny when he realises he‟s going to spend the next three
hours in the dark crammed up against Harry.

“Saved your spot,” Harry says, patting the empty half a cushion next to
him.

Louis steps over Harry‟s legs, eyeing the so-called spot skeptically.
“You two are seriously underestimating the amount of bum space I
require.”

“No one‟s underestimating your bum,” Harry says. He slings one leg
over Louis as soon as Louis sits down next to him, and, wow, Louis‟
life would probably be a lot easier without the knowledge of what it
feels like to have the muscles of Harry‟s thigh stretched across his lap.

69
Louis swallows, keeping his eyes on the television, and prods Zayn‟s
arse with the remote control. “Ready?”

Zayn makes an incoherent sort of moaning noise in response, which

Louis will take as a yes. The opening chords of the movie‟s score fill
the room, mingled with the sounds of Niall crunching noisily from his
chair.

Louis liked Titanic well enough the first time he saw it, but a passel of
younger sisters and three years as Zayn Malik‟s best friend has beaten
any lingering affection into the ground. At this point, the next three
hours are going to be more of an endurance test than anything else.
Normally he could entertain himself by making scathing commentary
throughout, but if he tries that now Zayn will have his head, or at least
be incredibly whiny about it. He does his best to focus on barely-legal
Leonardo DiCaprio. At least that never gets old.

Harry must have seen this movie even more times than Louis has, but
he wasn‟t kidding when he said it was one of his favorites. Bored,
Louis finds himself watching Harry as much as the movie, marveling at
the way Harry mouths along with half the lines. When they get to the
sex scene, Harry stage-whispers, “Put your hands on me, Jack!” along
with Kate Winslet, lurching sideways and throwing his arms around
Louis‟ neck like he‟s having a swooning fit. Louis has to grab onto his
thigh to keep them from falling over, and Harry breaks off giggling and
falls back into his side of the couch, but one of his arms stays around
Louis‟ shoulders.

Louis looks down at his lap, at Harry‟s leg thrown over it, at his own
hand resting on Harry‟s thigh. They‟ve always been a bit physical with
each other, but it‟s usually just pokes and slaps and elbows, never
anything quite like this. It must just be Harry‟s good mood, Louis
thinks, because that‟s the only option that doesn‟t make his nervous
system go into crisis. Louis wants to lean back into his touch, wants to
knock him backwards and climb on top of him, wants to jump up and
run away as fast as he can, but he can‟t do any of that. He doesn‟t know
what Harry wants from him, and even if he did, he can‟t even decide
which option would be the most terrifying.

70
Instead, he settles for leaving his hand where it is and shifting his eyes
back to the movie, and he feels Harry‟s fingers twitch a little on his
shoulder. They sit there like that, watching Jack and Rose have sex,
Harry‟s arm around him and Louis‟ hand on his thigh, and Louis tries
very, very hard not to dig his fingers in when Rose‟s hand slides down
the glass.

When the damned boat finally starts sinking, Louis distracts himself
from Harry by assigning diving scores to the people jumping into the
ocean, giving a silent 10 to the one who hits the propellor. His sadistic
enjoyment, however, is interrupted by Kate Winslet being a self-
sacrificing fool, and he can keep quiet no longer.

"Ugh, come on!” Louis shouts at the screen. “He‟s pretty, babe, but
he‟s not that pretty.”

"Are you kidding?” Harry says, turning to gape at him. “That's, like,
practically the best part of the movie!"

Louis gestures at the couple embracing onscreen. "‟You jump, I jump?‟

That‟s the biggest load of bullshit I‟ve ever heard. She had a chance to
live!"

"She did live!" Harry argues.

"Yeah, barely,” Louis sneers. “She was nice and safe and warm on a
lifeboat, and then she jumped back on the sinking ship and wound up
almost freezing to death on a door. She's an idiot."

"It was for love!" Harry says, hands flapping so hard through the air
that he almost upsets his popcorn.

"Fat lot of good love did her,” Louis says. “He died anyway, didn't he?"

71
"That's not the point, though,” Harry says. “All they had was each
other. She couldn‟t just leave him. It didn't matter if they lived or died
as long as they were together."

Louis rolls his eyes. “That‟s rubbish. You always save yourself.”

“Would you two shut up?” Zayn snaps from his corner of the couch
where he‟s still cuddling his bottle of wine. “I can‟t hear.”

Louis chucks a pillow at him but settles back into the cushions,
returning his attention to Leo DiCaprio.

It‟s obviously not an argument that he and Harry are ever going to
agree on, anyway. Harry is the posterboy for flowerchild optimism, and
Louis is Louis, and, well. It‟s stupid, but there‟s this low, restless,
creeping feeling in his gut, and it feels almost like jealousy. He tries to
put it to the back of his mind, but it keeps coming back up, bitter on the
back of his tongue. He keeps hearing it in his head, as long as they were
together, and it‟s like a splinter under his skin that he can‟t quite pull
out. How can Harry think that? Louis can‟t imagine a life that would
allow him to be someone ruled by anything other than survival instinct.

It must be nice, Louis thinks, to have the luxury of thinking like that.
To be able to afford the risk of letting himself believe in the possibility
of a world where things really do work like that and everything turns
out for the best. To have days where you feel like you can do anything
instead of an endless string of days where you feel like you‟ve never
done anything worth that kind of happiness.

Harry doesn‟t get it. He wears his heart on his sleeve because he hasn‟t
any idea what the world is really like. Things don‟t always happen for a
reason. Sometimes life is mean and pointless and people hurt you just
because they can. Sometimes you fall in love with a person or a fantasy
of the person you‟re going to be someday, and all it ever does for you is
make you into something you hate, brittle bones and stone walls.

72
He's pulled out of his thoughts by the motion out of the corner of his
eye of Harry lifting up his phone. Louis gets a hand in front of his face
just before he hears the fake shutter sound of the camera going off.
"Missed me," he says, peeking out from behind his fingers.

"I don't get why you won't let me take your picture," Harry says,
pouting a bit, and Louis just laughs.

"Well, we can't have you finding out I'm a vampire, can we?" he says,
patting Harry's thigh consolingly. He turns back to the film, and tries
not to worry about what Harry might see in his eyes if he ever managed
to catch him off-guard.

When Louis first moved to Manchester, autumn was the hardest time of
year. Back home in Doncaster when he was younger, he used to spend
every autumn outside, racing Stan through backyards with pensioners
shouting at them from their windows and wrestling with his sisters in
piles of leaves. He remembers the smell of firewood and cinnamon,
getting used to the itchy wool of the jumpers his mum bought him for
the first cold snap, the tree on the corner of the street he used to live on
and how it turned the brightest, deepest red. Summers were fun, but
autumn was home.

Even now, a few years in, sometimes it‟s hard to shake the
homesickness when the temperature drops and the leaves start to
change, but Manchester is home now too. Manchester is Zayn ringing
him from the nail salon to ask about a movie title he can‟t remember
and Niall tripping him in the hallway and a bunch of teenagers who
look at him like he‟s got the answers. Manchester is a flat that smells
like him and Duchess curled up in the gap between the dryer and the
wall. Manchester is boy with curly hair and a camera slung around his
neck.

73
So October rolls into November and November keeps moving. Much
Ado rehearsals have taken off in earnest now, three nights a week and
sometimes once on the weekend. His students seem to be taking to the
material well, and he‟s pleased that nobody seems to be completely
clueless about Shakespeare. He‟s never gotten along with the art
teacher since that incident with the kiln two years back, so he always
enlists Zayn to help him with painting the set, and Niall is on call for
when he starts working with lights and microphones. Harry comes by
regularly as well, as always eager to help out however he can. Louis
watches with pride as they all plow on together, and he‟s got high
hopes for when they open right before Christmas holidays.

Most people at the school aren‟t thinking so far in advance, though.

Right now most of the students and faculty are focused on the end of
the month. There‟s a school fair coming up the first weekend of
November, put together by the student council in conjunction with two
other nearby schools to raise money. It's the first time they've ever done
anything like it, and the whole school is buzzing. The fair's going to
take over the car park for half a week, setting up rides and games and
booths, and it‟s all anyone in any of Louis‟ classes is talking about. It‟s
the kind of thing Louis can easily imagine himself loving in his teens
and also the kind of thing that he‟s sure he has long outgrown the
ability to enjoy.

“Are you going?” Harry says one day, sitting on a desk in Louis‟
classroom and thumbing through a folder of his own prints.

Louis looks at him, trying not to be distracted by the way his fingers
move. “Wasn‟t really planning on it.”

Harry pulls a face. “Come on, it‟ll be fun!” he says. “I‟m going.”

“I don‟t know,” Louis says, wondering how he feels outnumbered

when it‟s only Harry. “I‟ve got a lot of marking to do this weekend.”

“You‟ve always got a lot of marking to do,” Harry argues. “You can
blow it off for one night. Please? I want you to come.” He looks so

74
serious about it, so earnest, and Louis can‟t say no. Not when Harry
wants him there so much.

“All right, fine,” Louis relents, “I‟ll go.”

Harry pumps his fist in victory, and two days later, Louis is standing in
front of the ticket booth wondering how on earth he let himself get
dragged into this.

He gives the student council member staffing the entrance the requisite
five pounds, and pockets the tape of tickets she hands him. He walks
slowly into the fair, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer variety of
sounds and sights around him. He may be here under duress, but he has
to admit that the school‟s done an impressive job. There are game
booths as far as the eye can see, smells of dozens of fried foods wafting
through the air, and even a few rides. The Ferris wheel looks a bit
rickety in the late afternoon sun, though, so Louis files it firmly under
Do Not Partake.

He pulls out his phone and shoots Harry a text.

i‟m here. where r u?

He pockets the phone and starts wandering vaguely toward the

assortment of food trucks and tents while he waits for a response. He‟s
sure that none of the things they‟ve got to offer could possibly be good
for the state of his hips, or his arteries for that matter, but it can‟t hurt to
look.

He‟s just approaching a toffee apple stand when something collides

heavily with his back, almost knocking him flat on his face. He lets out
an undignified squawk, wrestling out of the alarmingly strong grasp of
a smallish set of arms, and when he manages to turn around, there is
one Niall Horan grinning at him like a lunatic.

75
“Louis, mate. This is the best thing this school has ever done,” Niall
says manically, apparently impervious to the rays of pure disdain
shooting from Louis‟ eyes. He reaches up and cups Louis‟ face roughly
in both hands, as if about to impart the great secret of life. “They have
fried butter, man. Fried. Butter.”

He laughs a short, terrifying laugh, and then he‟s gone, rushing off into
the crowd.

Louis lifts a hand to his face in shock. There are smears of grease on
his face where Niall‟s hands were on it. Oh, Horan will pay for this. A
boundless supply of crap food may have given him some kind of lard-
fueled invincibility, but nobody jeopardizes Louis Tomlinson‟s
complexion and lives to tell the tale.

He‟s pulled out of his vengeful reverie by the buzz of his phone.

ring toss!!!!!! Harry‟s message reads. Christ. How has he managed to

surround himself with so many people that are so genuinely
enthusiastic about these things?

He sighs and weaves his way through the crowds until he finds Harry at
the ring toss, as promised. He‟s got a red scarf tucked into his pea coat
and his camera bag strapped across his chest, looking every inch a
respectable twenty-something artistic-type if it weren‟t for the studied
seriousness of his ring toss stance. Louis holds back a snort of laughter
at the way he‟s chewing on his lower lip, contemplating his next throw.

“Ring toss champion Harold Styles lines up his final toss,” Louis says
in his best announcer voice. Harry looks up, surprised, but then grins
when he sees who it is. He looks back at the game with a furrowed
brow, playing along. “He‟s going for the gold here,” Louis continues.
“It‟s all riding on this, the last toss of a legend…”

Harry throws the ring, which goes clattering off the tops of the bottles.

76
“No!” Louis shouts loudly, throwing up his hands and startling several
nearby students. “What a blunder! You can only imagine the shock of
the fans, of the people watching at home! What a colossal mistake! Oh,
the humanity—” but then Harry‟s up in his space, putting a hand over
his mouth even as he laughs.

“All right, all right, you‟ve made your point,” he says, smiling. “Stop
making me feel worse about it.”

He slides his hand off Louis‟ mouth, and Louis ignores the fact that he
can still feel his face flushing a bit from the sudden contact. Not for the
first time in his life (or today, even), he thanks God for his ability to
maintain a tan. He recovers quickly, sticking his tongue out at Harry.

“I am,” Harry says, leaning in conspiratorially, “surprisingly bad at this

game. Been trying to win for a solid ten minutes, wasted half my
tickets.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Surely there are better things you could be
doing. Niall seems very adamant about the virtues of the fried butter.”

Harry grins and shrugs. “It‟s fun. And when I win, which I will,” he
says, pointing a finger at Louis‟ doubtful look, “my victory will be all
the sweeter.”

He tears off another ticket and hands it to the female student at the
booth for another round. The girl hands him three more rings with a
studied air of weariness that Louis can‟t help but admire.

“I suppose there is a certain tragic romantic appeal in continuing to

play a game you know is rigged,” Louis says, leaning against the booth.
He winks at the girl, who stares back at him blankly for a second before
returning to her phone.

Snorting, Harry lines up another shot. “You know it‟s possible to enjoy
things non-ironically, right?” He tosses the ring and curses under his

77
breath when it goes skittering off the bottles. He looks up at Louis with
a mix of humor and concern in his eyes. “Healthy, even.”

“Ah, yes, non-ironic enjoyment,” Louis says, gazing off into the
distance. “I knew it once, in the halcyon days of my youth.”

Harry points at him, ring in hand. “I will break you of your cynicism
yet. I will win one of these prizes for you, and you will be forced to
admit that good things do happen in this world.”

Louis barks a laugh. “If you actually manage to win me a prize, I swear
on my mother‟s uninhabited grave that I will attempt to sincerely enjoy
this fair.”

“Challenge accepted,” Harry says, striking an athletic pose before

tossing the second ring. Another miss. “God damn it,” he says, and then
nods a quick “sorry” to the booth attendant. “How is this game actually
this difficult? Am I defective?”

“I told you already, young Harold. This game is rigged, and you are
wasting your time. More importantly, you are wasting my time,” Louis
says archly.

“A rigged game can still be won, Tommo,” Harry says. Then he catches
the last ring between his fingers and holds it up to Louis‟ mouth.
“Blow.”

Louis stares at him. “You can‟t be serious.”

Harry just taps the ring lightly against Louis‟ lips, his stare expectant
and unwavering. “Blow.”

Louis needs to pretend that the insistent way Harry‟s looking at him
isn‟t making his brain chemistry run riot, so he makes a show of rolling
his eyes and huffs out a breath through pursed lips.

78
Grinning like he‟s already won, Harry turns back to the game, takes a
deep breath, and tosses the ring. Louis watches as it bounces, bounces,
and lands with a tinny clink around the neck of one of the bottles.

“Yes!” Harry yells, throwing up his arms in pure joy. “Victory is

mine!”

“What,” Louis says.

“I believe I have earned a prize, have I not?” Harry says to the booth
girl.

She nods and snaps her gum. “What d‟you want?” she asks, jerking her
head towards the shelf behind her.

“I think I shall take that magnificent stuffed bear, thank you,” Harry
says. When she hands it to him, he immediately turns to Louis, who
still hasn‟t quite been able to stop staring at the ring around the bottle.
It worked. Harry won. There is a God, and he is a dick.

Harry pushes the rather sizeable bear into Louis‟ arms. “Sorry, Lou,”
he says with a smirk that says he is definitely not sorry at all. “Looks
like you‟re going to have to be happy tonight, whether you want to or
not.”

Louis gapes at him, helpless and clutching a comically large bear to his
chest, and tries to pull himself together. Harry wants happy, sincere
Louis? Fine. Fine. “I suppose a deal‟s a deal,” he says. “What wonders
shall we enjoy next, oh fearless leader?”

“Oh, no you don‟t,” Harry says, shaking a finger at Louis. “That‟s still
making fun of it, and that wasn‟t the deal. I don‟t want you to be
ridiculous, or to fake anything.” He smiles softly. “Just relax and enjoy
yourself. You think you can manage that?” he asks, poking Louis in the
side. “You think that‟s in the realm of possibility?”

79
Louis sighs and hugs the bear closer. At least the bear doesn‟t try to
make him do things. Or feel things. “Yes,” he mutters into the soft fur
petulantly.

Harry smiles like all his birthdays have come at once. “Brilliant.” He
grabs Louis by the upper arm and starts walking toward the food area.
“Now what were you saying about fried butter?”

They wander between the various booths offering refreshment,

admiring what‟s on offer, and Harry ends up trading two tickets for a
bag of deep-fried Oreos. He doesn‟t make Louis try that particular
horrific concoction, but he smiles when Louis bites into a sausage with
relish.

“I know I shouldn‟t,” Louis says, wiping grease off his bottom lip with
his thumb, “And I know they're full of, like, pig anuses and whatnot,
but they‟re just too good to turn down.”

“I know precisely what you mean,” Harry says, grinning at him. Louis
feels a white-hot bolt of wishful thinking run through him, imagining
what exactly Harry could be talking about. He has just enough time to
think, wait, would he be implying I was full of pig anuses before that
train of thought is derailed by the sight of Niall sprawled across a
bench.

“Whatcha doin‟, Nialler?” he calls out in a sing-song tone. Niall opens

his eyes and fixes Louis with a gaze. His face is the face of a man at
peace.

“Digesting,” he says. He squints. “Where‟d the bear come from?”

“I won it for Louis at ring toss,” Harry says proudly, and hearing it in
the presence of someone else makes Louis hyperaware of how it
sounds, of what it could mean to objective ears. He freezes, hanging on
Niall‟s reaction.

80
“Cute,” Niall says, closing his eyes. And maybe he doesn‟t read
anything into it, or is too sated to care, but Louis knows someone else
would ask questions, would look at Louis for answers and read the
truth that‟s written even in the way he walks, swaying closer to Harry
with every step. He‟s a pathetic bastard, even his cat knows it, and the
only thing that‟s keeping it under wraps is Niall‟s codependent
relationship with food.

“I try,” Harry says, turning to smile at Louis, and it‟s almost too much.
“You could return the favor, you know,” he points out.

“What, win you something?” Louis asks, incredulous.

“Unless you don‟t think you‟ve got the skills.” Harry looks at Louis, all
wide-eyed innocence, and Louis is going to interpret the heat that pools
in his stomach as healthy competitiveness and nothing else.

“Please, Styles, as if you‟re any match for me. Let‟s head back to the
games, I‟ll win so many plush toys you‟ll choke on them.”

“Is that a promise?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow, and honestly,

fuck him.

“It‟s a threat,” Louis intones, trying to look as scary as one can while
holding a giant teddy bear.

Harry bursts out laughing at that. “Fair enough. You head over and pick
a game, I‟ll meet you there,” he says. “I‟ve got to use the toilet, and I
figure you‟ll need plenty of time to get in the zone.”

“I live in the zone, Styles!” Louis shouts at Harry‟s retreating back. He

sighs as soon as he‟s out of sight.

“You two make me want to vomit,” Niall says sleepily from the bench,
his eyes still closed.

81
“That‟s probably just all the kebabs you‟ve just shoved into your gob,”
Louis says. He throws the remains of his sausage at him.

Five minutes later he finds himself in front of the balloons and darts
booth, struggling to pop a single one.

"Suddenly I feel much better about my ring toss skills," says a voice
behind him, and by now Louis knows that voice well enough that he
doesn't even have to turn around.

"Not now, Styles, I'm concentrating," Louis tells him. He holds the tip
of his tongue between his teeth and tries very hard to keep his eyes on
the balloons in front of him and not Harry sauntering up beside him,
smiling as he props one hip up against the edge of the booth. He's got a
cloud of cotton candy in each hand. One for himself and one for Louis.
Damn it all.

"One dart left," Harry observes. "Pressure's on."

"You mock my ambitions," Louis says. "Some people take the sport of
balloon popping very seriously."

"I am being serious," Harry says. "How else am I going to get my

hands on one of those bears?"

"By winning your own, you lazy arse," Louis says. He lines up his shot,
adjusts his glasses, aims—

And misses completely, dart landing wide left, because Harry chooses
that moment to casually lick the crystallized sugar off of one long,
slender finger.

"Guess I'll have to, then," Harry says. He's smirking when Louis turns
to look at him properly, and Louis could almost swear the whole thing
was on purpose.

82
"Nobody likes a smartarse," Louis says. He snatches his cotton candy
out of Harry's hand.

"Cheers," Harry says, taking an enormous bite of his own. When he

speaks again, little bits of pink fluff fly everywhere. "Well, we found
Niall. Where's Zayn?"

"Over there, hidden behind the horny masses," Louis says, pointing
across the carpark to the crowd that's queued up.

“Ah, he‟s still on his shift?” Harry asks, picking bits of cotton candy
from his fringe.

“So it would seem, the poor lad,” Louis says with a theatrical sigh.
“You know, I think he only suggested the kissing booth as a joke, like
in that movie he likes so much? The one that's the Shakespeare
retelling? But people were remarkably enthusiastic about the idea.”

Harry snorts. “Wonder why.” The line is immense, full of female

students, teachers, and what appear to be a few of the students‟
mothers. “Do you think we still have a chance? Line‟s moving
quickly.”

“Have a chance? I‟ll throw elbows if I have to,” Louis says, and strides
across the carpark, Harry close behind.

In line, Louis looks around, observing. Harry‟s right, the line is moving
quickly, aided in part by the strictly-enforced cheek-kiss-only rule.
Louis sees about half of his actresses in line, giggling to each other
over their own nerve, and he makes a mental note to remind Zayn to
come looking as frumpy as possible next time he comes to help paint
the set during rehearsal.

Harry nods his head over to a cluster of boys off to the side. “Some of
my lads over there, watching the show. Think they‟re jealous?”

83
Louis gives them a once-over, noticing that not all of them are
watching the girls. “Jealous of who?” he says wryly.

Eyes bugging, Harry looks back at his players. “You don‟t think—
interesting,” he says. Louis just hopes the redheaded one learns to keep
his eyes to himself if he wants to be anywhere near subtle.

Before Harry can say anything else, it‟s their turn. Zayn looks only
moderately homicidal, both his cheeks colored by several layers of
lipgloss and lipstick, until he looks up to see who his next customer is.
The absolute despair that comes over his face when he sees them makes
Louis extremely proud of himself.

“Get it over quick, would you,” he says, with the air of a man
condemned.

“My love!” Louis cries, setting the bear on the ground. “So long we
have been parted, but no longer! At last, I have found you again, and
from this day forth we shall never be separated.” He drapes himself
across Zayn‟s booth, and Zayn‟s hands fly into the air like someone‟s
just spilled something unpleasant on him.

“Swear you shall set these, these pretenders aside and remain with me
forevermore,” Louis continues, gesturing expansively to the bemused
members of the line behind him. Harry, for his part, is laughing
uproariously. “Swear to me, my one and only. Light of my life, fire of
my loins, my Zaynlita.”

Zayn looks down at him with an impassive face that would be

frightening if Louis weren‟t congenitally immune to threats from men
with lip imprints on their face. “I will dedicate my life to making sure
that the remains of your body are as small as possible,” he says.

“Good enough for me,” Louis says. He stands up, tears a ticket off, and
holds it between his teeth. He raises his eyebrows at Zayn and looks
down at the ticket suggestively. God, he is hilarious.

84
“Not a fucking chance,” Zayn says, and snatches the ticket with his
hands. He grabs Louis by the cheeks and kisses him roughly on the
forehead before shoving him away. “Next!”

Louis stands aside as Harry walks up, sedately hands Zayn his ticket,
and then leaps over the booth to tackle him to the ground. Watching
them wrestle in the dirt as scandalized fair-goers look on, Louis
commends himself on his choice in friends and retrieves the bear.

When Zayn finally breaks free, he‟s roughed up but smiling. He shoves
Harry out from behind the booth and into Louis, who catches him by
the shoulders with the arm that isn‟t holding the bear. His fingers curl
into the collar of Harry‟s coat, and Harry looks him right in the eye as
they both try not to fall over laughing. Yeah, Louis maybe likes these
people a little bit.

Zayn goes to sit back behind the booth but is stopped by one of the
maths teachers from the second floor corridor in Louis‟ building. His
name begins with a B, but Louis can‟t quite remember it with Harry
ducking under his arm. Bradley? Bennett? Benjamin? Whoever he is,
Zayn looks thrilled to see him.

“Your shift‟s up, Malik,” he says, clapping Zayn on the shoulder. There
is an audible groan from the gathered crowd, and Louis sees one girl
violently throw an ice cream cone to the ground as Zayn stands and the
maths teacher takes his place. Bernard? Barry?

“Thanks, George,” Zayn says, and okay, you can‟t win them all. “Good
luck.” George gives a salute as Zayn walks past Harry and Louis.

“Oi, where are you going?” Louis calls after him. Zayn turns but keeps
walking backwards.

“I‟m going to, uh, check out the rides. Make sure they‟re up to safety
code, you know,” he says, coloring. “Just in case.”

85
“You‟re no fun anymore!” Louis yells at his back. Harry, still under
Louis‟ arm, just blows a raspberry. Louis, for reasons he can‟t explain,
lightly headbutts Harry in the temple. “Where to next, then?” he asks,
and Harry shrugs.

“You haven‟t won me a prize yet,” he points out idly, and Louis tips his
head back and groans.

They wander back towards the games, and Louis spends about half an
hour and most of his tickets discovering that he is, apparently, not good
at any of them. Harry is supremely unhelpful, whispering into Louis‟
ear while he tries to shoot ducks and standing in his way during pin the
tail on the donkey. Blindfolded, Louis walks right into him, and Harry
just laughs.

Louis sighs and pulls the blindfold up. “You know, you might actually
get something if you stop messing with me. You‟re working against
your own interests, here.”

Harry grins and pulls the blindfold back down. “I‟m a complicated
man,” he says, spinning Louis around again.

“You‟re a complicated dick,” Louis mutters, but he flails around for the
donkey anyway.

Finally, several failures later, Louis is on his final ticket. He holds it up

to Harry. “Last shot at a prize. How shall I waste it?” Harry looks
thoughtfully at the ticket, but then shakes his head.

“No prize. Come on, let‟s find the others, I want to get a photo of
everyone.”

Harry texts Niall and Louis texts Zayn, and five minutes later they‟re
assembled in front of the Ferris wheel. It‟s lit up now, lights blinking
against the darkening evening sky. Louis remembers how shoddy it
looked a few hours ago and wonders when exactly it started to seem

86
appealing. He turns to Zayn to remark on it, but is distracted by the
morose expression on his face.

“Christ, what farted in your cotton candy?” he asks, poking Zayn in the
stomach.
Zayn sighs. “Nothing, it‟s just—I checked this whole place over and
everything‟s up to code. These guys, they really know their stuff.” He
glowers up at the Ferris wheel. “Not even a fucking rusty bolt, much
less a fire hazard.”

“Sorry, mate,” Harry says, “On the bright side, Louis is absolute
rubbish at fair games.”

Louis nods. “I truly am.”

He swears he can see Zayn‟s quiff perk up. “Really?”

“It‟s an embarrassment to the human race,” he admits.

“That does cheer me up,” Zayn says. Harry claps him on the shoulder.

“Good, can‟t have you crying in the pictures.” Niall says. Harry flags
down a passing student and hands her his camera. The four of them line
up, Zayn next to Louis next to Harry next to Niall, arms around each
others‟ shoulders, though one of Louis‟ is occupied by the bear.

“Three, two, one…” the girl says, and as the flash goes off, Louis hoists
the bear up in front of his face.

Harry cuffs the back of his head. “Tosser,” he says affectionately, and
goes to retrieve his camera, thanking the girl. He looks at the digital
display and laughs. “Oh, this one‟s going on the wall.” When the other
three try to sneak a look at the screen he hides it, batting them away.
“You‟ll see it when I give you prints, get off.”

87
Niall stretches and lets out a small burp. “All right, lads, I‟m headed
home.” He goes down the line and pats all of them on the head, even
the bear. “I am going to sleep for a very long time, and it‟s going to be
fucking amazing. See you on Monday!” He waves and walks toward
the carpark as the others chorus their goodbyes after him.

“I think that‟s it for me, too,” Zayn says, shuffling his feet.

“Aw, Zayn,” Harry wheedles. “I‟ll let you beat me at the test-your-
strength thing if you stay.”

“Appreciate the offer, but nah.” Zayn pulls a packet of cigarettes out of
his jacket and puts one between his lips. “I‟ve had enough excitement
for one night, I think.” He lights up and takes a weary drag that Louis
knows for a fact he‟s practiced in front of a mirror.

“If you say so,” Louis says. “Just know that if you burn your flat down
in a melancholic fury I‟m not letting you sleep on my couch.”

“Cheers,” Zayn says, and heads off.

They watch him slouch off. “A hundred people queued up to kiss him
today and he‟s still miserable,” Louis says. “Not sure if I should be
annoyed or impressed.”

“Nah, I get it. Doesn‟t really count unless it‟s the right one.” Harry
says, a smile at the corner of his lips. “You ready to spend your last
ticket?”

“I was born ready, Harold,” Louis says, bumping Harry‟s shoulder with
his. “What‟s the plan?”

Harry just points up at the Ferris wheel, and Louis‟ stomach twists like
a balloon animal. “Seems like a fitting end to the night, yeah?” Louis
just nods.

88
The queue moves quickly enough that he doesn‟t have time to try to
remember the last time he was actually excited to ride a Ferris wheel.
When they reach the ticket-taker, she stops them. “It‟s three to a car.”

Harry grabs the bear from Louis‟ arms. “He‟s our third.” He hands the
girl two tickets from his tape and walks briskly by, holding Louis‟ arm,
and Louis has just enough time to hand her his last ticket before he‟s
dragged past and into a car. Harry puts the bear in the far seat and
claims the middle for himself, leaving Louis the seat on the end.

“Cozy,” Louis jokes, settling himself in, and the ride operator locks the
bar over their laps.

The wheel starts turning, lifting them up, and Louis is once again
thrown into a moment of extreme, acute awareness. This time, though,
he‟s not worried about what any else thinks. Every part of him focuses
instead on this narrow bench on a Ferris wheel and Harry‟s solid
weight pressed up against his side and the fact that there‟s nowhere for
him to run, not even a spare inch of space between his body and the
side of the car. Just himself and Harry and a giant bear and all of the
things he‟s afraid he can‟t keep quiet.

“You‟re not afraid of heights or anything, right?” Louis looks over to

find Harry looking back at him with concern, and he‟s confused until
he realises his hands are clenched in his lap, knuckles white.

He forces himself to relax. “No worries,” he says brightly, and the slow
spread of Harry‟s smile has him in pieces. He‟s not afraid of heights,
but he‟s been in too many shows not to know nerves when he has them.

They sit quietly, looking out at the view as their car climbs higher and
higher and the sounds and colors of the fair grow fainter below. Louis
places his hands on his knees and keeps them still, eyes fixed on the
loose way Harry‟s hands hang over the bar spanning their laps. They‟re
so close, and it would be so easy to just reach out and tangle their
fingers together. He can imagine Harry‟s palm broad and warm against
his, his fingers sugar-sticky on the back of his hand, and, God, when

89
was the last time he wanted to hold somebody‟s hand? Suspended in
this tiny, contained space, he can‟t keep ignoring what he‟s been
feeling all night. Louis is sitting on a carnival ride with a boy who
makes him nervous, and he has not felt like this since he was seventeen.

When they reach the top, the wheel creaks to a halt, and they‟re alone
with the stars and the lights of Manchester. Louis looks out to the city
skyline and soaks in the warmth of the person next to him and thinks of
how strange it feels to not want to be anywhere else, or with anyone
else. He doesn‟t know how to handle it. Maybe he used to, but he
doesn‟t anymore.

He clears his throat loudly, and Harry looks over at him. “Penny for
your thoughts?”

“Why?” Harry asks, as if Louis has an answer for why anything

anymore, especially with him.

“Bit boring, sitting here in silence,” Louis says, trying to keep his tone
light. He should have known better than to trust his voice, as weak and
wavering as the rest of him.

Harry just shakes his head softly, eye contact like a tether. “I‟m not
bored,” he says, and looks back out across the city, a smile playing
across his lips. “You aren‟t bored.”

Louis stares at a point on the horizon and tries to ignore the uneven
drag of his own lungs. “I suppose not.”

He braves another look at Harry, and it almost knocks the breath out of
him. He‟s in profile next to Louis, looking out into the distance,
immediate and warm and so fucking beautiful. The lights from the
Ferris wheel hit him just right, touching the ends of his lashes and the
dip of his lower lip and the place where his hair falls across his temple
and curls against his cheekbone, casting a halo around his curls in
bright pink and yellow. Louis wants to kiss him more than he‟s ever
wanted to kiss anyone in his life.

90
The ride shudders back into motion and Louis pulls his eyes away.
They don‟t speak for the rest of the ride. Every nerve ending in Louis‟
body is right up against the surface, spine to fingertips, straining to the
very borders of him in an attempt to get to Harry. It feels like the last
moment before a static shock, before the bolt arches across a gap, and
Louis can‟t let that happen. So he keeps his hands on his knees.

By the time Louis gets out of the car his legs are weak like he‟s run a
marathon. Harry climbs out after him, tugging the bear along by the
arm, and Louis can‟t help but grin at the sight of him.

“Sadly, I‟m afraid that‟s the end of the night for me,” Louis says,
making a try for casual now that the ground‟s back under his feet.

“All good things,” Harry says. He heaves the bear back up into his
arms, and they start wandering in the direction of the parking area.

Louis stares at his shoes and matches Harry‟s slow pace, pretending for
the sake of his own sanity that this was just a fun night with a good
friend and nothing more, that he doesn‟t want anything else. And it was
fun, really. Harry had been right.

“This was nice,” Louis says suddenly. He doesn‟t remember making

the decision to speak, but it‟s too late to go back now. “I‟m, um. I‟m
glad I came.” He elbows Harry, knocking him sideways a bit. “Even if
it was only because you forced me to.”

Harry laughs and gives him a light shove back. “You‟re welcome. For
the bear, too.”

He holds it out to Louis, shaking it a little so the stuffed legs flop

around, and Louis takes it from him haughtily. “No more than I
deserve.”

Harry laughs again. “Too right.”

91
They walk in silence for another moment before Harry looks over and
says, “I‟m glad I met you.”

It hangs in the air between them, and Louis wants to grab onto that too,
wants to shove it inside his coat and keep it there. One day he will stop
being surprised by the things Harry is willing to say out loud.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry confirms, looking pleased with himself.

Louis can‟t do anything about the smile that creeps across his face as
they keep walking. “Good.” He notices then that they‟re reaching the
edge of the car park, and he pauses. “Where‟d you park, Hazza?”

Harry stops in his tracks. “Back there,” he says, gesturing over his
shoulder with his thumb. “I was following you.”

Louis lets out a weak little laugh. “I‟m that way.” He points in another
direction. “Thought I was following you.”

“Oh,” Harry says, laughing a little too, one hand reaching up to rub at
the back of his neck. “I guess this is where we part ways, then.” He
kicks at the gravel on the ground.

“Well, I‟ll, uh—” Louis searches for words that aren‟t going to give
him away. “I‟ll see you on Monday, I suppose.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, Monday.” He‟s looking at Louis with his brow
furrowed, like he‟s trying to sort something out in his own head.

“Well,” Louis says. “Bye.”

92
“Bye,” Harry says back, but doesn‟t move, still watching Louis.

The lights of the car park cast long shadows on Harry‟s face, and from
this close Louis can count every one. He thinks of autumn and home
and being seventeen and believing in things that he hardly even
mentions by name in his own head anymore. He thinks of colored
lights and Harry‟s hands, and he feels like he‟s back up on the Ferris
wheel alone, something tiny hanging over something so much bigger
than himself. There‟s an edge, and there‟s him, and he can‟t seem to
stop himself from moving closer and closer. He takes a deep breath,
opens his mouth, closes it again, and then turns on his heel and walks
away.

He hurries to his car, afraid to look back, and the gravel crunches idiot
idiot idiot underfoot.

93
94
 FOUR

Zayn has this sort of image in his head of how it should happen when
he and Liam finally get together.

It‟s a fantasy, mostly, but when the man of your dreams is a fireman,
it‟s hard to not get carried away. He usually imagines some emergency,
some climactic moment where his life is in danger, and then Liam
swoops in, propelled by his confusing fascination with Zayn‟s sex
appeal and intelligence and brooding nature, and rescues him from
certain death. Driven mad by fear for Zayn, Liam has no choice but to
confess his undying love, perhaps even while his skin is still sooty from
the flames. Also he is shirtless.

Naturally, this scenario could play out in a variety of settings: his flat,
the school, a beautiful villa in the south of France. Zayn has a
contingency plan for each one. So when the fire alarm goes off
unexpectedly during second period, he‟s ready. This is the day Zayn
has trained for. His day of days. The day someone pulled the fire alarm.

He‟s in the middle of a spirited discussion of literary devices in

Wuthering Heights when it happens. He leaps out of his chair,
snatching up his jacket and checking his hair frantically in the mirror he
keeps in his desk drawer before rounding up his students and leading
them outside. It‟s been storming all morning—the perfect weather for a
dramatic confession of love, if you ask Zayn—so they all end up
huddled under an awning, waiting for the fire department to arrive.

95
But the firefighters come streaming out of the truck and Zayn stands
there in the car park with his two dozen bedraggled teenagers and Liam
never comes. Attractive men pile out of the firetruck whose sirens were
supposed to sing the song of Zayn‟s destiny, and not one of them is
Liam.

One of his students tugs on his sleeve. “Mr. Malik? I think we‟re
allowed back inside now.”

“Go back in if you like,” he says, staring angrily at the firetruck. “It
doesn‟t matter. None of it matters.” He turns to look at the girl. “Hope
is a lie.” She stares back, and whatever she sees in his eyes makes her
quail and turn back around, shepherding the rest of the students back
inside.

Eventually he joins them, and no one mentions his absence as they

continue their discussion of Cathy and Heathcliff. Zayn could use a
wuthering moor of his own right now. This is the worst day of his life,
and he doesn‟t quite know how to express it without period costuming
and scenery.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of having to talk to people who
aren‟t Liam, and soon enough Zayn finds himself at home,
contemplating another dinner for one in front of the television. Or he
would be, if there were food in his flat. His cupboards are as empty as
his soul.

And so he‟s at Tesco now, trudging up and down the frozen food aisle.
If there‟s a modern equivalent to wandering a moor in an open
waistcoat, this is it.

There‟s a sale on frozen peas, apparently. That‟s what Zayn deserves to

eat: discount frozen peas. Zayn is the discount frozen peas of humanity.
He reaches for a bag, but his hand bumps into someone else‟s first.
He‟d been so engrossed in his own ennui that he hadn‟t even realised
someone else was in the aisle.

96
“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, withdrawing his hand just as the other person
does the same, and then his eyes flick upward and his mind goes
completely and utterly blank.

Liam. Right in front of him. In the frozen foods aisle. He‟s wearing a
plaid shirt and he‟s got a basket full of shopping in one hand and Zayn
is going into cardiac arrest right there next to the peas.

“Zayn!” Liam says, smiling at him as if every day is the best day of his
life. Zayn wants to kiss him on the mouth. “How‟ve you been, mate?”

“Yes,” Zayn says automatically, because the ability to comprehend

human speech has apparently been shocked out of him in the last five
seconds. “I mean, fine. Shopping. And, such. You know.” He holds up
his bag of vegetables helplessly. “Lettuce.”

He is identifying vegetables. Things are bleak.

“Good, good,” Liam says, still smiling. “Heard you lot had a bit of a
scare today, didn‟t you?”

For a moment, Zayn honestly hasn‟t the faintest clue what in God‟s
name Liam is talking about, but then it clicks. Right. The fire alarm.
That thing he was upset about all day.

“Oh, yeah, somebody pulled the alarm,” Zayn manages. “It was all
right, though. No blazing infernos to report.”

He doesn‟t know what‟s coming out of his mouth, but it makes Liam
laugh, so he considers it a small victory.

“Too bad I had the morning off, we might‟ve seen each other,” Liam
says. “Spent half the day on the sofa eating biscuits instead. That‟s why
I‟m here, actually. Restocking the cupboard. Funny how that worked
out, isn‟t it?”

97
Destiny, Zayn wants to scream in his face. “Funny, yeah.”

“Eating alone, then?” Liam says.

Yes, so alone, oh God, couldn‟t be more alone if I tried, he thinks, but

he can‟t say that. He‟s already standing in the freezer section in his
sadness hoodie. He doesn‟t need to give Liam any more evidence that
he doesn‟t actually have a life.

“No,” he lies.

“Right,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I‟m sure you‟ve got plans.”

“No,” Zayn says quickly, panicking, “I haven‟t got plans with

anybody.”

Liam stares at him for a moment, furrowing his brow, and Zayn
wonders how hard he‟d have to smash his own head into the freezer
door to cause instant death.

The universe must have other plans for his demise, though, because
Liam just claps him on the shoulder. “That‟s really profound, mate. Not
having plans doesn‟t mean you‟re alone. No man is an island, I get it.”
He nods to himself, looking moved. “Well, I should probably get a
move on. Sounds like the rain‟s stopped for a while, might be able to
get out of here before it comes back.”

“Right,” Zayn says, nodding too hard. “Yeah.”

“Good to see you, Zayn,” Liam says with a smile, and then he turns and
heads off down the aisle.

“Wait, Liam,” Zayn blurts out at his retreating back.

98
Liam pauses, turning around to look at Zayn. “Yeah?”

“I, um,” Zayn starts. What the fuck was he going to say? Think of
something, Malik, think. “I‟ve been worrying about my building lately.
Um, where I live. Not sure everything‟s, you know, up to code and all
that.” It‟s the best he can do when he‟s looking Liam in the face.
Maybe he‟ll come by later and check things out and then when he sees
Zayn leaning casually against his door he‟ll suddenly be struck by the
realisation that his soulmate has been standing right in front of him all
along and then they‟ll kiss and Zayn will throw a parade.

Liam frowns, and Zayn almost feels bad about lying to him. “That‟s no
good. Tell you what,” he says, coming back down the aisle. “Why
don‟t I give you my number, and you can keep an eye out and ring me
if you notice anything.”

It takes a moment for anything to penetrate the five million exclamation

points that just sprang up inside his head.

“Okay, yeah,” Zayn says when he finally regains control of his body,
scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket. “Sounds brilliant.” Liam
is going to give him his number. It‟s work-related, and technically
under false pretenses, but still Liam is giving him his number. He will
have a direct line to Liam at all times. They‟re basically married.

After Liam reads off his number, Zayn double- and triple-checks that
he‟s got it right before saving it to his phone. “If you spot anything
fishy, let me know and I‟ll see if I can‟t sort it out,” Liam says
earnestly. If Zayn is discount frozen peas, Liam is premium filet
mignon in human form. Just, you know. Less French.

“I will.” Zayn nods eagerly. “I will absolutely ring you.” And then he
will put a ring on it.

Liam‟s face crinkles up into a smile. Zayn wants to build a shrine to it.
“Wonderful. Anyway, I‟ve got to run. Enjoy your dinner.” He gives
Zayn a tiny wave. Zayn starts to return it before realising he probably

99
looks ridiculous, so he does his best to make it look like he meant to
run his hand through his hair.

“Yeah, cheers. You too. Man.” He aims for nonchalance but he thinks
he may have missed the mark. Liam just keeps smiling, though, and
disappears around the corner. Zayn manages to keep it together for a
full ten seconds before he collapses against the freezer door. He is
never doubting destiny again, so long as he lives.

This vow lasts until he‟s paying the cashier, when he realises that he
didn‟t give Liam his number in return and drops his change all over the
floor. Oh, bugger destiny with a rake.

Louis really does like his job, but he doesn‟t like every second of it.
Especially not right now, hunched over his desk after hours, looking
over the first drafts of his students‟ final compositions for the term. He
could be at home right now, getting cozy with The Only Way is Essex,
but there are only a few weeks left before Christmas hols and his kids
are going to need all the help they can get.

Louis sighs and circles a line on the pages in front of him in pen. This
character entered stage left two pages ago, he writes in the margins, so
while having him enter again stage right here without having
mentioned him ever leaving is a fascinating choice, you should
probably change it unless you plan on introducing evil twins as a plot
point. He taps the end of the pen against his teeth thoughtfully. Too
harsh… or not harsh enough?

As he bends the pen to paper again, Harry opens the door. He doesn‟t
say hello, just tosses a mesh bag of footballs to one side and stalks to
the desk nearest Louis‟. He sits down heavily, not looking at Louis,
then stands up after a moment to walk back to the door and close it. He
returns to his seat and scrubs a hand over his face before finally
meeting Louis‟ eyes.

100
Louis considers telling him he‟s sitting at the desk where Jeremy
Givens sticks all his gum, but decides that this isn‟t the time. “Hi. Talk
to me. Are you all right?”

Harry‟s leg is bouncing up and down, as if he can‟t quite accept

stillness. “No,” he says, not looking away from Louis. “I mean, yes,
I‟m fine, and that‟s what—Jesus. I‟m angry.” He looks quickly out the
window with what‟s almost a smile, but by the time he meets Louis‟
eyes again it‟s a grimace. “You can keep something—you can respect
student confidentiality, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, what—” Louis starts, but Harry‟s already pushed out
of his seat and pacing in front of Louis‟ desk.

“You know Richards? Tom Richards? Tallish, spiky hair, one of my

strikers?” Louis nods. “I asked him to stay behind after practice
because he seemed off his game. He wasn‟t passing to the other
forward we had playing, Mike Kendall, wasn‟t linking up properly with
him at all, and those two can practically read each others‟ minds
normally.” He pulls that almost-smile again, and Louis hates that look
already. “I was actually worried about him. I thought, I don‟t know, I
thought maybe something was wrong at home.”

Harry still hasn‟t stopped moving. “And so I ask him, after practice, it‟s
just us, I ask him what‟s going on, and you know what he tells me?” He
pauses and meets Louis‟ eyes. “He says that he and Kendall aren‟t
speaking, aren‟t friends anymore, because apparently Kendall told
Richards that he‟s gay, not that Richards put it in those terms.” The
pacing resumes. “He tells me—this boy on my team, who‟s been
playing with all these guys for months—that he doesn‟t want to play
with Kendall anymore, that he‟s already told the other lads.” His hand
on the back of his neck, he falls heavily back into his seat. “Christ,
Louis, I‟ve never wanted to hit a student before, but I nearly lost it.”

Louis forces his fingers to unbend from the fist they‟ve formed, from
around the script page he‟s crumpled into a ball. “What—” he clears his
throat, “what did you do?”

101
“I told him that under the circumstances, I didn‟t want him playing with
Kendall either, or on any team of mine, and that he was benched until
further notice,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the desk. His eyes
are ablaze, and Louis can‟t decide if he should be more frightened for
or of him.

“Jesus, Haz.”

“I know, Lou, I know but—fuck, I don‟t care, he betrayed the team and
the trust of a teammate and, Jesus, I feel like he betrayed me because I
liked this kid,” he says all in rush, leaning forward and putting his head
in his hands. “And, fuck, Louis, tomorrow I‟m going to have to tell
Kendall that the team knows, that I know, when I have no fucking
business knowing, and I‟m not…” he takes a few deep breaths and
shakes his head, “I‟m not doing that and making him play with the
prick who did it to him, too. No. Fuck that. I don‟t care.”

Louis looks at the line of Harry‟s shoulders, strung tight as a bowstring.

He‟s almost afraid to move, unable to cope with everything radiating
off of the man in front of him. “He‟s lucky that it‟s someone like you
who‟s dealing with it,” he manages, but his words feel pale and useless
compared to the pure energy vibrating out of Harry.

Harry lets out a harsh laugh. “He‟s not lucky. There‟s nothing about
this that‟s lucky. If there‟s—Jesus, if anyone‟s lucky it‟s me, Lou.” He
looks up, and Louis can see the redness of his eyes, the wetness of his
lashes. He looks like a Rembrandt, like an oil painting of firelight. “I
hate that. I hate that the fact that I made it out of school without any of
this bullshit makes me lucky. I hate being thankful for getting
something that, that Kendall and everyone else shouldn‟t even have to
think about asking for. They should just get it.”

If Louis was afraid to move before, he can barely breathe now. The air
seems stretched thin, a rubber band about to snap.

Harry swallows thickly. “My friends didn‟t care, and my parents were
great, and it‟s not like there were any other guys who liked guys at my

102
high school, so I just ended up dating girls anyway. And it was fine.
And nobody cared. And fuck, Louis, I thought that meant that things
were changing, that things were better, but they aren‟t, I just got
fucking lucky.” He wipes a hand over his face. “I just feel… I feel
really stupid, and I can‟t do anything about it.”

The room is silent except for Harry‟s heavy breaths and the sound of
Louis‟ brain shorting out. “Hazza,” Louis says. “Haz.” Harry won‟t
look at him. Fuck it. Louis can deal with processing this information
later.

He stands and comes around the desk, drops into a seat next to Harry.
“Harry, Christ, you‟re already doing something.” He almost doesn‟t
hesitate before sliding his hand behind Harry‟s neck. “You can let that
shithead rot on the bench for the rest of the season, first off.” That gets
a slightly watery smile out of Harry, and part of Louis‟ brain does
backflips. “And you can be there for Kendall. You can have his back.
That‟s—” after all Harry‟s said, he feels guilty for even taking a breath,
“that‟s more than anyone ever did for me, all right?” Harry‟s eyes flick
up to his. “So don‟t think it‟s nothing.”

“Maybe it isn‟t nothing, but God,” Harry sighs. “I‟m still an idiot. You
know, I never said anything to you guys about being, I don‟t know, not
straight, because I honestly thought it didn‟t matter. Jesus, Lou, I don‟t
even have a word for it. I thought it didn‟t make a difference, because I
thought everyone was moving on from that stuff.”

“It doesn‟t have to make a difference,” Louis says carefully. If that‟s

what Harry wants, he can pretend not to care about this. He can pretend
that this doesn‟t tip his world sideways, that it hasn‟t already. He can
lock this away if he has to, if it takes this look off Harry‟s face.

“I wish you were right, Lou, and maybe yesterday I would have
thought you were.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But if this is how
it is, if my students are going after each other for being something that I
am? It matters, whether I want it to or not. And just because I‟ve been
able to pretend it doesn‟t affect me doesn‟t mean I get to ignore
reality.”

103
Louis rubs the back of Harry‟s neck gently. “Okay. I see what you‟re
saying. It matters.” Harry lets out a heavy breath. “But I think the fact
that you figured that out means you can‟t be all that stupid.”

Harry takes a few deep breaths. “God, Lou,” he says, “everyone in the
world is an arsehole except you,” and maybe it‟s the weight of
everything that‟s been said, but they both dissolve into giggles.

“Glad to see you‟re catching on,” Louis says. The part of him that‟s
relieved to see Harry looking less likely to fly into a million pieces is
just about loud enough to drown out the part of him that‟s still freaking
the fuck out.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay. I can still—I‟m going to help him, and do
everything I can, and if it‟s too much or if I fuck up I can always come
cry at you about it. A good plan.” He sits up a little straighter in his seat
and seems to have shaken off the worst of what‟s weighing him down.
He even fixes his hair quickly, so Louis knows he can‟t be doing that
badly. “All right, I think I‟m ready to face the world again.” He looks
up at Louis and smiles. “I‟d thank you for listening, but I know you‟d
just tell me that I can always talk to you,” he says, cutting off Louis‟
protests, “So I‟ll skip ahead in the conversation and thank you for that,
instead.”

Louis opens and closes his mouth. His brain is full of fog, and the only
coherent thought that is breaking through is sheer amazement that this
is a person who exists. Maybe it‟s causing Harry pain now, but Louis
sends out mental thanks to whatever power allowed him to pass
through adolescence without being ruined by reality. He feels like he
gets to hang out with a unicorn.

He doesn‟t realise he‟s been staring until Harry clears his throat. Right,
conversation. Louis has partaken once or twice. “Fair enough,” he says.
“You‟re welcome.” Harry squeezes his shoulder, and Louis is
conscious of every square inch of contact. Because he is a bad person.

104
“I suppose I‟ll leave you to your actual work,” Harry says, leaving his
seat. He walks over and picks up the bag of footballs.

“Do you have to?” Louis sighs. “Couldn‟t you have another crisis?
They‟re much less boring.” Harry grins at him, and Louis is glad to see
his face wiped clean of the pain it had carried before.

“I might be able to come up with something else equally traumatic by

lunch tomorrow,” Harry says, hefting the mesh bag over his shoulder.

“See that you do,” Louis says, looking over the top of his glasses.
Harry laughs as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a snick.

Louis waits until he‟s sure Harry‟s a suitable distance away, and then
lets out a strangled scream into his empty classroom.

Louis' windscreen has a crack in it. He was driving through a

construction zone once when some piece of machinery sent a pebble
flying into the glass, and the impact instantly split a crack from one
corner to the other, spiderwebbing out at the ends. It's always there
now, since Louis can't really bring himself to spend the money to fix it,
and every time he drives anywhere he's half-waiting for the windscreen
to finally shatter.

Louis sits at a stoplight and stares at the crack his windscreen and all he
can think about is Harry.

It‟s been a week since the whole episode with Mike Kendall, and
maybe if Louis were a better, less sexually frustrated person it would be
a week since Harry came to him in a moment of emotional distress, but
instead it‟s a week since Harry told him he likes men.

105
Suddenly all of Louis‟ fantasies have become much less abstract and
much more immediate. The question is no longer whether or not Harry
is interested in men; it‟s whether Harry‟s interested in Louis, which is a
much less comfortable thing to have on his mind. Flirting doesn‟t feel
playful anymore. Whatever they‟ve got their trigger fingers on, it isn‟t
loaded with blanks.

It‟s not just that Louis knows, now. It‟s that Harry knows that he
knows. They‟re both aware that something could happen, that the only
thing stopping it is the two of them. It‟s a precarious balance, and Louis
can never tell anymore where the line between friendly and flirting
falls, or if it was ever there, or what anything fucking means. He‟s left
constantly on edge, wondering if this is the moment, or this, or this,
Harry leaning too close to steal a sip of his tea, hair brushing the side of
his neck, Harry smiling when he catches Louis staring at his hands,
Harry‟s hands lingering every time they touch, staying a beat too long
on Louis‟ wrist or waist or shoulder. Has he always done that? Is Louis
reading into things too much? He‟s crawling out of his skin, just
wondering if the glass will give.

Louis is a lot of things, but he‟s never been one to let things lie. He‟s
not one to sit down and talk about things, either, and that leaves him
with physical communication, which is the only thing he really knows
how to do anyway. He starts choosing the tightest shirts in his closet,
pulling his braces down and letting them hang loose sometimes when
Harry‟s around. The first time he does it, he means to catalogue Harry‟s
reaction, but then he gets distracted by the way Harry‟s shirt rides up
when he stretches and he misses the moment entirely. Harry‟s eyes still
track him around the room, but no more than usual. Louis doesn‟t know
what to make of that; he has no idea what their “usual” is or ever was.
Eventually he realises that no matter what Harry does, he‟ll twist
himself into knots over it.

It‟s starting to get to him in ways that he really shouldn‟t let it.
Combined with the stress of classes and trying to put on a damn
Shakespeare, it‟s making him irritable and short with everyone, even
people who are just trying to help him. When his mum calls and asks
about his love life in that sly, knowing Mum way of hers, he snaps at
her and then feels guilty about it for the rest of the week. When the

106
feedback from the microphones almost leaves them all deaf during a
technical rehearsal, he feels like he‟s going to pull his hair out.

“Oh, for God‟s sake, Niall!” he shouts up at the sound booth in the
back of the theatre.

“Working on it!” Niall throws back, and when did Louis start taking
this out on Niall of all people? Niall never did anything to anyone.

“Someone needs to get laid,” Zayn says, sidling up next to him with a
bucket of paint.

“That‟s rich coming from you,” Louis says.

He spends that night slouched on his sofa, watching old episodes of

Cake Boss off his external hard drive and trying not to lament the
passage of his youth. He feels restless, like there‟s an itch he can‟t quite
scratch. He watches the man onscreen sculpt impossible shapes out of
what is supposedly food, and thinks of Harry. Well, he‟s almost always
thinking of Harry these days, but he‟s specifically thinking about his
stories of working in a bakery as a teenager, burning bread and stealing
cookie dough. He‟s definitely not thinking about present-day Harry
wearing nothing but an apron, or covered in chocolate frosting, sweet
and sticky under Louis‟ tongue. Nope. Not at all.

He pulls out his phone and stares at the lock screen, considering.
They‟ve always texted each other at random times of the day, little
jokes or comments or general miscellany, but Louis could swear even
that has changed. It‟s not just Harry sending a message from class
about the person in the next row who looks like Robbie Williams or
Louis texting him when one of his students turns in a four-page essay
on the sexual implications of Jack and Algernon‟s conversation about
muffins in The Importance of Being Earnest. Now it‟s late nights with
Duchess looking annoyed from the foot of the bed as his phone lights
up the room, words on his screen just skirting the edges of what he‟d
really like to say.

107
Still watching the sugary roses bloom, he pulls up Harry‟s number, just
below Zayn‟s now on his favorites list.

is fondant actually magic? because i do not understand

Not his best work, but enough to get a conversation going. A few
minutes later, he‟s rewarded with a response.

you should know a baker never reveals his secrets, tommo ;)

Louis snickers and replies immediately. As he does, thoughts of the

secrets Harry has revealed to him steal unbidden to the back of his
mind.

ur not a baker, ur a mildly competent footy coach. do those reveal their

secrets?

The response is almost instantaneous.

more than mildly competent >:(

The image of Harry frowning at his phone is too good, and Louis can‟t
help but try to rile him up more. Louis likes taking it a little too far with
him, pestering him until he‟s not quite sure what Harry will do next.

pls. could kick ur arse myself.

For what it‟s worth, he actually was pretty decent at football back in the
day. Harry seems eager to put him in his place, though, and Louis
squirms in his seat when the next text arrives.

you want to prove that? put your money where your mouth is?

108
Oh, dear. The last thing he needs is to imagine Harry lounging around
his flat, in whatever state of undress he almost certainly is in, thinking
about Louis and mouths in any capacity whatsoever. He knows none of
the actual words in the message are anywhere near R-rated, but his toes
still curl. He takes a deep breath and waits a few minutes before
responding, staring blindly at Cake Boss and trying to talk himself
down. It doesn‟t work.

i‟ll do anything i like with my money, styles. and my mouth. u scared?

He knows he should be embarrassed, should stop trying to escalate

something that he can‟t control, but all he can think about is whether or
not Harry will catch his breath when he reads what Louis sent. After
ten minutes have passed without a response, though, he‟s less excited
and more annoyed.

shaking in my boots. speaking of, do you actually own trainers? :)

Louis can just see his smug face, looking pleased with himself as he
comes up with trash talk. Maybe it‟s a little bit attractive, but that
doesn‟t mean he‟s going to stand for it. A full fifteen minutes pass
before he sends his response, giving Harry a taste of his own medicine.
He means to make it twenty, but he breaks before he can get there.

dick. let‟s do it, then. u and me, footy deathmatch, best man wins.

He expects another long wait, but this time his phone buzzes less than
five minutes later. When Louis reads what Harry‟s sent, he throws his
phone down the couch and grabs a throw pillow, burying his face in it.

your arse is mine, tomlinson.

It takes active effort to keep from pressing his hand against the semi
he‟s currently sporting. Images swim unasked for before his eyes.
Harry in a football kit, covered in dirt and sweat. Harry pushing him up
against a wall in the boy‟s changing room. Harry taking whatever he

109
wants. Louis gropes down the couch and retrieves his phone, peeking
out from behind the pillow to tap out as innocuous a response as he can
manage.

yeah right. u talk big, but we‟ll see. when r we doing this?

If the last message came in minutes, this one comes in seconds, and the
idea of Harry staring impatiently at his phone has Louis biting down
hard on the pillow.

now. come pick me up.

And oh, that sends heat buzzing through Louis‟ brain. Harry doesn‟t get
pushy often, but Louis knows how it looks, all fiery eyes and curled
lips. Louis has gotten him like that with a few texts, and he‟d be proud
of himself if he weren‟t in such a fucking state.

hazza it‟s almost midnight

The problem isn‟t really that it‟s late. The problem is that Louis isn‟t
sure he can deal with being around Harry in person right now if a series
of texts about football have him seriously considering turning off Cake
Boss to have a wank.

backing out now? knew you couldn‟t handle me

That does absolutely nothing to help.

wanker. pick you up in twenty

Louis‟ thumb hovers over the send button for a few seconds before he
finally shuts his eyes and presses it. This is not a good idea. He knows
that. But he can‟t back down, not now.

110
The drive to Harry‟s only takes ten minutes, but Louis needs ten extra
to change into sport-appropriate clothing and think about dead animals
until his hard-on calms down. He maintains an even and sedate pace all
the way to Harry‟s block of flats. He will not speed. Maybe the
prospect of spending time with Harry can get him to agree to sports at
an unreasonable hour of the night, and maybe a few innocent texts can
get him hard, but he will not hurry. Louis has some dignity.

When he pulls up, Harry is already outside on the pavement, dressed in

shorts and a t-shirt, beanie pulled low over his ears. He‟s carrying a
duffle bag, which he slings over his shoulder into the backseat as he
slides into the passenger side. Louis is watching everything, the way
his shorts sit low on his hips, the way his body twists when he turns
back around.

“Hi,” Harry says, reaching to buckle his seatbelt. He grins at Louis, his
cheeks red from the nighttime chill, and Louis tries so hard to keep
himself under control.

“Hi yourself,” Louis says, dragging his eyes away from the curls
escaping from under Harry‟s hat. “Ready to be beaten at your own
game, literally?”

“Stop stalling and drive, Tomlinson,” Harry says. Louis doesn‟t need to
be told twice.

He peels away from the pavement just a little too fast, and it‟s a quick
ride to the school with the two of them trash-talking back and forth and
the tension crackling in between. They‟re laughing by the time the two
of them pile out of Louis‟ car, but it still doesn‟t feel like there‟s
enough air to fill Louis‟ lungs on the walk across the carpark, in and
out of the puddles of light formed by the streetlamps. Soon they fall
into silence, their breath making twin clouds in the crisp air, shoulders
brushing with every step.

111
They reach the chain link fence that surrounds the pitch, and Harry
reaches into his duffle, pulling out the keys to the gate. The lock opens
with a clunk, impossibly loud, and Louis coughs out a nervous laugh.

Harry turns around at the sound, smirking. “Don‟t worry, there‟s no

one else around.”
Louis knows this, knows that even if there is, Harry‟s technically
allowed to be here whenever he wants, but it still feels dangerous.
Everything feels sort of dangerous lately. Harry opens the gate and
motions for Louis to walk through, then ducks under the stands to
unlock the hidden breaker box and flip on the lights. The pitch floods
with light in front of them, bright green and wide open under the night
sky and no place at all to hide.

Louis squints at Harry, walking backwards onto the pitch and feeling
words churning up like they always do when he‟s nervous. “Worried?
Who‟s worried? The only one who should be worried is you, Styles,
because you‟re about to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of the
Tommo.” He pauses and thinks through that sentence again. “Or the
feet of the Tommo. Whatever would be more humiliating.”

Harry just laughs and pulls the football out of the duffle. He tosses it
into the air and starts bouncing it off his knees, higher and higher each
time, following the ball with his eyes. His concentration makes the
lines of him long and steady, and the column of his throat is pale and
perfect under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

Louis swallows. He is perhaps in over his head.

Suddenly Harry kicks the ball, catching it mid-air and sending it

soaring past Louis. He takes off at a run, blowing by Louis before he‟s
even registered what‟s happening. Louis curses under his breath and
goes tearing after him, pleased when he closes the gap quickly.

“Too slow, Harold,” he says, coming in from the side with a slide
tackle that knocks the ball from Harry‟s feet.

112
He scrambles upright and starts running the other way down the pitch
as fast as he can, the ball dancing ahead of him. He hears the pounding
of Harry‟s feet behind him a moment too late, unable to stop Harry
from colliding with him roughly and stealing the ball away.

Harry comes to a stop a few paces from Louis, breathing heavily

through his grin. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security, Lou,”
he says, his left foot resting on the football.

Louis may be a bit winded, but he‟s aware enough to see the fierce joy
in Harry‟s eyes, the predatory set of his shoulders. His cheeks and lips
are bright pink, either from the cold or from exertion, and Louis can see
the fluid way his muscles move under his shirt when he shifts his
weight for another attack. Competition looks good on him.

Keeping eye contact, Harry feints right, then left, and Louis banks hard
and follows him each time. Finally Harry slips past him with a spin
move, his shoulder sliding across Louis‟ with a force that feels
intentional. Louis isn‟t far behind him, and this time he grabs Harry‟s
shirt, slows him down so he can steal the ball back. Harry isn‟t easily
outdone, though, and they spend what could be minutes or years upping
the ante, swearing and laughing and using dirtier and dirtier tactics to
regain possession as they sprint up and down the pitch.

Louis realises somewhere along the line that they never established
how exactly one wins whatever game they‟re playing, but then Harry
makes a break down the pitch and Louis is too busy chasing him to
care.

One of them—Louis couldn‟t say who—finally goes too far,

underestimates his own strength, and the two of them go down in a
tangle of limbs at midfield, the ball rolling away slowly before coming
to a stop. Louis lunges after it, but Harry is too quick, throwing his
body across Louis‟ to hold him back.

His hands find Louis‟ wrists, holding him down, and Louis has to admit
he is well and truly pinned.

113
Everything has gone so quiet all of a sudden, just the sounds of the two
of them trying to catch their breath, Harry sitting astride him now. His
beanie has come off somewhere in the melee, and the lights of the pitch
above him pick out his curls in silver. Louis has always known,
intellectually, that Harry is bigger than him, but it‟s different to know it
physically, to have Harry‟s body cover him and blot out the stars.

He‟s imagined them in this position before, but actually feeling Harry
there, feeling him with his own actual body and not his imaginary
daydream body, is a little too much. Half of him is knotted up in his
nerve endings, incapable of rational thought, and half of him is miles
away, clinically analyzing everything that‟s happening from
somewhere in space. Both halves are about thirty seconds from
catastrophic failure, and that could have consequences that Louis isn‟t
prepared to deal with.

Louis meets Harry‟s eyes, and Harry‟s mouth slices open in a grin that
leaves Louis as winded as any tackle.

“Gotcha,” Harry says. “Looks like I win.” He‟s frozen still, though, and
while his smile is sure, there‟s a question in his eyes that Louis has no
interest in answering, or doesn‟t know how. He thinks instead of the
grass prickling against the back of his neck, narrows his focus to that
single sensation.

“Is that how this works, then,” Louis says softly. He‟s stalling, holding
off the moment he can feel humming toward them. Harry huffs a small
laugh that turns to fog in the cold air. Louis had forgotten the
temperature, can‟t quite take it seriously when he can feel the heat of
Harry down to his bones. Even that has him reeling, the thought that the
warmth seeping into him was part of Harry half a minute ago.

“You tell me,” Harry says quietly. Louis takes a deep breath, feeling
panic thread its way through him, crackling along every nerve. He
searches for a response, something clever and witty that will get him
out of this without having to risk anything, but when he reaches for a
rejoinder he finds his brain is full of static. His throat feels tighter and
tighter, and when he lets out a breath a small whine comes with it.

114
Harry‟s hands loosen on his wrists, distracted, and if Louis is honest
with himself, what happens next is pure fight or flight.

He surges upwards, taking advantage of Harry‟s moment of inattention,

and bowls them both over. Leaving Harry flat on his back, Louis runs
for the football, snatching it up with his hands. He‟s got no plan, no
strategy besides move move keep moving, but when he looks back
Harry is upright and running after him, thank God.

Louis runs the length of the half and carries the football between the
goalposts. When he turns, football held overhead, Harry is slowing to a
stop, a tired smile on his face and his beanie in his hand.

“You know, that‟s not actually how the game is played,” Harry says
wearily, tugging his hat back onto his head.

“Expecting me to play by your rules was your first mistake, young

Harry,” Louis says, tossing him the football.

Harry fixes him with a considering look. “Yeah, I guess it was,” he

says, cocking his head to one side. Then he drops the football, and
before Louis has time to react, Harry‟s grabbed him around the legs and
heaved him over his shoulder into a fireman‟s carry, ignoring Louis‟
squawks of alarm and protest.

Louis contemplates his upside-down view of Harry‟s arm. He‟d like it

better right-side up, and with his crotch not pressed dangerously against
the muscle and bone of Harry‟s shoulder. It‟s a very nice arm,
admittedly, but even so.

“Harry,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “What the shit are you
doing?”

“If you can make up rules, so can I,” Harry says, striding across the
pitch. He doesn‟t even sound like he‟s making much of an effort, the
bastard, and Louis needs to stop feeling things about how easy it is for

115
Harry to physically throw him around or else he‟s going to find himself
in a very compromising situation soon. “My rule says that the loser has
to carry the winner off the field.” His grip on Louis‟ thigh tightens, and
it‟s all Louis can do not to squirm against it.

“Good rule,” he says into Harry‟s arm. “Next time can you give the
winner a bit of warning?”

“Next time the winner will be me,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the
smile in his voice even if he can‟t see it. “So I‟ll be sure to let myself
know.”

“Smartarse,” Louis grumbles. He glares down at the grass, which really

isn‟t fair. The grass never made him have inconvenient sexual urges. At
least not directly.

Then the world tilts and he‟s being set down, right-side up, on the edge
of the pitch. Harry picks up his duffle bag and shuts the lights back off
before opening the gate and ushering Louis through with a bow.

Louis smiles, even if he can‟t quite meet Harry‟s eyes. “I could get
used to this,” he says, waiting for Harry to catch up. Harry just laughs.

They cross the carpark in silence again, and Louis can‟t quite tell what
kind of silence it is. They reach his car, and it‟s only when Harry‟s bag
hits his backseat with a thwap that Louis realises it‟s empty.

“Your football,” he says. “I‟m sorry, I didn‟t realise. We can—“

“I‟ll get it on Monday,” Harry says with a shrug. He slides into the
passenger seat and pulls the door closed.

The drive back to Harry‟s is almost as quick as the drive to the school,
and when Louis pulls up to his block of flats he can‟t decide if he wants

116
Harry out of his car as fast as possible or if he wants to keep driving
until his petrol runs out so Harry can‟t ever leave.

Harry unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches into the backseat for his bag.
Then he turns to Louis, holding out his hand. Unsure, Louis clasps it in
his own.

“Good game,” Harry says, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards,
and then he slips out of the car, leaving Louis with a phantom warmth
in his hand and a stupid expression on his face. Both stay in place the
entire drive back to Louis‟ apartment, Louis doing his best to ignore the
insistent pulsing in his groin.

He feels like he‟s suffocating in the small space of his car,

overwhelmed by sense memory. Harry‟s weight pressing him into the
ground. Harry‟s lip caught between his teeth in concentration. Harry‟s
voice rumbling low in his chest. This whole thing has been throwing
sparks at the dry kindling of his mad, terrible wanting, and now a fire‟s
been lit under his skin, smoldering between his nerve endings and
making him sweat in his seat.

When he finally makes it back to his apartment, he pauses only long

enough to throw the deadbolt before staggering into his bedroom. He
doesn‟t even make it onto the bed, falling on his knees just inside the
door instead. He braces against the bed with his forearm, burying his
face against the duvet, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to
take himself in hand. He groans at the first touch, desperate for it, for
anything.

He doesn‟t waste any time, taking tight, fast pulls, and fuck, it almost
hurts to do it dry, but if he doesn‟t get some sort of release in the next
two minutes he‟s going to die. Breathing shallowly, he lets the leftover
pieces of the night take over. He thinks of Harry above him, and the
smell of grass, and how it would feel to get fucked with that grass
against his skin and that face looking down at him. He imagines Harry
taking him apart on the midfield line, under the lights, out in the open.
He remembers Harry‟s hands tight on his wrists, and shudders wrack

117
his entire body. One, two, three more strokes, and he‟s done, coming
into his own hand with a broken sound.

He sits there he doesn‟t know how long, coming down less from his
orgasm than from the entire night. God. He is a fucking wreck, and it‟s
only getting worse. He can only imagine what Harry would think if he
saw him like this, alone on his bedroom floor with his prick out and a
hand full of come. What is wrong with him? He hasn‟t been like this
over anyone since he was sixteen years old and terrified and helpless to
stop himself from thinking of the fit boy from biology class every time
he got himself off. This has gotten completely out of control.

Louis finally musters the energy to go clean himself up, deciding that
staying on the floor until he withers into dust under the weight of his
sad, sad state of affairs is not actually the way he wants to die. When he
raises his head, though, eyes fall on his pillow. There sits Duchess,
grooming one paw imperiously and staring at him with what can only
be disdain.

He drops his face back onto the bed with a defeated whimper.

118
 FIVE

Louis is saved from having to try to sort out his pathetic life by the fact
that Much Ado goes into its last two weeks before opening night. With
interminable rehearsals every evening and dozens of errands to run
during his free periods, he only sees Harry for short snippets of time.
He‟s had to give up lunchtime for the sake of putting the finishing
touches on the set and rounding up props, so even that is gone. Most of
his interactions with Harry lately are down to a few unanswered text
messages in his inbox and brushing by Harry on his way out the door
with a strangled apology thrown back over his shoulder.

Thankfully, this means he is spared from having to look Harry in the

eyes for any extended period of time, because he might actually have a
stroke if that happened. He‟s tuned up so tightly right now that he can
hardly even stand the thought of Harry on top of everything else, much
less having to see him right in front of his face. The last damn thing he
needs right now is to be forced to deal with the person who‟s keeping
him up at night, fists in the bedclothes and aching for hands on his skin.
High stress plus excruciating sexual frustration does not a winning
combination make.

It seems like Harry‟s picked up on the fact that his behavior is more
than just a mad dash to get everything ready in time for the first
performance. Even running into him by the vending machines is still
enough for him to figure out that Harry isn‟t quite touching him as
much as he normally does, isn‟t quite smiling at him the same way. He
feels guilty for pushing Harry away, because beyond his endless idiotic
wanting, Harry is one of his closest friends, but he just can‟t cope with
everything at once.

119
He‟ll figure it out later when he isn‟t neck-deep in Shakespeare, trying
to drag a couple dozen teenagers through their final few rehearsals.

“Stop, stop,” Louis yells from his seat in the audience. The two actors
onstage turn to look at him, lines halfway out of their mouths, as Louis
stands and walks toward the stage. “It‟s not worth running this scene if
you two aren‟t off-book. And you aren‟t.” Two days before opening
night, and his leads aren‟t off-book. Jesus. “Go run lines outside in the
hallway.” They walk offstage, his female lead looking peevish.

“Marjorie, if you don‟t have that soliloquy memorized tomorrow, I‟ll,

I‟ll—I don‟t know what I‟ll do, but none of us will like it.” Louis
shouts after her. He rubs his hands over his face and tries not to
hyperventilate.

“You look like you could use this,” someone says behind him, and oh
God please no.

Louis turns and is abruptly confronted with the sight of Harry Styles in
his theatre, because the universe is trying to send him into a psychotic
break.

“What are you—” Louis starts, but then looks down to see the
cardboard cup in Harry‟s hands.

“Yorkshire tea, no sugar,” Harry says, pushing it into his hands. Louis
accepts it wordlessly. “Footy practice was cancelled, it‟s raining. What
do you need?”

It‟s too much, Harry standing there asking to be whatever Louis needs
except for the one thing he needs most, and Louis stares into the tea and
tries to pick one emotion to feel. Exasperation seems like the least
terrifying choice, considering his options. “Go keep an eye on the kids
who are setting up the lights, try to make sure they don‟t kill
themselves.” He holds back from thanking Harry, rude as it is, because
if he starts letting himself react to things Harry does he isn‟t going to
make it through the night alive.

120
Harry nods once and walks toward the back of the theatre, and Louis
takes a deep breath and turns back to see his cast milling around
aimlessly. “You,” he says, picking out two of the boys. “Run your Act
III scene again. With the blocking.” They groan and Louis is going to
snap. “You‟ll thank me when you don‟t trip in front of hundreds of
people. Run it.”

“What about the rest of us?” says one of the girls playing a bit part.

Louis rubs his temples. “Go and make sure all your costumes are
finished and fit. Practice costume changes. Run your lines. Know that if
I catch you slacking off I will mount your head on my wall as a
trophy.” They scatter, and he turns back to the two boys. “Why aren‟t
you running your scene? Go!”

He watches them critically, stepping in every once in a while to point

out where they‟ve messed up their blocking or dropped a line. It seems
like only a few minutes have passed, but suddenly he feels a light touch
on his shoulder. He turns, and of course it‟s Harry, with a concerned
look on his face that makes Louis want to cry.

“All the lights are ready,” he says. “I‟d run through the cues to make
sure everything‟s hooked up right, but I wanted to check with you first
since you‟re using the stage.”

Louis looks at his watch and fuck, fuck, he‟s going to have to let the
kids go soon.

“Give me a minute,” he says to Harry, who just nods again like he‟s got
the patience of a fucking saint. Louis wants to hit him, wants to say
something cruel just to get a reaction, because he does not have the
emotional resources to deal with Harry being a good person right now.

Instead he turns back to the stage, cups his hands, and yells, “Everyone
out here!” It takes a few seconds, but soon everyone is assembled,
actors and crew alike, looking at him expectantly. “You‟ve all put in
good work tonight,” he says. “We‟re going to need you to put in a lot

121
more over the next two days. I know I‟m driving you hard, and I know
you‟ve all got the end of term to deal with, but we‟re all going to have
to push ourselves to get this show off the ground in time. Before you
leave tonight, please, for the love of God, make sure that everything is
cleaned up. If you‟re an actor, make sure you know where your
costumes are. Crew, make sure the props are stored in some way that
makes sense. If I have to clean up after any of you I will not be
pleased.” He pauses, making sure they‟re appropriately terrified. “Then
you can go home.”

They give a ragged cheer and disperse. Louis drops into one of the
theatre seats and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to think
about how much there is left to do. He looks up and sees Harry helping
one of the members of the crew push the prop stairs off to the side of
the stage, the muscles of his back visible through his t-shirt, and Louis
really can‟t afford to process that.

He stands up and heads back to the sound booth, because someone

really does need to check the lighting cues. As he runs through them, he
can‟t help but watch what‟s happening onstage. Harry walking stage
right, arms laden with props. Harry hugging a cast member who looks
like she‟s about to cry. Harry picking up a table, arms flexing.
Somehow when it‟s happening on the stage it‟s harder to ignore, and
Louis stands in the booth, pressing buttons, wishing Harry were a
worse person.

If he were worse, if he weren‟t so genuinely fucking pleasant to be

around, Louis could just fuck him and get it over with. He could just
get him, it, this, whatever it is, out of his system and never see him
again and go on with his life. Sure, when Louis gets involved with
someone it usually all goes to hell immediately, but if Harry could just
be a shittier person that wouldn‟t matter. Half of the men Louis has
ever slept with probably hate his guts, and Louis couldn‟t give less of a
shit.

Except Harry isn‟t a shittier person: he‟s alone onstage folding

costumes for Louis‟ play. Looking at him there under the spotlight,
Louis can‟t lie to himself. If Harry ever hated him, he would be lost.
And right now, it makes Louis fucking angry.

122
He walks out of the sound booth, slamming the door, and stalks down
the aisle of the theatre. Harry and he are the last ones left, it looks like,
which is good, because if Louis has to interact with one more person
he‟s going to tear out his hair. He climbs the stairs without a word.

“Hey, I folded these but I don‟t know where—” Harry starts, but Louis
has already grabbed the costumes from him. “Okay. I guess you know
where they go,” Harry says, a note of worry in his voice. It‟s probably
in his face, too, but Louis will be damned if he looks at him.

He walks stage right with the costumes, pulse roaring in his ears. He
wants Harry gone, needs him out of his space before he loses it. “I
don‟t want you to help,” he says bitingly, and God, he knows already it
was a bad idea. There‟s a moment of silence, and Louis turns to look at
Harry, to see what he‟s done.

“Louis,” Harry says carefully, holding up both hands, “what‟s going

on?”

“I‟m fucking exhausted, that‟s what!” Louis snaps. “I‟m tired, and I‟ve
got a play to put on in two days, and there are forty-five papers on my
desk that still need to be marked, and I‟ve got to give final exams
tomorrow, and there‟s no fucking time for anything, and my lead
missed two weeks of rehearsals because he had pneumonia and he‟s
still missing cues, and I had to change all the blocking for half of the
scenes to hide Rupert Baker‟s bloody broken leg, and my rent‟s
overdue, and I haven‟t had time to do laundry in two weeks, and then
there‟s you walking around with your face and your shoulders and your
football shorts and your being a good fucking person, and it‟s
distracting, and I haven‟t got the fucking, fucking time.”

The words register to his own ears before he‟s even aware of them
leaving his mouth, and Louis freezes, mouth hanging open, arms still
wrapped around the bundle of costumes.

Fuck.

123
Harry‟s staring at him from across the stage. Louis can see what he‟s
said settle in behind his eyes and, shit, shit, bleeding buggering shit and
a thousand screaming nuns.

“I... distract you?” Harry says slowly.

“I—what I mean to say—”

“I distract you,” Harry says again, and this time it spreads his mouth
out into a smile.

“Er,” Louis says.

Louis has appreciated Harry‟s athleticism on more than one occasion,

but it‟s still impressive that he manages to vault over a prop table and
close the distance between them in a few swift movements, suddenly in
Louis‟ space, tugging the mounds of fabric out of his arms. He sets
them down on the floor and Louis doesn‟t know what‟s happening,
doesn‟t know anything except that Harry is suddenly so close, close
enough that Louis can smell his shampoo and it smells like one of those
girly kinds, like strawberries and rose petals or something and Harry
would use girls‟ shampoo because who even is he, and Louis is
panicking, Louis is definitely, definitely panicking.

“Did you mean that?” Harry asks him, and the corners of his mouth are
still curled up in a smile but there‟s no trace of a joke in the way that he
says it.

“Um.” Every part of his body is screaming at him to lie, lie, lie, but
what he says is, “I... Yes. I—Yeah, I did.”

And this is where Louis gets confirmation that Harry is not a sane
person, because the way he looks at Louis makes no sense. Louis is the
human equivalent of a bus speeding off of a cliff, into a gorge, on fire,
and Harry is looking at him like he‟s Christmas come early, which
makes Harry either very stupid or very psychopathic.

124
Harry‟s hands ghost up Louis‟ arms, not quite touching, and Louis
can‟t help but shiver at the phantom contact. Harry‟s expression turns
soft and marveling, and Louis would probably be more embarrassed if
every emotion he has weren‟t otherwise occupied.

Harry reaches up and carefully, carefully slides Louis‟ glasses off his
face, then carefully, carefully folds them and slips them into Louis‟
shirt pocket. Louis hands hang uselessly at his sides, and his ears are
full of the sound of his own hitching breaths. He‟s never felt so obvious
in his life.

Harry leans in, impossibly closer, and Louis doesn‟t quite understand
how they aren‟t touching, because even the air around him feels like
Harry, even the stage beneath his feet. Harry reaches a hand towards
his face, and Louis thinks finally, but his hand hovers and clenches into
a fist.

“Louis,” Harry says, “don‟t make me fly blind, here,” and oh, that is
enough.

“You complete shit,” Louis lets out in a rush, “I am about to fucking

die waiting on you and you are just mmmph—”

And there it is, there, like the explosion at the end of a mile-long fuse.
There was a gap and now there isn‟t, Harry‟s mouth on Louis‟ and his
hands on his face. Louis can‟t help but gasp, his hands coming up to
clutch at the crooks of Harry‟s elbows, his mind one big record scratch,
stuck on the thought Harry kissed me he kissed me he kissed me and
Christ, if he doesn‟t pull himself together in the next half-second he‟s
going to miss it.

Harry kisses with intent, with focus, with singular purpose. Harry
kisses Louis like it‟s premeditated, like he‟s planned every slick drag of
his lips against Louis‟. Louis doesn‟t even try to keep up, still not quite
able to believe what‟s happening, much less contribute to it. Harry‟s
hands drop to his shoulders and the two of them are moving, Harry

125
pushing Louis up against the side of the prop stairs. They‟re pressed
together, knees to ribcage, and Louis is overwhelmed.

Harry pulls back, breathing heavily, one arm braced against the stairs
by Louis‟ head. He searches Louis‟ face with wild eyes, pupils blown
wide, cheeks flushed.

“Lou,” he says, voice rough, and Louis isn‟t sure what he‟s looking for
but he‟s glad he asked. Louis breathes once, twice, and lifts a hand to
Harry‟s face. He drags his thumb across Harry‟s bottom lip, and the
way Harry‟s eyes fall closed makes something in him give way.

And now he‟s the one moving, crowding into Harry‟s space and kissing
him frantically, threading his fingers through Harry‟s hair. Harry‟s
hands are around his waist and his tongue is in his mouth and Louis is
sure he had plans to do other things with his life but he can‟t for the life
of him remember why he‟d want to do anything but this.

Harry‟s moving, and at first Louis thinks it‟s just the momentum of his
own body carrying them backwards, but then Harry‟s grabbing his
braces and blindly dragging him towards the mess of prop furniture in
the middle of the stage. Louis feels Harry run into something, and then
they‟re tipping over, Harry pulling Louis down with him. There‟s deja-
vu in that half-moment of weightlessness, but then Louis lands heavily
on top of Harry and finds he has other things to think about.

They‟re on a ratty prop sofa at center stage. Harry slides up to make

more room, Louis crawling after him. One of Harry‟s hands flattens out
over the small of Louis‟ back, pulling their bodies flush together,
before flipping the two of them over in a single movement so slick that
Louis is almost as impressed as he is turned on.

“You‟re gonna have to teach me that move one day, Styles,” he says,
sliding his fingers back into the hair at the nape of Harry‟s neck.

Harry is grinning like a fool. “Is this okay?” he asks, nodding down at
their position.

126
“Yes, Jesus,” Louis says, dragging Harry‟s head back down into a kiss.
“How fragile do you think I am,” he mumbles against Harry‟s mouth.
Harry responds by sucking hard on Louis‟ bottom lip. Louis can‟t help
the whimper that escapes him, so, okay. Point taken.

He‟ll be damned if he lets that go unanswered, though, especially not

when he can taste the smirk on Harry‟s lips. Louis arches his back and
rolls his hips up into Harry‟s, pressing up into his solid weight. Harry‟s
mouth falls open in a silent moan, letting Louis‟ tongue steal inside, but
God, Louis wants more, wants to make Harry shake apart. He lets his
legs fall open, framing Harry‟s thighs, and presses up into him again,
sliding his hands up under his shirt.

Harry does groan now, pulling away from the kiss. “God, Lou,” he
murmurs, his head falling into the curve of Louis‟ neck. He presses
back this time, rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles against Louis‟ as
his teeth scrape his throat. Louis draws a hissing breath and can‟t help
but drag his nails down Harry‟s back, clinging on for dear life.

Louis is. Louis is probably going to die.

Harry sits back a little, and Louis leans up instinctively to follow him
before realising that Harry‟s sliding his braces off his shoulders.

“What‟re you doing?” he asks inanely.

Harry‟s hands are back at his waist, tugging his shirttails out of his
trousers. “If I don‟t put my hands on you soon I‟m going to lose my
mind,” he says matter-of-factly. “All of you.”

Fuck, Louis thinks, trying to assess the situation rationally. “Fuck,” he

says, grabbing hold of Harry‟s hands. “Harry, I can‟t fuck you on, on
the sofa we‟re using in the show. That‟s, God, that‟s definitely
unethical.”

127
Harry seems unperturbed, moving to kiss the other side of Louis‟ neck.
“Whose ethics are we talking about?” he says lightly. “My ethics are
fine with this.” He bites down on Louis‟ collarbone. “I find you being
clothed unethical.”

“Shit, Jesus, I am going to murder you,” Louis says, pushing Harry‟s

head away. Harry just grins at him, his mouth red and obscene. “Can
you, Christ, can you hold that thought for, like, however long it takes to
get to my flat?” Harry rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but slides back
down the sofa enough that Louis can stand on wobbling legs.

“Keys,” Louis says, patting down his pockets. “Keys, fucking keys, my
entire kingdom for my fucking—shit.”

“I‟ve got your kingdom right here, babe,” Harry snickers, already
crowding up behind him, breath hot under his shirt collar, and can he
not, for three seconds, Christ on crutches.

“You are,” Louis says, feeling Harry smile against the back of his neck,
“the least helpful human I have ever met. Also, my keys are in my
classroom, because of course they are, so.”

“So let‟s go get them,” Harry says. He finally peels off and jumps
ahead of Louis, leading the way out the side door of the theatre and into
the hallway. Louis swears under his breath and takes off after him.

It‟s, it‟s... surreal, actually. Unbelievable. He barely has his wits about
him enough to pray that nobody is around this late to see him like this,
shirt halfway untucked in the front, braces tugged loose on one side,
mouth raw and red from Harry‟s teeth and the faint stubble on his jaw.
He looks for all the world like a horny teenager, and he can‟t remember
the last time he let anyone get him like this, and it hits him all of the
sudden that it‟s Harry that‟s done this to him. Impossible Harry with
his ridiculous curls and his wide open smiles and his heart that fills up
rooms and rooms and rooms, Harry who pulled him out of a cardboard
box and pinned him down on the football pitch and played Whitesnake
for Zayn at a carwash, Harry who he‟s been trying not to fall for for

128
months because, obviously, in what world do things like this actually
happen to Louis Tomlinson?

And the thing is, Harry wants him. Not just accepts what Louis wants
from him but wants him right back, hungry and restless, pulling Louis
down the hall by his hand, hair and eyes wild with it. Louis has never
met anyone in his life as sure of himself and what he wants as Harry is,
and what Harry wants, apparently, is him.

Louis skids to a stop because he feels like he‟s about to have an

aneurysm, and he pulls on Harry‟s arm to turn him around.

“Wait,” Louis says, because he has to know, “the whole time?”

“Yes, the whole time,” Harry tells him impatiently, like it costs him
nothing, already picking his pace back up again. “Now can we please
keep moving?”

And, well, Louis can‟t argue with that, because he‟s beaming now and
he‟s pretty sure he‟ll combust on the spot if he can‟t have Harry‟s
mouth on him again in the next thirty seconds, so it‟s just as well that
they‟re stumbling up to his classroom. It‟s the last room with its lights
still on, and Louis actually manages to let go of Harry‟s hand for a few
seconds to dart inside. He‟s at his desk, hand already extended for the
keys resting there, when he hears the door snap shut and lock behind
him.

He turns around, and Harry‟s already right behind him, backing him
into the side of his desk.

“I can‟t make it back to your flat,” Harry says. “I can‟t fucking wait
any more. Please, just—”

Harry cuts himself off with a kiss pressed hard and bruising against
Louis‟ mouth, and this is probably a bad idea but Harry‟s still kissing
him and this is happening and there‟s not a single part of Louis that

129
wants it to stop. Louis wraps his fist around the front of Harry‟s shirt
and kisses him back just as hard and hopes it‟s enough to tell him yes,
yes, God, please.

This time around, it‟s Louis that reaches for the waistband of Harry‟s
shorts first, and Harry that stops his hands.

Their lips break apart, and there‟s a breathless, frozen moment with
Harry‟s hands tangled up in his, their mouths just barely brushing, and
he knows Harry‟s asking permission again.

“Anything,” Louis says. He‟s terrified of the size of that word. He

doesn‟t take it back.

Harry, the son of a bitch, actually winks. And then he drops to his
knees.

“Holy God,” Louis says. He‟s already hard, almost embarrassingly so

and has been since Harry hips first fell in line with his, and Harry‟s not
mucking about anymore. He makes fast work of Louis‟ braces, and
Louis‟ breathing shudders to a halt as Harry yanks his trousers open
and shoves them down just far enough. The trunks Louis has got on are
a nightmarish red polka dot number, the last clean pair he had left.
Maybe he‟ll find the time to feel humiliated about it later, but at the
moment Harry is smiling wickedly up at him from under thick
eyelashes and slipping his fingers under the waistband and snapping the
elastic gently against his hip and Louis has never been farther from
caring about anything in his entire life.

It‟s been so long. So many months of wanting, of telling himself not to

want, of imagining what it would be like and seeing ghosts of Harry
behind his eyelids as he sweated into his own sheets, and none of it
prepared him for this.

His hands scramble behind him for something to hold onto because
Harry‟s tugging him out of his underwear and Louis feels like he‟s
going to collapse or die or go flying off the surface of the earth if he

130
can‟t get a grip on something immediately. One of his hands closes on
the stack of unmarked papers on his desk, the other on some hideous
novelty stapler he got for last year‟s faculty Secret Santa, and, God,
hysterical laughter comes bubbling up his throat because Harry is going
down on him against his desk, and—

Then Harry licks his lips and takes him all the way down in one
smooth, wet motion and Louis is not laughing anymore.

The shock of it sings through Louis‟ entire body, and his torso arches
forward, curved around Harry like a sapling in a hurricane. He‟s not
sure what he was expecting. He has no real idea of how much
experience Harry has with men, and for all Harry‟s confidence, he
thought he‟d have to work up to it, but no, no, Harry‟s nose is brushing
against his stomach and it‟s all Louis can do to swallow the insane,
desperate noise that pulls out of his chest.

He looks down and realises that his hand is on the back of Harry‟s
neck, and he almost apologizes before he sees the laughter in Harry‟s
eyes. Then Harry does something obscene and incredible with his
tongue and fuck, Louis‟ never seen anyone give a smug blowjob
before, but if anyone could it would be Harry Styles.

Harry picks up rhythm, long slow pulls, and Louis has to close his eyes,
because the way it feels combined with the sight of Harry‟s lips
dragging down him is too much. He feels Harry‟s hands slide up the
back of his legs, supporting him, and thank God for that because his
knees are about to give out. Harry pulls almost all the way off and
sucks hard, and Louis can‟t help the tremor that goes through him or
the choked noise he makes, and Christ, he can feel Harry respond, can
feel his hum of approval, and this is going to be over almost before it
begins.

Louis forces his eyes open, because if he doesn‟t get a visual memory
of this he‟ll probably convince himself it was a dream. Harry‟s eyes are
closed, and Louis‟ll be damned if he doesn‟t give head like he kisses,
like it‟s the only thing he‟s ever planned on doing. Louis can‟t keep
from sliding his hand up into Harry‟s hair, tugging gently at the slightly

131
sweaty curls. Harry‟s eyes flick up to meet his, and it‟s not laughter that
Louis sees there now, that has him holding white-knuckled to the desk.

Harry slides one hand away from Louis‟ thigh and fuck, fuck, slips it
into his own shorts, and Louis wants to see him so badly but can‟t
make himself move. He settles for just watching the way the muscles in
Harry‟s arms work, the way they move under his skin as he touches
himself.

Harry seems almost as overwhelmed as Louis feels, pulling off briefly

and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” he says, his voice wrecked and his
mouth slick, before sliding his lips back over Louis eagerly. Louis
would agree, but the feeling of Harry‟s mouth around him and the
thought that it‟s getting Harry off has torn his mind entirely in half.

Harry pulls off again, his hand working frantically in his shorts. He
leans his forehead against Louis‟ hip, Louis‟ fingers carding helplessly
through his hair. “Fuck, Lou,” he says, pressing a kiss to the skin there,
“I‟ve wanted—fuck, I can‟t believe I get to do this.” His breath is
coming fast now, his fingers digging into the back of Louis‟ thigh. “I‟m
so close,” he says roughly, before taking Louis back down all the way.

His words register in Louis‟ brain about the same time Louis feels
himself hit the back of Harry‟s throat, and that is the end of that. Louis
has barely enough time to try to warn Harry, pulling on his hair, but
Harry doesn‟t move, swallowing around Louis as he comes. He pulls
off a moment too early, letting a little spill over his lips, and even in his
post-orgasmic haze Louis can‟t keep from dragging his fingers over the
mess on Harry‟s mouth, has to touch him to make sure this is real.
Harry sucks two of Louis‟ fingers into his mouth, hard, and looks up at
him unblinkingly.

“Haz,” Louis says weakly, unable to look away.

He can‟t actually see Harry come, but he feels Harry bite down hard on
his fingers before his mouth goes completely slack, shuddering through
it with a groan.

132
Louis‟ fingers slip out and he wants hold Harry while he comes down,
wants to kiss him undone again and again, wants so many huge, aching
things in that moment that it should scare the hell out of him. He wants
Harry to live the rest of his life spread out in his bed if it means he can
see that look on his face every day and know he‟s the one that put it
there. He wants so many things all at once that he feels a little bit like
he‟s been hit by a bus.

Harry‟s grip loosens and Louis‟ knees finally do give out this time,
dropping him heavily to the floor. He lands halfway on top of Harry
and knocks him off balance until the two of them are a tangle of limbs
pressed up against the side of Louis‟ desk, breathing hard and still
riding it all out.

They‟re silent for a few moments, just Harry‟s curls tickling the side of
his face because his head is buried in Louis‟ chest, right over the place
where his heart can‟t seem to even back out. And then, and then—
Harry laughs, and that‟s it, Louis is done, he‟s bent over Harry‟s body
with laughter, both of them seizing up with it like it‟s the funniest damn
thing that‟s ever happened to them. And for Louis it kind of is, really.
Last night he was torrenting Dance Moms and pouring himself a glass
of wine to get him through writing up two different final exams while
also going over the lighting cues and trying not to think about the way
Harry‟s collarbones look in a deep v-neck.

Today... well.

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” Louis says finally, still laughing a little
and stumbling over the consonants. Perhaps not his most eloquent
moment, but under the circumstances, he thinks he deserves some
credit for managing actual words at all.

“Is that his full name, then?” Harry says, because he is a smug son of a
bitch. Louis opens his eyes to tell him as much, but the look on Harry‟s
face makes all the air in his lungs leave him. He doesn‟t look smug, just
spent and dirty and beautiful and absolutely dazed with happiness.
Louis did that.

133
Before he even thinks about it, Louis grabs Harry‟s idiot face in both
hands and kisses him, just as natural as you please. It‟s a short kiss
because neither of them can stop smiling long enough but it‟s all they
need right now, a little stitch to hold this moment in place.

“So,” Harry says, beaming, “I sort of fancy you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I think I‟ve just made it abundantly clear that I
fancy you too, you wanker.”

Harry swats at his shoulder and laughs again and Louis, God, Louis is
trying so hard to keep pace with him, to keep this easy and simple.
Harry is smiling like this is the easiest decision he‟s ever made, and
Louis is smiling too, but taking deep breaths, trying to keep things in
perspective. He‟s had blowjobs before, several of which were even
quite memorable. And sure, maybe this one makes the rest a little
difficult to recall, and maybe he never laughed like a teenager on top of
any of the others, but... shit. It doesn‟t have to be a big deal, right? Shit.

Louis tries to relax, to stay in this impossible moment, but he can‟t stop
his brain from racing ahead. Harry fancies him, and said so like he was
giving it away, but Louis isn‟t sure fancy is really the word for what
he‟s feeling, and fuck. He can‟t even remember the last time he
admitted that he fancied someone, and now it suddenly doesn‟t even
feel like enough. Deep breaths, he focuses on deep breaths, feeling his
rib cage expand against Harry‟s solid weight.

“What now?” Harry murmurs, picking his head up off Louis‟ chest. He
looks Louis right in the eye. There‟s no expectation in his face, but
Louis knows what he‟s really asking, can feel all that‟s behind the
question even if there‟s no urgency in his voice. He thinks of
everything he feels coiled tensely in his chest, and knows that now is
the moment to let it out or hold his peace.

The moment slows and stretches. Louis thinks now I trick you into
staying with me, thinks if you get up I‟ll kill you, thinks I can‟t
remember a time I wasn‟t waiting for you.

134
“Still want to come back to my flat?” is what he says. Harry blinks and
then nods, half-smiling, and Louis pushes his guilt to the back of his
brain.

Harry reaches up over him, bracing his hand on the desk behind Louis‟
head and leaning in close enough that his breath is hot on Louis‟ ear
and Louis can almost feel the way his mouth curls up on one side.

“You have no idea,” Harry says, and usually Harry mumbles, but this
time he deliberately pronounces every sound so that Louis won‟t miss a
word, “the things I want to do to you.”

He catches Louis‟ earlobe between his tongue and his teeth for half a
second and then he‟s gone, standing up and dusting himself off,
holding Louis‟ keys in his hand, grinning like the hellspawn that he
obviously is because how the fuck is Louis supposed to deal with that?

Louis scrambles upright and pulls up his trousers, fingers shaking. He

moves to start fixing his braces, but Harry lets out a loud sigh,
bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Christ, Tomlinson, you think you could hurry up? These shorts aren‟t
exactly comfortable anymore,” Harry says, shifting his weight back and
forth.

Louis snorts, tucking in his shirt. “It‟s not my fault you came in your
pants.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Debatable.” He tosses Louis his keys. “Pick

up the pace, Lou, If your dick recovers while we‟re still in the car then
you‟re getting roadhead, and I don‟t want to die tonight.”

Louis breaks every single speed limit on the way home.

135
136
 SIX

“I think I‟m dead,” Louis says. His voice is hoarse and tired for more
reasons than one. He‟s not sore yet, but he‟s fairly certain that once it
sets in he will never not be for the rest of his life. “I think you‟ve killed
me.”

“I haven‟t killed you,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the smile in his
voice without having to see it. He‟s sauntering around the wreckage of
the kitchen in all his naked glory, thoroughly sated agent of chaos that
he is, Louis and Louis‟ apartment equally destroyed around him. There
are pants on the bookshelf. Actual pants. This is a thing that is
happening in Louis‟ life. This is a thing that Harry Styles did to him.

From where Louis is sprawled on the sofa, he‟s got a clear view
through his bedroom door. The mattress is drooping halfway off the
frame on one side looking utterly defeated, and the duvet has been
slung over the chair in the corner. There‟s an empty bottle of wine
wedged under the nightstand and the lamp is dangling by its cord over
the side (he remembers that one, his mouth around Harry and one of
Harry‟s elbows jerking involuntarily to the side as he arched up into it).
The papers he‟d been keeping on the kitchen counter are everywhere.
He can vaguely recall letting out a strangled noise and sweeping them
all onto the floor with one hand and bending Harry over the tiles, and
how Harry had loved it, had loved Louis taking control.

It‟s 5 a.m. now. Louis has a bite mark on his hip. Louis has a bruise
forming on his ribs. Louis may never leave this sofa again.

137
“I have to collect term papers today,” Louis says, staring at the ceiling.
The sex haze is starting to settle around him, and the anxiety is
creeping back in. “I have to put on a play on Friday.”

“You can do it,” Harry says easily. Louis can hear the sound of him
dislodging a skillet from the drawer under the stove that he never
opens.

“I don‟t think I can, though,” Louis says. “I don‟t even think I can
move, actually.”

Harry doesn‟t answer at first, busy pulling the carton of eggs out of the
fridge and a bowl from the cabinet. Of course Louis would become
involved with the only person in the world capable of making omelets
after an all night sex parade.

But then suddenly there‟s Harry‟s face hanging upside down over the
back of the couch, smiling crookedly at him, curls falling everywhere.
He‟d look almost angelic if it weren‟t for the fact that he‟s completely
starkers and Louis can just make out the swelling on his lower lip from
where he bit down on it while getting sucked off against the bathroom
wall.

“You‟ll be okay,” Harry says. He leans down and presses a sideways

kiss to Louis‟ lips. “You‟ve got me.”

Louis smiles on reflex, because it‟s nice, and then the feeling in his
chest hits his throat and he chokes on it. He wraps his hand around the
back of Harry‟s neck and pulls him down into another kiss before he
has a chance to say anything else huge and terrifying, and Harry
complies happily, opening his mouth to let Louis‟ tongue inside.

As long as this keeps going, as long as it‟s Harry‟s mouth and Harry‟s
body to distract him, he can keep everything else at bay. People have
casual sex all the time. Hell, he used to have casual sex all the time. He
can do it again. He doesn‟t have to fall into anything.

138
Harry‟s mouth breaks off for half a moment and then he‟s climbing
over the back of the sofa and straddling Louis‟ hips and, Christ, he‟s
already starting to get hard again. Should that even be possible? Even
after the hour-long interlude on the coffee table? Even after the thing
with the jam? Obviously Harry is some kind of sex demon designed
specifically to ruin him.

Harry leans back down and kisses him properly, and it‟s just. It‟s not
fair how perfectly their angles line up. Louis doesn‟t stand a chance
against the way his lip fits between the soft pull of Harry‟s, the way
Harry‟s hand settles into the small of his back like it belongs there. It‟s
too good, too much, and that‟s why Louis hasn‟t been able to make
himself disengage for what feels like days but has only been hours,
since the first kiss under the stage lights.

Stage lights. Shit. He left all the stage lights on, and all those costumes
out, and he‟ll need to go in early today to get everything back in order
before classes start for the day, and then he needs to make copies of
worksheets and call his set designer to make sure the last piece will be
painted in time, and he should really get in the shower soon, shit—

“Stop thinking,” Harry says, voice whiskey-rough and vibrating deep in

Louis‟ chest where they‟re pressed together. “Just a little longer.”

Yes, all right, his brain says, because really, how can he hope to argue
with that, but then Harry slides his mouth down to Louis‟ throat and
starts working on a bruise and Louis has to stop him.

“Wait, wait,” he says, tugging lightly on Harry‟s hair to get him to pull
off. “Not there. Too visible.”

Harry whines a little. “Come on, Lou. I wanna do it somewhere people

can see.”

Louis rolls his eyes, ignoring the rush of heat Harry‟s words send
through him. He doesn‟t have enough left in him to deal with that,
much less flip them over, so he just pulls on Harry‟s elbow and makes

139
discontented noises until Harry gets the hint and switches their
positions.

“Put your hands above your head,” Louis tells him.

Harry smirks and does as he‟s told, grabbing onto the armrest behind
him and wriggling his hips a little under Louis‟. Cheeky bastard. Louis
kisses him once more on the lips, then the side of his neck, then bows
his head and sinks his teeth into the inside of his left bicep. Harry
hisses at the pressure, hooking one of his knees around Louis‟, and
Louis sucks hard enough on his skin to make him dig his fingernails
into Louis‟ back.

When he‟s satisfied with his work, he breaks the suction with a small,
wet sound and plants a kiss on the spot.

“There,” Louis says. He pulls back to let Harry see the place where he‟s
been marked, vivid red on fair skin in the shape of Louis‟ mouth.
“Visible but inconspicuous. Nobody even has to see it unless you want
them to. The perfect solution.”

Harry smiles up at him, and Louis isn‟t sure if he‟s pleased with being
marked or with Louis‟ ingenuity. “All right,” he says, reaching up to
touch Louis‟ lips with the tip of his finger. “That‟ll be your spot, then.”

Thankfully, Louis is saved from having to come up with a response to

that when Harry slaps him on the arse and nudges him off. “Now go on,
get in the shower. I‟ll even give you five minutes before I come in after
you.”

“How generous of you,” Louis says, wobbling to his feet.

Harry just presses his lips together like he‟s trying to contain his smile.
“You‟ve no idea.”

140
When Louis finally makes it to the bathroom, he has to take a moment
to brace himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror above the
sink. He‟s not sure what to expect at all.

Debauched, he believes, is the word for what he sees when he opens his
eyes. His hair is a absolute catastrophe, the Hindenburg of hairdos,
mussed up in the back and greasy from sweat and matted with jam on
one side and, seriously, whose fucking idea was the jam? His mouth is
rubbed red and raw. The marks on his ribs and hip are already turning
colors from pink to purple, and Louis thanks the powers that be for
whatever miracle of restraint that kept him from letting Harry put one
of those on his throat. There‟s no way he could have hidden that
without some really elaborate scarf maneuvering.

He‟s a complete mess, and worst of all, he likes it.

“Get a grip,” he says to his reflection.

He pulls back the shower curtain and almost has a heart attack when he
sees something lurking in his bathtub until he realises it‟s Duchess,
curled up in the corner and looking deeply reproachful. Apparently the
bath had been the only safe place left in his flat.

“Sorry, love,” Louis says, reaching out to stroke her head

apologetically. She glares at him and evades his touch, leaping out of
the bath and disappearing around the door.

True to his word, Harry gives him enough time to wash his hair in
peace under lukewarm water before climbing into the shower behind
him. He slides his hands through the suds on Louis‟ stomach and pulls
his back up against his own chest, dropping his head down over Louis‟
shoulder to kiss the wet skin on the side of his neck. Louis‟ body melts
into the touch, and he closes his eyes, shutting his brain up for a few
minutes just to feel Harry‟s hands spanning his hips and Harry‟s wet
hair sticking to his cheek. Every inch of Harry‟s body is slick and close,
and Louis gets to have all of that, gets to touch it however he wants.

141
He covers one of Harry‟s hands with his own, and he feels Harry smile
against his shoulder.

Zayn is such a wonderful friend, honestly. He reminds himself of this

interminable truth as he hugs his cardigan tighter against his body and
soldiers on down the corridor. Who else would drag himself out of bed
at this kind of unforgivable hour, a full thirty minutes earlier than usual,
just to stop by to check in on how Louis is doing with everything he‟s
juggling at the moment? No one. Well, maybe Harry, but he doesn‟t
count. Wanting to fuck someone begets feats of superhuman strength
and dedication. Zayn would know.

He rounds the corner to Louis‟ hall and almost stops in his tracks.
There‟s a single classroom with its door open pouring light into the dim
hallway, and from it Zayn can hear the sounds of singing.

He knows Louis can sing. You don‟t have the kind of long-term,
codependent relationship Louis has with theater without that kind of
talent. Years ago he dug up the videos of teenage Louis as Danny Zuko
on YouTube and teased him about them for a month, but even in grainy
video of a low-budget school play, it was clear that once upon a time
Louis Tomlinson lived to perform. He hardly ever lets anyone hear him
sing anymore, having apparently packed that part of himself away with
the part that believes romance is anything other than a waste of time.

But right here in front of his face is Louis standing up on a stool in his
classroom, stapling papers up to the bulletin board and singing to
himself, “Met a boy, cute as can be—”

“Morning,” Zayn says.

Louis almost falls off his stool in surprise. He whips his head around,
clutching the wall for support, but his shoulders relax when he sees that
it‟s only Zayn.

142
“Oh, hello,” he says, trying too hard for casual and advancing directly
to Definitely Hiding Something. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was coming to see if you needed any help,” Zayn says. He narrows
his eyes at Louis. He‟s got circles under his eyes and he‟s favoring his
left side, but every other part of him looks totally at peace, satisfied
and... oh. “Good Lord. You finally shagged Harry.”

“What?” Louis chirps, half-falling and half-climbing down from his

stool. “How did you—oh God, it doesn‟t,” his eyes dart around the
room in horror, “it doesn‟t smell like anything in here, does it?”

“What, no, why would...” Zayn‟s brain catches up to Louis‟ words, and
he suddenly feels deeply distrustful of every desk in the room. “Louis.
You didn‟t.”

“No, no,” Louis says quickly. “I, of course not. Ethics and all that.”

Zayn relaxes a bit, but his smugness stays in place. He knew it. He‟s
been trying to tell Louis for months that Harry was well set to fuck, and
he was right. He knows.

“But you did shag Harry,” he says, grinning. Louis opens and closes his
mouth a few times, looking like a flustered, recently-shagged fish, but
he can‟t seem to come up with a lie. His shoulders slump in defeat
finally, and it‟s all Zayn can do not to laugh aloud.

“How did you know?” Louis says, surrendering.

“Mate,” Zayn says, placing a hand on Louis‟ shoulder. “You were

singing „Summer Nights.‟”

Louis pulls a face. “So?”

143
“It‟s December, and you‟re you,” Zayn says, and he can‟t help but
laugh at the rueful expression on Louis‟ face. It‟s a nice look on him.
“Relax, Lou, I‟m happy for you. Was it, you know, good?”

Zayn‟s heard all the graphic details of Louis‟ sexual exploits more than
once, descriptions of the backsides of men he‟s never met and details
he never wanted to know, but this time Louis just laughs a little,
turning his face away. “He‟s very... agile,” Louis says, and the way he
blushes tells Zayn all he needs to know. So Louis Tomlinson is capable
of bashfulness after all, eh? Zayn is going to have fun with this.

“Tell me more, Louis,” Zayn says, as serious as he can manage. “Tell

me more. Did you get very far?”

“I am five seconds from braining you with this stapler,” Louis says, but
there‟s no force to it at all. He‟s blushing too much to look threatening.

“So, the two of you are...” Zayn eyes him. “What, now?”

Louis drops his eyes, shrugging. “I don‟t know. It‟s not... I don‟t
know.” He coughs. “Oh, by the way, have you got the the code to
unlock the copy machine upstairs? The one down here isn‟t working,
and I‟ve never used the other one before.”

“Yeah, I‟ll walk up there with you after first period,” Zayn says
dismissively, knowing an attempt at a subject change when he sees one.
“So you haven‟t had that talk yet?”

Louis keeps pretending to be intensely interested in the stapler. “Hmm?

What talk?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. It‟s hard enough to get Louis to open up about this
kind of thing on a normal day, God knows this is going to be like
pulling teeth. “The talk. The, oh, hey, we used to be friends who don‟t
shag and now we‟re friends who do, talk.”

144
“No, we, uh,” Louis clears his throat. “We‟re going to put that stuff off
until after the play is done, you know? And the end of term. I‟m busy
with work, and he‟s got finals, so. We‟ll deal with that later.” He
accidentally opens the stapler and hurriedly closes it again. “And, um,
no more. You know. Sex. Until after the term's over.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, leaning back against Louis‟ desk. “And you
talked to him about this?”

“Yes,” Louis says defensively. “And we‟ll talk about the other stuff,
too. Eventually.”

“Okay, okay, it‟s none of my business,” Zayn says, holding up his

hands.

“I don‟t see that there‟s so much to talk about, anyway,” Louis

mumbles. “Like you said, we‟re friends who shag now. Doesn‟t seem
like rocket science.”

“That is not what I—Christ.” Zayn runs a hand over his face. “None of
my business. Right. Anyway. Is this all hush-hush or can I tell Niall?”

Louis laughs. “Niall can know, yeah, not that he‟ll care. No one else,
though, okay? Don‟t need any other nosy parkers asking questions.” He
prods Zayn in the stomach, and Zayn slaps him lightly on the back of
the head.

“Just looking out for you, prick. All right, I‟ve got to go unlock my
room. See you in a bit.” He walks out of the room and makes it halfway
down the hall before he turns back, ducking his head into Louis‟
classroom again.

“Hey, Lou?” Louis looks up at him expectantly. “I really am happy for

you, yeah?” Louis ducks his head, but Zayn can still see the helpless
smile on his face.

145
“Thanks, Zayn,” Louis says in a little voice, and Zayn hums to himself
as he walks back down the hallway. If what he hums is “Summer
Nights,” he certainly doesn‟t plan on telling Louis.

He‟s glad later that he stopped in that morning, because after he helps
Louis with the copy machine he barely sees him until opening night of
the play. Zayn‟s got the term to finish up, too, and even when he has a
free moment, Louis doesn‟t. Every spare second Louis has is spent on
the play, and even when Zayn drops by rehearsals to pitch in Louis is
torn in about twenty directions at once, usually only having time to
direct Zayn towards something that needs to get done before haring off
to deal with five other problems.

The upside, though, is that he gets to watch Louis and Harry interact,
since Harry seems to take any opportunity to show up at the theatre,
usually with tea. They‟re always around students, so the two of them
probably think they‟re keeping a lid on things, but even if Louis hadn‟t
told Zayn what had happened Zayn would have been able to figure it
out when he saw them together. He knows what to look for.

When Zayn moved into his flat three years ago, his mum had come
over to help him decorate. When they were done—or when he‟d
thought they were done—she‟d gone out to her car and come back
inside with two small houseplants. She‟d told him he shouldn‟t be the
only living thing in his home, kissed him on the cheek, and put them on
the windowsill. By the time Christmas had rolled around, both the
plants had been distinctly crooked, growing unerringly towards the
sunlight that streamed through the window every afternoon. Harry and
Louis are like those plants, if plants could be sunlight to each other.

They‟d been bad before, but now it‟s so much clearer, the way they
unconsciously turn to and gravitate towards each other. Harry is
tentative with it, moving slow and steady around Louis like he‟s a
skittish animal Harry is afraid of spooking, and Zayn keeps catching
him reaching out to touch Louis and then pulling back at the last
second. Louis, for his part, still seems a little incredulous, watching
Harry from across the room and psyching himself up for several
minutes before he‟ll wander over, sliding his fingers over Harry‟s wrist,
and then scurry off to some other urgent task, a look on his face like he

146
can‟t believe he got away with it. Other times Louis will catch Harry
staring, and his face will light up in an unreserved smile before he
remembers himself and flees backstage, Harry grinning after him.

It‟s sweet, and childish, and rare, and Zayn is half thrilled for his
friends and half seethingly jealous. In the long run, though, it‟s just
proof of his belief in the power of love to move even the most
immovable of mountains (read: Louis Tomlinson‟s pride), so he really
can‟t complain.

It‟s enough to light a fire under his own arse, so to speak. Nothing quite
like two of your close friends shagging to make you desperate to get
your own epic romance back in motion. He spends three days working
up the nerve, drafting and deleting two dozen different messages,
before he finally sends Liam a text inviting him to Louis‟ annual
birthday/Christmas party on Christmas Eve. Liam‟s response is full of
genuine thanks and a promise to try to make it if he can get off of work,
and Zayn maybe does a victory lap around his flat in just his pants.

Even with all the time he spends compulsively checking to see if

Liam‟s got any word on whether or not he‟ll be able to go, the end of
the week passes in a flurry. Zayn gives his exams, and collects final
papers, and when he collapses into his seat on the opening night of
Much Ado About Nothing he is finally, finally done with the term.

He‟s just pulling out his phone to stare at his empty inbox some more
when someone slides into the seat next to him, and he turns to see
Harry.

“Mind if I join you?” Harry asks.

“Course not,” Zayn says, pocketing his phone again. Since Niall is up
in the sound booth, he doesn‟t really have anyone else to sit with
anyway. And he‟s been meaning to talk to Harry for a few days now,
actually. “So, you done with finals yet?”

147
Harry heaves a sigh. “Yeah, finally. Turned in my last project today.
Was up all night in the darkroom, but it feels good to be done. You?”

Zayn nods. “Finished today too. I mean, I‟ve got a shitload of marking
to do over the holidays, but it could be worse.” They lapse into silence
for a few minutes, watching other audience members take their seats
and catching glimpses of cast members peeking out from behind the
curtains, before Zayn clears his throat.

“So,” he says. “Harry.”

Harry turns in his seat, looking at him with a poorly-concealed smile.

“Zayn.”

Zayn feels like a twat, but he has responsibilities. “Louis and I have
been friends for a very long time now.” Harry nods. “And he may be an
utter bastard, but I‟m fond of him anyway.”

Another nod. “I know what you mean.”

Zayn can‟t help but smile a little at that, before schooling his face back
into seriousness. “Since I‟m fond of him, I would be very upset if he
were to, I don‟t know, be hurt in any way. By anyone.” He looks Harry
in the eyes. “And I am, as you know, very familiar with various arson
techniques.”

“Duly noted,” Harry says, continuing to fail at hiding his grin.

Zayn keeps his eye contact level and even. “Very. Familiar.”

He holds Harry‟s gaze for about five more seconds before cracking up.
“God, I almost had it,” he says, giggling, and he‟s set Harry off into
full-blown cackles.

148
“Don‟t worry, man, if I didn‟t know you I‟d have shit myself,” he says,
wiping away tears. “Arson techniques, fuck me.” He claps Zayn on the
back. “You‟re a good friend, man. I‟m glad he has you.”

Zayn reaches out and ruffles his hair. “You both have me, you prat.” At
that moment, the lights begin to dim, and they both withdraw to their
respective sides of the armrest and settle back for the show. “I will
murder you, though,” Zayn whispers as the curtain parts, and Harry
gives him a thumbs-up before the first soliloquy starts.

The play is good—surprisingly good, if Zayn‟s going to be honest. The

two leads have great chemistry, sparking off each other, and good
enough comedic timing that the audience laughs where they‟re
supposed to. The final scene arrives before Zayn ever gets bored, and
when he joins the standing ovation he finds he really means it. Every
cast member gets their moment in the spotlight, and then Louis is
dragged onstage by the two leads for a round of applause of his own.
Next to Zayn, Harry puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a
piercing whistle.

As the applause dies off, people start getting up and trickling out of the
theatre. Harry and Zayn move against the flow of traffic, heading to the
stage, where Louis is hugging various actors and crew members. When
he turns and sees them approaching, he hops down off the stage and
pulls them both into an embrace.

“Oh my God, it wasn‟t terrible, it actually wasn‟t terrible,” he says in a

rush, muffled by the side of Harry‟s head. Zayn laughs and pulls out of
the group hug, watching the way Harry‟s arm slips to circle Louis‟
waist. He glances backwards, feeling suddenly protective of them, and
shifts slightly to block the two of them from the audience‟s view.

“It wasn‟t even a little terrible,” he tells Louis, whose face is still half-
hidden in Harry‟s shoulder. “Well, except for when Claudio sneezed on
Hero, but I suppose that wasn‟t really his fault.”

“Yeah, and Beatrice and Bendy Dick were really good,” Harry adds.

149
Louis groans and covers his eyes with his hand. “It‟s Benedick. You
know that it‟s Benedick.”

Harry just smiles and rubs his nose in Louis‟ hair. “Bendy Dick.”

“Speaking of,” Zayn says, and Louis looks up. “I think your cast is
waiting on you.”

Zayn jerks his chin toward the crowd behind them. The students are
milling about the stage, hugging and congratulating each other but
seeming unwilling to go anywhere without their director. Zayn‟s going
to pretend he doesn‟t see some of them starting to notice Harry‟s hold
on Louis.

“Shit, yeah, sorry,” Louis says, extricating himself from Harry at last.
“I‟ve got to, sorry—”

“No worries,” Harry says. “Go congratulate your kids. They were great.
I‟ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Same time, same place.”

“You‟re coming to tomorrow‟s show?” Louis says, his mouth falling

slightly open. Harry just nods, and Louis‟ face breaks out in a smile so
bright it‟s almost blinding. Harry smiles back, hands in his pockets, and
it‟s like the play‟s back on, except now it‟s just Harry and Louis inside
their own little isolated spotlight world.

“Well, I‟m not,” Zayn interjects, mostly to remind the two of them that
he exists. “Amazing job, Lou, really well done. See you next week.” He
looks over at Harry because he‟s starting to fear that he may have to
actually physically drag him out of whatever gravitational pull Louis
seems to have him trapped in. “Let‟s leave him to it, yeah?”

Harry says a reluctant goodbye, and Zayn feels a little stupid for even
trying to give him the You Break His Heart, I Break Your Legs speech
when he‟s watching him watch Louis fade into the crowd of costumed
bodies with that look on his face.

150
“How d‟you feel about grabbing a pint?” Zayn says, elbowing Harry
out of whatever train of thought he‟s currently off on. “Been a long
week, I could use it. I‟m sure Niall will be up for it, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, finally pulling his eyes off of Louis‟ back. “Yeah,
that sounds brilliant.”

Harry lets himself be steered away, and Zayn keeps an arm around his
shoulders all the way out of the theatre, just in case.

151
152
 SEVEN

Louis knows that the holidays are supposed to be a time of rest in

theory, but the days between the closing night of the play and
Christmas Eve are a complete blur. When he‟s not striking the set, he‟s
marking term papers. When he‟s not marking term papers, he‟s looking
over exams. When he‟s not looking over exams, he‟s making his
excuses to Harry, who he hasn‟t seen in days. And when he‟s not
apologizing to Harry, he‟s preparing for the annual Louis Tomlinson
Holiday Extravaganza.

The Extravanganza had taken place on Christmas Eve for the last three
years, each time to greater and greater acclaim. It is an immovable date
on the social calendar of everyone who matters in Louis‟ life, and with
good reason: it‟s Louis‟ birthday. And it shall not pass uncelebrated,
despite whatever lesser holidays might follow it.

It had started out as a simple Christmas/birthday party the first year that
he‟d moved to Manchester, before he‟d had many friends. He‟d wanted
to impress his new colleagues, so he‟d made an effort. Naturally, when
Louis makes an effort, the results are legendary, and his party had been
the talk of the teachers‟ lounge for weeks. Zayn may or may not have
been photographed wearing a lampshade on his head and little else.
Such are the foundations of friendship.

Unfortunately, his success had consequences. He had to out-do himself

the next year, so suddenly instead of a few bowls of punch and eggnog
there had been a full bar with Christmas-themed drinks. Niall had
woken up on the roof of the building dressed as Father Christmas, and
Louis had chalked up another victory. But then Christmas came around

153
again, and he couldn‟t let everyone down, so he‟d moved all the
furniture out of his flat and created a dance floor, complete with a red
and green strobe light. It had been quite the hit, even with the
policemen who arrived to break the party up.

And now it‟s time to do it all again, bigger and better. He has a
reputation to maintain. Sadly, the fact that his life has descended into a
state of disaster over the past month means that he‟s not as prepared as
he usually is by now. By this time last year, he‟d already placed an
order for ten dozen festive cakeballs, stockpiled five cases of beer in
the snowdrift on his balcony, coated fifty yards of fake popcorn garland
in gold glitter, and gotten Duchess up to a record nine minutes before
she ripped her tiny elf hat off and tried to eat it. This time around he
hasn‟t even got enough food in his fridge to feed himself lunch, much
less accommodate the mobs of people coming to make merry. He needs
to get his arse in gear.

Thankfully he sent out the invitations—tiny cards attached to glass

Christmas ornaments with silk ribbon and nestled inside gold boxes on
a bed of gold-flecked tissue paper, tasteful and fun, Christ he is good—
before things got too hectic. But there‟s still the matter of food, drinks,
entertainment, decorations, and every small detail in between. He ends
up clutching two hundred red plastic cups to his chest in the party store,
having a nervous breakdown over tablecloths and alcohol logistics, so
he calls Zayn and Niall in as reinforcements. It pains him to admit
defeat, but he can‟t do it alone this time.

“You know, you could call Harry,” Niall tells him one afternoon while
he‟s hanging his eleventh string of lights along the ceiling of Louis‟
flat. “I‟m sure he‟d be willing to help.”

“Not happening,” Louis says. He keeps his eyes trained on the table
arrangement he‟s working on. Red, white, and silver is his palette this
year. Inspired. He is arranging decorative pomegranates. Pomegranates
will keep him sane.

He pretends like he doesn‟t notice Niall and Zayn exchanging a look

across the living room.

154
Harry keeps texting him throughout the week, offering to pick up
anything he might need or come by to help him set up. Louis shrugs
him off every time and insists that everything is under control even
when it clearly is not, even when he almost breaks his leg falling off the
ladder while getting a box of decorations down from the top of his
cupboard. He feels shitty about it, but he‟s afraid that having Harry
around will lead to him having to talk about feelings, which is just not
exactly something he feels like handling right now. Or ever, really. So
he keeps his head down and hopes Harry doesn‟t hate him for it.

They make it through seven days of scrambling, of cleaning his

apartment from top to bottom, of searching for a place in Manchester
that will rent him a chocolate fountain on such short notice, and by the
night of 23rd he‟s finally, finally ready. The ashtrays are sparkling. The
pudding is chilling in the fridge. The Christmas-themed shot glasses
have been arranged on the counter with care, in hopes that people will
get absolutely, monumentally sloshed.

Louis is finally curled up warm in his bed and starting to drift off when
the buzz of his phone wakes him up. He squints at the light and thumbs
through the lock screen to find one last text message from Harry
waiting in his inbox.

please at least let me bring something, i want to help xx

Louis buries his face in his pillow. He is shagging the most genuinely
good person on the planet outside of Zayn‟s fireman and probably some
nuns somewhere. He is almost definitely a dick.

bake something if u want, he texts back, then he shoves his phone

under his pillow and wills himself to sleep.

He wakes up early the next day to nine birthday texts because, oh,
right, it‟s his birthday. He managed to forget that part somewhere along
the way. There‟s one from Harry, one from Zayn, one from Niall, one
from his mum and two of his sisters, and the rest from his old

155
Doncaster friends. He reads them as he steeps his tea. He is twenty-six
years old.

“I am,” Louis says to his cat, “officially closer to thirty than twenty.”

Duchess stares at him, then knocks over a tin of plastic spoons in a way
that looks deliberate.

He doesn‟t have much time to dwell on his age since his day is full of
fielding phone calls and deliveries of hors d‟oeuvres, setting out plates
and napkins, making a last minute run to the shop because he forgot he
was out of his favourite kind of brandy. He spends most evening before
the party meticulously ironing his red trousers and trying on three
different pairs of braces before rejecting them all in favor of a fuzzy
white jumper, because it‟s cold, damn it.

Niall arrives an hour before the party sporting a red and green
snapback, and starts to set up the AV equipment. He and his endless
playlist of Christmas remixes have always been in charge of the music
for this particular party, but this year Louis has got him hooking up
karaoke in addition to the dance floor.

Zayn‟s the next one to arrive, the only time a year when he‟s not
fashionably late and only because it‟s under threat of bodily harm from
Louis.

“Excuse me,” Louis says, blocking the door with his body when Zayn
tries to come inside. “Do I know you? Are you on the guest list?”

“Quit fucking around, Louis, it‟s cold out here,” Zayn huffs, teeth
chattering.

“You look so much like my friend Zayn,” Louis says, “except he‟s the
type of lad who always adheres to his friends‟ party dress codes, and
your head is tragically lacking in any festive headwear. You are a
complete stranger to me.”

156
Zayn glares at him, his face lit up in flashes by the multicolored lights
on Louis‟ own hat, which is in the shape of a Christmas tree. He
mumbles something Louis can‟t understand, half-muffled by his scarf
and the turned-up collar of his coat.

“I‟m sorry,” Louis says, holding one hand up to his ear dramatically.
“Didn‟t quite catch that.”

“I said, I spent a really long time on my hair!” Zayn says.

“Ah, yes!” Louis says as he steps aside. “Now I recognize you!” Zayn
aims a kick at Louis‟ shin as he slips inside, but Louis dodges it.
“Should I take this to mean that your man candy is coming tonight after
all?”

“You know I would have told you if he‟d said so,” Zayn says. He
shrugs his coat off, bumping his fist against Niall‟s as he passes on the
way to dump it on Louis‟ bed. Louis has them all well-trained on the
party coat protocol by now. “Last I heard it was still a maybe.”

“Well, mate,” Niall says, “if he doesn‟t turn up, we could always just
set the tree on fire.”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Zayn says. “Get me drunk enough and I just might.”

It‟s not long before people start pouring in, bottles of liquor and boxes
of beer in hand. Niall‟s got the stereo playing something relatively
relaxed, some acoustic cover of “O Holy Night,” but Louis knows he‟s
just easing people into things before everyone gets drunk enough for
him to switch on the strobe light. The turnout is good, as usual, and
Louis is pleased to see that everyone other than Zayn is honoring the
mandatory hat rule he put on the invitations.

It‟s always interesting to see all of his different worlds collide.

Everyone mills about, talking and drinking and laughing, gradually
filling in the walls of Louis‟s flat with faces from every part of his life,

157
one of his old friends from uni chatting up his librarian in the corner,
Zayn‟s TA doing shots with two of the girls from two doors over. He‟s
just said hello to Stan, who came bounding in with a case of beer and
two of the other Doncaster lads, when the door swings open again and
he‟s almost hit in the face with a stack of boxes.

“Sorry!” says the person behind them, and if Louis didn‟t know that
voice intimately by now, the curly hair peeking over the top of the
boxes would have given Harry away immediately. “Sorry, can‟t really
see where I‟m—oh, hello, birthday boy!”

Harry‟s stuck his head around the side of his armload of boxes to smile
at Louis. He‟s wearing a pair of reindeer antlers with little jingle bells
hanging from them, and there are snowflakes in his curls. It‟s the first
time Louis has seen him in a week, and he‟s helpless to do anything but
smile stupidly back at him, wishing he was maybe a little less tipsy for
this.

“Nice hat,” Harry says happily. He leans in to kiss Louis on the cheek
but misses, too busy trying to balance everything he‟s carrying, and
lands somewhere between his cheekbone and his hair.

“What in the name of Christ is all that?” Louis says, closing the door
behind Harry before too much snow comes inside.

“You told me to bake something,” Harry says. He starts making his

way to the kitchen, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to let him
through, and Louis follows. “I may have gotten a bit carried away.”

He sets the boxes down on the small amount of empty space left on
Louis‟ kitchen table and starts unpacking them and, Jesus, Harry has
outdone himself this time. The first four boxes are filled with a dozen
cupcakes each, different flavors, all iced in varying shades of Christmas
colors and covered in sprinkles. The last box is the tallest, and when
Harry opens it, Louis feels his mouth drop open.

“Haz.”

158
It‟s a cake, three layers by the looks of it, all thick off-white frosting
and red trim. In the middle of it in red icing script are the words Happy
Birthday, Louis! The i‟s are dotted with little smiley faces.

Louis stares at it for a few seconds, then yanks Harry roughly into a
hug by the waist, and Harry‟s laughing at him but he‟s buzzed and
Harry made him a birthday cake and what else can he do?

“I didn‟t know if you already had one or not,” Harry says when Louis
lets him go.

“I—” Louis begins, and then stops and starts again. “No, with
everything else I‟d, I‟d completely forgotten.”

“Good, then,” Harry says, grinning. “Hope you like red velvet.”

Louis bumps Harry‟s shoulder with his own and picks up one of the
boxes of cupcakes. “Come on, then, let‟s get these all out before I get
too drunk to be trusted with things that could stain the carpet.”

And, well, honestly, the cupcakes really do not match his color palette
at all. Part of him wants to die a little when he thinks of bright blue and
green frosting and gold sprinkles in between his carefully chosen trays
of peppermint bark and silver dusted sugar cookies, but the rest of him
really doesn‟t care. The rest of him just wants to put them somewhere
everyone can see.

“What‟re all these?” Harry says, pointing to the punch bowls set up on
the counter.

“Ah, the Tomlinson Christmas special,” Louis says proudly. “The one
on the right is eggnog with brandy, and then the one on the left on the
warmers is hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps.”

“Impressive,” Harry says with a nod. “Wish I could drink tonight.”

159
Louis pauses in the middle of arranging a cupcake pyramid to frown at
him. “Why can‟t you?”

“Promised my mum I‟d be home when she woke up for Christmas

morning,” Harry tells him. “I‟ve got my suitcase in the car already.”

“Hm, guess you get a pass this time, Styles,” Louis says, returning to
his cupcakes. He tries not to think about the fact that Harry will be
sober all night and capable of remembering everything Louis says or
does while drunk. That sounds like a problem for Sober Louis, who
vacated the premises about half an hour ago.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly, and when Louis looks up, Harry‟s face is
soft and careful. “We‟re okay?”

Louis looks at Harry standing there on the other side of the desserts,
two cupcakes in each hand, and he hates that he‟s made him feel like he
has to ask. “Yeah, we‟re okay.”

The first wave of older faculty members from the school and people
who have to be home early starts to clear out around ten o‟clock, and
Louis knows that means it‟s almost time for things to kick up a notch or
five. When the head of the English department—the last person any of
them could possibly get in trouble for getting drunk and disorderly in
front of—finally leaves, Stan shuts the door behind her.

“All right,” Stan shouts, “let‟s do some fucking shots!”

A cheer goes up through the entire flat, and Niall hits the lights. One of
his own creations comes blasting through the stereo system, a remixed
Rosemary Clooney/LMFAO mashup he made last year and titled
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Shot,” and someone starts passing out a
round of vodka shots.

160
“Gird your loins, Harold,” Louis says, turning to grasp Harry by the
shoulder. He‟s aware that his words are already starting to slur a little,
but it‟s okay. It only serves to drive his point home, really.

“Consider them girded,” Harry says. He passes his shot along with a
wink as if to remind Louis that he has already become well acquainted
with Harry‟s loins. Louis elbows him in the side before climbing up
onto one of the kitchen chairs, raising his shot glass aloft.

“Ahem,” he shouts over the crowd and the music. “Mr. Horan, if you
would be so kind as to turn the music down a smidge.” Niall obliges,
and everyone turns to face Louis, shots in hand.

“I‟d like to thank all of you lovely people for turning up tonight to
celebrate the reason for the season: me.” Everyone laughs at that, and
Louis throws up a finger to all of them, grinning. “Honestly, though, I
don‟t know where I‟d be without you lot. So I‟d like to propose a toast!
To myself, of course, and to all of you, to old friends and new,” he
looks down and catches Harry‟s eye at that one, and Harry is grinning
back at him, jingle bells gleaming under the lights, “to another year,
and of course, to getting absolutely pissed and making tits of ourselves
tonight with no regard to our personal safety, cheers!”

Everyone shouts their agreement and throws back their shots at once,
and after a chorus of coughing and sputtering, Niall cranks the music
back up.

From his position, Louis is able to take a moment to assess the whole
party at once. The makeshift dance floor is already packed, dozens of
Christmas hats bobbing around in time to the music. Someone is lining
up another batch of shots on the kitchen counter. Two people are
drunkenly ravishing each other under the mistletoe. A promising start.

The only one who doesn‟t seem to be having any fun is Zayn, who has
spent the last thirty minutes sulking on his phone in the corner. Even
his quiff looks a bit defeated, although that might just be from when
Niall tried to force a Santa hat onto his head earlier.

161
“Harry,” Louis yells over the din, “I think I may need you to help me
down, as my motor skills are not what they were an hour ago.”

Harry laughs and offers his hand, which Louis accepts, allowing
himself to be guided down by Harry‟s other hand on his hip. He‟s
drunk and happy enough to give him a slap on the arse as thanks.

“Must go see about our brave little soldier of unrequited love,” Louis
says, and Harry nods and nudges him off, turning around to pick up a
conversation with Stan. Louis weaves his way through the crowd,
stumbling a little before he reaches the chair shoved off to the wall by
the bathroom where Zayn is pouting.

“Zayn,” Louis says, leaning down to peer into Zayn‟s face.

“Zaaaaaayn. Stop tweeting sad song lyrics and come dance with me.”

“I‟m not—” Zayn snaps, but then he looks up and catches sight of
something over Louis‟ shoulder and his entire face freezes in an
expression of cartoon shock.

Louis spins around, expecting to see that someone‟s broken a window

or stepped on his cat or snogged someone they shouldn‟t, but what he
finds is Liam standing in the doorway of his flat and looking very, very
out of place.

“My God,” Louis says, flattening a hand over his heart, “it‟s a
Christmas miracle.”

He makes his way across the room, leaving Zayn paralyzed behind him
like he‟s just seen the ghost of Christmas something or other. Louis
catches a glimpse of Niall as he moves, and he‟s practically jumping up
and down, looking extremely drunk and extremely excited, pointing
jerkily to Liam with his mouth moving in something that looks like,
“Are you seeing this shit?” Louis grins at him and gives him a double
thumbs up. Tonight is going to be even more fun than he expected.

162
“Hello!” Louis when he reaches Liam, a picture of yuletide cheer.
Before the poor man even has a chance to respond, Louis yanks him
into a hug. “Happy Christmas! So glad you could make it!”

Liam, to his credit, returns the hug with significantly less awkwardness
than Louis was expecting. His coat is scratchy dark wool and very
practical. When Louis pulls away, he‟s smiling genuinely at him,
looking pleased just to have some new friends.

Before Liam has a chance to say anything, Zayn is suddenly right next
to them, smiling in a way that is probably supposed to be winsome and
casual but which Louis can easily recognize as the blind hysteria that it
is. He hauls Liam into a hug of his own, made brave by alcohol and
Louis having broken the ice already. Louis keeps close track of Liam‟s
response, since he knows Zayn will grill him about it later. He closes
his eyes when Zayn hugs him, still smiling, and doesn‟t even look
alarmed when Zayn holds on a bit too long.

“Sorry I‟m so late,” Liam says when they break apart, and he really
does look sincere about it. “Work was insane today, and then I got
caught in the snow on the way over.”

“It‟s fine, it‟s totally fine, it‟s, you know, we‟re...” Zayn trails off and
lapses into silence for a moment, just staring blissfully at Liam like he
still can‟t believe he‟s actually there. Liam blinks back at him.

“Zayn,” Louis says pointedly, treading on his foot, “why don‟t you
show our friend where he can put his coat?”

“Yes, right, of course,” Zayn says, springing back into action. He grabs
Liam by the elbow and gives it a little tug. “This way, and then you‟ve
got to see the food, we‟ve got loads.”

They disappear into the crowd, and Louis turns to find Harry staring at
him from the kitchen, wide-eyed.
“Oh my God,” Harry mouths.

163
“I know,” Louis mouths back.

After that it‟s honestly all a bit blurry for Louis. Someone hands him
another shot, and then he has a glass of eggnog, and then another, and
then some concoction of Niall‟s that tastes like cranberry sauce and
Ireland and the promise of a hangover. He remembers somebody‟s shirt
hitting him in the face as it was flung across the room and downing at
least four cupcakes until his mouth is stained green. He remembers
Niall signing some woman's boobs, which should be confusing but
honestly doesn't throw him much at the time. He remembers watching
Zayn spill his own plate of food everywhere while telling Liam
something with a lot of hand gestures and then mostly staring in awe as
Liam fetched a dishtowel and started cleaning it up for him. He
remembers Niall coming over the sound system to tell everyone to shut
the fuck up while Harry lit up the candles on the cake, and he
remembers everyone singing him happy birthday. He doesn‟t remember
what he wishes for, but he remembers looking at Harry while he does
it.

He‟s leaned up against the kitchen counter, trying to get his vision
straight for long enough to tell whether or not he needs to put out more
food, when Stan sidles up next to him and throws an arm over his
shoulders.

“So, mate,” he says, breath smelling of beer and meat pies, “anything
new happening? You know, in your... life.”

Louis squints at him. “Forgive me if I‟m wrong, because I am a bit very

drunk, but have we not already had this conversation tonight?”

“Yes, but you did not mention that strapping fellow,” Stan says,
gesturing across the party. Harry is over by the stereo with Niall on his
back, laughing as he looks through the karaoke song selections.

“Yeah, that‟s Harry,” Louis says.

164
“I know,” Stan says, rolling his eyes. “We‟ve met. He brought you a
birthday cake.”

“Yes, he did,” Louis says. His strategy is to be as noncommittal as

possible and then maybe the conversation will just end. Also, drink. He
needs another drink.

“So, what‟s the story?” Stan presses. “I‟m sure you‟ve noticed he‟s
quite fit.”

Louis can‟t help but smile ruefully down at his cup as he fills it with
cider. “Quite.”

“He seems to like you a lot,” Stan says, and that gets Louis‟ attention.

“What d‟you mean?” Louis says, his head popping up. “Did he say
something to you?”

“Aha!” Stan crows, looking triumphant. “So there‟s something

happening there, eh?”

Louis shoves his shoulder into Stan‟s and pulls a face that he intends to
be disdain, but he‟s so drunk that God only knows what it ends up
looking like. “All right, yes. I‟m shagging him, but it‟s not a big deal or
anything. We‟re friends.”

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Really? Not a big deal? Because I can‟t
remember the last time you were actually friends with someone you
shagged.”

Louis gives him a proper glare for that one.

165
“Look, I‟m just, you know,” Stan says, withdrawing his arm and
returning to his beer. “I don‟t want to make things awkward if you‟re,
whatever. You just look really happy, Lou. It‟s nice.”

He gives Louis a shrugging smile and fades back into the party, and
Louis stares after him for a moment before draining half his cup of
cider in one go.

The cider does the trick. He‟s able to enjoy the rest of the night without
analyzing what Stan said, too busy evading a lap dance from his
veterinary assistant and shimmying at half of the maths department to
the sounds of dubstep Bing Crosby. Somewhere off the the side Zayn is
still talking to Liam, casually trying to edge them toward the mistletoe
only to have all his work undone every time Liam steps politely out of
the way to let somebody through and moves them backwards two feet.
There‟s too much to laugh at for Louis to bother worrying about
anything else at the moment. He doesn‟t even have a fit when Harry
catches and holds his eyes across the dance floor when “All I Want For
Christmas is You” comes on, shaking his hips over to Louis, singing
the ooh, baby right in his ear.

It‟s around this time that the drunken karaoke starts up and, Jesus, it
was worth sweet talking Niall into borrowing all the equipment from
school just to see Harry gyrating to “Santa Baby,” all languid hips and
raspy voice and hotter than it has any right to be when he‟s not even
being serious about it.

Somewhere around 2 a.m., Niall and Zayn decide to go out onto the
balcony for a smoke at the same time. Harry drags Louis outside with
them despite his protests of how bollocks-freezing cold it is out there,
and Liam follows them, presumably because the four of them are the
only people he actually knows at this party.

It‟s actually kind of nice once they‟re all out there, crammed into the
small space of Louis‟ balcony. Niall flops into one of Louis‟ rickety
chairs with his beer while Louis settles into the other, knees gathered
up to his chin against the cold. Zayn‟s leaning up against the railing,

166
too drunk to think about posing for Liam, which looks better on him
anyway, all loose limbs and hazy eyes.

Harry crowds up behind Louis‟ chair. “You cold?”

“A bit, yeah,” Louis says through the chattering of his teeth. Next thing
he knows, Harry‟s leaning down and wrapping his arms around Louis‟
shoulders and chest, pressing his body heat into him.

“This okay?” Harry says in his ear, and Louis just blames the alcohol
for the fact that all he can do is nod and lean back into him. Zayn raises
his eyebrows at them, and Louis mentally wills him to go fuck himself.

Louis looks around him, at Niall all sprawled out in his chair, at Zayn
lighting one up, at Liam looking content on the ground with his back
against the balcony door, at the lights in the distance and the snow
falling down and the steam of his breath mixing with Harry‟s, and it
just. It feels good, the five of them.

Louis is possibly too drunk.

“Nice song choice, Harry,” Zayn slurs, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Be really impressed if you can get this one up there, though.” He
points to Louis with his cigarette, and Louis sticks his tongue out at
him.

“D‟you think he would?” Harry says, perking up, and no, no, nope.

“No, he would not,” Louis says.

“It‟d be brilliant, though!” Harry says, leaning back and turning his
head a little to look at Louis. It‟s really not fair how his eyes are
sparkling in the flashing lights of Louis‟ stupid hat. Once again, Louis
only has himself to blame. “I never get to see you perform, only shout
at other people while they do.”

167
Louis ignores Harry, shifting his attention back to Zayn, who is much
easier to resist. “Why don‟t you get up there, Malik? You were born for
the stage. Stripper with a heart of gold, that‟s what you are.”

“And a liver of iron,” Zayn says.

“Bullshit,” Niall says, laughing out a cloud of smoke. “I‟ve got pictures
of you naked in a pond throwing up on a duck.”

“Poor duck,” Liam chimes in, looking concerned. “He‟s just going
about doing duck things, and then all of the sudden—”

“Vomit tsunami,” Louis supplies.

Liam nods sagely. “Tsu-vom-i.”

It‟s so ridiculous and so deadpan that it startles a laugh out of all of

them, filling up the balcony and echoing off the roof of the next
building.

“We‟re keeping him,” Louis says, pointing an unsteady finger at Liam,

and it‟s impossible to tell who looks more pleased by this turn of
events, Liam or Zayn.

“If we‟re keeping him, he should get a vote in whether or not you sing
for us,” Harry says.

“There‟s not a vote,” Louis says. “This isn‟t a democracy. This is a

party dictatorship, and I am the dictator.”

“You‟ve got one of those syllables right,” Niall says. “Liam, vote.”

“Well, I mean,” Liam says, “only if he wants to.”

168
“Oh, he wants to,” Zayn says, cutting off Louis‟ protests.

“He really, really does,” Niall adds, and Louis takes back every nice
thing he has ever said about either of them.

Liam smiles. “Then I vote yes.”

“I think that makes it unanimous,” Niall says. He stubs out his cigarette
on the arm of his chair and flicks the butt off the balcony. “Right,
Harry?”

“Unanimous,” Harry confirms.

“Unfortunately this vote means nothing because I do not recognize the

authority of the proletariat,” Louis says. He wonders faintly if taking
too many vodka shots has made him slightly Communist. Or is it the
other way around? Who was the proletariat again? Alcohol is bad.

“Too bad,” Zayn says. “Bolshevik karaoke time.”

It‟s four against one now and Louis doesn‟t stand a chance, no matter
how much he tries to tell them that he is definitely too drunk for this.
Harry manages to manhandle him out of his chair, and then Niall and
Zayn have him under the armpits. A couple of very disorienting
minutes later, Harry has dragged out his coffee table for a stage and
Zayn is introducing him as “the Illustrious, Luscious Louis
Tomlinson,” and then Louis is holding a microphone in front of the
entire party while the first notes of “Jingle Bell Rock” flood the room.

Fine. If he‟s going to be publicly humiliated, he is damn well going to

do it with style. He puts one hand on his hip, flips his hair, and calls up
every bit of that old stage presence he hasn‟t used in years.

And maybe it‟s just because he‟s drunk, or he‟s the host, or it‟s his
birthday, but the crowd goes wild. He belts it out with as much as he‟s

169
got left in him, sashaying up and down the length of the table, free hand
flailing through the air. Niall pretends to faint into Zayn‟s arms when
Louis blows him a kiss. Louis forgot how much he loves this, how
natural it feels to stand up in front of an audience and sing. He never
realised how much he‟s been missing this feeling.

It‟s been years since Louis got up in front of anybody and sang other
than demonstrating parts to his students, years since he lit up a crowd,
years since he felt that high of performing. He watches Stan laughing
with some of the Doncaster girls and the German teacher dancing with
two of his uni friends and he lets himself soak in the energy of the
crowd and the sound of the music, and it‟s just a stupid Christmas song
but he lets himself get carried away.

The flat erupts into applause when the song is over, and Louis takes an
elaborate bow, almost falling off the coffee table as he does. Harry‟s
there to catch him around the waist and set him on the floor, laughing
so hard he‟s almost in tears, and Louis wants to kiss him right then and
there but he doesn‟t.

It seems that Louis‟ performance is the dramatic climax of the party,

because it‟s not long after that before people start popping by to slap
him on the back and tell him goodbye. The ones who‟ve had less to
drink or given themselves time to sober up head out to brave the snow,
while the rest start gathering up their coats and calling cabs. He bids
Stan farewell with a promise to return his missing trousers when he
gets back to Doncaster and watches Zayn hug Liam goodbye when he
gets called in to the firehouse to handle a surplus of Christmas tree
catastrophes. Soon it‟s down to twenty, then ten, then it‟s 3 a.m. and
Louis is bundling Zayn into a cab, paying the cabbie in advance and
tuning out Zayn‟s drunken mumbling.

“Destiny,” he says for the millionth time in the last five minutes.
“Christmas destiny. Destimas.”

“Sleep it off, mate,” Louis says, and Zayn just smiles dreamily at him
before the door shuts and the cab is off down the street.

170
He‟s swaying on his feet as he makes his way back up the snowy path
to his flat. God, how long has it been since he‟s done this, taken care of
the drunks while half-wasted himself? University-era Louis would be
ashamed.

He staggers back up the stairs and into his flat, and he nearly groans out
loud when he sees there‟s someone else still there, wandering around
the living room. The sound catches in his throat, though, when he sees
that it‟s Harry making his way through the flat with a bin bag,
collecting trash.

“You‟re—hi. You‟re here,” Louis manages, his tongue thick in his

mouth. He leans heavily against the door. Fuck. He is never drinking
anything Niall mixes ever again.

“Well spotted, Lou,” Harry says with a smile. “Figured you could use
some help with all of this.” He gestures to the wreckage of Louis‟ flat.
It‟s worse than last year‟s party, worse than he and Harry‟s sex
marathon. There appears to be red velvet cake smeared all over one of
the cushions of his couch. Well, it‟s either that or blood. God, please let
it be cake.

Louis does groan now, sliding down the door onto his welcome mat.
“God, I‟m going to be up all night dealing with this. And I‟ve got to
drive to my mum‟s tomorrow.” He lets his head fall back against the
door with a thud. “Why do I socialize? Why don‟t I just stay in bed
with my cat?”

“The eternal question,” Harry says, walking over and extending a hand.
Louis takes it and lets Harry haul him upright. The sudden movement
has him dizzy, and he‟s thankful for Harry‟s steadying hands on his
waist once again. “I can stay and help, don‟t worry.”

Louis blinks at him, and Harry just smiles and goes back to tidying up.
Louis meanders blindly over to the sink and tries to start washing
dishes, but turns back to Harry distractedly. “You‟ve got to drive to
your parents‟ too, though.”

171
Harry shrugs, pulling down some of the lights. “It‟s not that long a
drive, I can stay an hour or two longer.” He looks at Louis, amused.
“It‟s really fine, Lou.”

Louis looks down into the sink in confusion, because what does he
want?

He manages to wash a total of two glasses, his mind swimming, before

he turns back to Harry. He probably shouldn‟t press his luck here, but
he just...does not understand. “I‟m not,” he says, swallowing dryly. “I
can‟t fuck you tonight.”

Harry lets out a short laugh that sounds a little horrified, turning away
from where he‟s taking down the mistletoe. He pauses before he speaks
again, like he‟s waiting to see if Louis was joking.

“Christ, Louis, tell me how you really feel,” Harry says, apparently
realising that he‟s not. Louis just stares back, leaning hard on the
counter. “Lou. Jesus. I know that you, that we aren‟t going to have sex
tonight. That‟s not why I came tonight, and even if it was, you‟re
drunk, so.” He lets out a long breath, his face soft, and no one should be
allowed to look that serious while wearing reindeer antlers. “I‟m doing
this „cause I want to, yeah?”

Louis looks at him for a long time, but he doesn‟t make any more
sense.

“You‟re weird,” he says finally.

Laughing, Harry throws the mistletoe at him, hitting Louis square in

the chest. “You‟re one to talk,” he says, and resumes cleaning.

Shaking his head like a wet dog, Louis gives up on making sense of the
situation and commits what brainpower he has to taking his flat from
“portal to the underworld” to “general squalor.” Harry puts something

172
soft and gentle on his iPod and they make their way from room to room
in silence, improving things as they go.

It feels like Harry is everywhere over the next hour, taking care of
things while Louis sobers up. When Louis slips on a puddle of eggnog,
Harry catches him with a laugh. When Duchess knocks over the empty
bowl of cider, Harry is there with a broom to sweep up the pieces.
When Louis goes back to doing dishes, Harry is behind him with a
hand on his waist, passing him a glass full of water.

“Don‟t want to drive with a hangover,” he says, dropping his chin onto
Louis‟ shoulder.

Louis drains the glass in a few long swallows, incredibly conscious of

the way Harry‟s head turns, his lips grazing slightly over his neck.
“Thanks,” Louis says, “I think I‟m going to be all right now, nothing
like manual labor to shake off a buzz.”

“Good,” Harry says, smiling against him and squeezing his hip before
he moves away. “Shouldn‟t take more than another half-hour before
this place is in decent enough shape for you to catch a few hours of
sleep.”

Louis turns around, leaning against the sink and watching Harry putter
around his flat happily, and does his best to strangle whatever feeling is
creeping through him.

“You know what?” he says suddenly. “It‟s fine, I think I‟m just going
to go to bed.”

Harry pauses, halfway through wiping down the kitchen table. “You
sure? I don‟t want you to miss your mum.”

“Yeah, it‟ll be fine,” Louis says. “I can do the small stuff when I get
back.”

173
“All right,” Harry says, fiddling with his jacket for a moment before
pulling it from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. “If you‟re sure.”

“I‟m sure,” Louis says with a helpless smile. And then, because he
can‟t stop himself, “I‟ll walk you down to your car.”

He snags his scarf and coat off the hook but doesn‟t bother doing up
any of his buttons before following Harry outside.

The snow has slowed to a gentle fall by now, drifting onto Louis‟ porch
and gathering on the railings. Harry insists on going down the stairs in
front of him because “alcohol plus frozen steps equals death” and he
seems to think himself an adequate safety net. When they get to the
bottom he pulls Louis up against him with one arm, and Louis lets him,
pliant against the warmth of Harry‟s side. It‟s quiet outside except for
the light jingling of Harry‟s antlers and their own crunching footsteps
in the snow.

“You were really good, with the whole karaoke thing tonight,” Harry
says. He bumps one hip against Louis‟, and Louis stares down at their
feet disappearing in and out of the snow. “I like seeing you like that.”

Something in Louis‟ stomach squirms. He writes it off as the after

effects of the half dozen cupcakes and questionable beverages, but it
makes him restless all the same. On some mad impulse he ducks out
from under Harry‟s arm and half-stumbles into a snowbank, plunging
his hands into the snow.

“Lou, what‟re you—”

Harry‟s words are cut off by the snowball that pegs him right in the
side of the head.

“Yes!” Louis shouts, not caring about his neighbors and the fact that
it‟s almost 4 a.m. Harry is gaping at him, a laugh playing on his lips.
“The Tommo strikes again!”

174
“The only thing saving you from being shoved in a snowbank right
now,” Harry tells him, shaking his hair out, “is the fact that you are
drunk and I don‟t think you could get back up.”

“I am extremely spry in my old age,” Louis tells him, slipping ahead.

“You underestimate me.”

“I guess so,” Harry says.

They‟re at Harry‟s car now. Louis is standing between Harry and the
door, his body betraying the fact that he really doesn‟t want Harry to
go.

“I‟m glad you liked your cake,” Harry says. He‟s smiling as he leans
against Louis, gently pressing him into the side of the car.

“I‟m glad you came tonight,” Louis tells him, and oh, he hates how
alcohol does this even when it‟s fading out of his system, makes him
honest and unguarded, but he can‟t stop his mouth. “Thank you for
staying.”

Harry just smiles wider, and then he wraps the end of Louis‟ scarf
around one hand and pulls him in for their first kiss in two weeks.

It‟s as gentle as Harry‟s weight against him, light enough that Louis
knows Harry meant what he said about not pushing him when he‟s
been drinking. Harry‟s lips are a little bitten by the chill, but when he
parts them he tastes like peppermint and cake and his mouth is like the
lights inside of Louis‟ flat, soft and warm and intimate. Louis sinks his
fingers into Harry‟s curls, and Harry makes a noise at the cold hands
against his scalp but doesn‟t let go.

They‟ve done a fair amount of kissing by now, but Louis wouldn‟t

describe any of it as slow or sweet. Every time it was some pressing
force, the means to an end, the warm-up act before the main event. This
time is different, though. One of Harry‟s hands slides up under Louis‟

175
jumper, but there‟s nothing insistent about it, just Harry trying to be
closer to him. For the first time, they kiss just for the hell of it. And,
God, for once, Louis just lets himself have it.

Then Louis‟ brain and his mouth line up long enough for him to realise
that what Harry is humming into his mouth is “God Rest Ye Merry
Gentlemen,” and he has to break off to laugh at that, because, seriously.

For a moment they‟re just standing there, and Harry is so close and he‟s
laughing and there‟s snow in his eyelashes and it‟s actually
overwhelming how much Louis likes this person. Not just his mouth
and his body but all of him, every single part, the dumb jokes and the
eager hands and the sprawling smile and the easy way about him that
makes Louis want to loosen his grip a little bit, the grass stains on his
jeans and the way he still smells like Louis‟ dish soap.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says, thumbing the pattern of Louis‟ scarf.

“Happy Christmas,” Louis says back.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry agrees.

Harry gives him one last smiling kiss, and Louis finally convinces his
legs to move the rest of him out of the way so Harry can slide into his
car. He stands on the curb, knee-deep in snow, watching Harry drive
away until his tail lights blink out around the corner.

Louis isn‟t going to think about it. He‟s not. He‟s not going to think
about hands on his waist or sweet cream frosting on his tongue or the
place where all the small bones in Harry‟s wrist come together. He‟s
not going to let this spread.

“No,” he says to the feeling pulling at his ribs. “Nope.” He takes the
stairs one step at a time and doesn‟t, doesn‟t, doesn‟t think about it.

176
He‟s dropping his coat on the floor and ready to collapse into bed when
he sees the package sitting on the kitchen table. The box is thin and bit
bigger than a piece of paper, and when he turns it over in his hands he
can see that it‟s wrapped up in pages torn out of magazines, all
different bright colors and clashing patterns. He doesn‟t need a card to
know it‟s from Harry.

Oh, God.

Louis‟ hands fumble with the wrapping until he manages to get it all
off, mind racing ahead of him to what Harry would have gotten him
and wondering how he snuck it in without Louis noticing, if he stuck it
under the cake box or if he‟s actually Father Christmas. Underneath the
wrapping is a thin, unremarkable cardboard box, and he opens one end
and tilts.

Out slides a nicely matted print of a photograph, and Louis‟ breath goes
out when he realises what it is.

He remembers a rehearsal about a month ago, some cold, dry evening

in November. His male lead was out sick, and he had promoted one of
the boys in the chorus to understudy so that somebody could mark his
place in the blocking. He was sitting a few rows back in the audience,
calling out lines and taking notes in his copy of the script. Niall was
working out the kinks for the lighting cues that day, and the set was
still only halfway constructed. He remembers that Harry was wearing a
blue shirt, but he doesn‟t know how he forgot about the camera.

The photograph is from that rehearsal, taken from a seat just behind
Louis. The stage in the background is washed in blues, reds, pinks,
yellows, beams of light pouring from all different angles, crossing over
each other at random. The spotlight is off, so the bodies on the stage are
almost just silhouettes in motion. There‟s the whip of a skirt caught in
mid-turn, a tall figure with its arms extended, two shapes bent toward
each other at stage left. Behind them, the skeleton of the set makes
sharp lines and broken shapes against the white backdrop.

177
In the foreground is Louis, just a sliver of his face as seen from behind,
the light catching on the top of his cheekbone and the ends of his hair.
His hands are in the air in front of him, gesturing as he explains
something to one of the actors, and he can see ink stains on his
knuckles. He can see for the first time the way he looks when he‟s
directing, the set of his shoulders, the hint of a smile at the corner of his
mouth.

It‟s his kids, his work, distilled into an image and made beautiful. And
Harry did it.

He looks down at the table because he really, really needs to look at

anything that is not this picture right now, and his eyes fall on a tiny
piece of paper. It must have slid out with the print without him noticing
it. He can see Harry‟s handwriting on it.

Lou,

So you don‟t forget what you look like to the rest of us

Happy birthday!!! xxx

Haz

Louis drops into a chair.

“Happy Christmas, Louis Tomlinson,” he says. “You are fucked.”

178
 EIGHT

Zayn idly swirls the beer in his glass, distressed to see so much of it
left. Beer isn‟t really his drink, not for a real night out, but Niall had
bought a round of pints and it would be rude not to finish. Anyway, it‟s
just not on to leave a drink unfinished on New Year‟s.

He tips the glass back and drains the pint with a grimace, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand and looking around the bar. It‟s a
pretty good turnout, though if he‟s honest most of these people are
Niall‟s friends, not his. He‟s not complaining, though. He could have
gone to another friend‟s party, but from what he remembers from years
past those parties always turn into pretty people scrambling for hook-
ups, and he‟s not really looking for that this year. Getting quietly drunk
in the corner of a bar full of people who don‟t actively bother him
actually sounds pretty great.

Of course, in a perfect world he‟d be wherever Liam was, but after his
ridiculous performance on Christmas Zayn isn‟t sure he can face Liam
for a few more weeks. God, how obvious had he been with the
mistletoe? Had Liam noticed? There was no way he hadn‟t noticed.
Why isn‟t he drunk yet?

Zayn walks over to the bar and orders a vodka tonic, ignoring the
bartender‟s once-over. God bless Niall‟s friends and their open bar.
Liam is probably busy, anyway. He‟s probably out doing something
fun and not thinking about Zayn at all. The bartender slides his drink to
him, and Zayn lifts it to his lips immediately as he walks back to his
table, ignoring the napkin with the phone number on it. Liam is
probably at some party with his hot firefighter friends, being hot.

179
They‟re probably dancing in a big group of sweaty, shirtless,
firefighting hotness that is inaccessible to people who ineffectively hit
on people at Christmas parties. Maybe they‟re wearing the fireman
hats. Wow, this drink is strong.

Back at his table of perpetual malaise, Zayn pulls out his phone and
picks Louis‟ name out of his contact list. Louis is at his mum‟s house,
as he always is for New Year‟s. God bless Louis. No one else makes
him feel comparatively better about being a miserable bastard.

w/o u here who‟s gunna b my consolation midnight kiss?? aha :) xx

It only takes a few moments for Louis to text back, reassuring Zayn
that he is not the saddest sack in the greater Manchester area.

give you ten quid if you kiss niall. not kidding.

Zayn throws his head back and laughs, typing out his answer.

make it twenty and ur on :P xoxo

Maybe this night could still be fun after all.

It‟s hard to keep in touch with Harry when he‟s stuck inside a small
house with his mum and four nosy sisters, all of whom are hellbent on
figuring out what—or whom—Louis is hiding from them. He sticks to
texts for the first few days before he‟s forced to admit to himself that
seeing Harry‟s bad jokes in pixel letters just makes him miss the sound
of Harry‟s dumb voice saying them honey-slow in his ear. He can only
call him in the middle of the night or at odd hours of the day when the
girls are busy and his mum is at work, unless he actually gets in his car
and drives somewhere, and Louis refuses to do that. He‟s trying to keep

180
this thing in check, and lurking in car parks to talk to Harry on the
phone does not exactly fall under the heading of Rational Behavior.

The snow hasn‟t come to Doncaster for a few weeks, so the grass is dry
enough that Louis can take Harry‟s late night calls in the back garden
without waking anyone up. He bundles up and drags his duvet down
the stairs and lies on his back on the ground, listening to Harry ramble
on and on about football and his family and which Rolling Stones
album is best.

“What‟re you gonna do when you get back?” Louis asks one night, coat
pulled tight around him as he stares up at the stars.

“Wait for you to get back so I can kiss you again,” Harry says on the
other end of the line, and Louis rolls onto his stomach and buries his
face in the grass.

He knows that it‟d be easier to just leave for Manchester early since he
knows that Harry will be getting back a couple of days ahead of school,
but he makes himself stay in Doncaster for the full hols. He doesn‟t get
to see his family or his Doncaster friends as often as he‟d like, and he
can‟t justify leaving all that to see Harry. This is where he needs to be,
sandwiched in between two of his sisters on the sofa in the family
living room. Their mum‟s messing about in the kitchen, fixing herself
another Shirley Temple, and the twins are asleep, thank God. The room
gets a bit crowded when the entire Tomlinson clan tries to watch telly,
even if it is a New Year‟s tradition.

“There‟s still time to make it to the fireworks before midnight if we

leave now,” Lottie says.

“If you want to go, you should go,” Louis says, before taking a long sip
out of the champagne bottle he‟s got cradled in his lap. “I, however, am
going to stay here, on this sofa, where it is comfy and there are no loud
noises. They say you spend the whole year doing what you were doing
at midnight, yes? Well, I plan to spend this year lazy and tipsy.”

181
Lottie makes a grab for the bottle, but Louis has cat-like reflexes when
it comes to alcohol and moves it out of her reach. “Hey now, no
champagne for children,” he says.

“I‟m eighteen now, Louis, I‟m not a child,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Fizzy giggles.

“Are you?” Louis asks jokingly. “Hmm, I‟m going to have to write
someone a strongly-worded letter about that, see if something can‟t be
done.” Lottie pokes him in the side, he pokes back, and by the time
their mum comes back in all three of them are engaged in a no-holds-
barred tickle war.

Louis is attempting to explain to her that he is the victim of unchecked

sisterly imperialism when his mobile goes off. When he sees who it is,
he scrambles upright. “I‟m sorry, it‟s—I‟ve got to get this, hold on,” he
says, heading for the back door.

“It‟s five minutes to midnight, Louis!” his mum shouts after him, but
he‟s already on the back patio.

“Hi, Hazza,” he says, sitting down on the patio swing.

“Louis!” Harry shouts down the line, and Louis can tell in just those
two syllables that he‟s pissed off his arse. “Louis, Louis, Louis. Loo-
oo-ouis. It‟s almost midnight!” Louis can hear loud voices and clinking
glasses.

“I know, Haz,” Louis responds, rubbing his hands over his arms. He
definitely should have grabbed a coat on his way outside, but it‟s too
late for that now. “You at a party?” he asks.

“Yeah, but,” and now Harry whispers dramatically, “S‟not as good as

yours was, Lou, so don‟t worry.” He ends the sentence with a giggle.
“Your party was brilliant. You are brilliant!” He heaves a drunken sigh.
“Miss you.”

182
Before Louis can respond, or figure out how to, he hears a voice in the
background. Who‟re you talking to, Harry? says a woman. Harry‟s
response is a muffled It‟s Louis, Gemma, piss off.

“Is that your sister?” Louis asks, curious.

“Yeah, d‟you want to talk to her? Gemma!” he shouts, and Louis

winces, holding the phone away from his ear. “Gemma! Louis wants to
talk to you! I don‟t know why, I‟m much more interesting.” The phone
passes between them, and a clear female voice comes down the line.

“Hello, Louis, this is Gemma, Harry‟s sister.”

Louis smiles, pleased to have the chance to sneak a peek at Harry‟s real
life. “Hello, Gemma, very nice to meet you.”

She hitches a laugh, saying, “A pleasure, I‟m sure.” Louis has never
seen a picture of her, but he‟s imagining a woman his age with Harry‟s
mouth and, judging by her tone, his tendency towards mischief. “So,
what have you done exactly to make my brother completely lose his
head over you? Are you that good in—” she starts to ask, but suddenly
the sound is muffled and Louis can barely make out the sound of
shushing.

“Louis?” Harry‟s voice comes through. “You there? Loui-i-is?”

Louis can‟t help but laugh at how eager he sounds. What a friendly
drunk. “Yeah, Haz, I‟m here,” he says, pushing his feet against the
porch so the swing starts to sway. “It‟s almost midnight, you sure you
want to be on the phone?”

“Yes,” Harry says, with slurred resolution. “I‟m sure.”

“Nobody to kiss at midnight?” Louis asks, feeling reckless.

183
Harry giggles again. “No one here is anywhere near as fit as you, so,”
he says, sighing.

Louis grins against the phone. “A common tragedy. Sorry if I‟ve set the
bar too high.”

“You should be, you wanker,” Harry says with what can only be
affection, and Louis is too buzzed to be even want to contain the
warmth he feels curling out of his chest. He doesn‟t answer for a
moment, just sits gliding back and forth on the swing, knowing that
Harry‟s on the other end of the line.

“Hazza—” he starts finally, but is interrupted by a series of loud bangs

and whistles. He stands and walks to the edge of the patio, and if he
leans out, he can just see the edge of some of the fireworks over the
treeline. On the other end of the phone he can hear shouting and
singing. Someone‟s started up “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Happy New Year, Hazza,” he says, watching the sky light up. “I miss
you, too.”

Harry lets out a whooping laugh. “Happy New Year, Lou,” he says, and
hangs up.

When Louis walks back into the living room, his mum and sisters all
fix him with the same look, their eyebrows rising. Even Duchess is
staring at him accusingly from her basket in the corner. Families are
creepy.

“Well, you missed midnight, so you're terrible,” Fizzy says, her arms
crossed. She looks pleased about being able to tell him off, though, so
she probably isn‟t really upset.

“Sorry,” Louis says, dragging the word out, unable to keep a smile off
his face.

184
His mum narrows her eyes, examining him, but then they fly open in
shock. “Who was that on the phone?” she says in a knowing voice, and
nope, this conversation is not happening.

“You know, I think I‟m just going to turn in,” Louis says, heading for
the stairs. If he doesn‟t make eye contact, maybe she‟ll let it go.

“Are you blushing?” she says.

“It‟s cold out!” Louis says, taking the steps at double time.

“You‟re not getting out of this that easily!” she shouts at his retreating
back.

“Night mum, night girls,” he sing-songs back, so close to freedom.

“I‟ll get it out of you eventually,” she calls after him, defeated, and the
sad thing is she‟s probably right.

As he closes the door to the bathroom, he feels his phone vibrate and
pulls it out to see a picture message from Zayn. He has to zoom in and
turn the phone upside down, but eventually he realises that he‟s looking
at a self-taken image of Zayn planting a kiss on a very surprised Niall.

When he closes the picture, he sees he has two texts. He opens the one
from Zayn first.

u owe me 20 quidddddd hapyyp new years lou i loev u :DDD xxxx

Snickering, he closes it and opens the next text, which is from Niall.

why

185
It‟s the beginning of a new term, and Louis‟ got a lot on his plate
already. He put off working on lesson plans the whole holiday, still so
drained from the last week of the term that he couldn‟t even be arsed to
look at his calendar, and now he‟s got to catch up. He‟ll be able to bluff
his way through the first day of classes, but he really needs to sit down
and figure out what the hell he‟s doing, because things are going to get
busy for him again soon.

He‟s holding auditions for the spring musical in a week, having settled
on Grease this year. It‟s the one he‟s been saving ever since he started
directing, since it‟s his very favorite and he doesn‟t want to waste his
one chance to do it right, but for some reason he feels like this is the
year. He posted flyers and handed out audition packets before the
Christmas holidays to give the kids enough time to rehearse on their
own, but he‟s still got several loose ends to tie up before tryouts.
Posting audition sign-up sheets, making copies of scripts, reserving the
theatre—all of it needs to be done by the end of the week.

So really, between all of that, there‟s no reason for him to feel so

disappointed when he gets a text from Harry on Monday morning
saying that he won‟t be coming around today because he‟s meeting
with a professor and maybe he‟ll catch him after practice. Louis‟ got
enough happening that he should be grateful to have his free period to
himself. But the fact of the matter is, he hasn‟t seen Harry in over a
week, and somewhere between prop furniture and snow and
champagne and 2 a.m. phone calls under a blanket in the back garden,
that became unacceptable. It‟s all he can think about all day, the fact
that they‟re in the same city again and the space between them is
getting smaller by the minute.

Finally five o‟clock rolls around and he‟s done with all his work for the
day, sign-up sheets posted and lesson plans tucked inside his desk
drawer. He knows he could take the front exit to the carpark and never
pass the football pitch. He‟d get to his car faster, even. He could go
home and put on the telly and spend the evening with his cat and a

186
glass of wine, safe in his flat where nobody is making anybody feel
anything. It would be so easy.

So easy, but also impossible. As he locks up his classroom, he knows

it‟s a foregone conclusion. His feet are already carrying him toward the
back exit without him ever telling them to. Rude.

The team‟s in their last few minutes of practice by the time Louis gets
out there. Mondays, Louis‟ learned by now, are just for drills, so the
head coach lets Harry run practice by himself. Louis leans up against
the fence and watches for a moment as Harry directs the boys up and
down the pitch.

He looks just how Louis remembers him, tall and slim and gorgeous
and all the maddening things he hasn‟t been able to stop thinking about
since the first time they kissed. It had been easier to put those things out
of his mind when he was busy with work or frantic party planning, but
the week in Doncaster, every idle moment had been torture—the
memory of Harry‟s lower lip dragging up his chest, the size of Harry‟s
hands, every detail on repeat in his head and nothing he could do about
it. Even from a distance, seeing Harry in real life now feels like a not-
unpleasant punch to the gut.

He feels suddenly creepy, standing there thinking about Harry‟s idiot

lips and realising that to any passers-by he probably looks like he‟s
ogling the football team. Casting about desperately, he spots the stands
and quickly ducks underneath them, grimacing when he realises how
much dirt is going to get on his trousers as he sits down.

So. This is happening. He is a grown man hiding in the dirt under the
stands, waiting for his friend-with-whom-shagging-happens to get out
of football practice. Okay.

Louis sits quietly, stewing his own pathetic thoughts and growing
increasingly panicked over the cost of getting his trousers dry cleaned
as he stares at the changing room door, just visible over one of the
crossbeams that are hiding him. He‟s there for so long that he almost

187
gives up and goes home, which would probably be the wisest course of
action, but then the final whistle finally blows and the boys finally file
into the changing room. Louis gives them enough time that even the
last stragglers are gone before he emerges from his foxhole of shame
and future laundry nightmares. He pauses only to dust himself off
briefly and spare a thought to wonder if he‟s lost complete control of
his life before pulling the door open and stepping inside.

Harry‟s there, alone with his bag of footballs, right in front of him and
real. A quick check around him confirms that they‟re alone, and the
look in Harry‟s eyes is worth a hundred dry-cleaning bills.

“Hi,” Louis says.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling.

“Hi,” Louis says, smiling back.

“Said that already,” Harry points out mildly. Louis doesn‟t particularly
care.

They stand there for a minute, just the two of them alone in the
changing room, smiling at each other, Louis still sporting a fine layer of
dust and Harry looking like six feet of sunshine. Harry‟s standing with
his arms folded across his chest and his back against the lockers, and
Louis feels like his bones are made of paper.

“Get over here,” Harry says at last, and that‟s all it takes, Louis is
crossing the room in an instant.

When he finally leans up and kisses Harry, it‟s every bit of quiet
anticipation since Christmas all ringing through him at once, lifting him
up onto his toes. His shoulders pull up tight and he buries his hands in
Harry‟s hair and Harry‟s arms wrap around his waist and it feels so
good to kiss him again, like that first big breath after being underwater
too long.

188
He feels his feet leave the floor for a moment and Harry‟s picking him
up and spinning them around, pressing Louis‟ back into the lockers.
Louis lets him, lets his mouth fall open for Harry right away because if
he had to go a week without this he‟s damn well going to make up for it
now, but Harry‟s taking his time with it. He runs his hands over Louis‟
chest, holding him close by the lapels of his coat, and kisses him
slowly, making each slide and drag of their lips count, pulling back
every few kisses so that their lips are barely brushing and then smirking
when Louis has to crane his neck up into it for more. He kisses like
he‟s got nowhere else to be, like Louis is the only person in the world.

Louis is sure that other people besides the two of them do, in fact exist.
He‟s sure he‟ll remember some of them in a minute.

He finds himself suddenly staring at the opposite wall when Harry

ducks his head and starts pressing kisses all around his throat, and
Louis lets his head fall back and slides one hand to the back of Harry‟s
neck, dipping his fingers into the little gap under the collar of his
hoodie and feeling the knobs of bone there, the warmth trapped in that
space. It feels good, and affectionate, and good, and Louis is almost
choking on the feeling of being kissed like that when Harry suddenly
drops his hands to Louis‟ sides and starts tickling him.

Louis splutters and laughs and flails wildly while Harry just grins down
at him through red lips, and, God, Harry is a prick and Louis should not
be so happy about it, but he is.

“I hate you,” Louis says when Harry finally relents, and then
immediately undercuts his own words by reeling Harry back in for
another smiling kiss. Harry wraps his hands around Louis‟ waist and
spins him again, only stopping to drop down onto a bench and pull
Louis into his lap. A few more melting kisses, and Louis pulls away
with a contented noise.

“I missed that,” Louis says. I missed you, is what he means.

189
“Me too,” Harry says, rubbing circles with his thumb on the skin just
under Louis‟ sleeve. “D‟you want to go get some dinner or
something?”

And here it is. There are two parts of Louis tied up there against
Harry‟s chest, two needs filling up his head. There‟s the part of him
that spent all day waiting for this, that goes all jellyfish when Harry
looks at him like that and wants to do whatever it takes to make him do
it all the time, and then there‟s that persistent beat in the hardest part of
his heart that says too close, too big, too much. He knows which one
needs to win.

“Or,” Louis says, leaning up and kissing him again. “There‟s food at
my flat.”

Louis is lucky that Harry‟s probably as horny as he is, because he

doesn‟t press the issue, just smiles and gives his arse a light squeeze.
“All right.”

Harry follows Louis back to his flat in his own car, and Louis can
hardly wait until the front door is shut behind them before getting his
hands on Harry again. They stumble across the flat until they fall onto
Louis‟ bed, laughing at themselves. When Louis leans down and kisses
the side of Harry‟s neck, Harry practically purrs into it, and Louis can
feel his pulse pick up under his lips. He feels drunk and reckless and
powerful, all because of the boy in his bed.

Their first orgasms come quick, rubbing against each other half-naked
and too eager to make it last. There‟s plenty of night left, though, and in
between cheese on toast and casual touches and Louis chasing Duchess
out of the room they have plenty of time to lazily suck each other off in
the sweaty sheets, leaving fingertip bruises on each other‟s thighs.

It goes on like that for the next week and a half, Harry following Louis
back to his flat or meeting him there later in the evening, sometimes
with a bag of takeaway, sometimes with some sort of treat for Duchess
as a peace offering. It must work, because Louis sees her sit in Harry‟s

190
lap at least three times, which is more than she‟s ever liked anyone who
isn‟t him, much less someone who‟s kicked her out of Louis‟ room as
many times as Harry has.

Not that they‟re just in Louis‟ room. The entire flat has been christened
within the week, and suddenly Louis can‟t look at a single corner or
piece of furniture without memories of skin and mouths and pressing
fingers. He‟s reminded of someone he once slept with who said that
only penetration counted as “real” sex, and he pities him retroactively.
He and Harry haven‟t even done that yet, but he‟s never felt this well-
fucked in his life.

It‟s nice. It‟s more than nice, it‟s comfortable and exciting, and Harry,
bless him, seems to know not to push it. He doesn‟t ever stay over,
always managing to clamber out of bed and into his car. After Louis
shoots down a few suggestions of other activities—the cinema, dinner,
some sort of art exhibit—Harry stops asking. He seems content with
this, coming over to have sex and “hang out,” as he always puts it. He
doesn‟t ask any tough questions and Louis is very, very glad.

It‟s good that things with Harry are easy, because Louis has to manage
Grease auditions, which is no small task. Much Ado auditions hadn‟t
been that bad, but this is a musical, and musicals are a whole different
species. It‟s a three step process just for the first round of auditions on
Saturday—choreography then singing then acting—and then Sunday is
going to be a day of call-backs and headaches and wondering how in
the hell he gets this done every go-round. It‟s the same every time.

He‟s got a serious problem this time, though, because going by the
audition sign-up sheet, there are simply just not enough boys to fill out
the chorus. He needs at least half a dozen more, or else all of the
choreography is going to be uneven because half of the girls won‟t
have dance partners and the harmonies are going to sound off because
there aren‟t enough bass voices to round them out.

He mentions this to Harry two days before auditions. Well, not so much
mentions it as moans it from the floor of his living room while Harry is

191
going through a roll of photographs on his laptop and Louis is
lamenting the state of his professional life.

“I could try talking to the team about it,” Harry offers. “Maybe some of
them would be willing to try out.”

“Right, because the football team is exactly where all the budding
thespians go,” Louis deadpans.

“You never know,” Harry says, poking Louis in the side with his toe.
“Lots of footwork in football. And if I recall correctly, a certain drama
teacher I know isn‟t too bad with a football himself.”

Louis grins in spite of himself at that, and Harry winks and laughs, and
Louis sort of forgets about it. He seriously doubts there‟s any way any
of the footy lads can be persuaded to audition for a musical, so it‟s not
like it matters. The thought never really crosses his mind, and he tells
Harry he absolutely cannot see him until auditions are over because he
needs to focus on getting his job done, so there‟s nothing to remind him
about it.

That is, until the doors of the theatre swing open five minutes before
his choreographer is supposed to start teaching the kids their audition
routine and a gaggle of boys comes tromping in. Louis stares,
dumbfounded, as they make their way down the aisle to the little table
he‟s set up in front of the stage, laughing and ribbing each other along
the way. He‟s never had a single one of them in any of his classes, but
he recognizes them all. He‟s been to too many of Harry‟s games not to.

“Morning, Mr. Tomlinson,” the one in the front says as they draw even
with his table. He‟s got red hair and Louis knows him immediately. His
name is Mike Kendall.

“Hello,” Louis says. He‟s aware that he‟s probably looking at this poor
boy like he‟s got about nine heads, but he‟s still in shock. “Can I help
you?”

192
“Yeah, we‟re here for auditions,” Mike says, pulling a folded up sheet
of paper out of his back pocket. He unfolds it and hands it to Louis, and
Louis finds himself staring at a wrinkled audition sheet with the name
Kendall, Michael David written at the top. “Sorry we haven‟t signed up
for times or anything, it was all kind of last minute. Can we still try
out?”

Yes, please, oh god don‟t leave please we need you, Louis thinks but
does not say.

“I could probably fit you lads in somewhere,” Louis tells him, and
Mike smiles. He looks over Mike‟s shoulder at the rest of the boys,
who don‟t look quite as amicable about the whole situation but seem
overall willing to participate. “Have the rest of you got your forms?”

Louis collects their paperwork and sends them off to choreography, still
in disbelief of what just happened. He texts Harry as soon as they‟re
gone,

what did you do, blackmail them????

just told them what a great director you are and how fun it would be :)
xxx Harry‟s reply says.

pull the other one,

Louis texts back.

also I promised them I wouldn‟t make them run suicide drills until after
the play was over ;) xx

The rush of affection Louis feels in his chest makes him want to throw
his damn phone at the wall, but he can‟t, because he can‟t afford a new
one, so he just texts Harry back, I owe you x, and shoves his phone
back in his jeans. He‟s got an audition to run.

193
All in all, it ends up being a bit of a mess like it usually is, but it‟s not
bad and his two-day stress migraine is almost bearable. He‟s got a bit
of really strong talent this year, and even Harry‟s boys aren‟t
completely hopeless. He ends up casting Stuart Standhill as Danny, not
because he favours him but because he‟s honestly the best for the part.
He can sing, he can dance, he can turn his camp tendencies on or off
whenever he needs to, and Louis knows he can trust him to carry a
show this big. And okay, maybe if pressed he‟d admit that part of him
hopes that this role will do for Stuart what it did for him when he was
in high school, but he's still the most qualified.

Sunday night, when it‟s all said and done, he texts Harry to come over.
It‟s been a long weekend, and he could really use a bottle of wine and a
nice, slow fuck right about now.

Harry shows up with a bottle of red in hand and lips bitten bright pink
by the cold. Louis pops the cork, and they spend an hour kissing on
Louis‟ couch and passing the bottle back and forth, getting lazily drunk
off of Tesco's wine and each other. Louis feels the stress and tension
finally easing out of his body, and he gets a little looser with his kisses,
lets his fingers trace over Harry‟s cheekbones when they kiss, a little
sweeter than he usually lets himself be. He figures Harry‟s earned it.

“Thank you,” he says, pushing Harry‟s hair back off his forehead to
plant a kiss there. “For getting the boys to audition. I don‟t know what I
would‟ve done.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Harry says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Louis says, reaching for his belt buckle, “I know.”

“I was really just trying to get into your trousers, though,” Harry says,
getting one of his hands down there to help Louis along.

“How very dare you,” Louis says. He tugs Harry‟s trousers open and
slides his hand inside. “What kind of boy do you think I am?”

194
Harry opens his mouth to retort, but then Louis‟ hand is around his
cock and that‟s the end of that.

195
196
 NINE

“So I was thinking,” Harry says, lying in Louis‟ bed on a Tuesday

night.

“Hmm?” Louis responds, already slipping into a post-coital coma on

his side of the bed.

Harry shifts, turning on his side to look at Louis. In a few minutes, he‟ll
sit up and start pulling his clothes back on, getting ready to drive back
to his flat so that he can make it to class in the morning. For now,
though, he‟s here, and his hair is falling in his eyes. Sleepily, Louis
wants to reach out and touch it.

“Every time we‟ve… you know. Hung out,” Harry says, smirking
slightly. “It‟s been here, at yours.”

“S‟true,” Louis murmurs, his hand sliding across the bed of its own
accord and grazing Harry‟s forearm.

“D‟you think,” Harry says, pausing to yawn. “This weekend, d‟you

want to come over to mine?” His fingers curl around Louis‟ wrist. “I‟ll
make you dinner,” he says with a smile.

“Yeah?” Louis says, his eyes drifting closed. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Okay,” he hears Harry whisper softly. “Okay.”

197
Harry‟s gone when he wakes up, but there‟s a Post-It left on the pillow
with a message scrawled hastily.

Early class, sorry :( dinner Friday, 8 PM? xx Hazza

Louis spends his morning routine wondering when exactly they started
apologizing for being apart.

When he gets into his car, he pulls the door closed and sits for a
moment, motionless, in the driver‟s seat. Then, moving quickly as if
he‟s on a deadline, he pulls out his phone and sends Harry a text.

ur on for friday :)

He stares at the phone briefly, then tosses it into the passenger seat and
puts the car in drive. It's just dinner. They eat dinner together all the
time, and it doesn't mean anything. A change of venue doesn't change
that. Who decided that eating food at the same time and place as
another human was supposed to be significant, anyway? Surely
mankind has evolved beyond that as a species by now. Right. Just
another casual evening with the friend that he's sleeping with, with the
added bonus of free food. Sounds like fun.

At lunch, Harry breaks into a grin when Louis walks into the lounge,
pulling him off to the side while Zayn and Niall roll their eyes.

“Hi,” he says, thumbing over Louis‟ wrist. They‟ve made a no-kissing-

during-school-hours rule, but that doesn‟t mean they can keep their
hands to themselves. “So I can‟t come over tonight. Or tomorrow night.
I‟ve got a presentation on Friday that I really, really need to ace.”

“That‟s all right,” Louis says. “I‟m massively behind on marking

anyway, I could use the time to catch up."

Harry smiles ruefully at him. “Sorry about that.”

198
“Are not,” Louis says primly, poking at Harry‟s hip with his free hand.

“Oi!” Niall says from the table. “Hands above the waist!” Louis sticks
his tongue out at him, but removes his hand all the same.

“I‟m excited for Friday,” Harry says softly. “It‟s—my flat‟s not much,
but I promise I can cook, at least.” He looks nervous. Louis wants to
pinch his cheeks and then sleep with him.

“I‟m sure I‟ll love everything,” he says. He opens his mouth to say
more, but is interrupted by his friends being twats.

“Oh, Zayn, whisper sweet nothings to me, please!” Niall says, laying
his head on Zayn‟s shoulder.

“Only if we can be as disgusting about it as possible, preferably with

other people in the room, my dear,” Zayn says, stroking at Niall‟s face.
“Especially if it‟s while people are trying to eat.”

Harry and Louis both laugh, and they go to sit down to eat. Louis bites
into an apple and tries not to think about whether eating dinner at
Harry‟s counts as anything particularly romantic or date-like. Because
it doesn't. Right?

He hadn‟t been kidding about being behind on marking, and the rest of
the week passes in a blur of thesis statements and topic sentences. Soon
enough it‟s Friday night, and he finds himself on the way to Harry‟s
house, hair coiffed and trousers recently ironed. Not that anything
unusual is happening. They‟re just going to hang out, like normal, but
in another place. Definitely not a big deal.

Louis times it perfectly, pulling his car to a stop in front of Harry‟s at

exactly 8 o'clock. He‟ll reach the door a few minutes late, but not so
late as to be rude. He‟s got this down to an art. He grabs the bottle of
wine that‟s in the backseat and slides out of the car, making sure it‟s
locked before he sets off across the dimly lit car park. Harry‟s

199
neighborhood looks a bit dodgy after dark, and Louis is reminded of
what it‟s like to live on a student budget
.
The lift is a bit creaky, but he makes it to Harry‟s floor in one piece.
When he knocks on the door, he hears a muffled “Come in!”

He turns the doorknob, finds it unlocked, and is all set to lecture Harry
about safety when he walks in, but then. Well.

The flat is full of soft music, emanating from an iPod deck on the
kitchen counter. Harry‟s at the stove with at least three different pots
and pans on the burners, steam making his curls even more unruly than
usual as he leans over to stir them. The kitchen is surprisingly clean,
though Louis supposes there isn‟t really room for mess—Harry wasn‟t
kidding about the place being the size of a postage stamp.

Pulling off an oven mitt, Harry turns around with a smile, and Jesus
Christ in heaven, he‟s wearing an apron. He‟s also wearing a snug
black button-up with the sleeves rolled back, though, so Louis gets
distracted from the apron pretty quickly. “Hi,” Harry says, crossing the
kitchen in two strides. He takes the wine from Louis with one hand and
pulls him into a kiss with the other.

“Hi,” Louis says, breaking the kiss. “Didn‟t realise this was going to be
such a production,” he says, nodding at the apron.

Harry quirks one eyebrow upwards. “I don‟t do anything by halves,” he

says mock-seriously.

“Fair enough,” Louis says, pulling back to take a peek at the food.
“That smells delicious, what is it?”

“Tilapia on risotto with a lemon caper sauce," Harry says, as if that's a

normal sentence. "But it's not ready yet, so get away. He shoos Louis
out of the kitchen, though Louis isn‟t quite sure what does or doesn‟t
qualify as “in the kitchen” when the whole flat is basically just one big

200
room. “Actually,” Harry says, handing him back the wine along with a
corkscrew. “You open that up while I finish up in here.”

Louis starts uncorking the wine and takes his chance to wander around
the flat. There‟s not much to wander around, but Louis is fascinated.
One corner of the studio is partitioned off by a wooden screen, and he
assumes Harry‟s bed is behind it, but it‟s the rest of the flat he‟s more
interested in. The space itself is fairly sparsely decorated, with one
armchair, one rug, and one set of table and chairs as the only furniture.
All three are fairly good quality, the table solid wood, but Louis can tell
they‟re second- or third-hand, can imagine Harry finding them on the
pavement and lugging them home excitedly.

He‟s been listening idly to the music as he moseys about, and thinks he
recognizes it. “Is this the same bloke we were listening to at
Christmas?” he asks.

Harry breaks into a broad grin. “Yeah, same guy, I‟m surprised you
remember.” Louis just nods and goes back to his explorations.

The furnishings may be Spartan, but the flat feels anything but bare on
account of the walls. Almost every available inch is covered, giving the
room the air of a combination between a magpie‟s nest and a serial
killer‟s den. Louis is into it. Wall hangings, newspaper clippings, and
prints of paintings all have their place, but the most real estate is taken
up by photographs, photos of buildings, of landscapes, of animals, of
landmarks, but mostly photos of people, photos of faces. Louis doesn‟t
know if these are all friends of Harry‟s, or if some are just candids
snapped of strangers, but either way he‟s overwhelmed by the idea that
Harry has seen this many people and wanted to keep them.

He backs up to the center of the room and turns in a slow circle, taking
all of it in. Even the windows are covered, with what look like
collections of scarves and beaded shawls and one medium-sized Union
Jack in the place of normal curtains. Louis feels like he‟s in a fishbowl
of Harry‟s entire life, and keeps waiting for a feeling of suffocation that
never comes.

201
“Where did you get all this stuff?” Louis asks, his eyes running over
one wall. In a brief skim he spots pictures of a pair of redheaded twins,
the Golden Gate Bridge, and a young woman who can only be Gemma,
looking exactly as he imagined her with pink streaks in her hair. He
looks to the left and sees a print of a Turner painting, a small tapestry
of a dragon, and a constellation of paper snowflakes. He looks up and
sees that there‟s a string of multi-colored Christmas lights bordering the
ceiling, blinking merrily. God, he‟s having dinner inside Harry‟s brain.

One picture catches his eye, pinned up next to the one of Gemma. He‟s
never seen it before, but he still recognizes it immediately. He and
Harry are standing with Niall and Zayn in front of a Ferris wheel. Zayn
looks despondent, Niall looks like he just had in orgy in a fry cooker,
Louis is obscured by a giant bear, and there, there is Harry, grinning
blissfully at tiny hidden photograph Louis, his head turned in profile
away from the camera. Louis wants to tear it off the wall, fold it up, put
it in his wallet, and only look at it when he‟s very, very sad.

“Wherever I go, I tend to just pick stuff up, and usually I just never
throw it out,” Harry says, finishing up his elaborate plating. There's
garnish. Louis may never recover from this. “I like being surrounded by
memories. And, I don‟t know, I‟d feel guilty if I got rid of it now.” He
brings the plates over to the table, going back to the kitchen for wine
glasses.

Louis smiles at his retreating back. “I‟m surprised you‟re not

surrounded by stray cats you‟ve taken in,” he says, “Or, I don‟t know,
followed around by ducklings. You‟re a Disney princess, Harry
Styles.” Returning with the glasses, Harry gives an exaggerated curtsy.

“Have you actually not opened that yet?” Harry asks, gesturing towards
the bottle of wine in Louis‟ hands. Louis looks down, slightly
bewildered to see it there.

“Sorry,” he says, uncorking it with a pop, “Got distracted.”

202
“Ah yes, you‟re so easily distracted,” Harry says with a sly grin, taking
the bottle from him and filling both their glasses. Louis flips him a V
and takes his glass, stifling a smile in response to Harry‟s laugh.

They sit down to eat what turns out to be a truly delicious meal, and
every worry that Louis had about this night slinks away unnoticed as he
looks at Harry across the table. As they eat, they lapse in and out of
conversation, but the words are easy and the silences comfortable.
Louis feels fluid and warm, more so than is justified by his single glass
of wine. He knows this feeling, has felt it before, but can‟t quite put a
name to it.

“So,” Harry says, looking at Louis‟ empty plate, “I take it you enjoyed
the food?” He takes a drink, and Louis finds himself staring, caught up
in the movement of the tendons in his wrist, following the bob of his
Adam‟s apple as he swallows the wine.

Louis wants to give a sarcastic answer, but can‟t quite bring himself to.
“Yeah, they were incredible. I am officially impressed.”

Harry beams at him. “Yeah, well, I‟ll be honest, they‟re my best dish,
so it‟s always a safe choice when I‟m looking to impress.”

Ah, yes. There‟s the word Louis was looking for. Safe.

He raises his glass and drains it dry in a single swallow before standing
and walking around the table.

“What—” is all Harry can manage, pushing his chair back from the
table, before Louis is sliding into his lap and kissing him insistently. He
swallows the rest of Harry‟s question, his hands gripping his shoulders
tightly. Harry may have been caught off-guard, but he‟s a quick study,
gripping Louis‟ arse and hauling him in closer. Louis slips one hand
around behind Harry‟s neck and under his shirt collar, spreading his
fingers to touch as much skin as possible. Harry makes a soft sound and
breaks away from the kiss, breathing heavily.

203
“Jesus, Lou,” he says with a small laugh, pulling back to search Louis‟
face. “If you‟ve got a risotto fetish or something, just tell me. I‟ll find a
way to make it work.”

Louis does his best to wipe the grin off his face and leans back in,
stealing a quick kiss. “If you expect me,” another kiss, “to look at you
across this table all night,” another, “and not want you,” another, this
one lingering, “you‟re even stupider than your Christmas lights.”

Harry nuzzles into Louis‟ neck. “You like the Christmas lights.” He
slides a hand up the back of Louis‟ jumper. The breadth of it nearly
covers the width of Louis‟ back, and Louis‟ breath catches.

“Yeah, I do,” Louis says, pulling Harry back up into a kiss, and this one
neither of them breaks.

He‟s never been a slow-moving kind of guy, but Louis can‟t help but
savor this, enjoy every sweep of Harry‟s tongue into his mouth, every
sound Harry makes when Louis tugs on his hair. Harry seems quite
content himself, with one hand on Louis‟ back and the other roaming
the rest of him, mapping his thigh, his waist, his cheek. Louis thinks he
could stay here forever, clinging to Harry on a rickety wooden chair, if
Harry promised never to stop touching him like this.

It doesn‟t take long for him to want more, though. They‟ve fallen into a
sort of rhythm, Louis grinding down against Harry and Harry pushing
back languidly, holding him close. Louis can tell that Harry is hard, can
feel it every time Harry pushes against him, and you know what, he
loves kissing as much as the next guy, but he wants that.

Sucking on Harry‟s tongue, Louis moves his fingers to his shirtfront,

making quick work of the buttons. He starts to push it off his shoulders
but gives up, settling for letting his hands slide down Harry‟s chest.
God, is it normal for someone to have this much skin? To be so warm?
Louis can‟t remember ever feeling hungry for someone like this.
Harry‟s got to be a special case. Harry makes him wish he had extra
hands.

204
Louis scratches his nails lightly across Harry‟s abdomen and relishes
the feel of his muscles tightening up, the way his entire torso shivers.
He makes a pleased sound into Harry‟s mouth that turns into a
surprised squeak when he finds himself suddenly in the air. Harry‟s slid
his hands under Louis‟ thighs and lifted, and Louis locks his legs
behind Harry‟s back automatically, throwing his arms around Harry‟s
neck. He hears Harry‟s chair clatter to the floor behind them. Harry
walks a total of three, maybe four steps, and Louis‟ back hits a wall.

Harry‟s hands are gentle as he holds Louis in place, but his mouth is
bruising. Louis is in sensory overload, hyperaware of Harry
surrounding him and the feel of the photographs on the wall behind him
scratching his neck. His mind flashes to the tickle of grass and a
disappearing sky, and he bites down on Harry‟s lip. Harry groans,
shifting them slightly to the right, and Louis can feel photos tearing
away from the wall.

“Hazza—” he says, “your, the—” is all he can manage, his vocabulary

completely out of reach.

“Don‟t care,” Harry says, mouthing at the soft underside of Louis‟ jaw,
and Louis‟ eyes flutter closed. His hips work helplessly, but the
position makes it difficult and he can‟t get any purchase. He‟d be lying
if he said he didn‟t enjoy being so enveloped by Harry, but he wants
more, wants to be able to touch as much of him as he likes.

He pulls lightly on Harry‟s hair. “Harry,” he says weakly. Harry

responds by pressing a sucking kiss to the juncture of his neck and
shoulder. “Haz,” he tries again, and this time Harry looks up, carefully
settling Louis‟ feet back on the ground. Louis is thankful for the wall
behind him as he regains his surefootedness.

“What is it, Lou?” Harry murmurs, his hands coming to rest on Louis‟
waist. His mouth is shining, and Louis can see the raised red tracks on
his stomach where he scratched him. He loves it, loves seeing his own
signature all over Harry.

205
“I want—” he starts, but can‟t find the words, can‟t put what he‟s
thinking into any sentence that he can imagine saying out loud.

“Louis, please,” Harry says, sounding strangled. “There‟s nothing—

whatever you want, Lou, anything.” He doesn‟t seem to realise he‟s
pressing his hips into Louis‟, and God, that is really not helping him be
coherent.

Louis musters up what courage he has and forces out the words. “I
want—I know we haven‟t done this yet, but, God, Harry, I want, I want
to be inside of you,” he forces out in one stammering breath. “Please.”

He‟s half-cringing at himself, but Harry isn‟t. Harry‟s mouth has

dropped open ever so slightly, and he‟s nodding powerlessly. “Yes, I—
” he swallows, “I want that too, God, Lou, I want that, I want that,” and
then he‟s kissing Louis again, like he‟s lost the use of words, and they
have that in common at least.

Harry lifts Louis up again, and this time they‟re moving to the
screened-off section of the studio, and when Louis is set down it‟s on a
mattress on the floor. He looks around and then raises his eyebrows at
Harry. “Cosy,” he says. “At least there are sheets on it.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, finally shucking the shirt from his shoulders.
“Could be worse, I could have a cat that likes to come into the room
and watch.”

“That happened one time—” Louis protests, but he‟s cut off with a kiss,
Harry leaning over him. His hands slip under Louis‟ jumper again, but
this time they keep moving, and Louis breaks off the kiss to let him
pull it over his head. Fuck, Louis must have too many nerve endings
for a normal human, because the feeling of Harry‟s bare chest against
his makes him feel like he‟s going to burst into flames.

The sensation vanishes soon enough, though, because Harry is moving

down Louis‟ body and undoing his trousers, pulling them and his pants
down his thighs in one motion. Louis‟ cock bobs free, more than half-

206
hard, and he has half a moment to appreciate the cat‟s-got-the-canary
look on Harry‟s face before he‟s enveloped in plush, wet heat and his
head slams back against the mattress.

Harry must have gone down on him half a dozen times by now, but
Louis still hasn‟t gotten used to the sheer enthusiasm of it, the way his
fingers dig into Louis‟ hips and move him exactly where he wants him.
Harry‟s eyes are closed tightly, focused on the feel of it, and Louis
wonders if he‟d make the same face when Louis fucked him. That
thought brings him suddenly back to reality, and he tugs on Harry‟s
hair, pulling him off with a sound that downright indecent.

“No—” he starts, but then backtracks at Harry‟s arched eyebrows, “I

mean yes, God, yes, but this, this isn‟t how I want to come tonight and,
just, come up here,” he says, motioning Harry up the bed. Harry makes
a show of weariness as he crawls toward him, but he quickly turns to
surprised laughter when Louis flips him over.

Harry lies back and watches as Louis undoes his trousers and pulls
them off, followed by his briefs, deigning to lift his hips at the
appropriate times. Louis toes off his shoes and kicks off his own
trousers and pants, leaving the two of them naked on the bed.

And God, Louis knows Harry is beautiful, has known it since the
second he saw him for the first time, but it‟s still striking sometimes.
This is one of those times, Harry on his back in the soft light of his flat,
looking up at Louis like he deserves any of this.

“Like what you see?” Harry says, waggling his eyebrows, and fine,
maybe “beautiful” isn‟t the word, maybe the word is “goober.”

Louis snorts and grabs Harry‟s cock, which shuts him up effectively.
“Where do you keep the lube in this establishment?” he asks
imperiously.
Harry reaches up behind him and under the pillow, pulling out a bottle
of lube and a few condoms, which he tosses down to Louis. “Do you

207
keep that there all the time, or did you just think I was a sure thing?”
Louis asks, leaving the condoms to the side and cracking open the lube.

“No comment, “ Harry replies, whining a bit as Louis lets go of him to

slick up two of his fingers. Louis taps the inside of his leg and he
spreads them accordingly, letting Louis settle in between.

Louis slides his fingers behind Harry‟s balls, gliding back until he finds
what he‟s looking for. When he slides his fingers over it, Harry hisses,
his hand moving to touch himself. Louis intercepts Harry‟s hand,
bringing it to his lips and sucking two of his fingers into his mouth, and
Harry gasps. In that moment of relaxation, Louis makes the first
breach, slipping one finger inside. He works it in and out carefully,
licking at Harry‟s fingers in time, and watching Harry‟s other hand
clench and pull at the sheets.

“Fuck, Lou, you‟ve got to—you‟ve got to give me more than that,”
Harry says, his breath harsh. Louis lets his fingers fall from his mouth,
but covers Harry‟s hand with his own to hold it down.

“Is that so?” he says, and slips the second finger inside. He can see the
effect it has, can see Harry‟s dick twitch in response, and knows he
must want to touch himself, but Harry‟s free hand stays twisted in the
sheets and he knows it‟s because Harry‟s realised Louis wants it that
way.

Louis spreads his fingers slightly, starting to open Harry up, and
watches the shaky rise and fall of his ribcage. He can see every hitched
breath exposed there, every bitten-off gasp. Harry looks at him with
heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for Louis‟ next move, and spreads his legs
wider. Louis knows it‟s a ploy for more, but he‟ll be damned if he
doesn‟t fall for it.

He stops scissoring his fingers and pushes them in deep, sliding in past
the second knuckle. Crooking them, he starts drawing them back out,
and there. Harry‟s hips push jerkily back against his fingers, spasms
running through his thighs, and his face turns to the side, pressing into

208
the bed. “Fuck, Lou,” he says, his eyes closed tightly now. “Again.”
His hand opens under Louis‟ and laces their fingers together.

Louis moves closer, settled on his knees between Harry‟s outspread

legs, one hand twined with Harry‟s and one hand working inside him.
He repeats his earlier movement, dragging his fingers across the same
spot, and watches rapt as the muscles in Harry‟s torso flutter and his
free hand goes white-knuckled in the bedclothes. Harry‟s so hard, God,
he‟s leaking against his own stomach. Louis feels an echoing ache just
looking at him, but he can‟t do anything about his own hard-on with
both his hands otherwise occupied.

He picks up a rhythm, his fingers moving back and forth smoothly, and
Harry‟s right there with him, his hips rocking to meet Louis‟ every
movement. Louis can tell he‟s hitting that spot in Harry every time by
the soft, desperate whine that starts coming from him when he exhales.
Louis doesn‟t think Harry even knows he‟s making a sound, too caught
up in pursuing whatever sensation he‟s feeling, whatever Louis‟ giving
him.

Harry‟s eyes slip open, staring Louis down. “Louis,” he says, his voice
tight, “Please, I can take more. Please.” Louis‟ fingers glide across that
spot again on the last word, turning it into a stifled shout.

“Hmm,” Louis says, considering the spectacle that Harry presents.

“No.”

“Fuck,” Harry practically spits, pushing down hard against Louis‟

fingers. “I do not know what I see in you, Jesus,” he says, panting, but
there‟s the shadow of a grin on his face. Louis smiles back, and twists
in a third finger without warning.

“Christ,” Harry cries, his back arching off the mattress. His arms jerk,
and his tight grip on Louis‟ hand nearly pulls Louis off-balance. He
slides back into the same rhythm as before, transfixed by the state
Harry is in, covered in a sheen of sweat, the flush that Louis has seen so
often in his cheeks having crept all the way down his chest. It‟s darkest

209
on his cock, which lies wet and full against his stomach. Suddenly,
intimately, he feels like he can understand the impulse behind Harry‟s
need to photograph everything. He wants a record of this, wants to have
evidence of how Harry looked while Louis took him apart, how much
he loved it.

Louis doesn‟t want to stop teasing Harry, but that desire isn‟t strong
enough to keep him from touching him as much as he possibly can. He
bends over, sliding his knees back, and presses his mouth to the hollow
of Harry‟s hip in a wet kiss before sinking in his teeth. Harry lets out a
low groan, his left leg drawing up over Louis‟ shoulder. Louis soothes
the bitemark with the flat of his tongue, steadily ignoring the feel of
Harry‟s cock brushing against the side of his face and neck.

He looks up along the length of Harry‟s body, meeting his eyes, his
fingers still working inside him. “Tell me,” he says, surprised at the
hoarseness of his own voice, “Tell me what you‟re feeling.”

Harry draws in a gasping breath but doesn‟t break eye contact. “God,
Lou,” he says, squeezing hard with the hand Louis still has trapped
against his. “You feel—fuck, you make me feel so good, this feels so
good, please—”

Louis sucks hard on the bitemark again. “Please what,” he says,

breathless.

“Please,” Harry says in a ruined voice. “Please,” and Louis has to bury
his face against Harry‟s hip in the face of his open want.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, pressing one last kiss to the bruise forming
where he bit Harry.

He pulls his fingers out gently and lets go of Harry‟s hand. Harry
makes an unhappy sound at the loss, sliding his leg off Louis‟ shoulder.
Louis shushes him and reaches for the condoms, still on the bed where
he left them. His fingers are still slick, though, and he fumbles with the
package, unable to tear it open.

210
“Here,” Harry says, sitting up slightly. He reaches out, and Louis hands
him the foil square. With his clean hands, Harry tears the package open.
He slips the condom out, and then reaches down between his legs,
grabbing Louis by the base. The contact is a shock; so focused on
Harry, Louis hadn‟t given much thought to his own state. He does his
best to keep his composure as Harry places the condom over the tip,
and then unrolls it in a single slick slide of his fist. Even through the
latex, the sudden sensation has Louis grasping at Harry‟s shoulder,
looking for balance.

Harry turns his head to nip lightly at Louis‟ arm, and then looks up at
him with a smile. “I‟d tell you to be gentle with me,” he says, wide-
eyed with false innocence, “But I think you‟d take me seriously.”

Louis knows a challenge when he sees one, and pushes Harry on his
back, laughing. He plants his hands firmly on either side of Harry‟s
head, looming above him. “One of us has to,” he says, leaning in to kiss
him, and God, the last time they kissed must have been only a few
minutes ago, but somehow Louis has managed to miss it already.

He makes himself pull away and sits back, pulling one of the pillows
with him. He pushes at Harry, getting him to lift his hips, and slips the
pillow underneath. “What a gentleman,” Harry murmurs as Louis grabs
the lube and slicks himself up one last time.

“If you say so,” Louis says, smiling, and lines himself up. He looks at
Harry carefully, and has his answer when Harry‟s legs lock behind him.

He pushes in slow, watching Harry‟s face and holding fast to his hips.
It‟s almost too much, the feel of Harry tight around him and the look on
his face, eyes closed and teeth biting down on his lower lip. Louis is
almost halfway inside when Harry lets out a broken noise.

Louis freezes. “Okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking over Harry‟s

hipbone.

“Better than,” Harry says, his eyes still closed. “Keep going.”

211
“Good,” Louis says, and reaches out to wrap a hand around Harry‟s
cock as he pushes the rest of the way inside.

Harry‟s eyes fly open at that, ribcage heaving. Louis keeps stroking
him, twisting at the end the way he‟s learned Harry likes, and pulls out
slightly, his own breath coming short at the hot drag of it. He wants to
wind Harry up some more, wants to bring him to the edge, because he
knows he won‟t be able to last long like this.

It seems that Harry has other plans, though. He bats Louis‟ hand away
from him and reaches up to Louis‟ shoulders, pulling him down into a
kiss that‟s all teeth and tongues. Harry‟s arms twine around Louis‟ neck
and his legs tighten around his waist, pulling Louis in deep.

Wrapped up in Harry, Louis has to break the kiss and take a couple of
deep gasping breaths. He‟s braced above Harry, but his arms are
shaking, and he drops down onto his forearms and buries his face in
Harry‟s neck. He tries to regroup, but it‟s difficult to focus when
there‟s so much of Harry everywhere. Louis noses up under his jaw,
pressing light kisses to the skin there. Harry sighs happily, his hands
dragging down Louis‟ back in a soothing motion.

Louis pulls himself together, lifting his head to slot his lips over
Harry‟s again, and works to find the rhythm his hand had made earlier.
As his thrusts pick up speed, Harry‟s fingers dig into his back, and
Louis starts swallowing the small noises that escape him. He can feel
the head of Harry‟s cock rubbing wetly against his stomach, and the
idea that this is working, that he gets to feel this good and make Harry
feel good at the same time, nearly undoes him.

It‟s Harry who breaks the kiss this time, his head falling back. “Fuck,
Lou, you‟re going to kill me if you keep this up,” he says, voice
rasping. Louis shifts one of his hands and runs a thumb down the line
of Harry‟s throat mindlessly.

“If it‟s any comfort,” he says, hissing as his thrust drives Harry further
into the mattress, “I‟m not sure I can. Keep it up, that is.”

212
Harry just grins shakily, his nails scratching up Louis‟ back. “Oh, you
mean this,” he says, tightening around Louis, “Is more than you can
handle?” Louis lets out a noise that he‟ll find time to be embarrassed
about later and mouths at Harry‟s jaw.

“Jesus, Hazza, I‟m going to come if you do that,” he half-whispers. He

pulls out slightly before pushing back in, living for the way it makes
Harry‟s eyes roll back.

“So come,” Harry says.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “No, I can go longer.”

“Lou.” Harry is insistent. “D‟you want me—I‟m going to tell you what
I‟m feeling, like before, okay?”

The way Louis shudders is all the answer he needs. Harry leans up and
presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and even with eyes closed
Louis can feel the smile there. Then Harry falls back against the bed,
and the words start coming out.

“Fuck, Lou, I love this, I love having you inside me. I love the, the
stretch and the fullness of it, I love knowing I‟m still going to feel you
inside me tomorrow when I‟m running drills at practice, fuck,” he
catches his breath as Louis thrusts hard. “God, I love being able to feel
how much you want me.”

Louis hears the desperate sound coming from him before he realises
he‟s making it. He‟s glad he‟s got his eyes closed, because being able
to watch these words leave Harry‟s mouth as he said them would
probably send him to an early grave.

“God, this really gets to you, doesn‟t it?” Harry asks, and Louis feels
fingers stroking lightly over his face, dragging across his mouth. “I love
seeing you like this, all torn up, Jesus, Lou, you should see yourself.
Please, I want you to come, I want to watch you come, you‟re so

213
gorgeous when you do. I want you to come inside me, I want to hold
you through it, please, Lou—”

And that‟s it. Louis‟ orgasm hits him like a truck, and he sees stars.
Harry, true to his word, keeps hold of him as he shakes through it.
When he pulls himself together, Harry is looking at him with an
expression that Louis can only describe as self-satisfied affection.

“I‟ve got you,” he says, and he‟s not even wrong, the bastard.

Louis sits back his haunches and pulls out as gently as he can. Harry
winces at the emptiness, his arms stretched lazily above his head, and
he‟s such a picture that Louis can‟t fucking stand it. He slides back on
his knees, getting a good look at him. Then he bends over and, in one
fluid movement, pushes four fingers inside Harry while sucking his
cock into his mouth.

Harry‟s hips buck up, out of control, and Louis holds them down firmly
with his free hand. There aren‟t any words coming from Harry now,
only high-pitched noises that get louder every time Louis‟ fingers push
inside him. Louis doesn‟t bother trying to deepthroat, just sucks hard
and wet on the head of Harry‟s cock, loving the weight of him on his
tongue. It‟s almost as good as the way Harry feels around his fingers,
hot and open and willing.

Harry tugs on his hair in a universal signal, but Louis just pushes in
deeper, just slides his mouth farther down Harry. Harry‟s hand slips
lower, stroking down Louis‟ cheek, and then he‟s coming with a
choked-off shout. Louis swallows around the bitterness that floods his
mouth, waiting for it to end before sliding his fingers out gingerly.
He looks at Harry, who is staring at the ceiling in what appears to be a
catatonic state. He‟s breathing, though, so Louis isn‟t too worried.
Louis decides to give him a minute and stands up, stretching. He‟s
probably got about two minutes until he passes out himself, so he
should make use of them. He removes the condom, feeling rather
pleased with himself, and ties it off while walking to the bathroom on
wobbling legs. When he comes back, Harry is lying where he left him,
but he manages to turn his head to look at Louis.

214
“Come here,” he says, his voice gravel and sex. He slides over on the
mattress, giving Louis room to lie down beside him. They‟re both
sticky with sweat, but Harry doesn‟t seem to care, pulling Louis in
close for a lazy kiss. He hums happily around Louis‟ tongue and then
pulls away, giving him a final peck. “Sleep,” he says, though Louis
isn‟t sure if he‟s talking to Louis or himself. He finds himself inclined
to agree, though, even if Harry‟s head is heavy on his chest. His eyes
slipping closed, he finds he doesn‟t mind much.

When he wakes, he knows it‟s morning by the sound of the birds

outside. The light that strikes his face is soft, though, muted into
various colors by the scarves Harry‟s got hanging in the window.
Right. Harry.

Louis blinks the sleep from his eyes and turns to his right. There he is,
curled up and rumpled, face slack and peaceful. Sometime in the night
one of them must have pulled the sheet over them, and Harry‟s skin
looks impossibly golden against the white fabric, like there‟s a light
inside him that never turns off. It takes a conscious effort not to touch
him.

He looks like he‟s sound asleep, and this is when Louis should make a
break for it. He should carefully slide out from under the sheets,
making sure not to wake Harry, dress in silence, and leave. He could
leave a note like Harry did, get in his car, and drive. He could be home
inside half an hour, easy, and fall back asleep in a bed that didn‟t come
with this pathetic eagerness that‟s thumping in his chest.

Harry‟s a big boy, he would survive waking up alone, probably

wouldn‟t even blink. But something in Louis rebels against that,
bristles at the idea of Harry slowly surfacing into wakefulness with no
one there to see. It just—it seems a waste. That‟s all.

So when Harry furrows his brow and makes an unhappy noise half an
hour later, his fingers clenching in the sheets as he stretches, Louis is
there. Harry‟s eyes squint open against the light and fall on Louis. The
slow, groggy smile that blooms on his face is enough to put a gag on

215
the part of Louis‟ brain that‟s still screaming for him to make his
excuses and leave.

“Hi,” Harry says, rolling onto his side to face Louis.

“Hi,” Louis replies in a small voice, baffled. He knows he‟s, you know,
pretty good at sex, but that doesn‟t justify the way that Harry is looking
at him.

“Sleep okay?” Harry asks, and Louis just nods in response. “Good,”
Harry says softly. “You want to come over here, then?” And, well, it
would be rude to refuse, wouldn‟t it.

Louis slides closer, his hand reaching out and running down Harry‟s
arm. Harry‟s heat has seeped into the bed around him during the night,
and his skin and the sheets have the same glowing warmth. Louis leans
in and kisses Harry carefully. Their mouths are sour from the morning,
but Louis can tolerate it for the sake of the pleased sound Harry makes.

Then all of a sudden he can‟t tolerate it anymore, not the softness of it,
the slow melt of the moment. Soft things are quick to vanish, easy to
forget, too fragile for life as Louis has come to understand it. And he
can‟t tolerate that, not for this.

He pushes lightly at Harry‟s shoulder until Harry takes a hint and lies
back, then breaks the kiss and settles down on his side next to Harry,
pulling his left arm up above his head. Harry looks at him curiously,
but Louis sees recognition dawning in his face as he leans in to sink his
teeth into the underside of Harry‟s upper arm.

Harry draws in a hissing breath as Louis goes to work, biting and

sucking at the spot that Harry had once set aside for him. “Christ,
someone‟s pushy in the morning,” Harry says, sliding his other hand
into Louis‟ hair. Louis breaks away, snickering into Harry‟s arm.

216
“I‟m sure I don‟t know what you‟re talking about,” he says slyly,
sliding his hand under the sheets to wrap his hand around Harry‟s half-
hard cock. His own erection presses up against Harry‟s hip, and Harry
half laughs, half gasps.

“You little shit,” he says, and rolls over quickly so he‟s on top of Louis.
He grins down fondly, lacing their hands above Louis‟ head, and slots
their hips together. The contact and friction is good, it‟s so fucking
good, but what has Louis breathless is the closeness of it, the way he
and Harry are flush against each other head to toe.

They‟re barely moving, just shifting together slowly in the low light. It
may be morning, but this second, right here, feels outside of time, like
Louis is going to get stranded here forever if he doesn‟t watch himself.
Harry leans his head close to whisper in Louis‟ ear, and Louis can feel
every movement of his lips. “You‟re going to pay for that one,
Tomlinson,” Harry says lightly, and Louis doesn‟t think he knows how
right he is.

An hour and two orgasms later finds them in Harry‟s tiny shower,
taking turns to duck under the weak spray and wash away the remains
of the last twelve hours. Hands slide over slippery skin a few times, but
neither of them can muster up the energy for shower groping, much less
shower sex. They do indulge a brief make-out session against the
bathroom sink after they‟ve brushed the morning breath from their
mouths, but they‟re only human, and Harry tastes like mint and Louis.

When they leave the bathroom, Louis makes a beeline for his clothes,
but Harry seems indifferent, walking naked to the kitchen. Louis
watches from the corner, pulling on his pants, as Harry reaches up and
takes something down from the top of the refrigerator: his camera.

“Don‟t you dare,” Louis says, his trousers halfway up his legs, but
Harry isn‟t pointing the camera at him. Instead, he turns and eyes the
table.

217
“So vain, Tommo,” Harry says, lining up his shot. The table is exactly
as they left it last night, plates lying out and wineglasses empty.
Harry‟s chair is still lying on the ground. He snaps pictures from a few
different angles, then straightens, seemingly satisfied. He looks at
Louis with a smile. “Don‟t worry, Lou, I won‟t document your
current…vulnerability.” He nods at Louis‟ state of undress and walks to
put the camera back above the fridge.

Louis makes himself laugh as he buckles his belt, but the words hit him
harder than he wants to let on. If Harry wanted, he could document a
hell of a lot of things, vulnerability included. It would scare the hell out
of him if he let himself think about it, but it‟s muffled, buried under
white sheets and colorful scarves and the thought of the picture Harry
just took finding a place on his wall.

Harry saunters over, still naked, his hair dripping. He slips his arms
around Louis‟ waist from behind and hums happily. “You could stay if
you want,” he says. “For the day. I‟ve got food, we can just hole up
here and…” he trails off, grinning into Louis‟ neck. “Hang out.”

And it sounds wonderful, it really does. It sounds amazing, and that‟s

what‟s got Louis squirming, because it sounds so amazing that he could
get used to it. Louis has a policy against getting used to amazing things,
especially when he feels like he‟s already used up his monthly quota of
self-indulgence. That‟s what staying would be, an indulgence,
especially when he actually has things he needs to be doing.

He slips out of Harry‟s arms reluctantly and picks up his shirt, pulling it
over his head. “Sorry, Hazza my boy, but I can‟t actually stay. I‟ve got
to run by the flat to feed Duchess, she‟s been alone since last night.”
Harry just looks at him, his face falling. “You‟ve got to feed Duchess.”

Louis nods his head furiously. “She‟s very particular, if I don‟t get
there soon she‟ll be out of sorts all week.” It‟s true. He has the scars to
prove it. Sure, he could text Zayn and have him run over to feed her, or
call one of his neighbors, but he can‟t justify doing that for the sake of
a few more hours of sex, no matter how good it is.

218
Finally, Harry nods back. “Okay. Fair enough. Another time, then.”

“This was—I had a really nice time, this was lovely,” Louis stammers,
feeling oddly guilty. He shouldn‟t feel guilty. These are the actions of a
mature, responsible adult. “Thank you for dinner. And. Everything
else.”

Harry just smirks a little and pulls Louis in by the waist, drawing him
into a slow, unhurried kiss. “You‟re welcome,” he murmurs when they
finally break apart, and God, this would be easier if Harry were at least
wearing some pants.

Louis manages to extricate himself, doing his best to avoid all eye
contact. Evasive maneuvers need to start now, or his resolve is going to
collapse. He grabs his coat from the armchair and walks toward the
door, preparing to say goodbye. Turning back, his hand on the
doorknob, he‟s confronted with the sight of Harry leaning against the
kitchen counter, watching him like a particularly lustful Greek statue.
“I might be able to come back later,” Louis rushes, and that is
absolutely not what he planned on having come out of his mouth.

“No pressure,” Harry says, but he‟s beaming, and naked, and Louis
flees to the safety of the lift. If he slides down the wall and sits there,
head between his knees, for a few minutes before hitting a button, then
frankly he doesn‟t think he could be blamed.

He makes it back to his flat in one piece, and Duchess is only

moderately wrathful over her delayed breakfast. It‟s a surprisingly
productive day for him, and he cuts a vast swathe through the mountain
of marking that‟s been looming over his head all week. If the urgency
of avoiding the decision of whether or not to go back to Harry‟s gives
him a bit of extra drive, well, at least his neuroses are having positive
side effects this time around.

Louis has to quit dodging the issue when Harry texts him mid-
afternoon.

219
 so should i put clothes back on or not

Groaning, Louis tosses the phone down the couch. Fucking Harry and
his nudity and his ability to make this all sound so easy. And it feels
easy, too, when Louis is with him, feels as easy as a song, which is all
the more reason for Louis to be disciplined about this now. If he can‟t
trust himself when he‟s around Harry, he can at least try to be rational
when he‟s alone. Right now, rationality is telling Louis that the last
time he had this little self-control he didn‟t like the way things ended.
Sighing, he reaches down the couch and grabs the phone.

sorry, haz, got buried by work, don‟t think i can make it :(

He lets his head drop back against the cushions and thinks of Harry
reading the text, thinks of the way his lips purse when he‟s
disappointed. Before he can think about it, he picks the phone up one
last time.

but i‟ll be thinking of u later tonight when im alone ;)

And honestly, what the fuck has rationality done for him lately anyway.

Zayn has to admit, in retrospect, this was probably not one of his better
ideas.

He really, really doesn't want to text Louis, because he knows Louis

will never in a million years let him live this down. If Niall weren't
away on a field trip, Zayn could maybe just text him instead and swear
him to secrecy, and if he were very, very careful for the next month or
so, Louis would never have to know and Zayn could escape a lifetime
of disgrace. But as it is, Louis is his only hope. There's no way in hell

220
he can leave this room in the state he's in, and his free period is almost
over. He's running out of time.

Zayn takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone, resigning himself to
eternal shame.

come to the lounge by the bathrooms in e building i need help D:

He shrinks back into the corner as he waits for Louis' response. He is

hiding in the teacher's lounge with his cardigan tied around his head.
This is possibly a new low.

His phone buzzes in his hand, the death knell of his dignity.

in the middle of class, what do u need?

Louis' reply reads, and there is no way Zayn is explaining this via text
message.

please just come it‟s an emergency DDD:

It‟s another minute before Louis texts back, this had better be good, and
Zayn cringes at the screen. Louis has no idea.

The few minutes it takes for Louis to make it over are enough time to
work himself into a proper state over the whole situation. This is bad.
This is very, very bad. By the time Zayn hears footsteps approaching,
he‟s locked the door and seated himself on the floor in front of it, and it
rattles against his back when Louis tries to open it.

“The door‟s locked, Zayn,” Louis says, and Zayn can picture his face
pinched in annoyance on the other side. “Why‟d you lock the door? Are
you taking the piss?”

221
“I‟m gonna let you in,” Zayn tells him, “but first you have to swear you
won‟t laugh.”

Pause.

“I can‟t promise that,” Louis says. “I don‟t even know what you‟ve
done.”

“Swear you won‟t laugh!” Zayn says, and God, yes, definitely a new
low.

“You know I will, though,” Louis says, sounding impatient. “You

wouldn‟t have asked me to swear I wouldn‟t if you didn‟t already know
I would.”

“That doesn‟t even—all right, fine,” Zayn says. Louis is such a bastard
sometimes, but he also came when Zayn needed him to, which counts
for a lot. “Just. Please, try not to laugh.”

“Okay, okay,” Louis relents. “Just open the door.”

Zayn gets to his feet, fighting the dread weighing down his stomach.
Maybe it won‟t be as bad as he thinks. He hasn‟t actually assessed the
damage himself, after all. He unlocks the door and lets Louis in,
shutting it behind him.

Louis just stares at him.

“Zayn,” he says. “Did you make me walk all the way over here to look
at you with your cardigan „round your head?”
“Just... let me explain,” Zayn says.

“Have you suffered blunt force trauma to the head recently?” Louis
says.

222
“Shut up and listen,” Zayn tells him.

“Right, sorry,” Louis says, holding both hands up. “Please, do go on.”
“I thought I could do that thing like people do in films, you know,
where they light their cigarettes on the stove,” Zayn says. “So I came
over here, because it‟s the only lounge with a stove in it, and I was
bending down close to the flame and my, my hair sort of... caught fire.”

“It what?” Louis says, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “How did
that even happen, like, physically? I mean, I know you use a lot of
product, but, Jesus.”

“Well,” Zayn admits, “I had sort of just sprayed it a bit more than
usual.”

“Why would you—” Louis cuts himself off mid-sentence, terrible

realisation dawning on his face. “Oh my God. Zayn. You were going to
go smoke under a smoke detector again, weren‟t you?”

Zayn doesn‟t answer.

“You have got a problem,” Louis moans. “How bad is it?”

“I don‟t know yet,” Zayn says. “I actually haven‟t, um, taken this off
since I used it to smother the fire.”

Louis faces twists for a moment like he‟s just swallowed something
sour, and then his restraint finally cracks and he erupts into laughter.

“I‟m sorry!” he says at Zayn‟s scowl, words uneven and gasping

between peals of laughter. “I‟m sorry, oh God, I tried, but you set your
hair on fire, and then you smothered it with your cardigan, please, I
deserve a medal for lasting as long as I did.”

223
Zayn has to give him credit for that, at least, especially lately. The last
few weeks since he and Harry started doing whatever it is that they call
their relationship now, it‟s been impossible to wipe the smile off of
Louis‟ face. He doesn‟t think Louis even realises that he‟s walking
around looking like a big smitten idiot, singing in the corridors,
grinning down at his tea for no discernible reason, wearing his most
garishly colored trousers. Zayn would tease him about it more if he
weren‟t afraid it would send Louis running away from Harry as fast as
his mint green legs could carry him. Louis‟ continued happiness is
more important to Zayn than giving him shit. Because he is a good
friend.

Louis, on the other hand, is still laughing, and Zayn is still in crisis
mode.

“All right,” Louis says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Okay, I‟m sorry.
I‟ll shut up now. Let‟s get a look at you.”

Reluctantly, Zayn bows his head and lets Louis pull the cardigan off,
holding his breath for Louis‟ reaction.

“It‟s...” Louis says. “It could definitely be worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you could have lost your whole head, for example,” Louis says,
and Zayn moans in despair. “Joking! Only joking!”
“I‟m going to choke you to death,” Zayn says.

“You‟re adorable,” Louis says. “It‟s actually not horrible. I mean,

definitely noticeable, and not in a look-at-me-I‟m-so-avant-garde sort
of way, just a I-singed-off-part-of-my-quiff way, but it‟s only a bit on
one side. It‟ll probably grow back in a month or two.”

224
“Oh God,” Zayn says, burying his face in his hands. “What am I going
to do?”

“Zayn, my friend,” Louis says. “I think it‟s time for you to embrace
that clandestine lover of yours: the beanie.”
Zayn perks up a bit. That doesn‟t seem so bad. “D‟you think they‟d let
me wear it while I‟m teaching?”

Louis waves one hand dismissively. “Tell them you‟ve got some sort of
scalp ailment. Projectile dandruff, I don‟t know. It‟s not like you‟ve
ever been called out for any of your other flagrant wardrobe
violations.”

It‟s a good point. Louis might not be entirely useless after all. “Have
you got one?” Zayn says.

“What, on me now? No, I‟m not you, I don‟t keep an entire spare
ensemble with me at all times in case of some sort of dress code
emergency. I think there might be one in my car if you want to go get
it,” Louis says, checking his watch, “but I really need to get back to
class.”

Zayn looks at him piteously.

“No. No. Absolutely not, I am not going to get it for you. You brought
this on yourself, you pay the price.”

Zayn breaks out the puppy eyes.

Louis returns a few minutes later with the beanie, and Zayn pulls it on,
frowning at his reflection in the door of the microwave. It‟s not bad, but
it‟s certainly not good either. He‟s just going to have to lie low for a
while until it grows back, then. No more smoking under smoke
detectors, no more anonymously turning in the neighbors for failing to
maintain their fire escape properly, not for at least a month. He drags

225
his feet back to his classroom. His life is a sham. He is an
embarrassment to the Malik name. He wonders how things could
possibly get worse.

It‟s then that he reaches his classroom and sees the note stuck in the
little letterbox on his door.

Dear teachers,

As you were informed at last month‟s faculty meeting, renovations on

the East Wing of the school will begin next week. Be advised that
service workers, contractors, and inspectors will be on campus
regularly over the course of the next two months to ensure that these
renovations adhere to building codes, fire codes, et cetera. All visitors
to campus will be issued identification badges and permitted to work
during school hours. For the safety of our students and staff, attached is
a list of those approved for campus access. We appreciate your
cooperation during this exciting time of—

Zayn stops reading, frantically turning the page to the list of names.
Right there, listed alongside several others from the fire department, is
Liam Payne.

Of. Fucking. Course.

226
 TEN

As much as he hates listening to him whine, Louis has to admit it: Zayn
has terrible, terrible luck.

Under normal circumstances, Zayn‟s terrible luck would dictate that he

would somehow manage to never talk to Liam the entire time he was
helping with renovations, no matter how hard he tried. Now that he
actually doesn‟t want to see him, Zayn having terrible luck apparently
means that he‟s going to have to flee Liam every time he turns a corner.
So far he‟s avoided having to actually interact with him, thanks to his
clever utilization of storage cupboards and, on one particularly
inventive occasion, a bin. Louis is almost impressed.

He‟s walking down a hallway with Zayn afterhours about a week after
what Niall refers to exclusively as his “Human Torch incident,” when
Zayn spots Liam at the other end of the hall, talking with a construction
worker and some custodial staff.

“Abort, abort, abort,” he says urgently. He grabs Louis‟ arm in a vice-

like grip and drags him toward the closest storage cupboard, unlocking
it hurriedly before shoving Louis inside and closing the door behind
them.

“You realise that I‟m not actually hiding from him, right?” Louis says
into the darkness. “Or were you planning on burning off half my hair to
force me into solidarity with you?”

227
“Shh, Jesus, can you not shut up for thirty seconds?” Zayn says,
pressing him as far back into the cupboard as he can. “Oh, shit, I‟ve
stepped in a buck—” He cuts himself off as voices approach.

“You don‟t happen to have any adjustable spanners, do you?” says a

good-natured voice that can only belong to one person. “I‟d use mine,
only I‟ve left my toolbox back at the stationhouse.”

“Yeah, we‟ve got one of those,” the second voice says. “I‟ve got to run
to a meeting, actually, but here, check in that cupboard on the left. Just
leave the key on my desk when you‟re done.”

“Thanks,” Liam says, and then there‟s the sound of footsteps

approaching.

“Oh no,” Zayn hisses into the darkness, “oh shit, oh fuck, he‟s got a
key, he‟s coming—”

“Ow, that‟s my foot, you wanker,” Louis snaps, “get your elbow back
over there, I‟m not—”

The footsteps stop right outside the closet door, and the key crunches
into the lock.

“Fucking hell, Louis,” Zayn whispers, pulling frantically on Louis‟

arms, “hide me, hide me.”

Before Louis even has a chance to respond to that, the door opens and
the closet is flooded with light. Liam freezes in the doorframe. Louis
realises, suddenly and quite vividly, that he is standing with his body
flush against Zayn‟s and his hands braced on the shelf behind him.
Zayn, for his part, is pressed up against the shelf, one armed wrapped
around Louis‟ waist, his face buried in Louis‟ shoulder.

Louis stares at Liam. Liam stares back.

228
“Right,” Liam says, snapping out of his shock, his face a bright pink.
“Hello. Sorry.”

He shuts the door.

“That,” Louis says after a moment, “may have appeared sexual.”

“Oh God,” Zayn says, disentangling himself forcefully from Louis.

“Oh my God, you have to go after him.”

“Me?” Louis demands. “Why do I have to go after him?”

“I can‟t do it, Louis, you know I can‟t,” Zayn says in a rush. “Please,
go tell him that wasn‟t what it looked like, please.”

“What do you want me to say?” Louis says, tripping over a bucket in

search of the door. “Sorry it looked like we were having a grope in a
supply cupboard, actually Zayn just set his own head on fire in a
desperate attempt to get your attention because he thinks you are
destined to be together and now every time he sees you he throws
himself into the nearest shelter like it‟s a fucking air raid?”

“I don‟t care, just please go find him before he gets too far,” Zayn
pleads.

Louis heaves a sigh. “Fine, I‟ll do it, but let the record show that I
continue to be the best friend anyone has ever had.”

“Yes, you‟re wonderful, I love you, please go,” Zayn says. Louis‟ hand
finally lands on the door handle, and he takes off down the hall as soon
as he gets the door open.

He manages to catch up with Liam in the next hallway, where he‟s

awkwardly checking the names on office doors, looking shell-shocked.

229
“Liam!” Louis says, and Liam turns to look at him like the proverbial
deer in headlights. “Look, about what you just saw, that really was not
what it looked like, I swear.”

“It‟s okay,” Liam says. “Really, I‟m not going to tell anyone.”

“Well, that‟s nice,” Louis says, clapping him on the shoulder. “But I
promise you, it wasn‟t anything like what you‟re thinking. Zayn was
helping me look for some parts for a piece of the set for the musical I‟m
directing, and the light went out, and then I tripped and fell on him.
Promise.” Not bad, Louis thinks, for making it up on the spot.

“You don‟t have to lie to me,” Liam says, lowering his voice a little. “I
don‟t think there‟s anything wrong with it.”

“Thanks, really,” Louis says, “but I‟m not lying to you. Zayn‟s my best
friend, but it‟s not like that between us at all.”

“Okay,” Liam says carefully, and Louis can tell that he‟s not
convinced.

“Honestly, I mean, obviously he‟s very attractive, and pretty great in

bed from what I‟ve heard,” Louis stage whispers, and, oh, Zayn is
going to owe him so much for that one, “but I‟ve never thought of him
that way. Our egos would never work together. It‟d be a complete
disaster.”

Liam is staring at him now like he‟s not sure where the hell this
conversation is going. To be fair, neither is Louis.

“I actually, um, you remember Harry? Tall, curly brown hair, coaches
footy?” Liam nods, and Louis plows on. “He‟s actually, well, he and I
are. We‟re—”

230
And, wow, he can‟t say it. Not even to try to save Zayn‟s chances with
Liam, even though he just threw out a lie as if it were nothing. He can‟t
say the word.

“Involved,” he finishes finally. “He and I are involved, you know,

personally. So obviously I wouldn‟t be getting off with Zayn in a
supply cupboard even if either of us wanted to. Which we don‟t. So.”

Liam laughs finally, and Louis exhales. “All right,” he says. “In that
case, I‟m happy for you and Harry, and I‟m actually going to go back
and get that spanner, then, if that‟s okay.”

Louis thinks there is probably a 95 percent chance that Zayn is

currently still in that closet, sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth
in the dark. Stall, Tomlinson, stall. “Yeah, the whole thing with Harry,
it‟s still pretty new,” he says, and God only knows why the fuck he
chose the exact line of conversation he definitely does not want to have.

“That‟s always fun,” Liam says. He‟s smiling like he really is

genuinely happy for them and not just being polite, and Louis sees a
way out and a chance to pry at the same time.

“Yeah, are you, um, involved with anyone?” Louis says, unable to
resist.

“Nah,” Liam says, and since when is anyone this upfront and honest
about themselves all the time? He makes it so easy. “I actually haven‟t
been with anybody since before I moved here. I was engaged for a
while a couple of years ago, but she and I ended up calling it off.”

Engaged. Liam is someone who once found a person that he loved so

much he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him, and then it
didn‟t work out, and yet he still seems to sincerely believe in things like
love and romance and being kind to people for no reason. Louis is
amazed. This person is like the human antidote to his cynicism. Weird,
but kind of brilliant. He wants to poke it.

231
“Well, I‟m sure the person you‟re supposed to be with is just around
the corner,” Louis says cheerfully. It‟s really a shame that nobody but
Liam is here to witness his brilliance.

Liam laughs again. “I‟m sure they are.”

They. They. It could mean nothing, but Zayn is going to die regardless.

“Hey,” Louis says, suddenly struck with an idea. “If you‟re looking for
a spanner, you must be pretty decent with tools, right?”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “I love building stuff.”

“Excellent,” Louis says. “I was wondering, I‟ve got a prop door that
really needs to be rehinged, do you think you could show me how to fix
it some time?”

Liam‟s face lights up immediately, as if Louis has just offered him free
ice cream and pony rides instead of a chance to do some unpaid manual
labor while Zayn hyperventilates in a corner. “I‟d love to! I‟m pretty
busy right now, but if you can wait a few weeks I‟ll have a day off and
I can come in and fix it for you.”

“That would be amazing,” Louis says. Just for the hell of it, he adds,
“Zayn suggested you might be good at that sort of thing.”

“Did he?” Liam says, and Louis curses Liam‟s perpetually sunny
demeanor for making it impossible to tell if he‟s pleased at the thought
or just at life in general.

“Yeah,” Louis lies easily. “I‟m sure he‟ll be happy to have you on
board.”

232
Liam nods. “Sounds great. I really do need to go get that spanner now,
but I‟ve got Zayn‟s number so I‟ll let him know when I get a day off,
and we can see about that door.”

“My hero,” Louis says, extending his hand. Liam shakes it and then
walks off the way he came, and Louis hopes Zayn‟s had the sense to
clear out by now.

Louis whistles to himself and meanders back toward his classroom,

shooting Zayn a warning text that Liam‟s headed back as he goes. He
immediately gets six responses in a row, all full of panicked question
marks, and he texts back crisis averted and pockets his phone again.

He‟s got a little bit of marking left over and some sheet music to copy
for tomorrow night‟s rehearsal, but he feels good about how much he‟s
accomplished this week as he packs up his things for the day and
checks his lesson plan for tomorrow. Even with Zayn in a state of crisis
and Harry cutting into his sleep schedule almost every night (whether
they‟re together or apart, which is a little disconcerting), he‟s right on
track.

He‟s just about to turn out the lights and lock up when he hears a tiny
knock on the door and looks up to see Harry, and his brain goes
pleasantly fuzzy. Harry‟s always such a picture when he‟s fresh from a
practice in the snow, and right now he‟s all pink cheeks and red lips
and curls under his wool hat, pigeon-toed and dimpling in the doorway.
Louis wants to kiss him warm.

“Hi,” Harry says. “Saw your car was still here.”

“Just about to leave, actually,” Louis tells him.

“I‟ll walk you, then,” Harry says. He leans against the doorframe and
waits while Louis wraps his scarf around his neck and flips the light
switch, and then steps out of the way to let Louis close and lock the
door.

233
“Shall we?” Louis says, buttoning up his coat.

“We shall,” Harry says, and they set off down the hall side by side.
“How was your day?”

“What, you mean since you last saw me at lunchtime?” Louis says,
cheeky, and Harry elbows him. “Actually, it‟s been quite eventful. I‟ve
just had to convince Liam that I wasn‟t shagging Zayn in a cupboard.”

“What?”

Louis tells him the whole story, leaving out the part where he
mentioned their little whatever-the-hell their relationship is to Liam,
and Harry has his head thrown back in laughter for half of it. “Do you
think he‟ll really come work on the set?” he asks.

“I don‟t doubt it, knowing him,” Louis says. “He‟s not a real person.”

“Oh my God, can you imagine,” Harry says, “Liam in a, a tool belt or
something?”

“If that happens, Zayn will probably have an actual stroke,” Louis says,
already relishing the mental image. “Either that or he‟ll make it through
and then go home and furiously masturbate himself to death.”

Harry laughs again as they turn down the last hallway, passing one of
the dozens of bulletin boards along the way. He nudges Louis and
points at the garishly pink poster pinned up next to all the flyers and
announcements. “Maybe Zayn can ask him to the Valentine‟s dance.”

“Ugh,” Louis groans, rolling his eyes. “Don‟t say those words to me.
I‟m trying to block that out of my mind.”

234
“What, you‟re not looking forward to our chaperone duties?” Harry
teases. “Think of all the young love we‟ll get to witness, Lou.”

“Think of all the vomit I‟ll get on my nice trousers, Haz,” Louis
counters.

“I think it‟ll be nice,” Harry says.

“You would,” Louis says, and Harry takes it in stride, grinning cheekily
at him as he opens the door for both of them.

The walk to Louis car isn‟t a long one, and most of the staff has cleared
out by now, so he and Harry can just cut straight through the car park.
It‟s just as well, because it‟s freezing as they tread through the thin
layer of snow and slush covering the concrete. Harry stays with him all
the way and then pauses in the empty space next to Louis‟ car while
Louis gets his keys out.

“Bollocks, it‟s cold,” Louis says. He resists the urge to nose his way
under Harry‟s arm and press into the warmth constantly radiating from
him, wrapping his arms around himself instead and bouncing a little on
the balls of his feet. “So, what‟s up tonight? D‟you want come over?”

“I really wish I could, but I can‟t tonight,” Harry says, looking

genuinely put out about it. “I‟ve got to do some editing for a project
I‟m supposed to be presenting tomorrow.”

“Your loss, I‟ve got hot chocolate. And whipped cream,” Louis says,
making suggestive eyebrows at him, and Harry looks physically pained.

“Don‟t tempt me,” Harry says. “I‟ve got to go be a responsible

student.”

Louis sighs. “I guess I can respect that.”

235
Harry gives him a hug and Louis finds it hard to let go when he‟s
supposed to, mostly because Harry is a human space heater. He finally
does, though, and when his fingers fumble with the door handle a little,
he‟s sure it‟s just because they‟re cold. He drops into the driver‟s seat
and starts the engine, desperate to get the heater on.

“Hey,” Harry says just as Louis is about to close the door.

Louis pauses with his hand on the door. “Yeah?”

Harry takes a quick glance around the car park, and then he braces one
hand on the top of the car and leans down into it and kisses Louis on
the lips. It‟s just a peck, and before Louis really has time to respond
properly, Harry is stepping back and smiling at him.

“Bye,” he says.

“Bye,” Louis repeats automatically as Harry shuts the door.

He watches Harry lollop off toward his own car, kicking up snow as he
goes, and he touches his bottom lip with the tips of his fingers. They
don‟t really do casual goodbye kisses like that, or at least they haven‟t
yet. That was kind of a first. Hmm.

He can feel the car filling up with warmth around him, which is odd,
because it usually takes the heater in his shitty car longer to get going.
Today is strange. That‟s what he‟s decided. Today is just strange.

He puts his car in drive and thinks maybe he‟ll put some brandy in his
hot chocolate tonight.

236
Thankfully, Louis‟ shift on chaperone duty doesn‟t start until an hour
before the end of the dance, meaning the amount of time he‟ll be
suffering is minimal and he has plenty of time to choose an appropriate
Valentine‟s Day ensemble. These things are important.

When he finally pulls into the carpark, he‟s wearing black pants, a
white shirt, and bright red braces under his coat. Understated, but
thematic nonetheless. Sometimes even he is impressed with how good
he is. His sartorial brilliance isn‟t enough to compensate for what he‟s
going to have to deal with for the next three hours, though. He spends
about two minutes sitting in his car, forehead against the steering
wheel, before he musters up the will to get out and trudge into the
school.

It‟s every bit as bad as he expected, bass audible as soon as he enters

the building and clusters of giggly students lining the halls, their inept
flirtation attempts visible at twenty paces. Louis studiously ignores
them and soldiers on to the assembly hall, taking a deep breath before
pushing through the double doors and entering his humid,
overcrowded, crepe-paper-bedecked nightmare. Niall, who he spots in
the DJ booth, is playing the Cha-Cha Slide. It‟s remixed, but still. Louis
is under no illusions about his own sinfulness, but even he doesn‟t
deserve this.

He spots Zayn lurking by the punch bowl with a fedora perched atop
his still recovering quiff, staring despondently into his cup and
steadfastly ignoring the three year 10 girls who as far as Louis can tell,
are extremely thirsty. Parched, even, by the looks of things. Louis skirts
the edge of the dance floor, kicking as many balloons as possible on the
way over, and sidles up behind Zayn to clap him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, beautiful, your relief is here!” Louis says, glancing over
Zayn‟s shirt, which even in the dim light of the dance looks a vibrant

237
fuschia. “Ah, attempting to keep the youth at bay by blinding them, eh?
Not your worst strategy.”

Zayn grins as he looks up. “Just because it wouldn‟t suit your

complexion doesn‟t mean you have to be bitter about it,” he mutters,
draining his cup. “You couldn‟t pull this off if you tried.”

Louis clutches at his chest and gasps. “You wound me, Frenchy!”

Zayn looks at him blankly.

Louis narrows his eyes. “Frenchy? From Grease? She‟s a Pink Lady?”
A blank stare. “Come on. Frenchy! She even dyes her hair pink!”

Nothing.

Louis throws up his hands. “For the love of God, Zayn! „Beauty School
Dropout‟? Go back to high school? No bells being rung? God, my
references are wasted on the likes of you.”

“It‟s too bad,” says a voice from behind him. Louis twirls gracefully
and absolutely does not swerve his head around fast enough to give him
whiplash to see Harry standing on the other side of the punch table.
“Frenchy‟s the one who pierces her ears and tries to teach Sandy to
smoke, right? Makes questionable hair decisions? Sorry, Zayn, but
you‟re definitely Frenchy,” he smiles.

“First off, I am definitely one of the attractive greaser types. Secondly,

you laugh it up all you want, I‟m still the one who‟s done with
babysitting for the night,” Zayn says, shrugging on his leather jacket.
Three different girls step on their dance partners‟ feet. “Louis, you‟ve
got punch duty. Keep filling up glasses so there are plenty ready. Make
sure no one spikes it and do your best not to die of boredom or
secondhand embarrassment, yeah?”

238
Louis nods as seriously as he can. “I shall not fail you, Zayn.” He grabs
at his jacket sleeve as Zayn passes him. “My brother. My captain. My
king.”

Zayn shakes him off as Harry giggles uncontrollably. “You are so, so
weird. Get off me so I can observe this holiday properly and go get
drunk alone in my flat.” Finally free of Louis‟ clutches, he slumps off
toward the door. Whatever. He loves the attention, and Louis will not
hear otherwise.

“Happy Valentine‟s Day to you too, Zayn!” Harry calls after him
saccharinely. Zayn spins around, gives them a salute, and then is gone.

Harry turns back to Louis with a smile. “Truly tragic.”

Louis shrugs. “Are you surprised? This is the worst holiday ever
created. It‟s designed to make people feel bad about themselves. It‟s
silly at best and evil at worst. And God knows Zayn loves any
opportunity to mope. On today of all days he actually has an excuse,”
he says, pouring himself a cup of punch.

Harry smirks. “Says the man in red braces.”

Louis arches a single eyebrow over his cup. “They‟re thematic. And
you‟re one to talk.” Now that he has a chance to truly look Harry over,
Louis is torn between respect and derision. Harry‟s wearing a white
blazer over a pink shirt, topped off with a red bow tie. He‟s clearly
made a few trips to the punch bowl himself, his lips stained dark pink.

Okay. Maybe respect and derision aren‟t all Louis is feeling. He takes a
large gulp of punch and nearly gags on its cloying sweetness.

“What, you don‟t like the look?” Harry asks, all outstretched arms and
mock hurt. He gives a quick spin, holding his jacket open. Louis
considers throwing the rest of his drink on him, but decides that getting
anyone wet is only going to make things worse.

239
He just snorts instead. “You look like a human love heart,” he says,
putting down his own cup and picking up empty ones to fill.

Harry smiles. “Maybe that‟s what I was going for.” He plants both
hands on the table and leans across, close in to Louis. “Be mine?”

By the time Louis has picked up the half-dozen cups he‟d dropped on
the floor, Harry is halfway across the dance floor, smirking as he
separates couples dancing a bit too closely.

Louis doesn‟t envy him his particular chaperone detail, but Harry
seems to be having fun with it. Every time Louis looks up from pouring
punch or handing cups to sweaty teenagers, Harry is up to something
else, apparently completely immune to shame. A man after Louis‟ own
heart.

He‟s distracted from his rather pathetic mooning by a group of students

coming up for drinks. As he hands them out, he sees one girl gesture
towards Niall onstage and say, “I can‟t believe they managed to get him
to DJ,” in a loud voice to her friend.

Louis looks up at the stage and then back to them. “It‟s just Niall,” he
says, confused. The girls look at him like he‟s grown two heads. Has
Niall become the fit one while Louis wasn‟t looking? What does that
make Zayn, then, the other fit one?

He hears one of them sarcastically stage whisper “just Niall” as they

walk away, and is spending a minute ruing the day he became the third
most attractive member of his friend group when Harry regains his
attention. Louis has to bury his head in his hands when he spots him
splitting up an overly amorous couple by aggressively doing the robot
immediately between them. Harry laughs when he sees him, then
waggles his eyebrows in the direction of another grinding couple to his
left. Louis makes a face at the pair, and then mouths Moonwalk at
Harry. Harry grins, and immediately moonwalks directly at, and then
through, the shocked duo. The couple separated, he turns and gives
Louis an exaggerated thumbs-up. Louis points at another set of

240
enthusiastic dancers on the other side of the hall and mouths Chicken
dance, miming it a bit to make sure he understands. Harry throws up a
crisp salute and sets off across the dance floor.

Louis is spending his Friday night at work, in a hall that smells of

sweat and Lynx, surrounded by pink crepe paper, and he can‟t stop
smiling.

After an hour or so, the last song plays, and the lights come up. Niall
takes off his headphones and leans into the microphone. “All right kids,
you don‟t have to go home, but you can‟t stay here.” He pauses, and
then leans back in. “And you should probably just go home.”

Harry walks across the dance floor, weaving in between the last
students straggling out. “Did you successfully prevent punch spikage?”
he asks, pouring himself another cup.

“I did my best,” Louis smiles.

“Damn,” Harry says, taking a sip. “I could use a drink after that, to be
honest.”

“Ah, yes, your quest to preserve the dignity of our fair students. It
seemed successful from here.”

“Oh, no doubt. I think several might have more dignity leaving than
when they entered.”

“It wouldn‟t surprise me.”

Harry just smiles at him slightly stupidly over the table, and Louis
shudders to think what his own face must look like.

“So,” Harry says suddenly. “Are you all done here?”

241
Louis sighs. “Tragically, no. Niall and I are both on clean-up duty,
because we‟ve done terrible things in past lives and this is our
punishment.”

Harry‟s lips quirk upwards. “Well, I‟m sure you deserve it, but Niall
seems pretty innocent to me.” He stops for a moment. “Unless you‟re
looking at it from the perspective of a kebab, I suppose.” He turns to
look at Niall on the stage, packing up his turntable. “Hey, Horan!” he
shouts.

Niall looks up. “What do you want, Styles?” he yells back.

“Get out of here, I‟ll take care of your equipment,” Harry shouts. “I‟ve
got nothing better to do, and I‟m sure you‟ve got a hot date with a pint
or five.”

Niall throws up a V, laughing. “Fuck you, Harry. Thanks, mate. This is

mine, but everything else goes in the AV closet.” He finishes closing
up the turntable case, hops off the stage with it, and heads out the door.
“You two have fun,” he croons as the door swings shut behind him.

They‟re alone.

Harry turns to look at Louis, and Louis thinks about butterflies and jars
and museums and why someone might enjoy the pin that holds them to
a page.

He swallows that thought and smiles, looking around the hall at the
wilting balloons and fluorescent lights. “I bet this is where you bring all
the girls,” he says, looking back up at Harry.

Harry gestures expansively to the room. “How could I not? So

atmospheric,” he says. He drops his arms. “And yet you‟ve had a table
between me and you all night.” He raises his eyebrows. “I‟m starting to
feel rebuffed.”

242
Louis huffs a laugh and moves to circle the table, but Harry holds out
an arm. “Wait, wait,” he says, backing up. “Let me earn it.” He turns
and lopes toward the stage, vaulting up to the DJ booth and taking out
his iPod. Apparently he has a plan. Louis isn‟t sure why he bothers
being surprised anymore.

Louis crosses his arms and smiles at the ground. “You‟re ridiculous,”
he says, as soft piano chords begin to fill the room. Harry hops off the
stage and runs back over, coming around the side of the table.

He holds out his hand to Louis. “May I?” he asks. He dips his head in
mock politeness, but the question in his eyes is real. Louis feels the
warmth of his palm before he registers moving his hand, sees the
happiness on Harry‟s face before he knows what he‟s saying yes to.

“You know you‟ve already seduced me, right?” Louis says, as Harry
pulls him out into the middle of the hall, kicking aside balloons as he
goes. “You‟ve sealed the deal, this is totally unnecessary.” The floor is
sticky with God knows what; Louis hopes it‟s mostly punch. “And
somebody could come in.”

“Humour me,” Harry says, tugging him along, and Louis lets himself
be pulled. Once they reach the center of the room, Harry slips his hands
around Louis‟ waist and draws him close.

Louis puts his arms up around Harry‟s shoulders, muttering “Of course
you‟d want to lead.” Harry smiles and ducks his head, shushing him.
The music fills the room, a woman giving voice to words Louis has
heard before.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in.

Louis searches Harry‟s face with his eyes, but Harry isn‟t looking at
him, his eyes downcast. Louis finds himself confronted with the fan of
Harry‟s eyelashes, the slight curve of a smile ghosting over his mouth.

243
Suddenly looking is too much, and Louis finds himself pulling Harry
closer, resting his chin on his shoulder. They sway in circles slowly,
Harry spreading one hand across Louis‟ lower back and lifting the other
to thread his fingers through Louis‟.

Louis finds himself wanting to tell Harry that he‟s glad that he‟s
leading, that Louis couldn‟t lead because he‟s never really slowdanced
before. He wants to tell Harry that he skipped his own prom, faked sick
because he couldn‟t ask the person he really wanted to go with. His
throat is choked with words, stories of every wedding he never went to
because the taste of others‟ champagne always turned sour in his
mouth. He wants to tell Harry that no one has ever wanted to stand up
with him in front of anybody else.

He wants to tell Harry too much, so he kisses him instead, pulling back
from Harry‟s shoulder and pressing their lips carefully together. Harry
makes a soft noise that Louis swallows and lets go of his hand, bringing
his own back to Louis‟ waist to pull him close, impossibly closer. Louis
raises his free hand to Harry‟s face, grazing his cheek with all five
fingertips before sliding them into his hair.

Harry smiles into the kiss and pulls back slightly. “D‟you still hate
Valentine‟s, Lou?” he breathes, rubbing his nose against Louis‟.

Louis grins. “Yes,” he says. “I guess I don‟t hate you, though.”

He can feel Harry‟s laugh against his mouth. “Fair enough,” Harry
says, before drawing him back in. “I don‟t hate you either,” he
whispers, and it‟s Louis‟ turn to smile into the embrace.

They stay like that for a long time, two figures in the center of the
empty hall, swaying together until the last notes of the song have long
faded away.

Finally, Louis heaves a sigh. “So, as lovely as this is,” he says, pulling
away from Harry. “We still actually have to clean this place up.”

244
Slightly dazed, Harry looks around at the mess that surrounds them.
“Right. That. Shit,” he says, dropping his head onto Louis‟ shoulder. “I
may not have thought this through.”

“Hey,” Louis says, nudging Harry‟s head back up. “Race you.”

“What?”

“I‟ll take that side,” Louis says, sliding one hand down to the small of
Harry‟s back and gesturing toward the far side of the hall with his chin,
“you take this side, and whoever finishes first wins.”

Harry smirks. “And what will be my prize when I destroy you?”

“You‟ll get to shag me sooner,” Louis says, digging his fingers in.
Harry hums at that, low and pleased.

“Loser gives the winner a blowjob,” Harry says. He gives Louis one
last quick peck on the lips, and then he‟s off across the floor and
scooping up deflated balloons by the handful. Louis tries to do the
same, but he‟s laughing too hard to be very effective, too amused to
even fight back when Harry starts throwing debris from his side over
into Louis‟. Louis has always been a competitive sort, but he thinks this
is one fight he might not mind losing.

Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 9:52 AM (32 minutes ago)

to me, Louis, Harry

have you lads seen this yet

http://menmedia.co.uk/manchestereveningnews/news/s/1590235_local-
fireman-saves-family-of-four-from-burning-house/rss=yes

245
 Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 9:55 (29 minutes ago)
to Niall, Louis, Harry

NO OMFG
HE IS PERFECT :)))
XXX

Louis Tomlinson loutommo@gmail.com 10:09 AM (15 minutes ago)

to me, Niall, Harry

honestly i thought you googled him once an hour, zayn, i‟m

disappointed

this is actually really impressive, though. we should take him out for
drinks to celebrate and then zayn can give him a congratulations
blowjob, yeah??

xx

Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:11 AM (13 minutes ago)

to Louis, Niall, Harry

shut up lou
i hate you
>:(

Harry Styles styleshaz@gmail.com 10:12 AM (12 minutes ago)

246
 to me, Louis, Niall

this is so cool!! I‟m with Louis ;) Zayn, you should call him..
xx

Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 10:13 AM (11 minutes ago)

to me, Harry, Louis

agreed. pints!

Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)

to Niall, Harry, Louis

i can‟t, it would be too weird :/ aha

x

Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)

to Niall, Harry, Louis

it‟d be weird, right?? :///

Zayn Malik djmalik@gmail.com 10:15 AM (9 minutes ago)

to Niall, Harry, Louis

what would i even say if i called him?? :/ aha

x

247
 Louis Tomlinson loutommo@gmail.com 10:17 AM (7 minutes ago)
to me, Niall, Harry

tell him that you and your mates want to take him out for drinks and
blowjobs. i don‟t see why you‟re making this so complicated babe
i know haz and i are both free tonight, what about you nialler?
x

Niall Horan niallerrr@gmail.com 10:20 (4 minutes ago)

to me, Louis, Harry

for beer and watching zayn try to get off with liam? i‟m always free.

Zayn stares down at his phone. The email notifications have stopped
coming, and now it‟s just him and his text message inbox, waiting each
other out.

Usually if he were going to plan an outing with Liam, he‟d give himself
weeks of preparation, plenty of time to work up his courage and
practice his smolder in front of the mirror and come up with the perfect
scenario. This is different, though. He's got a time constraint to deal
with, so he can't afford to go through his normal process. It's now or
never.

After a dozen drafts, Zayn finally comes up with a message that doesn‟t
sound completely and hopelessly daft or pathetic.

heard you‟re a hero! the lads and i want to take you out for drinks
tonight to celebrate. are you free? :) xx
He closes his eyes and hits send before he has a chance to overthink it.
He has plenty of time to think about it after it‟s sent, though, and he
comes up with twelve different ways he could have phrased the text
better and about a hundred reasons he never should have sent it at all.

248
In fact, he‟s so so focused on how stupid the invitation was that he
doesn‟t even consider what to do if Liam says yes.

Which he does.

Zayn stares blankly down at his phone, at the yea sounds brillllllll
where shud i meet youuuu?? and tries to formulate a plan. He‟s
normally so good at plans, but right now he‟s got nothing.

He pulls it together enough to send Liam Louis‟ address and the name
of a bar they can go to afterwards, telling him to meet up with them at
Louis‟ flat first. Then he drafts a massive email to the lads demanding
that they be on their best behavior, realises that it provides Louis a
point-by-point instruction manual on how to drive him mad, and
deletes it. Instead he just sends a mass text and hopes for the best.

HE‟S COMING OUT W US 2NITE :DDD LOU‟S AT 9 THEN

MOVING TO THE STUDY NO MENTION OF BJS PLS xx

The next five hours are spent in a haze, as Zayn retreats to the comfort
and safety of panicking about his appearance. He showers twice, just to
be sure, and tosses the entirety of his wardrobe onto his bed.
Thankfully enough of his hair has grown back that he can go without a
hat with enough artful tousling, but the rest is the hard part. Eventually,
after cycling through two weeks‟ worth of outfits, he settles on his best
jeans and a slouchy black top that's just loose enough to show off his
collarbones. He checks himself out in the mirror and decides he looks
like a sexy waif. Dickensian chic. Liam rescues people for a living,
vulnerability probably does it for him, right?

He gets all the clothing re-folded and off the bed—you can never be
over-prepared—just in time to throw on a jacket and drive over to
Louis‟ place. He fidgets the entire way over, tapping his fingers against
the steering wheel and constantly checking his hair in the rearview
mirror. It‟s going to be fine. Everything will go great, Liam will love
him, and in years to come they will celebrate this date as their
anniversary, and they‟ll have cheesecake with chocolate sauce on top

249
and Liam will let him lick it off his abs and—okay, wow, now is not
the time for that train of thought.

As he pulls into the carpark of Louis‟ building, he spots Liam‟s SUV—

ahh, the memories—and his heartbeat drops the bass. One last glance at
the mirror, and then he‟s locking his car and taking the steps up to
Louis‟ flat two at a time.

Louis opens the door with a grin and stands aside to let Zayn enter.
“You‟re just in time for shots,” he says brightly. Zayn would protest,
except then he sees Liam standing there with the rest of them, wearing
a white shirt and waving, and he really, really needs a drink.

“Hi Zayn!” Liam says, taking the shot that Niall hands him with a
slightly dubious look. “Thanks for inviting me, this is wicked.”

“Thanks for not letting those people burn to death,” Zayn replies,
which. Okay. Not his best start, probably.

Liam just smiles and shrugs. “Just doing my job,” he says, and Zayn is
so distracted by how much he adores him that he actually forgets to be
embarrassed. He catches Harry nudging Louis in the stomach out of the
corner of his eye, but then they‟re all taking shots and hey, who gives a
fuck.

They spend an hour there at Louis‟, drinking and taking turns getting
crushed by Niall at Guitar Hero. Zayn focuses mainly on not stroking
Liam‟s forearms. Or staring at his mouth. Or touching his collar.
Maybe drinking right away was a mistake. Thankfully there are plenty
of distractions, as Harry keeps half-jokingly suggesting body shots, and
Louis seems to have decided that the best way to shut him up is to bite
him. Liam just laughs at them, though, and Zayn knows that even if he
weren‟t already drunk he‟d still feel just as warm and happy, all his
favorites in a room together.
They‟re tipsy enough that nobody even seems to realise Harry‟s called
them a taxi until it‟s there and they all have to rush out, running down
the stairs with their jackets still half on and piling into the back of the

250
taxi. Zayn is the kind of drunk that makes transportation seem
instantaneous, and the only thing he remembers of the ride over is the
way the city lights slid across Liam‟s face. Well, he also remembers
Harry licking Niall‟s face, but he‟s not entirely sure why that happened,
and since Louis just doubled up in laughter he figures he doesn‟t have
to worry.

When they get to The Study there‟s a massive line, but the bouncer
seems to recognize Niall and lets them all in right away. “How the hell
do you know everyone?” he hears Louis ask Niall, who just sort of
shrugs.

It seems that more people waiting outside than there are inside because
it‟s not too crowded yet, and they take advantage and head straight to
the bar. Clinging to his buzz for courage, Zayn turns to Liam. “What
d‟ya want? I‟m buying.”

“You don‟t have to—” Liam starts.

“No,” Zayn says, cutting him off and allowing himself to put his hand
on his arm. Mmm, arm. “Heroes don‟t buy drinks. What‟ll it be?”

Liam grins and nudges him with his shoulder. Bliss. “Just a beer, I
think. Don‟t want to get too pissed.”

“Good idea,” Zayn says, because all of Liam‟s ideas are good. He
nudges him back, because he can, dammit, and he‟s going to get as
much physical contact in as possible before he sobers up too much. He
flags the bartender down and orders two lagers, trying not to wince
when he hears how overpriced they are. It‟s a worthy cause, and to be
honest most of the time he goes to bars he‟s the one getting bought
drinks, so it‟s only fair.

All five of them crowd around a single table together and settle in for a
while, shouting things at each other above the noise and taking turns
fetching refills. It‟s loud, but it‟s good company, and Zayn feels like
it‟s going well. It‟s going really, really well. He loses track of how long

251
they‟ve been there, so he‟s not exactly sure when Niall breaks off and
heads for the billiards table he‟s been eyeing all night, pint in hand and
eager to separate some unsuspecting patrons from their money.

When it‟s Harry‟s turn to get the next round, Zayn finds himself alone
with Liam and Louis staring at them from across the table. Normally
that would make Zayn break into an anxious sweat, but Louis seems to
want to play the wingman tonight, just chiming in to keep conversation
moving whenever Zayn gets completely tongue-tied. Granted, that
means Louis is keeping up about half of the conversation, but still,
Zayn appreciates that he isn‟t taking this particular opportunity to
humiliate him.

Louis keeps getting quieter and quieter, though, and eventually Zayn
realises what‟s distracting him. Harry‟s still at the bar, but he isn‟t
alone—there‟s a tall bloke in a Chelsea shirt who looks entirely too
pleased to be talking to him. Zayn doesn‟t like the look of him, but he
likes the way Louis‟ eyes are narrowing less.

“Excuse me,” Louis says, putting his pint glass down heavily. He slides
his chair back and stands up. “I‟ll just be a moment.”

“I‟m actually going to run to the toilets, myself,” Liam says, getting up
as well. “Zayn, will you be all right here?”

“What? Yes,” Zayn says, suddenly finding himself alone at the table.
He takes a moment to watch the lines of Liam‟s back as he walks away,
and then turns his attention to the drama at the bar. Louis is
approaching the bar, settling in a little farther down than Harry and his
new friend and hailing the bartender.

It‟s interesting to watch, actually, because he knows Louis probably

thinks he‟s passing himself off as nonchalant, but Zayn can see the
tense set of his shoulders and the cold way he‟s eyeing the situation. He
knows Louis has a wide streak of protectiveness and possessiveness,
but in all the time they‟ve know each other, Zayn‟s never seen him get
jealous over a guy. Food, parking spaces, the right to wear braces?

252
Sure. A guy? Never. Mostly because he‟s never seen Louis get attached
enough to someone to even care if he fucked anybody else. Once again,
it seems like Harry is the exception.

The man in the Chelsea shirt laughs at something Harry says and leans
in to squeeze Harry‟s hip, and that‟s it, Louis abandons his spot at the
bar and walks over to introduce himself into the conversation. He
smiles at Harry when he sidles up, sliding a hand over his lower back,
but if it‟s meant to mark his territory, the man either doesn‟t notice or
doesn‟t care. Louis says something, but the man waves him off.

Louis says something else, and Zayn can tell just from the set of Louis‟
chin and the slant of his mouth that it‟s one of those patented Tommo
one-liners that‟s designed to utterly decimate a human as viciously and
succinctly as possible. The man finally does drop his attention from
Harry at that, and Louis takes a step away from Harry and closer to
him. It‟s suddenly clear that the man is several inches taller than Louis,
even taller than Harry. Louis wobbles a little but doesn‟t back down.
The part of Zayn‟s brain that isn‟t screaming oh shit is pretty impressed
that Louis can manage such a look of pure, icy disdain after so many
beers.

The next few things happen very, very quickly:

One, Louis says one last thing, and the man pushes him so hard that he
falls over the barstool behind him.

Two, Liam steps out of the toilets.

Three, Niall puts down his beer.

Four, the song on the speakers next to Zayn changes to “Helter

Skelter.”

Five, Harry yanks the man around by his shirt and clocks him in the
mouth.

253
Someone screams near the bar and Zayn is elbowing his way through
the crowd as Liam closes in from the other side, and shit, Zayn is too
fucking drunk for this. He can still see Harry and Louis over the heads
of the crowd, the bartender yelling at them as Louis hauls himself
upright, roughed up but in one piece.

Satisfied that Louis isn‟t going to bleed out on the floor, Zayn turns his
attention to the next most pressing issue: the angry Chelsea fan
dragging himself up off the floor. He‟s bleeding from a cut lip and
looks murderous, and judging by the way Harry is nursing his hand,
that first blow was more blind luck than anything. Shoving people
aside, Zayn can‟t help but wish his friends had chivalrous impulses that
didn‟t lead to anyone getting the shit kicked out of them.

Liam gets there first, sliding between Harry and the bleeding man with
his hands raised, the very picture of mediation, and Zayn would write a
sonnet comparing him to Benvolio if he had the time. Or if that
particular play ended differently. God fucking dammit, when did the
entire population of the greater Manchester metropolis find their way
between him and the bar? The bartender is still yelling, but Zayn doubts
that he‟ll be able to shut this down before it gets worse, and he needs to
fucking get over there. He spills at least three pints of lager on his way
through the crush and doesn‟t apologize for a single one.

He finally breaks through the crowd in time to hear the trail end of
Liam‟s “all right, lads,” but Chelsea isn‟t having it, fisting a hand in
Liam‟s t-shirt and growling something at him through bloody teeth that
changes the set of Liam‟s jaw and—oh. Hmm. Zayn had always
thought “seeing red” was a metaphor, but judging by the way his vision
is burning at this idiot‟s hands on Liam, he guesses not.

He‟s snapped out of it by a literal SNAP—and looks over to see Niall,

manic grin on his face, holding two halves of a billiards cue that he‟s
apparently just broken over his knee.

“Let‟s fucking go, big man,” he shouts, gleefully staring down Chelsea
and completely ignoring the eyes of every other person in the bar fixed
on him.

254
Chelsea hold on Liam‟s shirt loosens and his jaw falls slightly open.
“What are you playing at, mate?” he demands.

Niall reaches up and turns his hat around so the brim faces backwards
and jumps up and down in place, shaking his arms out. “You want a
fight? I got your fucking fight, ya cunt,” and he tosses one half of the
pool cue to Zayn, who catches it two-handedly more out of reflex than
anything else.

“Um,” Zayn says. He can hear the bartender calling the police.

Chelsea dropped Liam‟s shirt completely now. “You‟re fucking

mental,” he says, and Zayn adds a silent co-sign. The crowd that had
been watching is fleeing quickly, apparently not eager to be around for
whatever happens next.

Niall throws his head back and lets out a banshee laugh. “Mate,” he
snickers, “I‟m fucking Irish.” He licks his lips, and to his credit,
Chelsea only trips over one barstool as he beats his retreat to the bar‟s
back room.

“We should go,” Liam says. “Now. We should go now.” Zayn nods
vehemently, feeling much more sober than he did three minutes ago.

They spill out into the street on a wave of noise and adrenaline, Zayn
practically dragging Niall by the collar of his shirt. He may have just
saved their arses, but he‟s also fucking batshit and Zayn‟ll be damned if
he lets him out of his sight. Harry and Louis are in the middle of some
kind of argument, and Liam is bringing up the rear, walking backwards
to make sure that nobody comes at them from behind.

“You were flirting with him,” Louis is saying as he stumbles a couple

of feet down the sidewalk.

“I wasn‟t flirting with him, I was just being nice,” Harry says,
following after him.

255
“Right, by flirting with him,” Louis says.

“You‟re jealous,” Harry says, and Zayn doesn‟t have the time or brain
power to try to intervene, especially not when he‟s too busy holding
Niall in a bear hug from behind in an attempt to wrangle him away
from the club.

“Let me go back in!” Niall says, still clutching half a billiard stick,
which Zayn distantly thinks they should maybe get rid of because it
could probably count as evidence. “I haven‟t gotten to trounce anybody
in ages, c‟mon—”

“Shut up, you lunatic,” Zayn grunts. He looks at Liam, who‟s standing
nearby, looking sort of lost. “I am so fucking sorry, I swear to God
things aren‟t normally like this when we go out.”

“It‟s really fine,” Liam says with a laugh. “Kind of exciting, actually.”

“You are incredible,” Zayn says before he can even think about
stopping himself. “We need to get out of here before the police show
up. Where‟s—?” He turns around and finds that Harry and Louis have
stopped arguing and are now ravishing each other on the hood of a
parked car instead. “Oi! Get off of there, Jesus, you don‟t even know
whose car that—”

The question is answered at that moment when Chelsea exits the bar
flanked by two equally large friends, spots Harry and Louis, and
freezes in his tracks.

“You‟ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Zayn and Chelsea say in

unison.

“Shit,” Louis says, almost falling over as he scrambles upright, and

Chelsea‟s friends are closing in.

256
“Taxi!” Zayn yells, shoving Niall at Liam and throwing his arms out
for the fucking godsend of a taxi that has just turned onto their street.
The driver stops by the curb and Zayn yanks the door open and shoves
Niall into the passenger seat, slamming the door in his face.

Niall‟s got the window down and he‟s shouting something that sounds
like “shower of cunts” at the men on the sidewalk while Liam slides
into the back seat of the cab first, and it‟s a sign of how out of control
everything has gotten that Zayn doesn‟t even panic over having to
squeeze in next to him. Louis shoves Harry in next, and then he climbs
directly into Harry‟s lap and immediately picks up where they left off.

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn says, just barely managing to avoid getting one of
Louis‟ knees to his crotch. Louis is sitting astride Harry‟s hips, head
brushing the ceiling of the cab and looking exactly the opposite of
concerned about anybody else in the car witnessing this event.

“Where to?” the driver says. He seems entirely unfazed by the

proceedings, and Zayn feels a fleeting sense of thanks that at least he
won‟t report them to the police.

It takes him two tries to get the address out right, though, because right
next to him Louis has got his tongue in Harry‟s mouth and wow, even
in the middle of everything else, the sight of Harry‟s hands sliding
down Louis‟ back to his arse is really fucking distracting. Louis arches
into Harry‟s hands and grabs at Harry‟s hair and kisses him hard, and
one of his feet is on Zayn‟s knee, and Zayn has no fucking idea what to
do with himself.

Niall is still ranting from the front seat, on and on about “could‟ve
fucking taken „im” and “know who I fucking am,” apparently choosing
to ignore the fact that Louis is giving Harry an extremely intimate lap
dance two feet away from him. Zayn‟s thankful for that too, though,
because it‟s the only noise in the car other than Harry and Louis‟ heavy
breathing and the wet sound of mouths.

257
The adrenaline has finally started to subside, and on his other side, he
can feel Liam sitting very, very still, and Zayn wants to apologize again
or promise to make this up to him or even just make a joke about the
whole thing but he can‟t, physically can‟t bring himself to look at him.
He‟s too drunk to know if he‟s fucked this up completely, but
fortunately he‟s at least drunk enough that the whole situation is kind of
hilarious. In a hysterical, oh-God-what‟s-happening-how-is-this-my-
life sort of way, yes. But hilarious.

Harry and Louis have abandoned all restraint by now, hands

everywhere and hips grinding and muttering things to each other
between kisses that Zayn can only catch bits of, “yeah” and “God” and
once “mine.”

“D‟you lads need a condom back there?” Niall says, grinning over his
shoulder. Harry doesn‟t even respond, and Louis only spares a moment
to take one hand off of Harry and throw Niall an obscene hand gesture
before returning it to the inside of Harry‟s shirt.

Liam has pulled out his phone and is apparently attempting to occupy
himself, but Zayn is close enough to see the screen and all he‟s doing is
scrolling up and down through his contact list again and again and
again. Zayn feels like laughing, but he also feels like dying, because
Liam is right there and this is weird, and Zayn really should not be
turned on by two of his best friends getting each other off but he‟s
drunk and he hasn‟t been laid in a long time and he‟s riding the sexual
frustration from being with Liam all night and Harry and Louis are both
fit and he‟s only human, all right?

“You‟re so fucking hot,” Harry mumbles, sounding drunker than ever,

and Louis practically fucking purrs at that, the vain bastard. Zayn‟s
trying not to look, honestly, he really is, but Louis leans in and drags
his tongue up Harry‟s throat and it‟s really, really hard to look away.
“Like that, babe?” Zayn sees Louis say against Harry‟s neck. He grinds
down hard, and the noise Harry makes in response is absolutely
pornographic. Louis‟ mouth drops open a little like even he wasn‟t
prepared for that one, and then he moves his mouth up to Harry‟s ear
and says, “Gonna fuck you as soon as we get home.”

258
There‟s a muffled clatter from Zayn‟s other side as Liam fumbles his
phone onto the floor of the cab. Zayn buries his face in his hands and
prays for deliverance.

The taxi drops them off at Louis‟ flat, and Zayn gives the driver an
extra ten pounds and a heartfelt apology before they all take on the
stairs, which is no small feat in their current state. Louis has got Harry
by the hand, and the instant they make it inside, he pulling Harry
toward the bedroom.

"Have you got a condom?" Louis mumbles to Harry, half-tripping over

a lamp table and not keeping his voice nearly low enough. "We used
the last—"

"Do we need one?" Harry interrupts impatiently. Zayn is very thankful

they're almost to the bedroom, because this conversation is far beyond
anything that needs to be public knowledge. Louis stumbles to a stop
momentarily to squint at Harry, like maybe he's seeing two of him and
he's trying to pick out which one is the real one. "I haven't—not with
anyone else," Harry says. "Have you?"

Louis grabs a fistful of Harry's shirt and says, "I haven't wanted to fuck
anybody else since I met you."

There's a full second in which Harry looks absolutely gobsmacked, and

then he says, quite eloquently, "Fuck," and Louis grins and yanks him
into the room and slams the door behind them.

“Wait for it,” Niall says, holding up one finger. He counts backwards
silently, mouthing three, two, one—
As if on cue, distorted guitar comes flooding from Louis‟ bedroom
stereo through the wall, the bass turned up so loud that it rattles the
dishes in the kitchen cabinets.

“God, The Weeknd? Really?” Zayn says. “Does Louis even know who
that is?”

259
“Harry makes their sex playlists,” Niall tells him, pulling one of the
pillows off the couch and throwing it on the floor before flopping down
on top of it. “He asked me for suggestions once.”

“Why didn‟t he ask me?” Zayn says, pouting.

“Because he doesn‟t want to fuck to Drake on vinyl,” Niall says. He‟s

kicked back with his hat pulled down over his face, so he doesn‟t see
the face Zayn makes at him.

“I like Drake,” Liam chimes in. “I like Usher better, though. Mostly his
slow jams.”

Niall extends a fist for Liam to bump it and says something

appreciative followed by something about mixtapes, but Zayn is busy
trying very, very hard to process that input in this context without
curling into a ball on the floor.

He fetches a six pack of beers out of Louis‟ refrigerator instead. And so

The Weeknd plays on, and Niall orders a pizza, and they all stay up for
another hour drinking and talking about pointless things while Harry
and Louis fuck in the next room, and it‟s completely ridiculous, but
somehow it still feels natural, like this was always going to happen
anyway. Maybe that‟s just because he‟s drunk.

A stray thought about his novel strikes him as he watches Niall try to
goad Liam into shotgunning a can of Coke. A band, he think. Not
singers. The book should be about a band. He hopes he can remember it
when he sobers up.
He passes out on the couch, and when he wakes up in the morning,
Harry is cooking everyone pancakes in his underwear with bruises on
his knuckles and love bites all over.

“Not a bad night,” Harry says, smiling sleepily at Zayn. He gestures

with his spatula to where Liam is curled up against the opposite arm
rest, fast asleep.

260
Zayn smiles back. “Nah, not bad.”

261
262
 ELEVEN

It all starts with an offhand comment while Louis is lying dazed on his
living room floor, his brain a mess of post-orgasm delirium.

“That was fun,” he says to no one in particular. He feels like he may

have rugburn in the morning.

“Yeah?” Harry says, rolling onto his side to perch his chin on Louis‟
chest. Harry came first this time, so he‟s had more time to recover.

“Yeah,” Louis says sleepily. “It‟s fun with you.”

It‟s something he‟d probably never say in his right mind, but he‟s too
sapped of energy to care at the moment.

“Good,” Harry says.

Louis reaches up and tangles his hand in Harry‟s hair, scratching lazily
against his scalp. Harry smiles, closing his eyes and leaning into the
touch.

“It‟s been a long time since I had fun with this, actually,” Louis
comments.

Harry frowns without opening his eyes. “Why?”

263
“I don‟t know,” Louis says. He can feel his eyelids getting heavy, and
he gives up all hope of making it to the bed. He‟ll deal with the back
pain later. “Just stopped trying, I guess.”

It‟s just a small admission in a moment when his guard is down. He

doesn‟t mean anything by it, honestly, but he should have known that
Harry would take it as a personal challenge.

He‟s sitting in his classroom a few days later, engrossed in a book

while his students take an exam, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
It‟s a text message from Harry, and he smirks a little at the screen when
he reads it.

can‟t wait to see you later sweetcheeks :) let‟s order food and stay in,
i‟m feeling toppy today x

It‟s not unusual at all for Harry to get a bit suggestive in the texts he
sends Louis while he‟s working. He likes it, actually, likes the thought
of Harry sitting in the studio at school waiting for his prints to dry,
typing cheeky things to Louis while surrounded by other students.
Louis‟ own students are currently absorbed in their exams, too
intimidated by his ironclad anti-cheataing policy to let their eyes stray
far.

He thumbs open the reply box.

are you? ;) x

He puts his phone back down on the desk and returns to his reading.
The minutes pass quietly, and Louis is so distracted by his book that he
almost misses Harry‟s reply when it comes. He opens up the message
with the hand that‟s not holding his page, skims it, and promptly
knocks over his tea.

gonna fuck you while you suck on my fingers like you don‟t know if
you‟d rather have my cock in your arse or your mouth xxxxx

264
Louis swears under his breath, scrambling for stash of fast food napkins
in his desk drawer as his entire class looks up to see what the
commotion is.

“Sorry!” he says, voice higher than usual. “Minor tea disaster! Finish
your exams!”

He makes a frantic sort of shooing motion at them and starts trying to

mop up his tea before it soaks through all the papers on his desk,
mentally cursing the day that Harry Styles was born as he goes. When
he‟s satisfied the situation is contained, he pulls the message up again
and types out a reply without daring to glance up to reread.

harold pls

That night they order in Thai and Harry makes good on his promise,
fucking Louis into the mattress with two fingers in Louis‟ mouth. It‟s
good, and it‟s fun, and Louis realises that Harry‟s doing this on
purpose. He‟s trying make things fun.

It‟s a realisation that makes his heart do weird things in his chest when
he‟s lying in bed that night, and he can‟t afford to let himself think
about it too deeply. He can deal with it as long as it‟s a game, like the
two of them running up and down the pitch at midnight. He can handle
competition. Hell, he‟s good at it. And he is not about to let this
incident go, for lack of a better word, untopped.

He plans his next move carefully, choosing a home football match that
he knows Harry‟s been anticipating for weeks. He‟s been to enough
games by now to know exactly when to make his way down the stands,
when the team has cleared out of the locker room for good to finish
warming up before the game starts while Harry is the only one left
inside.

Harry looks up from his clipboard when he hears the door open and
smiles when he sees that it‟s Louis. Louis had been counting on that,
knowing that Harry is always so pleased when Louis comes to his

265
matches that he‟d never suspect nefarious purposes. Sometimes he
thinks his line of work underutilises his specific skill set. Maybe he‟d
be better suited for war strategizing, or professional chess. Sexy, sexy
chess.

“Hello,” Harry says. “Come to wish me luck?”

Without further ado, Louis knocks the clipboard out of his hands,
shoves him back into the lockers, and wipes the smile off his face.

The kiss is rough, dirty, and Louis knows he‟s caught Harry completely
off his guard by the way his hands cling helplessly to his shoulders.
Harry‟s mouth is open in shock, and Louis takes advantage and pushes
his tongue inside. Harry makes a noise high in his throat and kisses him
back, ever the quick study, and Louis doesn‟t waste any time, grinding
his hips hard against Harry‟s. They make it another minute, all tongues
and teeth and hips, and then he feels Harry already half-hard against
him and starts unfastening his trousers.

“Louis,” Harry says, turning his head away from the kiss. It turns out to
be a grave mistake on his part, because Louis uses the opportunity to
move his mouth to that place on the side of Harry‟s neck that he knows
drives him absolutely mad. “Louis,” he says again. He‟s trying so hard
to keep himself together, but his hands are tugging on Louis‟ hair in a
way that means he wants him everywhere but off. “I‟ve got to be out
there, like, now.”

“I know,” Louis says. He leans up and kisses Harry again, biting down
on his lip as he finishes undoing his trousers.

Harry breaks off, face flushed. “What are you doing?”

“I‟m living out every changing room fantasy I‟ve ever had,” Louis
says, and then he‟s on his knees, and he knows Harry can‟t say no, not
when he puts it like that.

266
He makes it last long enough that Harry‟s swearing at him and bucking
shamelessly into his mouth, too hot for it to stop but desperate to finish
before the game starts. Every time Louis can tell Harry‟s about to
come, he pulls off and kisses him, letting him taste himself as he
growls and whines for Louis to please, God, almost there, you fucking
bastard. When he finally does come, it slams out of him, leaving him
boneless and dazed and barely able to support himself against the
lockers.

Louis just wipes his mouth politely on his sleeve, drops a chaste kiss on
Harry‟s slack mouth, and strolls toward the door.

“Good luck!” he tosses over his shoulder cheerfully, and then he‟s
gone.

He takes the steps up the stands two at a time, feeling supremely

pleased with himself as he settles back down into his seat. When Harry
jogs out onto the field a few minutes later, he‟s only a little red around
the cheeks, hair damp on the back of his neck in a way that only Louis
could see for what it really is. The head coach doesn‟t tell him off for
being late, but he doesn‟t look happy about it either. Harry glances up
to the stands, and Louis waves pleasantly to him.

He‟s definitely, definitely going to pay for this one later. But it was
worth it.

His time of reckoning comes a week later. They‟ve both got to go to

some faculty retreat on a Saturday, mostly just a four-hour seminar on
grade scales and team building in the reception hall of some hotel. It‟s
boring as hell, but at least Harry and Zayn and Niall are there too, and
there‟s a free buffet at their lunch break, so he can‟t complain. Harry
wanders off while Louis is busy piling food onto his plate, and he‟s just
tucking into his fish filet when his phone goes off.

The screen announces it‟s a call from Harry, and Louis furrows his
brow, wondering what reason Harry could have possibly found to call
him since he last saw him five minutes ago.

267
“Hi,” Harry says when Louis answers. Louis can hear his voice echoing
faintly and knows he must be in the men‟s room, which, what the hell.

“Can I help you?” Louis says, rolling his eyes.

“Dunno, it depends,” Harry tells him. “What are you wearing?”

“Are you serious?” Louis says a bit too loud, and half the table full of
teachers turns to look at him. He switches gears, trying to play it off as
some kind of professional phone call. “I believe you already know the
answer to that question.”

“Too many clothes, that‟s what,” Harry says, voice slung low, and
Louis bites down on the pulse of heat that sends through him.
“Although I do appreciate the way your arse looks in those trousers.”

He purses his lips, keeping his face resolutely neutral. “Thank you.”

“You look so gorgeous today, Lou,” Harry continues. “Makes me

wanna put my mouth all over you.”

“I‟m, uh,” Louis stammers, and Zayn is definitely staring at him across
the table now like he knows something isn‟t on. “I‟m not sure that‟s
feasible at this moment in time.”

“Wish I could be sucking you off right now,” Harry says. “I love
having your cock in my mouth.”

Louis swallows. “The feeling is mutual, I‟m sure.”

“I love it when you pull my hair when I‟m going down on you,” Harry
goes on. He‟s speaking the way he always speaks, long and loose and
impossibly slow, and it‟s nearly unbearable when he‟s saying things
like that. “I love it when you come down my throat. I love it when you

268
fuck my mouth, and then the next day my lips are all red and my voice
is shot and everyone can tell what I‟ve been up to.”

Louis can feel his face burning at this point, and he has to close his
eyes for a moment to compose himself, silently praying to whatever
cruel god controls his life for his erection to go back down just as fast
as it came up. He clears his throat. “Is that so,” he chokes out.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “God, I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

“I‟m sure, ah,” Louis says, crossing his legs uncomfortably, “I‟m sure I
could fit you in at some point.”

“Jesus,” Zayn groans, pushing his chair out and walking off to the
buffet. Louis wants to crawl under the table and die.

“I bet you‟re hard right now,” Harry is saying on the other end of the
line. “I bet you‟re sitting there in front of everyone thinking about
letting me fuck you, and you‟re so hard in your posh trousers that all
you want is for me to tell you to come in here so I can suck your cock.
That what you want me to do, Lou?”

Louis is seriously going to throw himself in front of a train. “Yes.”

“Hmm,” Harry says, “too bad.”

And then he hangs up.

Louis just stares at his phone for a full minute, unable to deal with what
just happened to him. Ambushed by phone sex. Phone sex ambush.
Public phone sex ambush, in front of everyone he works with. If he
lives through this, he is going to make Harry wish he hadn‟t.

269
Harry comes bouncing back up to the table a minute or two later,
smiling like an innocent little cherub as if nothing at all has happened.

“Hi!” he says, dropping down into the seat next to Louis and slapping
his upper thigh in a way that he must known is excruciating. “Did you
miss me?”

And, yeah, he is an absolute shit, and Louis wants to throw his drink at
him or brain him with a dessert plate, but mostly he just really, really
wants to have sex with him. It‟s almost annoying how nothing ever
tops how much he likes Harry, how much he wants to touch him and be
around him and make him laugh. And fuck him. That too.

Louis suffers through the rest of the day by spending as much time with
Zayn and Niall as possible, but it‟s all he can think about, a constant
recording of everything Harry said playing on loop in his head. At the
end of the day, it‟s finally just the two of them while Louis gives him a
ride back to his flat. Louis makes it about ten minutes out with Harry
sitting in the passenger seat singing along to the radio before he snaps
and pulls over into some isolated back alley.

He doesn‟t even give Harry a chance to ask what he‟s doing, just
unbuckles his seatbelt and leans across the console and yanks Harry
into a punishing kiss.

He breaks off quickly, finding his patience at its absolute end.

“Get. In. The back.”

Harry complies without hesitation, thankfully, and they have sex in the
backseat even though Harry‟s too tall for Louis‟ tiny car and Louis‟ too
worked up to last long. There‟s a late February chill in the air, and by
the time Harry comes, the windows are all so fogged from their body
heat that Louis can‟t even see through them. Harry laughs and draws a
smiley face on the glass, and Louis feels younger than he has in years.

270
It goes on like that for weeks, the two of them competing to see who
can come up with something better or dirtier or more ridiculous. Louis
retaliates for the phone sex by surprising Harry with a blowjob while
he‟s on the phone with Gemma, and the next day while they‟re at
school late afterhours putting the first coat of paint on some of the set,
Harry strips him down right there on the newspapers and leaves green
and yellow handprints on his back. It escalates, one thing after another,
desks and bathrooms and emails Louis has to delete as soon as he reads
because they‟re too filthy to risk anyone else seeing them. Louis knows
he‟s being reckless, but most of the time he‟s enjoying himself too
much to care, and when Harry laughs as he comes, it‟s hard to think
about what could go wrong.

It‟s the parts in between, though, that are really starting to get to him.
Zayn‟s been his best friend for years, but there‟s this other space that
Harry fills in that‟s just as close. With the exception of one time when
Louis finds out what having a grope in a supply closet is really like,
Louis‟ free period is still an hour of ribbing and laughing and Harry
forcefully importing Beyonce‟s entire discography into his iTunes.
Some days they don‟t have sex at all. Sometimes they only touch each
other in little brushes or slaps, only smile at each other over curry.
Some nights they just fall asleep on the sofa halfway through whatever
they‟re watching, Louis exhausted from work and rehearsals and Harry
catching up for how early he always has to get up for class.

One day Harry has to shoot some landscapes for a project, so they take
a day trip to a beach a few hours away, Harry riding along with his
hand out the window. Louis half expects him to turn it into some kind
of mad road trip sex extravaganza, but it turns out to be just the two of
them and huge skies and the Beatles on the radio. They leave their
shoes in the car and walk up and down the beach barefoot, just talking,
and then Harry gets out his camera and Louis gets to watch him at
work. Harry‟s always taking pictures, but usually they‟re just for
himself, just because he wants to. This is Harry really getting serious,
lining up his shots carefully, a little crease of concentration between his
eyebrows, and it‟s kind of fascinating. Louis sits on the rocks and
watches, happy to be there and to be with Harry. They swagger back
the the car as the sun sets with their arms around each other, and Louis
kisses him then, because he‟s only human and Harry looks sunned and
glorious and made to be kissed.

271
There are days like that, days when Louis is so happy that he feels like
his guard is starting to slip. He tries to hold that feeling down with both
hands, but it‟s not easy. More than once he contemplates skiving off for
the day and calling a supply teacher so he can surprise Harry at school,
thinking of how nice it might be to sit under the trees with Harry‟s head
in his lap. He catches himself in a moment of weakness looking at
toothbrush racks with space for two toothbrushes instead of one, and he
abandons his shopping in the middle of the aisle and takes himself
home immediately.

The game continues, though. At some point, sometime after the time in
the bathroom of Zayn‟s flat and the heavy petting behind the science
building, there are a few days of quiet, and Louis thinks maybe it‟s
finally over. He‟s almost grateful, because he‟s supposed to be getting
his cast off-book by the end of the week, and it‟s getting harder to
concentrate on things that aren‟t Harry.

He should have known better than to let his guard down, though. He‟s
in the middle of a rehearsal when a text from Harry comes in, and he
knows he should probably ignore it, but he can‟t.

got a surprise for you when you get home ;) xxx

It‟s not the first time Harry‟s let himself in and waited for Louis to get
out of rehearsal. Harry can‟t always be there to help, and besides, he
technically isn‟t needed for when they‟re just running through scenes
and songs, so it‟d probably start to look a bit off if he kept showing up
just to hang around Louis. Louis started keeping a spare key under the
mat a few weeks ago, since rehearsals have started running later as it
gets closer to opening night. He knows, logically, that it would be
easier to just give Harry a key, but he knows what that kind of gesture
means and he just. Can‟t do that.

Louis texts him back, keeping an eye on his Rizzo as she walks through
her choreography.

i‟ve got a few more hours here, sorry :( x

272
It‟s past ten by the time he gets everything sorted and locked up, and
the drive home seems to last forever. He makes himself take the steps
up to his flat at a normal pace, forcing down the anxiousness ringing in
his ears. Harry knew what he was doing when he sent that message,
knew it was going to wind Louis up, and this is a game, after all. Louis
intends to win, whatever that means.

He hesitates for a second at the door, unsure of how to prepare himself,

before finally letting himself in.

There, on his sofa, is Harry, watching telly and slouching over a bag of
crisps, wearing a French maid costume.

Louis just stands there in the doorway, staring at him.

“Hello,” Harry says casually, scratching his head. The frilly little
headband he‟s got on shifts a little in his curls. Louis is sleeping with
an idiot.

“Really?” is all Louis can say.

“I was dusting earlier, but you took too long and I got bored,” Harry
tells him. He shoves another crisp into his mouth and stretches. “I guess
you win this round.”

Louis buries a laugh in his hand. “Where did you even get that?”

“Already had it,” Harry says with a shrug, and he would. Louis should
have known. If anybody has got a French maid costume stored in their
wardrobe for no good reason, it‟s Harry. “Fancy dress party a couple of
years ago. It was quite the hit.”

Louis rolls his eyes and drops his bag by the door before wandering
into the kitchen. Harry follows him without purpose, leaning against
the fridge, watching Louis get a kettle ready.

273
He looks at Harry standing there in his kitchen, scratching his stomach
through his absurd costume, and he wonders if he‟s losing his mind,
because it actually looks good on him. The plunging neckline is
obviously meant for cleavage, but on Harry it just draws the eye to the
lines of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, the hard planes of his
chest. The corseted waist makes his shoulders look impossibly broad
and his torso look even more impossibly long, tapering down to narrow
hips and the slim sway of his back. He‟s far too tall for the skirt so it
barely covers half of his arse in the back, and Louis can see lacy white
knickers underneath.

Harry catches him looking and winks, cocking one hip out to the side,
which, wow, nope.

Louis turns away with a shake of his head, reaching for a mug. “Are
you just going to keep that thing on all night?”

“Why?” Harry purrs in his best mock-sexy voice. He bends over and
plants his hands on the kitchen table, arching his back and thrusting his
arse up in the air like he‟s posing for a pin-up. “Do you like it?”

And God help him, yes, he does like it. He has no fucking clue why,
but for some reason that tiny bit of white lace on Harry‟s football-toned
arse is doing things for him that it really shouldn‟t be. But more than
that, he likes Harry, unbelievable Harry who put that thing on because
he knew it would make Louis laugh. Louis‟ never really had somebody
like Harry in his life, someone who just likes to make him happy and
stops at nothing to do so, who gives him things like this. Part of him
wonders if this is where the two sides come together, if this is where
sex and whatever you call the other thing between them overlap into
something bigger, if that‟s what‟s been happening all along.

“Maybe I do,” Louis says.

Harry lowers his lashes, playing exaggeratedly coy. “Then why don‟t
you do something about it?”

274
Louis looks at him, at his pink lips and his legs that go on for days, and
he knows that Harry‟s won.

Harry watches as he takes his glasses off and leaves them on the
counter, and then Louis‟ moving forward and Harry‟s turning to meet
him and they snap together like gravity. It‟s always like that with the
two of them, push and pull until things line up just right. He can feel
Harry smirking against his lips, and Louis bites down on it until
Harry‟s mouth falls open and he can get his tongue inside.

He pushes Harry backwards by the shoulders and follows with his own
body, laying him out flat on his back across the table. One of Harry‟s
legs comes up to hook around him, and Louis reaches up to hold
Harry‟s hands above his head, keeping him pinned with hands and
mouth and hips. Harry uses his leg to leverage his body up into Louis,
rolling his hips, and Louis bites off a kiss to swear into the side of
Harry‟s neck.

Not to be outdone, Louis shoves one hand under Harry‟s skirt—Harry‟s

skirt, honestly, this is going into the Louis Tomlinson Sex Hall of Fame
as the most ludicrous fucking thing he has ever been turned on by—and
wraps it around Harry‟s cock. He‟s more than halfway hard, trapped
inside the thin material of the knickers, and he moans around Louis‟
tongue at the touch.

Harry kisses him like he always does, like it was his plan all along, and
Louis finds that it still hasn‟t gotten any easier to handle. He‟s not quite
sure how Harry, flat on his back in a ruffly outfit, manages to make him
feel like he‟s the one completely out of control. He moves his hand up
higher, flattening his palm over Harry‟s stomach before reaching into
the knickers to stroke him properly. The damp lace rubs against the
inside of his wrist as his hand moves, and Harry‟s grinding his hips in
earnest now, matching Louis‟ pace.

This is good, but he wants more, wants Harry begging and filthy, wants
to make him feel something he‟s never felt before. He wants to do
things he hasn‟t wanted in so long, and it scares him, but he wants it so
badly.

275
He pulls his hand out of Harry‟s ridiculous skirt and steps back, and
Harry makes a noise of confused disapproval before Louis grabs his
shoulders.

“Thank God,” Harry says, letting Louis turn him around, and Louis still
can‟t quite get over how eager Harry always is for him. He widens his
stance, letting Louis‟s knees fit between his, and that would be it for
Louis if he didn‟t already have something else in mind. Instead, he
smooths a hand over the silk covering Harry‟s hip and down the side of
one thigh, then sinks to his knees.

“What‟re you—” Harry starts, looking over his shoulder, but Louis
presses his mouth against the lace fabric of the knickers and Harry‟s
voice dies in his throat.

“Trust me,” Louis says, and Harry is bent over Louis‟ kitchen table
wearing a damn French maid costume, but somehow when he nods in
response, for a moment the look in his eyes manages to be completely
serious.

Louis pulls his eyes away from Harry‟s, focusing on pushing the skirt
up and hooking his thumbs around the top of the knickers. The lace
feels so delicate under his fingers, and Louis can‟t make sense of why it
turns him on so much. Maybe it‟s just that almost nothing about Harry
is delicate, not even the curling corners of his mouth or the way he
looks when he wakes up in the morning. He‟s all boy limbs and wild
hair and heavy eyelids, but then there‟s these frilly knickers and there‟s
that look of trust in his eyes and Louis doesn‟t know what else to do
but give him everything he can.

He tugs the knickers down just far enough and drags his fingertips over
the exposed skin, feeling goosebumps rise under his touch. He can feel
the tension in Harry‟s muscles, the anxious restraint of waiting for
Louis to close the space between them, and Louis wonders if anyone‟s
ever done this for Harry before. He hasn‟t done it himself in years, not
since the first boy he ever fell in love with. He hasn‟t wanted to do it
since, but he wants to do it to Harry. God, he wants it.

276
He leans in and ghosts his mouth over Harry‟s balls first, because that‟s
safe, they‟ve done that before. Harry shivers at the heat of Louis‟
breath, so close but not quite touching him yet, and when Louis finally
presses his lips against the sensitive skin there, he can hear Harry
swallow a small whine. It‟s getting to him, Louis can tell, the
anticipation of what he‟s about to do, and Louis can‟t suppress a grin at
that. This round may go to him after all

The first time his tongue makes contact with Harry‟s skin, he can feel it
roll all the way down Harry‟s spine. His hands move from Harry‟s
thighs back up to his arse as he works with the flat of his tongue, and,
fuck, he knew Harry had a thing for his mouth, but his hips are already
shifting restlessly and Louis hasn‟t even gotten to the good part yet.

He drags the tip of his tongue up with agonizing precision, spreading

Harry apart with his thumbs, until finally, finally he hits his destination.
Harry gasps and swears at the same time, a breathless, shuddering fuck,
and Louis slides his tongue over the spot again, teasing.

“Jesus,” Harry grinds out, and Louis can tell how much it‟s costing him
to just stand there and take it. “Lou.”

Louis keeps moving, palming the swell of Harry‟s arse as he draws

circles with his tongue. He can tell by the way Harry can‟t stop
squirming that this has to be his first time, and that just gets Louis even
hotter, knowing nobody else has ever made him feel this way. This is
his. He darts his tongue out and just barely breaches him, and Harry‟s
hand slams down hard on the table, a groan tearing out of his throat.

Part of him wants to make Harry talk again, wants to listen while he
tells him exactly what he‟s feeling, but the fact that Harry hasn‟t said
anything else in minutes is doing enough for him. He glances up for a
moment and Harry‟s got his chin tucked against the lace ruffles on the
shoulder of his stupid costume, turned as much toward Louis as he can
manage, hair falling in his face and his mouth moving wordlessly. The
realisation that Harry can‟t, physically can‟t say anything goes straight
to his dick.

277
He starts working Harry open with his tongue, feeling himself getting
harder with every pleading noise out of Harry‟s mouth. He slides one
finger up alongside his tongue, swirling it through the wetness there
before pressing in gently. Harry pushes back into it, desperate for
something more, and Louis slides his tongue farther inside.

His own spit is enough to get Harry started, but he‟s going to need
more than that if they‟re going to really get anywhere. He leans back
just far enough to open the rubbish drawer and snag the tube of lube in
there, popping it open and skipping right over the part where he
wonders how he got to the point in his life where it‟s necessary to keep
lube in every room of his flat.

Harry watches over his shoulder, and Louis makes deliberate eye
contact with him as he slicks his fingers. It‟s killing him, Louis knows,
not being able to touch him at all, to have to hold himself back. Louis
thinks about teasing him again this time, but he knows he can‟t. He‟s
too far gone now.

He pushes two fingers inside, fast and easy, and Harry‟s hips jolt
forward at the sudden fullness. Harry‟s already pretty slick, and Louis
knows it‟s not going to take much longer to get him ready, can already
feel his body giving him more room to work with. It‟s just as well,
because Louis‟ still fully clothed and he can feel his shirt starting to
stick to his back and if his cock doesn‟t get some attention soon he‟s
probably going to die. He works in a third finger and sets a quick
rhythm, and Harry rocks back into it, angling his hips so that Louis‟
fingers drag across the right spot every time.

“Lou,” Harry says, finally finding his voice again, “please, Lou, I
wanna touch you.”

Louis closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath, and slides his fingers
out.

“Get down here, then.”

278
The last thin cord of Harry‟s self-control snaps at his words, and
suddenly he‟s being knocked backwards, Harry‟s hands coming up to
fist in the back of his hair as he crushes their mouths together. He lands
sprawled on his back with Harry straddling his hips, and he‟s been in
this position before, but he never really imagined it would happen again
on his kitchen floor with Harry dressed as a French maid. Harry sits up,
dragging his hands down to Louis‟ chest and sliding his braces off his
shoulders. His headband is hanging off the right side of his head.

“You look ridiculous,” Louis says.

Harry just smiles down at him and, God, Louis doesn‟t remember how
to want anything else. “Only for you,” he says.

He bends and kisses Louis again, making it last while he tugs Louis‟
shirttails out and gets the buttons undone. Neither of them really have
the patience to get Louis all the way out of his shirt, so Harry just
leaves it open and switches his attention to getting his trousers out of
the way. He manages to deal with the fastenings without taking his
tongue out of Louis‟ mouth, but then he pulls back just as he‟s about to
get his pants down.

“Er, hang on,” Harry says, getting clumsily to his feet. Louis is about to
protest when he‟s confronted with the sight of the knickers sliding
down Harry‟s long legs and he decides that he should probably just
shut up forever. Harry steps out of them and kicks them off to the side
before climbing back down on top of Louis, bare arse settling on Louis
thighs, and Louis has never hated trousers so much in his life.

Harry finds Louis‟ waistband again, and Louis feels like he could cry
from relief when Harry‟s hand finally closes around him. Harry gives
him a couple of rough jerks just to tease, and Louis figures he probably
deserves that much, but then he‟s lifting his arse up to pull Louis‟
trousers and pants down farther and Louis feels the cool tiles under his
skin.

279
Harry reaches behind them and extracts the lube from under the table,
wasting no time before slicking Louis up. Neither of them are going to
last long, and they both know it. Louis‟ just glad Harry‟s already open
and ready, because he needs to be inside of him, like, right now. Harry
lifts himself up and takes a hold of Louis‟ cock, and Louis grabs onto
his thighs to steady him.

“Ready?” Harry says, looking him straight in the eyes.

Louis digs his fingers into Harry‟s skin. “Yeah.”

Harry sinks down in one continuous, controlled motion, eyes shut and
mouth hanging open as Louis slides into him. It‟s so good, that first
tight push and then the smooth heat after, and Louis wants to throw his
head back and let the feeling take over but he can‟t tear his eyes away
from Harry. He sees the moment when he hits that spot inside of him,
sees Harry‟s breath hitch and his chest strain at the silk, and then he
bottoms out and Harry‟s arse hits his thighs.

They stay like that for a moment, Harry‟s hands braced on Louis‟ chest
and Louis trying to catch his breath, and then Harry rolls his hips, and
every nerve in Louis‟ body flashes white hot.

It‟s frantic after that, both of them swearing and gasping and moving
together. Louis‟ hands move from Harry‟s thighs to Harry‟s arse,
sliding up under the skirt and guiding him to meet each thrust. Harry
leans back, supporting himself on hands, and the view is something
Louis knows he‟ll never forget as long as he lives, the long line of
Harry‟s body and the muscles in his shoulders, black silk and white
lace and the way his throat moves every time Louis pushes back in. He
can‟t actually see the place where their bodies meet, blocked by
Harry‟s skirt, but somehow that makes it even better.

He can feel his orgasm starting to build low in his gut, and he wants
Harry with him, wants them to tip over the edge together. He shifts one
of his hands off of Harry‟s arse and brings it around to the front, and
when he grabs his cock, Harry jerks forward, body curling over Louis

280
in a tight arc. He sinks his fingernails into Louis‟ shoulders as Louis‟
hand moves under the skirt.

“Close,” Harry pants, dropping his head down to kiss Louis‟ neck
messily. “So close, Lou.”

“Come on,” Louis says, and it‟s too much, he can‟t make it any longer,
can‟t feel Harry tight around him and wet on his throat and hard and
heavy in his hand any more, “come on, Haz.”

He gives his wrist one more twist and Harry goes tense and it hits them
both at the same time. Louis‟ hips buck up off the floor and he comes
with a shout, and Harry‟s right there with him, face buried in his
shoulder.

It feels like it takes them ages to come back down. When Louis‟s brain
starts functioning again, he realises that Harry has collapsed on top of
him. He knows this not just because of the weight and the feeling of
wet silk sticking to his stomach, but because there is a doily headband
poking him in the face.

“That,” Louis says finally, lying on the kitchen floor mostly clothed
with a grown man wearing a French maid costume in a sex coma on his
chest, “was unexpected.”

“You‟re telling me,” says Harry‟s voice from somewhere in the vicinity
of his shirt collar. Harry moves at last, rolling off of Louis and onto the
floor next to him. He stretches his legs out and smiles at the ceiling like
he‟s content with the cosmos. “Lacy knickers. Duly noted.”

“Shut up,” Louis says.

They manage to get up eventually, after few more minutes on the floor
trying to summon up the energy to move. Harry pulls the dress off over
his head and Louis shucks his clothes the rest of the way off and they

281
leave it all in a pile on the bathroom floor. They shower and brush their
teeth together and then Louis turns off the lights and they fall into bed.

It‟s been a month or so since Harry started sleeping over like this, and
it‟s not like it was something Louis had ever planned on. He just
remembers one night in his bed, fucked out and happy and tucked up
warm against Harry‟s chest, hearing himself say, “Stay.” And Harry
did.

Tonight, Harry presses a soft, minty kiss to his lips and settles in
behind him, and Duchess curls up between their feet. Louis realises as
he feels Harry‟s body relax into sleep against him that he has no idea
which of them is winning.

282
 TWELVE

All right, so maybe “complete fucking imbecile” was a bit harsh, and
maybe “if I wanted this kind of incompetence I‟d pay my fucking cat to
do it” had been a poor choice of words. Maybe Louis had gotten just a
little carried away. Really, though, Louis maintains that if the twat had
done his job in the first place it wouldn‟t even be an issue, so he‟s still
the victim in this case.

Regardless, the fact remains: it‟s two weeks before opening night of
Grease, Louis only has half of a set completed, and his set designer just
told him to go fuck himself.

This is not good. This is very, very bad.

He sends out a school-wide notice in the mid-morning announcements

that there‟s a mandatory cast and crew meeting in his classroom during
lunch period that day and spends the rest of the morning trying not to
lose his bloody mind. He concentrates on poring over the plans for the
set instead, writing down what‟s been done and what still needs to be
done, making list after list after list and praying to the gods of amateur
theater that his budget can handle this.

Finally lunch comes and everybody‟s piled in—even Harry and Zayn
and Niall standing up in the back—and he steps up to the front and
clears his throat.

283
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Louis says. “You‟re all
looking fresh-faced and lovely today.”

A laugh ripples through the crowd, and on the other side of the room
Harry flips his hair with a wink. Louis has to make a conscious effort
not to smile back at him. He‟s a professional, dammit.

“I‟m sure you‟re all curious as to why I‟m stealing your precious lunch
time away from you, so I‟ll get right to it,” Louis goes on. “I spoke
with Mr. Collins, our set designer, today. You may have noticed that he
has not quite been keeping up to the construction schedule.
Unfortunately, due to the fact that he is an incompetent idiot,” Louis
takes a breath before continuing, “he will no longer be working with
us.”

By the fact that nobody leaps out of their desk in sheer panic, Louis can
tell that no one in the room has any idea the magnitude of what this
means for them.

“Also unfortunately, I don‟t have anyone else to do this, so I am going

to be taking over as set designer as well,” Louis tells them, pacing in
front of his desk. “That means from here on out, if I‟m not in here, I‟ll
be in the theatre working on the set. Thankfully most of the biggest
structural pieces have already been built, but there is still a tremendous
amount of work to be done. So I‟m calling you lot in.”

He reaches down onto his desk and picks up the plans for the set,
rolling it out against the board and taping the corners up. He‟s got a
three dimensional model in the theatre, but this will do for now.

“I‟ve outlined the parts that are already completed in red,” Louis
explains, pointing to the different levels and platforms he‟s marked off.
“These bits have been built but not painted or dressed for the stage.
That‟s most of the big stuff. But then there‟s this.” He grabs a sheet of
paper off his desk and sticks it up on the board next to the plans,
dragging his finger down the page to show how much he‟s written on
it. “This is a list of everything else. We‟ve got a fair bit of prop

284
furniture already, but we still have windows to line and doors to hang
and a couple of fake cars to build, and then everything has to be painted
and dressed, front and back. On top of that, we‟re replacing two of the
lighting trusses, which is going to require a lot of lifting.”

Louis takes a step back, letting everything sink in for a moment before
pacing back in front of his desk. “We‟ve got two weeks until opening
night and one week until the set needs to be structurally complete so
that we can do blocking rehearsals and full run-throughs on it. We‟ve
got the plans, we‟ve got the materials, we‟ve got the manpower. I know
at least a few of you have taken enough wood tech to know how to
handle a nail gun without killing anyone. I hate to ask you all to do this,
but I need your help. I‟ve seen all of you at rehearsals. I know you care
about this play, and I know you want it to be great as much as I do. So,
what do we think? Show of hands? How many of you think you could
find time come in and work on the set?”

Louis raises his own hand and holds his breath, hoping for at least a
dozen who‟ll be willing to maybe give up an afternoon or two to help
out. What he gets instead are dozens of hands going up all over the
room, extras and leads and prop wranglers alike. And along the back of
the room, Harry and Zayn and Niall have got their hands in the air too.
He forgets sometimes, he guesses, that he‟s not all alone in this.

“Brilliant,” Louis says, beaming.

He pins a schedule and a signup sheet up by the door listing the times
and days that he‟ll be working, and everybody writes their names in on
the way out, filling up the pages with promises to help. He also
announces that even though they‟ve already got a nine-hour rehearsal
this Saturday, he‟s adding a set construction party on at the end of it.
Everyone seems to take the news in stride, bless them.

After rehearsal that night, he drives home alone, parting ways with
Harry in the carpark. Going home with Harry would only result in sex,
which probably would at least give him some of the relaxation he
sorely needs, but he needs to sleep more. Harry gives him puppy eyes
as he gets into his car, but Louis can tell his heart‟s not really in it.

285
Harry‟s dealing with a full courseload, working a job, and helping out
on the musical. He probably needs rest even more than Louis does.

Since sex is off the table—literally and figuratively—Louis makes do

with his next-best relaxation technique: wine and reality television. It‟s
stood by him for years now, and it won‟t fail him now. He settles into
his couch with a bottle of Shiraz, Duchess, and a stress headache that
ought to disappear once he gets two or three glasses in.

Louis‟ mobile rings while he‟s in the middle of screaming at the X

Factor. Normally this would be cause for him to ignore it, but when he
checks the screen it‟s Stan calling, which means Stan‟s in the middle of
doing the exact same thing.

He picks up the call and shouts “Are you seeing this shit?” down the
line, foregoing any normal greeting.

“I‟m seeing it, but I don‟t fucking believe it!” Stan yells back. “She was
the best thing this show has seen in years, there‟s no way she could
have gotten voted off. No fucking way.”

“Not unless this country is even stupider than I thought,” Louis says,
picking his wine glass up off the table and taking a long drink. “This is
bullshit.”

“Total bullshit,” Stan agrees. “God, I‟m not sure I‟ll even finish this
series now.”

Louis just laughs, watching the end credits roll. “Yeah, you will.”

Stan chuckles back. “Yeah, you‟re probably right. Still, I‟ll watch it
resentfully. If that bastard with the highlights wins I‟ll put a foot
through my telly.”

286
“Fine,” Louis says, leaning back on his couch. “But don‟t come crying
to me afterwards, asking me to record episodes of Top Gear for you.”

“On my honor,” Stan says. Louis can hear him take a bite of something
and chew it before he continues. “Well, Lou, since I‟ve conned you into
getting on the phone with me through the clever ruse of reality telly,
feel like updating me on your life? Which I know nothing about?”

Louis runs a hand through his hair and laughs at that. He can‟t deny it,
he‟s been busy as all hell since—well, as long as he can remember,
honestly, but especially lately. He can‟t remember the last time he and
Stan caught up, and he‟s quietly thankful for friends who take the time
to track him down when he wanders off.

“What do you want to know?” Louis asks, knowing that Stan will hear
the whoops, my bad, sorry I‟m a twat in his voice.

“What‟ve you got to say?” Stan replies, and Louis lies back on his
couch. It‟s gonna be a while.

He talks about his classes, telling stories of particularly horrendous

answers to exam questions and that time one girl fainted during an
improv exercise and no one realised she wasn‟t acting for about five
minutes. He talks about that awful week where his piece of shit car
broke down—again—and he had to face the horrors of public transport.
He talks about the play, and about Duchess, and about his mum. He
talks about Zayn, and Zayn‟s continuing pursuit of Liam, which Stan
supports for unfathomable reasons. He almost brings up the bar fight
incident, but then remembers how that particular fiasco started and
decides to leave it out.

He leaves Harry out entirely, actually, remembering Stan‟s searching

remarks at Christmas and knowing that his voice will give him away if
he brings him up at all. In fact, he‟s in the middle of silently
congratulating himself on his admirable self-censorship when Stan‟s
voice breaks his thoughts.

287
“So you‟re still seeing that Harry, then?”

Louis splutters and nearly knocks his wine to the ground. Only his
many years of couch-drinking experience save him. “What? How did—
what?”

“Well,” Stan says, “If you weren‟t, or if things had gone bad at all,
you‟d have spent this entire phone call complaining about it and
moaning about how you‟re right and love is dead and why won‟t
anyone listen to you, blah blah blah, kill me please. And you‟re not,
which means things must be good still, yeah?”

Louis winces to hear himself so concisely summed up. Is he really that

boring? “Yeah, things are still. Uh. Happening. Still feeling positive
about that whole situation.”

Stan snorts. “Well say hi to your „situation‟ for me then, yeah? You
should bring him „round to Doncaster sometime, I‟m sure your family
would love to meet him.”

“We‟re not really—we don‟t do that sort of stuff, really,” Louis says,
doing his damnedest not to think about Harry in his mother‟s kitchen.
“It‟s still a casual thing, if you can even call it a thing.”

“Well, whatever it is, or isn‟t, or however you‟re being stupid about it,
I‟m glad,” Stan says, with the sort of tired honesty that he‟s gotten
awfully good at over the years. “You sound really good, Lou. I mean
it.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, not really able to respond otherwise.

Other people he can brush off, but not Stan. Stan knows things, okay.
Especially about him. One day in sixth form Louis had shown up to
school and Stan had known Louis‟ cat had died without Louis even
telling him. It‟s freaky and probably the only way Louis actually knows
anything about himself.

288
And it‟s not just that, either. It‟s that Stan is probably the only person in
the world who knows every single part of Louis‟ life before he packed
up and ran from Doncaster, all the things between eighteen and twenty-
two that turned his insides dark and sour. He‟s probably the only
person who really, properly knows what it would mean for someone to
make Louis happy. He is the only person who really gets the
importance of that.

So if Stan thinks Harry is good for him, maybe there‟s something to it.

“Yeah,” Stan says. “I don‟t know, you sound more excited about your
life than I‟ve heard you in a long time. Getting laid by a very nice and
very fit young man probably helps with that, though I can‟t be sure.”

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs down the line, but, well. It‟s not like he‟s
wrong. “You sound good too, man, you have any secret people I should
know about?”

“Nah, I‟m still waiting for you to make an honest woman of me,” Stan
jokes, and Louis is never going to go this long without talking to him
again.

The two of them stay up talking until midnight, Louis making

occasional forays to the kitchen for things to snack on while he talks.
The rest of the conversation is made up mostly of ranting about things
on telly and inside jokes, most of which Louis couldn‟t explain to an
outsider if he tried, the kind of rambling conversation that goes on for
hours without anybody even noticing. It‟s nice, talking to Stan, because
he doesn‟t have to try. It‟s easy and it‟s just for the two of them. If he‟s
honest, being with Harry feels that way a lot of the time, and maybe
that‟s how it‟s so easy for Stan to pick up on whatever it is he has with
Harry—he already knows what Louis‟ like when he‟s comfortable with
someone.

He‟s in the middle of reliving some embarrassing thing that happened

to Stan when they were fourteen when his phone chimes against his ear,

289
and he switches to speaker so he can check the text that‟s just come in.
It‟s from Harry, and he feels himself smiling before he even opens it.

was just in the shower and almost slipped and killed myself because i
remembered that thing you said about avocados the other day and
couldn‟t stop laughing, just wanted to use this opportunity to remind
you that you‟re hilarious and i like you a lot and also that i am naked
right now ;) xx

Stan must hear the pleased sound he makes, because there‟s a knowing
tone to his voice when he asks, “Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Nope,” Louis says smugly, which is an answer in and of itself. Stan

just laughs, and Louis grins back even though Stan can‟t see him.

“Whatever you say, Lou,” Stan says. “All right, I‟m looking at the time,
and I should probably let you go so you can rest up for whatever fresh
hell you‟re gonna cause tomorrow.” Louis glances at his phone and
murmurs an assent. He hadn‟t realised how late it was. “It was really
good to talk to you,” Stan continues.

“Likewise,” Louis says, and means it. “And I promise I‟ll be less of a
shit and not leave it so long until we talk again.”

“You‟d better, you dick,” Stan says cheekily. He pauses then, and
Louis can hear him thinking. “And seriously, it‟s good to hear you
sounding so happy. Take care of yourself, Lou. Just, like, let yourself
be happy a little, yeah?”

“You‟re going soft on me, Stanley,” Louis says, but he‟s smiling.

“Shut up,” Stan says. “You‟re the worst.”

290
Louis hangs up laughing and pads into the bathroom to brush his teeth
and get ready for bed. Duchess is sitting on the counter next to the sink,
and she nuzzles her head into Louis‟ stomach.

“Hi, babe,” Louis says, rubbing his thumb between her ears. She purrs,
and Louis smiles, and when he looks up and sees his reflection in the
mirror, he almost doesn‟t recognize the person looking back at him.

The person looking back at him in that moment isn‟t miserable and
tired and tense. He‟s softer around the edges, warmer in the eyes,
happier. He looks younger, with shoulders that don‟t look so weighed
down. He looks good.

He thinks back to what Stan said, let yourself be happy a little, yeah?
and he thinks that if this is what Harry does to him, maybe he doesn‟t
need to be so scared. When he looks at it that way, from where he‟s
been lately, it‟s not so hard to see. Something that brings these old,
dusty parts of him out again for the first time in years can‟t be that bad,
right? This whole time he‟s been waiting for the other shoe to drop and
telling himself that as long as he keeps things under control it won‟t
hurt when Harry inevitably gets sick of him, but what if that doesn‟t
happen? What if Harry doesn‟t leave?

Louis closes his eyes and turns on the faucet, listening to the familiar
creaky pipes through the walls, and he decides to stop thinking for the
night.

Saturday rehearsals are always, always madness. There‟s some kind of

specific hysteria about a Saturday rehearsal, like summer camp and a
graveyard shift and cabin fever and musical theater all rolled up into
one big ball of crazy. He always looks forward to them even though
they‟re grueling, because it always feels good to get so much done at
once. And also they‟re madness, and there‟s always something

291
hilarious, and they all get to take a break halfway through to sit around
on the stage eating delivery pizza together.

Louis misses that about performing, the whole aspect of being a part of
the team. Technically the director is still part of the team, but there‟s
something about being a gear in the machine, something about the way
you connect with people when you‟re all on the same level trying to
create something together, that‟s just unlike anything else. He misses
feeling the kind of camaraderie that comes with late nights of marathon
rehearsals and performances in the middle of a bunch of your mates. He
misses being a part of something bigger than himself.

It‟s almost as good, though, to feel like he‟s giving that to his kids, so
he‟ll manage. Besides, he‟s got a job to do and a show to put on and a
goddamn set to finish.

The rehearsal is slated to last from nine in the morning to six in the
evening, which means Louis will have the kids for four hours before
he‟s no longer allowed by the school to keep them there. That‟s four
hours to get as much work as he possibly can done while he‟s got the
maximum amount of manpower. In addition to the cast and crew,
Niall‟s pulled some of the orchestra kids and Zayn‟s pulled some
strings with the art club and Harry‟s managed to sweet talk a few of the
footy boys who aren‟t already in the play. He wants to say that his
friends are independently incredible, but he‟s also offering free all-you-
can-eat pizza to everyone who comes to help, so he doesn‟t think the
students are acting solely out of the goodness of their hearts.

He pulls one of the orchestra kids aside at one point, one of the section
leaders, to thank them for helping out, and the curly-haired girl just
looks at him with confusion in her eyes. “He asked us to,” she says,
pointing at Niall. “He‟s a legend, we‟d do anything he asked.” Louis
makes a mental note to ask Niall how he can turn his students into good
little soldiers as well.

The one person who is acting out of the goodness of his heart is Liam,
who texted Zayn earlier in the week to tell him that he finally has a day
off this weekend and ask if Louis still needs his help. Zayn has been

292
anxious about it all week, though he‟s been surprisingly quiet. Louis
assumes he must just be dealing with it by writing odes to Liam‟s
compassionate soul in the moleskine he keeps inside his leather jacket
or something. He can only imagine what Zayn is going to do when
Liam shows up in the flesh that night, as was the agreed arrangement.

That‟s later, though, and for now Louis just needs to focus on the actual
rehearsal. He can use the prospect of laughing at Zayn as the carrot to
get him through what promises to be a very, very long day. The extra
help isn‟t supposed to arrive until six, but Harry, Niall, and Zayn will
be around all day trying to make as much progress on the set as they
can on their own while Louis oversees the rehearsal itself. They aren‟t
getting the costumes in until Monday, but at least he‟s had the whole
cast off-book for weeks and hardly anybody is tripping over themselves
during the dance numbers anymore. The play itself is looking great, and
he feels incredibly grateful for the cast and crew that he has. If he had
an extra pence in his budget, he‟d buy them a cake or something.

Right, then. Nine o‟clock. Louis heaves a sigh and abandons the prop
table he‟s been fussing over backstage.

As he steps out from behind the curtain, he surveys his domain. The pit
is full of Niall‟s orchestra minions warming up, bless their hearts. He
can‟t imagine that any of them care about him, particularly, but he‟s
pretty sure they‟d follow Niall to the gates of hell, and they‟ve turned
out in droves. If he shades his eyes, he can make out Niall and Harry in
the sound booth in the back, fiddling with the controls for the lights.
Zayn has a backdrop spread out on the floor and is setting out paint
cans and rollers. The cast and crew are milling about, looking half-
awake but at least present and alive, which is good. All goes according
to plan. Louis makes a contented noise and walks to center stage. Time
to go to work.

And, honestly, the rehearsal goes as smoothly as Louis could ask. It‟s
everything he remembers Saturday rehearsals to be, but his cast is just
so solid that even with all the chaos, he only has to correct them a few
times and for the most part can just let them get as many reps of the
show as they can fit in nine hours. He has to hand it to Stuart for taking
his assignment as male lead to heart and assuming leadership of the

293
cast, because his energy is infectious and he makes everyone around
him even better just from playing off of him. He‟s all over the place,
prompting lines when other actors drop them and helping Harry‟s
football lads when they‟re struggling with a complicated part of the
choreography. Louis sees him leading Mike Kendall through a
particularly complex set of steps and feels very proud indeed.

All the while, parts of the set are slowly coming together around them.
Harry and Niall have all the lighting trusses ready to go up as soon as
the stage is done being used for the day, and Zayn has finished a lot of
the basic painting and moved on to details and shading. He has Harry
somewhere backstage trying to finish up one of the prop cars now
while Niall is busy going over a few changes in the arrangements with
the band. It‟s coming together, and Louis hasn‟t caught his breath yet,
but he‟s starting to feel like they‟re really going to pull this off.

Zayn disappears around half five, and Louis finds him in the boys‟
dressing room, leaning into a mirror and fiddling frantically with his
hair. Right, he‟d almost forgotten. Liam‟s supposed to be arriving in
thirty minutes.

He leans in the doorway, watching the sad spectacle. “Preparing to

storm the beaches, babe?”

“Shut up,” Zayn says without even sparing him a glance.

“If he likes blokes I promise he already wants to fuck you,” Louis says,
and Zayn rolls his eyes, “and if he doesn‟t, the right hairstyle isn‟t
going to change his mind.”

Zayn purses his lips in the mirror. “It calms me down,” he says, turning
and brushing past him to the door. “And you know this isn‟t about
trying to fuck him. This is romance, Tommo.” He waggles his
eyebrows and then disappears backstage.

“If anybody shags on my set I‟ll have your balls, Malik!” Louis shouts
after him.

294
Hearing a soft gasp behind him, he turns to look at the shocked-looking
year ten who just walked out of the women‟s dressing room.
“Shouldn‟t you be in the orchestra pit? Go on,” he says, making
shooing motions with his hands. She scurries off with a squeak, looking
somewhat scandalised.

Louis wraps up rehearsal at six with a speech about how proud he is of

all of them and a fifteen minute break before divvying up projects
between the students and setting them to work on the set. A decent
number of Harry‟s boys show up, as well as more of Niall‟s orchestra
kids and Zayn‟s art club recruits, and altogether they have a pretty
sizable team. The artistically inclined kids get put on painting duty,
while anyone capable of lifting helps to get the lighting trusses
mounted and the rest are handed staple guns and hammers and
measuring tape.

Aside from the hour Zayn spends sulking after Liam texts that he got
called in unexpectedly and won‟t be able to come until later, it‟s a
productive night. Louis is feeling pretty confident by the time he
gathers the kids for one more “massive thank you” and dismisses them.

It doesn‟t last, though. Once the kids are gone and it‟s just the four of
them left, everything is open in front of them and it‟s clear to see how
fucking much they still have left to do. How is that even possible? How
can there still be so much left? Is this some kind of cosmic joke? Do
two more unfinished set pieces spring up every time they finish one?
Will it ever be done, or will he die of exhaustion and old age first? If
the prop cars were fully functional, Louis would be seriously
considering lying down in front of one and begging Harry to run him
over.

He looks at Zayn, who looks at Niall, who looks at Harry, who looks
back at him, and they all just sort of stand there, looking at the set. Just.
Looking at it.

“Shall I order more pizzas, then?” Niall says.

295
And that‟s how they wind up sprawled out on their backs an hour later,
half-eaten pizzas strewn all over the set and not a single inch of
progress since the kids left. Louis is lying across the soda bar they built
for the diner scenes with his head pillowed on a pile of fabric that needs
to be turned into curtains at some point. He may never move from this
spot.

Of course, it‟s then that the theatre doors swing open and the cavalry
arrives.

“Hello!” Liam announces, tromping up to the stage with a smile. “Sorry

I‟m so late!”

He‟s got on a plaid flannel over a white undershirt and work boots and
he looks fresh as the fucking morning dew. He‟s not wearing a tool
belt, but he does have a battered canvas and leather tool bag slung over
one shoulder. Zayn seems too exhausted to do more than turn an
unattractive shade of red and choke a little on his mouthful of pizza.

Louis sighs. He really was looking forward to giving Zayn shit all
night, but he‟s just not sure he has it in him anymore. He feels
exhausted and slightly inadequate just looking at Liam, and it‟s using
up the last of his energy.

Liam is standing in front of the stage now, smiling around at all of

them with his hands clasped in front of his chest. Nobody moves.

“Where d‟you want me to start?” he asks Louis.

“I don‟t know,” Louis says, more to the cosmos than to Liam himself.
“I don‟t even know.”

“Sorry,” Zayn says, having cleared the pizza from his windpipe.
“We‟ve been at it since nine this morning. We‟re a bit dead.”

296
“It looks great, though!” Liam says. He hops up on the stage, and this
close Louis can feel the energy radiating off of him. It hurts. “A few
more hours of work and it‟ll be done.” All four of them groan at that.

“Aw, come on,” Liam says. “It won‟t be that bad. We can make it fun!
Here, we‟ll start with this—” He walks over to an unfinished prop table
and picks up one side. “Niall, grab the other end, yeah? Niall?”

Niall just stares at him.

“Zayn, collect your person,” Louis says. Zayn just sort of flops an arm
out ineffectually.

“All right,” Liam says, dropping his bag on the stage and bending down
to unzip it. “I suspected this might be a problem. Luckily, we have a
way of dealing with this sort of thing in my line of work.”

Liam pulls a six pack of Red Bull out of his bag and plunks it down on
the stage in front of him.

Well. That‟s an interesting turn of events.

Several cans of Red Bull and forty-five minutes later, Louis has to
admit that he‟s caught a second wind. And a third. And a fourth. He‟s a
fucking tornado, actually, and so are the rest of them, hyped up on the
combination of chemicals and exhaustion and each others‟ energy.
Louis is half-heartedly trying to figure out the schematics for the set,
but it‟s pandemonium and Niall is literally in the rafters and there are
grease stains everywhere and Harry‟s throwing pizza at people.

“What a shot!” Louis says, manic in his announcer voice as a piece of

pizza collides with the side of Zayn‟s face. “Directly into the face of
Zayn Malik! Excellent form!” The slice slides off Zayn‟s face and
lands cheese side down on the floor. “And he sticks the landing! Oh,
that‟s gonna be a big score right there!”

297
“I‟d like to thank my mum,” Harry says, covering his heart with one
hand. Somewhere up above, Niall has starting singing God Save the
Queen. “And also Louis Tomlinson, whose arse has inspired me even
in my darkest times.”

“And here I thought it was my sparkling personality,” Louis says.

“Lou, there isn‟t a human alive with a personality that outdoes your
arse,” Harry says with a wink. “Sorry to disappoint.” Louis schools his
face into faux-disappointment before going for the nipple pinch,
pleased when Harry squeaks and smacks his hand away.

Louis looks around for another victim and spots Zayn at the side of the
stage, scrubbing the pizza sauce off his face with a napkin and sporting
a look on his face that‟s an equal mixture of blind canine affection and
utter panic. Louis strolls over to get a better look, but things aren‟t any
less dire up close.

“What‟s that look on your face?” Louis says, squinting at Zayn and
poking his cheek. “You look like you‟re trying not to throw up
poodles.”

“Louis,” Zayn says. “Liam is here.”

“Yes, I know, Zayn,” Louis says. “He‟s been here for like an hour.”

“No, but, like,” Zayn says. “He‟s here. And, with the, the tools. And the
building things. Oh my God.”

“Are you having a stroke?” Louis says as Zayn‟s knocks over his
second paint can in the last ten seconds. Zayn seems to have lost
control of his hands. Also his face. Is it normally possible to look
terrified and aroused at the same time?

298
“He‟s so fit,” Zayn says. “He‟s so fit, and I think the Red Bull is giving
me heart palpitations, and I‟m going to die. And he‟s so lovely, and
good with his hands, and building things, and oh my god
whatthefuckisthat.”

Zayn‟s voice ascends into a pitch audible only to some dogs, and Louis
looks over his shoulder to find Liam fastening a tool belt around his
hips after apparently digging it out of his bag. The belt matches the
boots. Oh, Louis is going to mock Zayn about this for weeks.

“I,” Zayn says, and then all that comes out is an incoherent series of
wheezing noises. Louis plucks up the the spray bottle full of water
amidst all the painting supplies and shoots him full in the face.

“Pull yourself together,” Louis says while Zayn sputters and wipes his
face on his sleeves.

“Hey, Zayn,” Liam calls over to them, and Zayn freezes. “Wanna show
me where that part you need sanded is?”

“Yes!” Zayn says, scrambling to his feet.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Louis mutters as Zayn scurries off to lead Liam
onto the stage, shooting a slightly homicidal look back at him. Louis
sticks his tongue out at him and considers telling him that he‟s got a
streak of paint across his face, but decides against it. Because it‟s
funny. And because he‟s distracted by Harry‟s hands on his waist and
his chin hooking over his shoulder.

“This is the best,” Harry says, snickering. “This is even better than the
car wash, and we didn‟t even have to do anything. Did you see Zayn‟s
face? Dibs on best man at the wedding.”

“Bullshit,” Louis laughs, turning around and leaning up onto the balls
of his feet to get right up in Harry‟s face, Harry‟s hands still at his

299
waist. “That spot‟s mine, you interloper. I‟ve known Zayn way longer
than you. You can‟t just swoop in and displace me. We have history.”

Harry grins wickedly. “True, but I‟m clearly more supportive of their
epic romance. Plus,” he adds, leaning in close to Louis‟ ear, “you‟d
look way better than me in a bridesmaid‟s dress.” He dances away from
Louis‟ playful slap, hopping down from the stage and bouncing off
toward the utility closet.

“Where are you going?” Louis asks, unable to wipe the smile off his
face. He does have the legs to pull off a dress, it‟s true. Then again,
he‟s not the one with a history of skirt-wearing.

“I‟m going to go turn up the heat,” Harry whispers. “See if we can‟t get
that flannel off.”

Louis throws his head back and laughs. “You‟re a bad man, Harry
Styles.” Harry just winks and jogs away.

As always, Louis takes a moment to admire the view, and then turns
back towards the stage to observe the wreckage. Zayn is pointing out
the areas of a prop door that need to be sanded down so that none of the
actors impale their hands on splinters. Liam nods seriously, taking
some sandpaper out of his toolbelt and goes to work. Louis can see the
appeal, he really can, with Liam‟s shoulders and rolled up sleeves and
adorable scrunched up face, but he can‟t say he understands Zayn‟s
reaction to it, the way he hasn‟t moved from Liam‟s side and is staring
unblinkingly at his hands. He appears to remember himself after about
fifteen seconds of mouth-breathing and snaps out of it, retreating back
to painting backdrops on the other side of the stage. It‟s not much of an
improvement, as he doesn‟t seem to be able to go a full minute without
looking back up at Liam.

Liam, for what it‟s worth, seems to be entirely focused on fixing the
prop door, showing not even a hint of awareness of Zayn‟s eyes on
him. They‟re well-matched in obliviousness, then, as Zayn appears to
have no idea that his left knee has been sitting in a tray of paint for the

300
past minute and a half. He‟s going to have absolute kittens when he
realises he‟s ruined those jeans, Louis thinks, but right now he probably
wouldn‟t notice if he actually had actual kittens. Liam shrugs off his
plaid shirt—Harry will be so pleased—and Zayn makes a sound like a
cat being put through a garbage disposal. Louis can hear it from
halfway from across the theatre, but Liam doesn‟t even look up,
apparently too focused on the task at hand. Louis wants to donate him
to science.

There‟s only so much time he can waste on observing Zayn‟s complete

hopelessness, though, so soon he‟s back to stitching together curtains
and making sure that the steering wheels on the prop cars can actually
turn properly. Harry finishes running through lighting cues and comes
back to join them onstage, nudging Louis excitedly and pointing out
Liam‟s decrease in clothing with nothing even approximating subtlety.
Zayn breaks out of his reverie long enough to notice it, and throws a
rag that catches Harry right in the face, leaving streaks of blue paint
across his cheek. Harry just throws it back and goes to work on the
platforms for Beauty School Dropout.

After another hour or so of frantic work, Louis can feel his energy
flagging and cracks open another Red Bull. Zayn seems to be crashing
as well, as he flops onto his back in the middle of stage and starts
moaning. “There‟s too much,” he says, staring up at the stage lights.
“Death would be kinder.”

“Death, Zayn, really? That can be arranged,” Louis says, taking a gulp
of Red Bull. Murder would require more energy than he has right now.
“Is that what you want? Is that what you really want?”

“Yo,” Zayn says, and a smile starts creeping up his face. “I‟ll tell you
what I want. What I really, really want.”

Out of nowhere, Harry‟s upper half flops down over the edge of the
piece of set he‟s working on and he fixes Zayn with an upside-down
look. “So tell me what you want, what you really, really want.”

301
“I‟ll tell you want I want, what I really, really want,” Zayn shoots back,
scrambling up to his feet.

Niall throws down his paintbrush dramatically. “So tell me what you
want, what you really, really want.”

“I wanna ha,” Zayn says, thrusting his hips, “I wanna ha, I wanna ha, I
wanna ha, I wanna really really really wanna zigga-zig ahhhh.”

Before Louis even knows it‟s happening, all of them have launched
into a chorus of, “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my
friends,” and then Zayn is jumping up to falsetto to echo, “gotta get
with my frieeeends,” and they‟re in five part harmony as if by natural
instinct. Harry jumps up to his feet to gyrate his hips and Niall sashays
over to Liam and Louis sings along as loud as he can, “Takin‟ is too
easy but that‟s the way it is!”

Suddenly one voice rises up on top of the other four and Louis stops
dancing when he realises it‟s Liam, one foot propped up on a crate of
paint, singing his heart out to, “Whatcha think about that, now you
know how I feeeeel, say you can handle my love, are you for reeeeal...”

Louis eyes find Zayn, who has dropped his can of paintbrushes all over
the floor.

“Holy shit, man,” Niall says. “You can sing.”

Liam blushes pink, and Louis feels a sympathetic pang for Zayn at how
darling it is. “Thanks, mate.”

“No, like, you can proper sing,” Niall says. “That‟s impressive.”

“I‟m not as good as Zayn or anything,” Liam says. Zayn sort of stands
there, staring at Liam and wordlessly moving his mouth like a dying

302
fish, until Harry has the mercy to drop one the old bedsheets they‟ve
been using as a drop cloth over his head.

After that it‟s singalongs for the rest of the night, all five of them
falling into harmony with each other on everything from The Beatles to
Kanye to Bieber. Louis had been on board with having Liam around
ever since Christmas, but it feels more like he really belongs now, with
Niall goading him into a Buble duet and Harry clapping excitedly when
he reveals he can beatbox. He‟s always thought of Zayn‟s fixation as an
amusing pastime, but he finds himself actively hoping it works out. It‟s
a nice thought, the idea of Liam and Zayn and him and Harry, with
Niall the madness holding them all together. It feels like it could work.
Then again, he‟s imbibed enough chemicals to fell a small horse, so
who knows what he‟s thinking.

Still, time goes much faster with all five of them working together, and
they don‟t quite finish everything, but they finish enough. So when
Harry tells Louis he needs to go home so he can get a couple hours of
sleep before he‟s supposed to go make prints of a project, Louis doesn‟t
even panic about how much still needs to be done and just ruffles
Harry‟s hair instead. Liam needs to go too, as it happens, and Louis
pretends not to hear Zayn‟s quiet whimper when he takes his toolbelt
off and puts it back in his bag. He‟ll save that particular bit of
humiliation for when he really needs it.

“Right then,” Harry says, smiling as he leans down to peck Louis on

his paint-streaked forehead. “Good luck with the rest of it, babe.”

He joins Liam and sets off up the aisle toward the main exit, and Louis
watches him and the way his hips swing and the way the lights of the
theatre fall on him, and it‟s just. It‟s just.

It‟s just that sometimes he looks at Harry and he feels like Harry‟s so
much more than a boy. Like he goes on forever and ever. It‟s just that
sometimes he wants to take every stupid love song he‟s ever heard and
rewrite them all so that they‟re all about curly-haired boys that smell
like grass and then sing them until his lungs give out. It‟s just that
sometimes when he wakes up in the morning with Harry‟s arm around

303
his waist and Harry‟s nose buried in the nape of his neck he thinks he‟s
closer to the person he wants to be. It‟s just that he‟s delirious and
happy and it‟s four in the morning and sometimes it feels like Harry‟s
the best thing in the entire fucking universe.

Sometimes he just has to do something about it.

“Hey, Styles!” Louis calls after him, hopping down off the stage.

Harry turns around and stops between rows I and J. He smiles when he
sees Louis coming, and that‟s pretty much it, Louis abandons all
dignity and breaks into a run halfway up the aisle, until he gets to Harry
and grabs his face in both hands and kisses the living hell out of him.

It‟s a perfect kiss, a movie star kiss, Harry‟s bag falling to the floor as
he wraps his arms around Louis‟s waist and Louis on the tips of his
toes. Louis kisses him like a hero home from war, like the big fermata
at the end of a grand finale, like everything warm and huge pent up
inside his chest.

He didn‟t think kisses like this ever actually happened in real life, at
least not in his real life, and maybe it‟s just the energy drinks or the
delirium, but it feels like the best kiss anybody in the world has ever
had. Normally this would be the part where Harry would pick his feet
up off the ground and spin him around or something, but Harry seems a
bit too dumbstruck for that and Louis is in complete control, bending
Harry over him and arching his back up into it. It‟s an absolute
showstopper.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, Harry is speechless, looking
down at him with a dazed sort of smile and lidded eyes and paint in his
dimples. Louis smiles back and gives him a little slap on the bum for
good measure, feeling very pleased with himself indeed.

“Now you‟re allowed to leave,” Louis tells him.

304
“Okay,” Harry says slowly, still staring at Louis like he can‟t quite
believe his fucking luck. He picks up his bag and sort of toddles off up
the rest of the aisle, smiling back over his shoulder at Louis and then
bashing his knee against an armrest in the process.

Behind him, Niall and Zayn have started up a slow clap, and he can
hear Zayn wolf whistling. Liam intercepts Harry at the back of the
theatre where he‟s been watching the show, looking amused and fond,
and Louis mentally sends him a thousand blessings for being the type
of lad who can appreciate that kind of thing. He pats Harry on the back,
and Harry just sort of shakes his head and smiles down at his feet and
lets himself be led out.

When Louis turns back around, Niall and Zayn are still cheering from
the stage. He takes an elaborate bow and makes his way back down to
the front of the theatre, grinning and grinning and grinning.

“You‟ve got to teach me how to do that one, Tomlinson,” Niall says.

“Get yourself a tall gentleman suitor to snog first,” Louis tells him,
popping his bottom up on the edge of the stage.

“Fair enough,” Niall says.

Louis lets out a great lungful of air and falls backwards onto the stage,
closing his eyes against the stage lights. He feels somebody flop down
on top of his stomach, and he can tell by the volume of hair brushing
against him and the faint smell of a two-paycheck bottle of Gucci
cologne that it‟s Zayn.

“Louis,” he says, grabbing a fistful of Louis‟ jumper sleeve.

“Looouuuuuiiiiiiis.”

“Zaaaaayn,” Louis says back.

305
“Louis,” Zayn whines again. “Do you have any idea how good you‟ve
got it? I would kill to have somebody who looks at me the way Harry
looks at you.”

Louis feels his face go hot, but he keeps his eyes shut, smiling up into
the rafters.

“I swear to God, Louis,” Zayn goes on, rolling over dramatically so that
his face is smushed into Louis‟ chest and kicking his feet against the
stage, “I‟d give anything. Don‟t let that shit go to waste, all right?
Fucking tell him how you feel, man.”

“Mate, Zayn is being an obnoxious cunt, but I‟ve got to side with him
on this one,” Niall agrees from somewhere amid his nest of pizza
boxes. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Thanks, man,” Zayn says. “I guess.”

And for once, Louis doesn‟t immediately recoil at the thought. Because
the thing is, things have been so good lately, and it‟s started to seem
like it might not be the absolute end of the world if he just sort of... let
himself. If he let himself fall into this, if he maybe moved things
somewhere more like relationship territory. He‟s been thinking about it
a lot lately, more than he‟d ever admit, and he‟s started to wonder if
maybe he‟s finally, finally ready to try again.

It‟s all just been theoretical up until now, just hypothetical little scenes
in his head when he‟s not being careful, but he lost all control hours
ago and there‟s nothing to stop him now. Eyes shut and sprawled out
on the stage, it all plays out in his head, anniversary dinners and Harry
with Daisy on his lap Christmas morning and himself three years from
now wearing one of Harry‟s jumpers, little snapshots of a life that he
just might be lucky enough to have. And right now, it‟s hard to
remember exactly what part of this is the part that scares him so much.

He doesn‟t know how he feels about Harry, not for sure. He hasn‟t been
anywhere close to where he needs to be to process those things long

306
enough. But soon, he thinks. Maybe after the play is over and he has
some time to clear his head and figure some things out, maybe he can
talk to Harry. Maybe it could be okay. Maybe it could be amazing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says. “All right. Maybe I will.”

He bites his lip, and Zayn gives up a weak, “Yaaay.”

307
308
 THIRTEEN

Despite all of Louis‟ prayers, despite his cries to the heavens and
sleepless nights and serious considerations of making an offering to
Satan, it finally arrives: tech week. One week until opening night, and
there‟s so much to do that he can‟t run more than halfway through the
list before getting a sudden urge to drink himself into a stupor. There‟s
not enough time. There is mathematically not enough time to finish
everything before the curtain has to go up. This is the show he‟s wanted
to do since he knew he wanted to put on shows, and nothing is finished,
and he has a week. It‟s a constant presence at the back of his head,
buzzing around his brain when he‟s supposed to be lecturing on
Chekhov and reminding him that he can‟t relax.

He can‟t fall into a blind panic, though, at least not in front of his cast
and crew, because teenagers can smell weakness. The second he cracks,
they‟ll all scatter, and the musical will fall apart—possibly literally in
the case of the set decoration—and he‟ll never be able to set foot in the
school ever again. And then he won‟t have a job and he‟ll have to move
back in with his mother and even Duchess will think he‟s too pathetic
to spend time with and all right maybe he needs to stop shotgunning
Red Bulls.

He has to end the first dress rehearsal on Monday at nine, sending the
kids home, but he stays late organizing costumes and fixing prop
furniture that‟s one misplaced kick away from collapsing into a heap.
Harry stays with him, and to be honest he‟s not much actual help, but
his voice is soothing and keeps Louis from ripping out his own hair, so
he‟s useful even if he occasionally gets in the way.

309
Two hours pass, and Louis is seriously considering pulling an all-
nighter when he feels arms wrap around him from behind. “You‟re
done for the night,” Harry rumbles into the back of his neck.

“Am not,” Louis says, squirming a little but finding Harry‟s arms
unyielding. “I‟m fine, Haz, let go.”

“You‟re not fine,” Harry says, squeezing tighter. “You were just
mumbling to yourself about outlawing poodles.”

“Fucking poodle skirts,” Louis growls. “Make no sense. Terrible

animal. Let go of me.”

Unfortunately, Harry doesn‟t seem to follow his logic, as his response

is to lift Louis off the ground and start carrying him out of the
backstage area and into the theatre. “You‟re definitely going home.”

“Put me down, you ruffian!” Louis yells, flailing ineffectively.

Normally he only has lovely things to say about Harry‟s arms, but this
is not one of those times. The futility of his situation becomes clear,
and he finally gives up, going limp and pliant. “Okay, Styles, you win.
If I promise to leave in fifteen minutes, will you let go of me and let me
close up before you drag me out of here like a caveman?”

Harry sets him down on his feet. “I‟m starting a timer now. Fifteen
minutes exactly, or next time I‟m knocking you out first.”

So that‟s how Louis finds himself leaving school with not nearly
enough done on Monday night, feeling like he should panic but not
quite being able to fight through the fog of his exhaustion long enough
to feel much of anything at all. He and Harry walk through the carpark
together, but when he starts to head towards his own car Harry grabs
him by the wrist.

“Not a chance,” he says, pulling him away. “There‟s no way I‟m letting
you drive when you‟re like this. You can crash at mine.”

310
“But—” Louis says, trying to remember how to use words in order to
articulate all of the things that are wrong with this. “What about—”

“We‟ll get up early tomorrow,” Harry says, pulling Louis towards his
car. “I‟ll drive you to yours, you can change and feed Duchess, it‟ll be
fine.” He lets go of Louis long enough to open his passenger side door.
“Get in the car.”

And Louis doesn‟t know if it‟s because he likes the attention or because
he‟s too bone-tired to fight back or because Harry might actually have a
point, but he gets in the car and lets Harry take him home.

Harry makes him an omelette and prods him into the shower and
doesn‟t complain when Louis shamelessly steals all the blankets in the
middle of the night, and Louis honestly doesn‟t have the energy to
worry about what it means that he‟s falling asleep in Harry‟s bed
wearing a pair of Harry‟s boxers with Harry‟s head on his chest. He‟s
working himself to death, and if leaning on Harry means that he doesn‟t
actually die, well, that‟s better than the alternative, right? Plus, he likes
it, and it‟s nice, so fuck everything else, honestly.

So this becomes part of tech week routine, too. Louis works as long as
he can get away with before Harry takes him home to his flat. Harry‟s
place is so small that Louis should get bored within five minutes,
especially since he barely has the energy for goodnight kisses let alone
for sex, but somehow it works. Harry cooks something simple and they
eat together quietly, maybe kicking each other under the table, and then
they curl up in Harry‟s bed—well, on his mattress—and pull up
something on his laptop to watch until they fall asleep.

And then it‟s the morning and coffee and frantic driving and Louis
running into his flat for ten minutes to put on clean clothes and pacify
his cat while Harry sits with the car idling outside. Harry lives closer to
the school anyway, and he drops him off early enough that nobody‟s
around to notice their arrangement, and it works.

311
If Louis is honest, it‟s nice to have a routine even just for a couple of
days, to not have to think about what he‟s doing for a few hours out of
the day, even if he‟s hideously behind on his marking and his car has
been sitting in the school carpark for days. Rehearsal is still a
nightmare even with a cast that mostly knows what they‟re doing, a
constant barrage of questions he either doesn‟t know how to answer or
shouldn‟t have to, and he deserves not to be losing his mind every
single waking moment of the day.

And truth be told, it‟s kind of nice to hang out with Harry again and
just be mates. Sure, sometimes Louis thanks him for dinner with a kiss,
or maybe Harry will give him a smack on the arse when he gets out of
bed, but it‟s mostly the two of them just… being together. They shoot
the shit and watch funny videos of cats and argue about whose radio
station to listen to in the car, and it‟s good. It‟s nice, that the sex hasn‟t
ruined the friendship. Thing. Whatever it is. Louis‟ kind of surprised,
when he thinks about it, but he‟s glad. That doesn‟t mean he isn‟t
planning on fucking Harry‟s brains out the second the show is done, of
course, but it‟s still cool that sex isn‟t all they know how to do. Their
relationship, whatever it is between them—it‟s not just a sex thing.
Given the sappy, speculative thoughts that have been running through
his brain lately, that‟s a very good thing.

It‟s like Harry‟s flat is insulated from all the static of worry that buzzes
in his head, like it‟s a safe place, just for them. Louis doesn‟t realise
how accustomed he‟d gotten to it—after only three days, Jesus Christ—
until Wednesday night, when Harry gets a call on his mobile while
Louis is doing the dishes.

Harry‟s face lights up when he looks at the screen, and he leaves off
from drying a bowl to answer it, mouthing an apology at Louis.
“Claire!” he says down the line, sounding thrilled. “What time of night
do you call this, then?”

Louis keeps working on the dishes, trying and failing not to eavesdrop.
From what he can tell, Claire is a friend from uni, another photography
student if Harry‟s complaints about their module today are anything to
go by. “Like, I know critique is supposed to be brutal, right, but today
was ridiculous. I felt so bad for Gary, he looked like he was going to

312
cry,” Harry says, walking in slow circles around the flat. That‟s the last
thing he says that Louis really understands for a while, as Harry falls
into a string of photography jargon that he can‟t make heads or tails of.

Scrubbing hard on a pan, Louis tries his best not to listen. He forgets,
sometimes, that Harry has a life outside the school. A life outside of
when Louis sees him, or when he‟s here in this flat. A life that Louis is
completely incapable of keeping up with, but that Claire down the
phone apparently knows well enough to make Harry laugh
uproariously. And Louis can make Harry laugh, too, can make him do a
lot of things if he puts his mind to it, but it‟s strange to think that there
are parts of Harry‟s life that are completely inaccessible to him. Parts
that are important. Harry knows everything about Louis‟ work, about
what he loves to do, and Louis doesn‟t know the first thing about what
Harry wants to do with this life. He hasn‟t really thought about that,
and he doesn‟t particularly care to now.

It sounds like the conversation is winding down, finally, which is good,

because Louis has run out of dishes to wash and has started drying
them himself in an effort to keep busy. “Yeah, I‟ll let you know as soon
as I hear anything,” Harry says. “Should be sooner rather than later.
Fingers crossed, yeah?” He chuckles at something she says, and then
continues. “Thanks. All right, I‟ve gotta run, yeah? I‟ll see you
tomorrow. Okay. Bye,” and then he hangs up.

He walks back into the kitchen and takes the dishtowel from Louis,
picking up where he left off. “Sorry „bout that, she had a question about
the assignment for next week.”

“S‟fine,” Louis says, maybe a little more shortly than he means to. He
opens the fridge and pulls out a beer, grabbing a bottle opener from the
drawer to the right of the sink. Opening the bottle with a hiss, he drops
the opener back in the drawer and leans against the counter, picking at
the bottle‟s label idly.

“She‟s nice. You‟d like her,” Harry says, glancing over his shoulder
before going back to the frying pan he‟s currently drying.

313
“I‟ll bet,” Louis says, and all right, even he knows he sounds like a
snide piece of shit right now. It‟s just that all he can think about is that
Harry‟s classes are probably full of people who know more about what
Harry cares about than he does, and he‟s not sure who exactly to be
mad at about it.

Harry turns around and leans back against the sink, and Louis is
prepared for him to be angry, but that‟s not what‟s playing out on his
face.

“Are you jealous?” he asks, looking thrilled. “Of Claire? I mean she‟s a
lovely girl and all, but she‟s very much in love with her girlfriend and
I‟m very much not interested anyway.”

“No, I‟m not,” Louis says, staring at his beer. He wishes he were just
jealous, because it doesn‟t make him feel much better to think of how
many people there are out there who Harry doesn‟t even fancy who are
probably still more interesting than he is.

“You are,” Harry says, tilting his head to the side.

“I am not jealous,” he says, but this time he grins through it. It‟s a good
lie, a better cover than he could have come up with himself. It‟s not like
he hasn‟t gotten jealous before, hasn‟t done stupid shit because of it.

“It‟s all right if you are, you know,” Harry says, nudging into Louis‟
space, grazing his fingers over Louis‟ and pulling the beer out of his
hand gently. His eyes are wicked. “I think it‟s hot.”

Louis stares at him a moment, lets out a growl, and pounces. Maybe he
doesn‟t know a thing about Harry‟s life outside these four walls, he
thinks, his teeth on Harry‟s collarbone and his hand down his jeans, but
he‟s still the resident expert on this. Later, when the two of them are
lying in bed chasing sleep, he runs two fingers over the mark he left
there on Harry‟s shoulder and thinks he maybe is an artist, after a
fashion.

314
Then it‟s Thursday, meaning it‟s the final dress rehearsal, meaning
Louis‟ life is one long coronary that isn‟t even kind enough to let him
die. And it‟s okay. It could be much worse. The kids are trying so hard,
and they have almost everything together. Dress rehearsal honestly
does go better than he would have predicted a week ago. Louis‟ just
incapable of not seeing every little thing that‟s still wrong, everything
that could fuck up when it matters most. Stuart might not hit that high
note in Summer Nights, or the T-Birds might flub their choreography
again, or Melanie might put her catsuit on backwards like she did in
one particularly disastrous run-through.

Then again, there‟s a certain serenity in knowing that it‟s too late to do
anything about it now. Tomorrow is the assembly show for the school,
then opening night for the parents in the evening. If everything is going
to collapse, Louis doesn‟t have enough time to stop it. If he‟s doomed,
he‟s doomed. He wonders if this is like how people feel really warm
right before they freeze to death.

“Nobody‟s going to die,” Harry says, because Louis is tired enough that
he‟s spouting his last-minute fatalistic bullshit to him as Harry drives
them home. “Everything‟s going to be fine, and everyone will applaud
your brilliance.”

“You have to say that,” Louis grumbles. “You‟re just afraid I‟ll murder
you. I know where you sleep.”

“Yeah you do,” Harry says with a suggestive tone, and Louis lets out a
slightly hysterical giggle.

They sit in silence for a while, Harry driving smoothly around the
almost-empty late night streets, before Louis feels a sudden urge to say
something. Normally this doesn‟t happen to him sober, but he supposes
that he‟s probably tipsy off stress and sleep deprivation at this point.

“Thanks,” he says, lolling his head to the side to look at Harry. “For
helping out so much. It can‟t have been easy with your classes and
everything.”

315
Harry glances at him before turning his eyes back to the road and
shrugging. “Not a big deal. I got all of my work for this week done
early so I‟d have time.”

Louis doesn‟t really know what to say to that. He‟s not sure how to
process the idea that Harry thought that far ahead, thought that much
about him that he was willing to schedule his life around what Louis
would need. It‟s a lot to think about, and Louis doubts he‟d be any
better prepared if he weren‟t halfway into a neurotic coma. But even if
he can‟t quite get a handle on it, he knows that he likes it.

He settles for reaching across the car and setting his hand on Harry‟s
thigh, squeezing a little. “You‟re something else, you know that?” he
says quietly. Harry doesn‟t answer, just smiles a soft smile and drops
his own hand to cover Louis‟ briefly before moving it back to the
wheel.

Back at the flat, Harry starts rattling around pots and pans and making
spaghetti. Louis waits, blearily watching this boy make room for him in
his home, until the noodles are boiling and the sauce is simmering.
Then he crowds into Harry‟s space and drops to his knees, going down
on him with Harry leaning back against the countertop and cursing a
blue streak. Harry comes as the noodles boil over, and they eat slightly
overcooked spaghetti from bowls while sitting on the kitchen floor,
Louis‟ legs thrown over Harry‟s lap and one of Harry‟s hands loosely
circling his ankle. It‟s good. The spaghetti, that is, but also—yeah, also
the other stuff too.

Louis could get used to this. Louis maybe already has. Maybe that‟s
okay.

Harry returns the favor and sucks him off in bed later, leaving Louis a
boneless wreck, which thankfully lets him drop off to sleep almost
immediately. In the morning, they shower together, Harry using the
shampoo to sculpt Louis‟ hair into a mohawk and pressing soapy kisses
to his mouth. “Everything‟s going to be fine,” he murmurs against
Louis‟ neck, lips slipping against the wet skin, and Louis can almost
believe him. Even if everything goes terribly today, he‟ll still be able to

316
come back here tonight if he wants to, and that‟s a pretty good
consolation prize.

The whole arrangement for the day is like this: the morning goes by an
abbreviated, miniature version of their normal daily schedule, and then
halfway through the day everyone files into the theatre for the show. In
a lot of ways, the assembly performance is sort of the step between
dress rehearsals and the real deal, but he knows it‟s more important to
his kids, since their classmates are watching.

Louis himself has a supply teacher covering his classes while he spends
the day in the theatre making sure all the props are in their right places
and all the wheels on the moving set pieces are in working order, while
Niall and Harry double and triple check the sound and lights. His cast
starts trickling in an hour or so before they‟re due for mic check,
talking and laughing nervously as they filter into dressing rooms and
start getting into costumes and makeup. Louis tries not to let his own
nerves get the best of him. There‟s no time for that.

Louis has Harry stationed backstage for this performance because he‟s
not a hundred percent certain his props manager won‟t have a
breakdown at some point and he needs a safety net back there for the
first show just in case. He can tell Harry would rather be back in the
soundbooth with him, by his side the whole time, but he‟ll do whatever
Louis needs, bless him.

After mic check Louis makes one final pass backstage, shouting into
the dressing rooms for any stragglers to finish up and slapping Stuart
on his leather-clad shoulder as he passes. He checks with his stage
manager to make sure her headset‟s working properly and then lingers
next to some of the side curtains, soaking up the energy around him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Director,” says Harry‟s voice behind him, and Louis
turns around to find Harry standing there grinning at him.

317
Before he knows what‟s happening, Harry grabs the curtain next to
them in one hand, spins Louis around so that it‟s wrapped around both
of them, and kisses him full on the lips.

“Good luck,” Harry says against his cheek, and then he‟s unwrapping
them both and sending Louis twirling away. He winks over his
shoulder and disappears around the corner, leaving Louis smiling like
an idiot after him, still regaining his balance.

Five minutes later the curtains go up and Louis is standing in the

soundbooth with Niall while one of the other assistant band directors
starts up the overture. Niall squeezes Louis‟ shoulder. Louis holds his
breath.

The show goes... really, really well. Obviously there are a few rough
patches, like the moment when his Kenickie‟s voice cracks in the
middle of a high note or the time one of the T-Birds forgets to switch
his mic pack on until halfway through a scene and has to dig in the
back of his trousers for it, but overall, for a first run it‟s great. Louis
can breathe again. Once they work out the kinks, opening night could
really be amazing. He feels pride swelling in his chest, not just for
himself but for his kids who‟ve worked so hard for this, who‟ve spent
so much time and energy on making this great. He loves them,
honestly. It‟s one of those moments that reminds him why he got into
this line of work, why it was so much more than just a backup plan for
when he didn‟t make it in theatre himself.

By the time the curtain is rising for their big opening night show, Louis
is giddy and nauseous at the same time, because now that he knows
how good the show can be, he‟s terrified it won‟t happen again. What if
the good first run was just luck? What if the other shoe drops and it all
goes to hell? There‟s no way they can pull it off again.

Except they do, they fucking do, and Louis knows it‟s just because the
audience is full of parents but there‟s a standing ovation this time, with
multiple whistles when Stuart steps up to take his bow. He was radiant
tonight, absolutely nailing every single scene, and Louis doesn‟t even
feel a tiny flare of jealousy when he admits to himself that Stuart is

318
better than he was at his age. It‟s just true, and it makes Louis feel all
kinds of warm that he got to witness it and help him along.

He doesn‟t mind stepping up to take his own round of applause,

though. Not one bit. He blinks happily into the stagelights and waves at
the crowd, before leading the cast in their final bow and then
scampering backstage to find his boys.

Harry is easy to find, waiting for him behind the curtain. He throws his
arms around Harry‟s neck, and Harry picks him up off the floor and
spins him around a couple of times before setting him dizzy back on his
feet.

“It was so good!” Louis shouts.

“It was!” Harry agrees, giving Louis one of those big goofy open-
mouthed smiles he does.

“Yes, it was!” someone says behind him, and Louis spins around to
find Zayn standing there grinning back at him. He throws himself at
Zayn too, too giddy to hold anything back, and Zayn staggers but
returns his hug just as hard. A sudden impact has both of them rocking
to one side, and based on the cackles in his ear and the pale arm across
his field of vision Louis assumes that it‟s Niall who‟s just launched
himself on top of them.

“Get in, Tommo!” he yells, clinging to their shoulders. “Smashed it!”

The three of them disentangle giddily, and then Harry is back, pulling
all of them into a four-person huddle.

“If I had any booze on me,” he drawls, “I‟d propose a toast. But as I
don‟t, let‟s just all agree that Louis is brilliant, the show was brilliant,
and we‟re brilliant for helping.”

“Hear, hear!” Zayn says, pressing an affectionate kiss to the side of

Louis‟ head.

319
“It‟s not over yet,” Louis says, still trying to catch his breath. “There‟s
still tomorrow night. But—but it was good, and I didn‟t die, and I
suppose you lot had a hand in that. So thanks.” The words aren‟t much,
but he can feel himself grinning uncontrollably and sees it mirrored
back on the others‟ faces.

Niall whoops a laugh and pulls Louis into what was probably intended
to be a noogie but ends up being more like an aggressive cuddle. “First
round‟s on me!” he crows. “You‟ve been an uptight bastard for weeks,
and the only way I‟m going to forgive you is if you get royally pissed
and puke in a toilet tonight.”

Louis wouldn‟t mind some chemical alteration, to be honest, but

tonight isn‟t going to be the night for it. “Sorry, Nialler, I‟ve gotta help
everyone clean up here,” he says, ignoring the boys‟ groans. “And then
I‟ve got an appointment with a bed.” He meets Harry‟s eyes and feels
some of his exhaustion lift. “Or a mattress, anyway,” he grins, and
revels in the way Harry‟s expression changes from happiness to
anticipation.

“All right, you heard the man, get moving, get moving,” Harry says,
pushing at Niall with mock urgency. Niall protests, squawking
something about the kinds of men who value getting laid over quality
time with friends and alcohol, but Zayn leads him away with promises
of getting utterly smashed on their own. Louis has the best friends ever.

The post-show clean-up happens in a blur, Louis directing his cast and
crew with a slightly manic glee and trying not to be constantly,
buzzingly aware of Harry always in his field of vision. Louis always
feels high after a performance, even if it wasn‟t technically him
performing, and right now all he wants to do is gush about his kids and
then work off some energy on Harry‟s body. Normally he doesn‟t have
that much trouble keeping his hands off him—okay, not a lot of
trouble—but right now it‟s torture. Harry‟s right there, but completely
untouchable with a couple dozen amped-up teenagers running around.
Louis feels like he can‟t stay still, can‟t relax with how happy he is, and
the only thing he can think of that will calm him down is getting his
hands on Harry‟s skin.

320
Thankfully, everyone is so antsy and full of energy that clean-up goes
relatively quickly. Louis is sure he made some sort of inspirational
speech at some point, something thanking everyone for their hard work
and pumping them up for the final show on Saturday night, but he can‟t
for the life of him remember what it was. With Harry dragging him out
a side door into the carpark, it doesn‟t feel particularly important.

There are still parents and students everywhere, so they slide into
Harry‟s car without a word. Louis is practically vibrating in his seat,
and if he doesn‟t want to jump Harry in a moving car then he needs to
distract himself somehow. He starts talking at top speed about the
show, about the performances, about how fucking perfect the costumes
looked, and before he knows it they‟ve pulled up in front of Harry‟s
flat.

Harry puts the car in park, but neither of them move to get out. This is
the first time they‟ve really had any privacy since this morning, and the
adrenaline still pumping in Louis‟ veins wants to do something about
that. He unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches over to graze his fingers
over Harry‟s forearm, teasing a little.

“D‟you wanna go inside?” Harry says, cheek dimpling on one side like
he already knows the answer.

“Not quite yet,” Louis says. “I‟ve only just gotten you alone, haven‟t I
then?”

“You have,” Harry agrees.

“Isn‟t this romantic?” Louis says coyly. “You. Me. No students around
to tell their parents or report us to the administration.”

“God, I love it when you talk dirty,” Harry says, grinning, and then he
pulls Louis into his lap and kicks the seat back.

321
They kiss like that for a while, dizzy drags of lips and tongues, riding
the high from opening night and all the best parts of the past week.
Louis feels like he‟ll never get sick of the way Harry wants him
anywhere, anytime. The last time he‟d gotten felt up in somebody‟s car
before he met Harry was probably fooling around with the boy down
the street back when he was seventeen, but it‟s become a normal part of
his life lately. There‟s something playing on the radio, one of Harry‟s
bands, and the way the windows start fogging up around them feels
familiar and comfortable, a reminder that nothing with Harry has been
like anything he‟s felt for a long, long time.

Finally Louis breaks off and reaches behind himself to pull the keys out
of the ignition, smiling against Harry‟s lips as the engine goes quiet.

“Shall we?”

Harry keeps his arms around Louis on the lift, hugging him back into
his chest as the gears shudder and creak. They stumble down the hall
together, and Louis turns his head to the side and catches Harry‟s
mouth with his own for a moment before sliding out of his arms so that
Harry can get his keys out and let them in.

They leave a trail of their clothes on the floor from the door to the
shower and get in together, as has become the routine over the past few
days. Normally Louis would leave it until morning, but it‟s been such a
long day and he‟s got wood glue in his hair, so he lets Harry wash it out
for him while he nips at Harry‟s wet collarbones. They get each other
off like that, just Louis‟ muttered curses bouncing off the tiles and a
couple of slippery handjobs, enough that they no longer feel like they
need to fuck right away.

Once they‟ve toweled themselves off, Louis slips into a clean pair of
boxers and one of Harry‟s t-shirts while Harry pulls on a pair of joggers
and gets a box of biscuits down out of the cabinet. Harry sits down on
the mattress, and Louis follows after him, pausing for a moment to
stand over the boy in front of him, his soggy curls and bare shoulders.

322
Louis tilts his head to one side, considering. “I want to have sex with
you,” he says.

“Cool,” Harry says through a mouthful of biscuit.

Louis kneels down on the mattress and crawls over to Harry, taking the
box from his hands and setting it down on the floor next to them before
climbing into Harry‟s lap.

“But,” Louis says, “I‟m all excited and happy and I want to talk more
about the show first. Can we talk more about the show first?” Louis
doesn‟t know why he‟s asking permission, since he‟s never asked
permission to talk anybody‟s ear off before, but Harry just smiles and
nods so he figures it doesn‟t matter.

And so Louis picks up right where he left off, every cue his kids nailed,
every harmony that stayed on pitch, every time the audience laughed or
applauded in the right places. He knows he‟s probably starting to repeat
himself by now, but Harry seems happy to indulge him even though he
witnessed the whole thing, and he even chimes in with his own
observations and compliments about Louis‟ directing that make Louis‟
grin so big his face hurts.

He interrupts himself periodically to kiss Harry some more or spend a

few minutes grinding down on his lap, half to show Harry he hasn‟t
forgotten his promise and half because he just wants to. When you‟ve
got permission to touch somebody as unbelievably fit as Harry is, it‟s
frankly hard not to want to put your mouth on him all the time. It‟s nice
to talk to him like this, to tell him all the mundane little things filling up
his overcrowded head, and then to get to kiss him whenever he feels
like it. He likes that a lot.

Somewhere past the forty-five minute mark, though, he starts to feel a

little less wired. His back is aching, and he‟s sure that if he could just
lie down for a few minutes, he‟ll be fine.

323
“Can we lie down?” Louis says into Harry‟s shoulder. “Just for a
minute, I promise.”

Harry obliges, leaning back onto the mattress and pulling the blanket
up over them. Louis settles into his side and carries right on, talking
about how fabulous his Rizzo was and how much the crowd loved her.

It goes on for another thirty minutes, and then Louis starts to feel his
eyes getting heavy, and he promises himself only one more. One more
thing, and then sex. Five more minutes.

That resolution lasts exactly three minutes, until he starts drifting off
mid-sentence.

“Okay,” Harry says, kissing Louis gently between the eyes. “Let‟s go
to sleep.”

“Nooo,” Louis says, although the word is muffled by a gigantic yawn,

which does nothing to help his case. He reaches down for Harry‟s
elastic waistband. “I‟m a man of my word. C‟mon, budge up.”

“You‟re tired, we‟re sleeping,” Harry says, pulling Louis onto his chest
and holding him there. Louis huffs, but Harry‟s not letting go and he is
tired, so he settles for biting Harry half-heartedly on the chest.

“Fine,” Louis says. “But tomorrow night, we‟re going to go back to my

flat where there‟s a proper bed, and you are getting the best sex of your
life, Styles. I mean it. You‟ve been warned.”

Louis feels a quiet, fond laugh rumble up through Harry‟s body, and
Harry leans down to rub his nose against Louis‟ damp hair. “I look
forward to it.”

“Mmm,” Louis says, closing his eyes and nestling his face down into
the side of Harry‟s neck, “you‟d better.”

324
Tomorrow, he decides, in those few unguarded moments between
awake and asleep. Tomorrow, after the show, he‟ll tell him.

Louis wakes up with his face stuck to Harry‟s bare chest by his own
drool. So that‟s his life these days.

Harry‟s already awake, thumbing through something on his phone

while he strokes Louis‟ hair with his other hand. There‟s a little crease
between his brows like he‟s frowning at something, and Louis thinks
maybe the screen is a little too bright in the dim light of the flat.

“Time is it?” Louis mumbles, stretching his legs out and letting his feet
tangle up with Harry‟s.

“Almost eight,” Harry says. “Sorry if I woke you up, my brain‟s still on
school schedule.”

“„S‟all right,” Louis tells him. “Needed to get up early today anyway.
First show‟s at one.”

“Oh my God,” Harry says with mock alarm, looking up from his
phone. “You mean you only have five hours to make it to school?
Whatever shall we do?”

“Hush,” Louis says, swatting at Harry‟s chest ineffectually. “I happen

to be very dedicated to my craft.”

“I know,” Harry says fondly, giving up the act. “I love that about you.”

325
Louis just barely doesn‟t freeze up at those words and how close they
come something else, but if Harry notices how much Louis‟ heartbeat
has picked up, he doesn‟t let on. He sets his phone down on top of the
blankets and turns his head to kiss Louis good morning, then rolls off
of the mattress and gets to his feet.

“Oi,” Louis says, distracted as he finds himself staring at Harry‟s very

naked backside. “Didn‟t you have pants on when we went to sleep?”

“Yes, well,” Harry says as he sashays into the kitchen like some kind of
fucking nymph, “you did kind of wind me up and then fall asleep on
me. Sometimes a lad has to take matters into his own hands.”

“Harold!” Louis gasps, sitting up and clasping a hand over his heart.
“Are you telling me that you got yourself off without me?”

“I‟ve got needs, babe,” Harry says with a wink. He stretches up to

reach the plates in the top shelf of the cabinet, giving Louis a very
deliberate view of the long, muscular lines of his body. What a fucking
bastard.

“I can‟t believe you didn‟t wake me up,” Louis says. “I‟d have liked to
at least watch.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, pausing on his way over to the refrigerator.

“You‟d like that?”

“Fuck off, you know I like that,” Louis says. “Don‟t play coy with me,
Styles.”

He knows Harry remembers just as well as Louis does all the times
they‟ve watched each other touch themselves, in the middle of getting
fucked or when the other is busy doing something else or that one time
Harry made Louis watch him for half an hour before he even got to
touch him. Just the thought of Harry pumping into his own fist under

326
the sheets next to him has Louis all hot around the ears, and Harry must
know that.

“I wasn‟t exactly being quiet about it,” Harry says. He pulls out the
eggs and grabs the skillet out of the sink as he crosses back to the stove
and gets to work. “You were dead to the world, though. I couldn‟t have
woken you up if I tried.”

Louis hauls himself out of bed and sidles into the kitchen, right up
behind Harry at the stove. Maybe it‟s a bit too early for this, but Harry
is cooking breakfast naked and Louis is wearing his t-shirt and standing
under his stupid adorable Christmas lights, so he figures they‟re way
past rules at this point. Besides, he‟s always going to be a competitive
prick, and Harry‟s given him a clear challenge. He presses himself
flush against Harry‟s back and wraps his arms around him, covering up
one of Harry‟s hands on his stomach with his own, and then tilts his
chin up to murmur into Harry‟s ear.

“Couldn‟t keep yourself quiet, then?” he says. “Too hot for me?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice so low that Louis feels it way down in the
bottom of his ribs.

“Were you thinking about me?” Louis says, letting one of his hands
slide down to the place where Harry‟s hip meets his thigh. “Thinking
about what I‟m gonna do to you tonight when I finally get you alone?”
He cranes his neck up, punctuating every word with his mouth on
Harry‟s ear. “For as long... as... I... want?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry says. His free hand is gripping the countertop for dear
life.

Louis drops a line of kisses down the back of Harry‟s neck, starting at
the place where his hair curls up against the nape and making Harry
shiver as his lips count each vertebra. When he gets to Harry‟s
shoulders, he kisses each one right on the top where he can feel the

327
bones and muscle move, and then bows his head to plant one last kiss
between Harry‟s shoulder blades.

He‟s a fucking tease, and he knows it, and Harry should hate him for it,
but he just hums with warmth at Louis‟ touch, letting it soak into his
skin. Louis thinks about staying here forever, memorizing the freckles
on Harry‟s back, leaving his name there. He looks at the space between
Harry‟s shoulders and he realises that he wants it to be his, and he can‟t
quite work out how that makes him feel. It‟s good, though. It feels
good.

“Turn around,” Louis says.

Harry obeys, turning to face Louis, and God, Louis forgets sometimes
how beautiful Harry is. He takes it for granted, he guesses, because he
sees Harry so much, but right up close it‟s unbelievable. His eyes are
wide and today they‟re the palest green and it almost makes Louis
lightheaded when he looks at them, not just because they‟re gorgeous
but because they‟re looking at him like that, the way that Harry looks at
him so often that he hasn‟t put a name on yet. But it‟s his, Louis thinks.
He‟s the only one Harry looks at that way, and even if he can‟t leave
his name on Harry‟s skin, he has that. And he can do this.

He taps twice on Harry‟s left arm, and they‟ve done this so many times
that Harry doesn‟t need any further instruction to know what Louis
wants. He leans back against the counter next to them and raises his
arms above his head, holding onto the handles on the cabinet doors to
keep them there. Louis kisses him on the lips once, twice, then stands
up on the tips of his toes to put his mouth on the spot on the inside of
Harry‟s bicep that‟s come to be his.

“That‟s a promise,” Louis says when he finally pulls back, satisfied that
he‟s left a mark there that will last at least until that night. Harry drops
his arms down to circle around Louis‟ waist, and Louis lets himself be
pulled into another kiss, feeling Harry‟s smile against his lips.

328
They have to break off before long, because Louis‟ got a big day ahead
of him and they don‟t have time to finish anything so they‟d might as
well not start it. He puts the kettle on and Harry at least has the sense to
put an apron on over his naked body, which looks absolutely ridiculous
but will at least protect his bits from any rogue splashes of grease.
Louis‟ grown quite fond of those bits, and he‟d hate to see them
disfigured in a freak breakfast accident.

They sit down at the table with plates of fried eggs and toast and a pot
of tea and just talk for a bit, enjoying each others‟ company as well as a
few moments of peace before the madness of the oncoming day. The
matinee performance shouldn‟t be too bad since they‟ve worked out all
the rough parts and the only people who actually show up to a Saturday
matinee are the actors‟ families, which guarantees a good response
from the audience, and closing night is always the best performance.
It‟s just a matter of making sure everything runs smoothly and being
there to catch anything before it goes wrong, which he can handle.

Underneath the nerves for the last two performances, there‟s something
else anxious and excited buzzing. It‟s quiet, but it gets louder every
time he looks at Harry, gonna tell him gonna tell him gonna tell him.
Tonight‟s the night. Oh God.

Thankfully he doesn‟t have much time to think about that, because as

soon as they‟re done with breakfast they‟ve got to get out the door.
Louis pulls on some proper clothes and Harry throws on a pair of jeans
and the shirt that Louis discards, looking pleased when he sniffs the
collar. Louis wonders if it smells like him, although he can‟t imagine
why Harry would be pleased about that, since he reckons he probably
smells like cat dander and laundry all the time.

After a quick stop by Louis‟ flat, they make it to the school a couple of
hours ahead of the performance with plenty of time to make sure Louis
is there when the first kids start to arrive. Everyone checks in with him
on their way in, and Louis can breathe a little more easily once the last
person is accounted for and everybody‟s where they should be.

329
The matinee performance goes off without a hitch, just as he expected
it would, and they‟ve got a good three hours before the curtain goes up
for the final show. The cast and crew are to hang about until then since
it‟d make no sense to turn them loose, so Louis is ready to settle in for a
nice bit of quiet. Maybe he‟ll even find Harry, who had decided to
watch the show from the audience this time around, or round up Zayn
and Niall for a bit of company. It‟s hard to believe that, after
everything, it‟s almost over and he‟s made it this far without any major
catastrophes.

Naturally, that‟s when one of the crew comes sprinting out from
backstage in a panic.

“Mr. Tomlinson!” she says, screeching to a halt in front of him. “Hi,

um, I don‟t mean to alarm you but, um, Ellie is... Ellie is really, really
ill.”

“What?” Louis says, feeling his blood pressure rise already. “What
d‟you mean ill? Where is she?”

“This way, sir,” the girl says, gesturing toward the left wing of
backstage. Louis follows her quickly up the steps. “She says she thinks
she ate some funny chicken for lunch and now she‟s, um, well, she‟s
kind of violently ill.”

They round the corner, and sure enough, there sits Louis‟ stage
manager in a cold sweat with an a bucket balanced in her lap. Shit.
Fucking shitting no, this is bad.

“No, no, I told you not to tell him!” Ellie says, looking very faint and
very green. “I‟m fine, Mr. Tomlinson, I promise. I can do the last show.
It‟s fine. I feel better now that I‟ve thrown up, I sw—”

Ellie‟s argument is interrupted by another wave of sick as she heaves

into the bucket, and somewhere nearby a chorus member gags and runs
off in the direction of the nearest dressing room.

330
“Oh God,” Louis says, kneeling down to feel Ellie‟s clammy forehead.
She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, looking utterly miserable, and
Louis can‟t find it in himself to be cross at all. “No, love, I think you‟ve
got food poisoning. You need to call your mum and get yourself taken
care of.” Before you start a cast-wide vomit chain reaction, he doesn‟t
add.

“No, I have to do it,” Ellie insists. “There‟s nobody else to fill in, we‟re
already spread too thin with the crew. Somebody‟s got to make sure
everybody gets their cues.”

“We‟ll figure something out,” Louis tells her. “Do you have your copy
of the script with all your notes in it?”

Ellie nods, eyes full of tears, and Louis would hug her if he weren‟t
afraid she might be sick all over him. “It‟s over there on the prop
table.”

“All right,” Louis tells her. “Then we‟ll be okay. You just worry about
getting better, all right?” He turns to the girl from the crew. “Take her
somewhere else and call her mum, will you? And, erm, see that
somebody does something about that bucket.”

The girl nods, and Louis gives Ellie a consolatory pat on the shoulder,
and then she starts throwing up again and he snatches the binder up off
the prop table and beats a hasty retreat.

“Fuck,” he says as soon as he‟s out of the auditorium and out of earshot
of any of the kids. “Fucking hell.”

“What‟s wrong?” Harry‟s voice comes from behind him, because he

apparently has spidey senses when it comes to Louis freaking the fuck
out. He feels Harry‟s hand on his hip and focuses in on it, trying to
ground himself.

331
“Ellie, the stage manager,” he says, turning around and dropping his
head onto Harry‟s shoulder. “She‟s vomiting like she‟s in the fucking
Exorcist and she can‟t do the evening show and she‟s literally what
keeps everything from falling apart backstage.” He slaps the binder
against Harry‟s chest. “She‟s the only one who knows all this stuff
besides me, and I can‟t do it because I need to be in the sound booth.
So we‟re fucked. Fucked by fucking dodgy chicken.”

“I could do it,” Harry says simply.

Louis processes that for a second to make sure he didn‟t mishear, lifts
up his head, and blinks at him. “What?”

“I could do it,” Harry repeats, shrugging. “I‟ve been backstage working

on the set for so many run-throughs that I‟m pretty sure I have all the
cues memorized myself by now. And if you have her script, I can just
read her notes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Harry says. “I‟ll do it.”

Louis stares at him for a moment like he‟s just fallen directly from
heaven and into his theatre, and maybe he has, but Louis can‟t let him
do even more than he‟s already done. “No, Haz, this is too much,”
Louis says. “I can‟t ask you to do this. I‟ve already made you do way
too much.”

“All right, hold on,” Harry says, folding his arms over his chest. “You
haven‟t made me do anything, and you didn‟t even ask me to do most
of it, either. I‟m not doing any of this because I feel obligated, or
because I‟m expecting anything from you, or because I want you to feel
like you owe me, or anything like that.” He uncrosses his arms and
grips Louis by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “Everything
I‟ve done—everything we‟ve all done—is because you‟re important to
us and we want to help you, all right? So let me help you with this.
Please.”

332
Louis stares some more, speechless, before he finally relents, rubbing
the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Ugh, I don‟t know what I did to
deserve you.”

“Terrible things, probably. Now let‟s see that script.” Harry pulls the
binder out of Louis‟ hands.

Louis lets go, but slightly unwillingly. There‟s no way this will work.
The universe is not that kind. “I‟m going to have to explain a lot of it to
you. I‟ve seen her notes, they don‟t make much sense unless you know
what she‟s talking about.”

“Okay, then. Crash course. Teach me, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry grins.

Shuddering, Louis smacks him upside the head. “Ew, don‟t, that‟s
weird. Come on, freak.”

They sit outside on a bench, and Louis runs him through everything,
start to finish. He‟s right, Ellie‟s notes are cramped and half in
shorthand, but Harry is right, too. He knows the show almost as well as
Louis does by now, and he picks almost everything up right away. He‟s
checking his phone an awful lot, which annoys Louis a little, but he‟s
still focused on Louis‟ explanations. They spend an hour like that,
Louis eventually taking the binder away and quizzing Harry on the
different cues. He‟s not perfect, but he‟s better than anyone else Louis
is going to find on short notice.

Finally, Harry takes the binder back, and shoos Louis back into the
building. “I‟ll stay here and study more,” he says, “You go do what you
need to do. Don‟t worry about me.”

Louis doesn‟t believe in a higher power, but as he walks back through

the double doors he can‟t help but send out a dizzy thank you thank you
thank you to whoever might be listening in on his thoughts.

333
A whirlwind two hours later and the audience is filtering in, including
Liam, who‟s sitting up front with Zayn. Louis does his final check on
everything backstage, giving every cast and crew member within arm‟s
reach a hug and yelling out “Break a leg!” willy-nilly. When he‟s
finished giving a final pep talk to his glorious, beautiful Sandy, he turns
to go find Harry. Literally, he turns, because Harry is right behind him,
and Louis kind of wants to cry.

“Everything‟s going to—” Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off.

“It‟s going to be fine,” he says, smiling a little at the way Harry‟s eyes
widen. “The kids are gonna do great. You‟re going to do great. You‟ve
got this.” He pauses a moment, but fuck it. “I trust you.”

Harry has a look of wonder on his face, and a little bit of terror, Louis
thinks, but who cares? Considering what he‟s going to tell him tonight,
this is barely scary at all. How liberating. He flashes Harry a grin and
then beats a retreat to the sound booth. Niall gives him a double
thumbs-up, the lights go down, and the curtain goes up. Showtime.

It‟s perfect.

The songs are perfect, the acting is perfect, the show is fucking perfect.
Louis can see the joy on his cast‟s faces during “We Go Together,” and
he doesn‟t cry, but it‟s a near thing. He‟s whooping and whistling along
with the parents when the curtain finally falls, hugging Niall fiercely
and practically running down the aisle to join his kids onstage. He sees
Liam and Zayn applauding in the audience, sees Zayn toss a rose
onstage with a goofy grin before everyone runs back behind the curtain.

Everything is a rush of lights and smiles and tears backstage, people

embracing and crying and smearing makeup everywhere in their
happiness. It‟s a mess and he loves it. This is why he does this. God, he
would go through a month of tech weeks for this moment. A year.

Suddenly Harry breaks through the chaos, waving and laughing and
Harry, and it‟s all Louis can do not to grab him right there and snog the

334
living daylights out of him in front of God and everybody. They‟re just
smiling at each other in the middle of the crowd like a couple of idiots,
and then Harry opens his mouth and Louis is expecting him to shout
some kind of congratulations over the din or—

“I got an internship!”

Louis stares at him, smile frozen on his face. “What?”

“Remember that internship I told you about? The one in London?”

Harry yells back. “I applied for it and they emailed me during the show
and I checked my phone after the curtain call and I got it!”

For a moment, in the middle of all the noise and the crowd, everything
just. Stops.

“That‟s amazing,” Louis hears himself say, numbly accepting Harry‟s

hug. “That‟s so amazing.”

“I‟ve got to go phone mum,” Harry says when he pulls back. He looks
like his smile is going to split his face in half. “I‟ll meet you at the
party, okay? Lots to celebrate.”

He plants a rough kiss on the top of Louis‟ head, and then he‟s gone.

Louis stands there. The world keeps moving.

An internship. Harry got an internship.

He can remember it now, that first week in September, Harry perched

on the edge of a desk and talking about some internship in London that
starts in July. He never put too fine a point on it, and Louis just left that
detail where it fell, excluding it from his personal canon of their
relationship. Their relationship. He feels ill.

335
And, well. That‟s it, isn‟t it? That‟s the end to their story written, then.
He knew this would happen. He knew all along that Harry was young,
that he was still at that point in his life where everything is in flux. It
was always right there, right in Harry‟s mattress on the floor and his
blind fucking idealism. Louis knew this. He knew this and he let
himself forget it.

He feels himself moving through the crowd now, feels people slapping
him on the back and squeezing his shoulders, can hear people shouting
and laughing and congratulating each other, but it‟s all muffled and far
away. Everything feels so far separated from the ringing in his ears and
the dizzy nausea in his stomach, and all he keeps thinking is that he was
going to tell him.

He was going to tell Harry—God knows what, it hardly matters now—

and, Jesus, how did he ever let things get that bad? What the fuck
happened to him? How did he ever let his guard down that far, that he
almost did something so stupid and irreversible and utterly fucking
pointless, while Harry sent off applications he didn‟t seem to think
Louis had any need to know about for jobs halfway across the country?

The image jumps uninvited in front of his eyes, Harry filling out
paperwork and mailing it off, dreaming of making it big somewhere
bright and exciting, making copies of his portfolio that Louis could
never appreciate because he was just a fucking washed-up drama
teacher, a thousand younger, more beautiful faces of a thousand
younger, more interesting people that Louis could never compete with,
all of them waiting for Harry. He remembers, suddenly, a snippet of the
phone conversation from the other night, fingers crossed, yeah?, and
Harry frowning at his phone this morning and again this afternoon,
silently checking on plans Louis wasn‟t privy to, and fuck, that
realization stings. Harry never even told him he was applying.

And why would he? What relevance could Louis possibly have to that
life?

Louis makes it through the rest of post-show pandemonium in a haze.

He‟s lucky he‟s done this so many times that he doesn‟t really have to

336
focus to get all the costumes returned and packed up to ship back to the
rental company. He‟ll strike the set later. It can wait.

The kids are throwing a cast party in the orchestra room, and he knows
he should go. He knows Harry will be there waiting for him, flushed
with adrenaline and victory, pulling everyone into his orbit. And Louis
can‟t do it. He can‟t face it. He can‟t walk in there and see Harry
ecstatic and gorgeous in a shirt that Louis slept in last night and deal
with the fact that he‟s only temporary. He can‟t look him in the face
and pretend that he‟s happy for him. And, God, he hates himself.

He gets in his car instead. He sneaks out the back way and crosses the
car park alone for the first time in a week, and he gets in his car,
because that‟s all he knows how to do. He gets in his car and he drives
home with the radio off and he doesn‟t look at the place where Harry‟s
fingerprints are still on the window.

There‟s a bouquet of flowers waiting for him on his kitchen table when
he comes through the door and he doesn‟t even look at the card, just
dumps them straight in the bin and hates himself, hates himself for
feeling like this, hates himself for letting things get so far out of hand,
hates himself because he knows he‟s not enough reason for Harry to
stay.

He texts Harry, sry i think i‟ve got whatever ellie does, ill, don‟t come
over, and then he turns off his phone and climbs into bed and doesn‟t,
doesn‟t, does not fucking cry.

337
338
 FOURTEEN

Louis wakes up at one o‟clock in the afternoon the next day with an
empty bed, seven missed calls, and eleven text messages. He switches
his phone back off and takes a shower and tries not to notice how much
everything in his entire bloody flat smells like Harry fucking Styles.

As soon as he‟s dressed, he takes the spare key out from under the mat
and shoves it back in the kitchen drawer.

It‟s Sunday, the first day of Easter hols, and all Louis can think is that
he‟s got two weeks ahead of him with nothing to do and nowhere to
hide until third term starts.

He thinks back to last night, around the big Harry-shaped part of it to

everything else. He remembers Zayn and Liam in the front row of the
audience, Liam beaming at the show and Zayn beaming at Liam, and
he imagines that at least half of his texts are from Zayn going on and on
about how he can tell that things with Liam are almost there, and Louis
can‟t handle that today. He remembers Niall catching his eye
somewhere in the middle of costume roundup and he remembers the
look on his face, careful and sympathetic and uncertain, and he knows
Niall must know about the internship and so Zayn probably knows too
and they‟re probably both worrying about him on top of everything
else, and he really can‟t handle that.

It‟s simple, then. He‟s got to get hell out of Manchester.

339
He stuffs a bag with clothes from the back of his closet and the bottom
of his wardrobe, whichever ones Harry hasn‟t touched, and his
toothbrush and an extra pair of shoes and calls his mum from the car,
Duchess dozing in her basket in the backseat.

“Surprise!” he says down the line, hoping his voice doesn‟t sound as
manic as it feels. “I‟m coming home for the hols!”

“What‟s happened, love?” his mum says immediately. Goddamn

mother‟s intuition. It‟s downright terrifying. “Are you all right?”

“I‟m fine, mum,” he lies. “Just missing you and the girls, that‟s all. I‟m
already on my way, should be there in an hour.”

“All right,” she says, clearly unconvinced. “We‟ll talk when you get
home, boo.”

Louis doesn‟t bother trying to tell her there‟s nothing to talk about. He
knows it‟s useless.

The drive to Doncaster is miserable and endless that day, even though
he‟s made it hundreds of times. He can‟t bear to listen to the radio
because if he hears a single love song he might drive into a tree, and he
can‟t bear to sit in silence because then he‟s just alone with his
thoughts, which is even worse. In the end he puts on some meaningless
radio show hosted by some meaningless bloke with a boring voice and
lets it lull his brain into static.

His mum must have told the girls he was coming, because the instant
he pulls up to the house, the front door flies open and the twins are
yanking him out of the car and down into the grass with them like
they've always done since they were little, laughing and screaming and
tripping him when he tries to get back up. He wrestles them off, careful
not to let either of them get a good look at his eyes.

340
“You two almost the same size as me, I really don't think this is a fair
fight anymore,” Louis says as they giggle behind him. He goes back to
the car for his bag and lets Daisy carry Duchess in before following
them up the garden path.

Phoebe leaves the door wide open behind her, and Louis can hear the
girls bustling about inside the house, shouting from room to room.

“Lottie, come down and say hello to your brother!” his mum yells from
somewhere inside.

Louis stands at the threshold of the house for a moment, feeling the old
familiar floor sturdy under his feet. He‟s always been good at holding
onto hurt. He‟s always had a gift for packing it up tightly and hiding it
away behind jokes and a pretense that he knows exactly what he‟s
doing. It‟s a skill that‟s always been a necessary part of his life, and this
house knows it. It suits that he‟s back here now. One more thing to tuck
beneath the floorboards.

“There‟s my boy,” his mother says as she rounds the corner. She pulls
him into a crushing hug, and Louis feels his body melt into it without
his permission. “Oh, I‟ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, mum,” Louis croaks. Shit, shit, he can feel his eyes
burning. He‟s always fine, always fine, until his mum hugs him.

“Uh-oh,” she says. She steps back, gripping him by the shoulders, and
peers intently into his face. “I knew it. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Louis says, hating his voice for breaking in the middle of
the word.

She blinks at him, a frown creasing her brow, and Louis chews on the
inside of his cheek and tries to reel himself back in. “Did you lose your
job?” she asks.

341
“No, mum, I didn‟t lose my job,” Louis tells her.

“Did your father call?”

Louis almost laughs at that one, because he hasn‟t spoken to his dad in
a year. “No, he hasn‟t—”

“Is it a boy?”

“No, mum,” Louis says, stepping out of her grasp. “I‟m fine. Nothing‟s
wrong. I just missed you, that‟s all.”

His mum doesn‟t look like she believes him for a second, but before
she has a chance to call him on it, Lottie comes jogging down the stairs.

“Did you miss me too, then?” Lottie says.

“Never,” Louis tells her. “Can hardly stand the sight of you now.”

“Mutual,” Lottie says, and then she smiles and yanks him into a hug of
her own. He catches his mum‟s eye over Lottie‟s shoulder, sees the
concern there, but then he‟s surrounded by the chatter of his girls and
has more than enough distraction.

It‟s so easy to slide right back into life here, to pick up exactly where
he left off. Despite years of living on his own, he still can‟t cook for
shit, but he can stand in the kitchen and clean up clutter while his
mother does, and he can mediate—or provoke—dinner table bickering,
and he can prod his sisters into doing their fair share of the washing up.
He can‟t pretend that some things haven‟t changed, though, that the
twins don‟t have to be reminded to set a place for him at the table.
That‟s all right, though. He‟s the one who decided to leave. He‟d be the
last one to ask people he loves to save space in their life for a ghost.

342
One by one—or two, in the case of the twins—his sisters go to bed,
with admonishments from their mum about brushing teeth and washing
faces. It‟s routine, and boring, and home, and Louis wishes there were
still a blue toothbrush waiting for him upstairs, that he was still worried
about dental appointments and lying about flossing.

The sad thing is that he is, though, when he thinks about it. He‟s
worried about the dentist, and he‟s worried about heartache, and he‟s
worried about his rent, and no one ever told him that the worries of
childhood wouldn‟t get replaced by the worries of adolescence and
adulthood. They just accumulated, and sometimes the weight of being
every version of himself at once is too much.

So that‟s how he ends up in his mum‟s bedroom, lying with her in bed
and watching crap television, as is the Tomlinson way. He can‟t count
how many times they‟ve have ended up here, when one or both of them
needed space to fall apart but couldn‟t afford to do it properly. They‟re
curled up under the blankets, warm and insular, and Louis hasn‟t been
listening to whatever‟s on telly for the past fifteen minutes but he‟s
glad of the noise. It makes him feel safe, here in this room whose decor
hasn‟t changed since he was ten, safe enough to open his mouth
without knowing what‟s going to come out.

“Mum,” Louis says. “I‟m gonna ask you something, and I don‟t want
you to think it‟s a, a cry for help for something. I just really want to
know. So be honest.”

“Oh Lord,” his mum says. She digs the remote control out of the
blankets and mutes the television. “All right.”

He takes a breath, picking at the fringe of the bedspread and feeling

incredibly stupid and small even though it‟s his mum, the one place in
the world where it ever feels safe to let his guard down.

“Are you proud of me?”

343
She turns to fix him with a look. “Baby,” she says, reaching down to
still his hands. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don‟t know, Mum,” Louis says. He pulls his hands away and draws
his knees up to his chest. “Maybe because I never did anything I set out
to do, or because I‟m so emotionally fucked, or because I couldn‟t stick
around here to help with the girls, or because of the whole thing with
Dad, or because I‟m probably never going to—”

“Louis,” she interrupts, and Louis falls silent. She scoots back on the
bed so that she‟s sitting with her back against the headboard next to
him and tilts his chin up with one hand, making him look her in the
eye. “You are my boy. You are the only son I could ever want to have.
There has never been a moment of your life that I wasn‟t proud of you.
Okay?”

Louis nods a little, and his mother‟s face goes soft and she pulls him
into her side so that his head is resting against her shoulder. He closes
his eyes, feeling her hair brushing against his face and breathing in the
smell of the detergent she‟s been using every day since he was a kid,
and he swallows around the tightness in his throat.

“You‟re my boy,” she says again. “And I know you better than
anybody in this world. Maybe I don‟t know what you‟re going through
right now, maybe you don‟t want to tell me what it is yet, but I know
you. And I know your heart, and I know you‟ll be okay. You‟re always
okay.”

“Doesn‟t feel like it,” Louis tells her. “It feels like I‟m never okay.”

“I know, baby,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. “I don‟t think you
know how strong you are.”

“Maybe,” Louis says. He wants so badly to believe her, but he just

doesn‟t think he can.

344
He remembers when he was younger, when it was so much easier to
believe those things his mum said, back before he‟d watched a
marriage implode and gotten left by two fathers and had his own heart
ripped up and turned inside out. He remembers how she used to tell
him that things work out for the best and he believed her, and that made
things okay back then.

He lets her stroke his hair in silence for a minute, and then he asks her,
in a small voice, “Do you still believe in love?”

She laughs a little, taken by surprise, and says, “Do you still want me to
be honest?”

Louis hesitates for only a moment. “Yeah.”

She takes a long moment to consider, pursing her lips in thought. “I do

believe in love,” she says finally. “But I don‟t know anymore if I
believe that we‟re all meant to find it, or keep it forever. It‟s
complicated.”

“Yeah.” There doesn‟t seem to be much else to say. After a moment,

his mum unmutes the television and they settle back into silence. Louis
falls asleep like that, lulled by canned laughter and the thought that
even if most things fade, this will probably last forever.

His old room was repurposed into Fizzy‟s room ages ago, but there‟s a
TV-room upstairs with a sofa in it that he usually sleeps on when he
comes home to visit. He spends his second night in Doncaster there,
tossing and turning even though he still feels heavy and exhausted. He
can‟t stop thinking about the phone he hasn‟t checked, about what
Harry might be doing, about how stupid he is for caring what Harry
might be doing, about how lonely he feels curled up on the sofa by
himself.

He finally does manage a few hours of restless sleep, but that too is
ruined—not by his own mess of a brain, but by something heavy
dropping on top of him and startling him awake.

345
“Morning, gorgeous,” says a familiar voice right up against his ear, and
Louis‟ eyes fly open to find Stan leering at him from atop his ribcage.

“Jesus fuck,” Louis hisses.

“There he is!” Stan coos, pinching Louis‟ cheeks. “Oh, look at that
grumpy little face!”

Louis slaps Stan‟s hands away, scrunching his face up even more in
annoyance. “The fuck is wrong with you, I was trying to sleep.”

“D‟you honestly think,” Stan says, so close to Louis‟ face that Louis
goes cross-eyed trying to look at him, “that you‟re allowed to come
back to Doncaster without telling me first, Tommo?”

“Get off,” Louis grumbles, trying to push Stan off and finding no
success. “You‟re a nuisance. You should be sterilized.”

“I missed you too,” Stan says.

“How did you even know I was here?” Louis says, even though he
reckons he already knows the answer to that.

“Your mum called me,” Stan tells him. “I‟ve got to hear about things
from your mother, mate, that‟s just not on.”

Louis groans, trying to pull the blanket up over his head but finding it
pinned down by Stan‟s body. “And what else did she tell you?”

“That you came home out of the clear blue sky and you‟ve been a great
sorry mess ever since,” Stan says. “Which I, being your best friend,
immediately knew to mean that things with a certain curly-haired ponce
had gone sour.”

346
“He‟s not a ponce,” Louis says automatically.

“Ah, so you‟re saying I‟m right,” Stan says.

God, how does he always fall for that one? Louis screws his eyes shut,
desperate not to talk about this. “Fuck off.”

“Hey,” Stan says, reaching up to ruffle Louis‟ hair. “Hey, I‟m not here
to take the piss.” Louis doesn‟t say anything, and Stan nudges Louis‟
chin with his fingers. “Hey, Lou, look at me.”

When Louis does open his eyes, Stan‟s expression has changed from
deliberate obnoxiousness to gentle concern, and Louis thinks that kind
of mood switch is something that only really happens between people
who know each other soul-deep like he and Stan do.

“I‟m being serious now,” Stan says. “Tell me what happened. Or don‟t,
if you don‟t want to, only I know you do, because I‟m the only one you
always tell.”

Louis sighs. Stan is, as always, right. “Only if you get off of me,” he
says.

“Fair enough,” Stan says, scooting backwards on the sofa. Louis pulls
his legs in and curls them up underneath him, tugging the blanket
around his shoulders as he sits up.

He‟s never really talked about his whole thing with Harry. He‟s told
Zayn and Niall some of the better stories about ridiculous places
they‟ve fucked and mentioned the times they spend together just
hanging out by way of recounting some joke Harry had made the night
before, but he‟s never actually put the last few months into words. He‟s
not even sure where to start, if it goes all the way back to that day in his
classroom with the box of cables or the first time they kissed or
somewhere in between. He tells Stan the abridged version, the

347
highlights, all the parts that are easier to talk about. None of it is really
easy to talk about, not now, but maybe it‟ll be good for him to get it all
out. Maybe if he can condense it all into a story for Stan it will start
feeling more like a few ridiculous months and less like a giant fucking
weight on his chest.

So he explains it all, right up to closing night and how happy Harry had
looked when he told him about the internship, like he‟d expected Louis
to be happy for him too, like he couldn‟t think of a reason why he
wouldn‟t be. Stan listens quietly, which is a miracle because typically a
story involving this much sex would be getting a much more animated
response from Stan, but he seems to understand that Louis isn‟t in the
mood. Eventually Louis just trails off, staring at his toes and hating the
word “internship” and the way it tastes in his mouth. Stan waits for him
to say anything else, but he doesn‟t. There‟s nothing else to say.

“Have you considered the possibility that he might not take it?” Stan
says carefully. “Or that he might want you to go with him?”

Louis sighs and pulls a pillow halfway over his head. The thing is, he
has considered that. He knows that Harry cares about him. They don‟t
talk about feelings, and Louis has never—at least not until recently—
liked to think about it much, but he‟d have to be completely blind or
very stupid to think that Harry didn‟t care about him. But Harry cares
about a lot of things, and he cares about him the same way he cares
about everything else: intensely, and not always for a long time.

So, yeah, Harry cares about him, but in a way that comes easily to him.
Harry cares about him in the way that somebody cares when they don‟t
really know yet how the hard and dirty parts of life work, and Louis
doesn‟t believe Harry knows what it means to be invested in him long-
term. As long as he and Harry are in the same place, Harry is going to
give this—whatever it is—all he‟s got, but things change and Harry
isn‟t tied down to anything.

A lot of Harry‟s life is about experiences and sentiment and memories,

about holding onto moments while he keeps moving, and Louis knows,
really, that he‟s just another stray that Harry‟s picked up. He‟s another

348
bit of color on Harry‟s wall to remember, oh, Manchester, wasn‟t that
fun, I was with Louis then. And Harry might think that he cares about
Louis differently now, but that‟ll change too. Louis doesn‟t have any
illusions about himself, he knows he‟s bitter and unlovable and not the
kind of person you build a life around. All he is to Harry is this moment
in time, and all he‟s going to be in the future is a story.

“He‟ll take the internship,” he tells Stan, half-muffled by the pillow. “I

know Harry, and he never met a risk he didn‟t like. And he never even
told me he was applying, so I doubt he ever had any plans of taking me
with him, so if he does ask, it‟ll just be an impulsive thing, and I know
he won‟t really want me to go. Even if he thinks he does. He won‟t
have thought it through, and then if I went he‟d just realise he‟d made a
mistake and get sick of me and it‟d be even worse. There‟s no happy
fucking ending. He‟s leaving and I‟m staying and there‟s no reason it
should be any different.”

“I can think of one,” Stan says.

“Well, I can‟t,” Louis says. “And I‟d be an idiot to think otherwise. An

idiot who never learned a damn thing the first hundred times around.”

“Lou,” Stan says, “I mean, I know you‟ve got every right to doubt, but
it doesn‟t always have to be that way.”

Louis huffs out a humorless laugh and turns sideways, burrowing down
into the armrest with the pillow still over his head. “It already is that
way.”

“Christ,” Stan says. “You‟re proper miserable, aren‟t you?”

Louis doesn‟t answer, just grits his teeth against the feeling in his
stomach, and after a moment he feels Stan‟s hand on his knee as he
pushes himself to his feet.

349
“All right,” Stan says, pacing in front of the sofa. “We can talk about it
later. Right now what we need is, number one, pizza—” he‟s got his
phone out, already pulling up a number in his contacts “—and number
two, all day FIFA tournament. You think you can handle that?”

Louis groans, but yeah, he can handle that.

Thankfully Stan lets the subject drop for the rest of the day, and when
he leaves, Louis decides that‟s it. That‟s the last time he talks about
things with Harry. It‟s the last time he lets himself access those
feelings. And this, right now, back in Doncaster—this is the last time
he lets himself care. As soon as he gets in his car and points it toward
Manchester, the armor goes back on.

It should be easy, because Louis‟ done this before. Louis spent years
behind walls, and he knows how to build them. He can‟t have gotten
that far from where he was when he met Harry, settled into his lonely
life. It should be easy to shut all of this off.

It should be easy.

Harry keeps texting him, and Louis just replies that he‟s sick and he‟s
staying with his mum until he‟s better and he can‟t talk on the phone,
and he ignores the sad emoticons and promises to make him feel better
because he cannot fucking deal with that right now. Instead he stays
busy so that he doesn‟t have time to think about anything, because if he
doesn‟t think about going back to Manchester and facing reality and
having to do any of this then it‟s not real and it won‟t happen and he
can just keep avoiding it.

At least the girls are having a good time, because his fear of sitting still
for too long means he‟s constantly offering to drive them around and
take them shopping and braid their hair and play with them out in the
garden. His mum can tell, though, he knows by the way she keeps
looking at him, the way she purses her lips when she stands in the
doorway of the kitchen and watches him dyeing Easter eggs with
Phoebe and Daisy, his fingers stained bright green.

350
“I‟m fine,” he tells her when the girls have gone. “I‟m fine.”

“I didn‟t ask,” she says.

The days drag by, and between all the texts he‟s been dodging from
Zayn and Niall, it‟s hard to forget about everything, but Louis decides
it doesn‟t matter. Eventually those texts start to fade away anyway, and
Louis gets a sick stab of pleasure that they‟ve given up. Good. Fewer
conversations he‟ll have to grit his teeth through.

The faster everyone lets go of this, the better.

Zayn can‟t write.

He‟s been trying. He‟s sat down and tried to make some headway more
times than he can count over break. His editor is breathing down his
neck and he has a draft deadline coming up, and he‟d been counting on
these days off to be a chance for him to catch up, and now he can‟t
write.

He‟s tried everything. He stared at a blank Word document for a few

hours, took a Moleskine to every coffee shop in town, and even hauled
out the typewriter he impulse-bought as a university student with little
spare money and less sense. The cursor just blinked at him accusingly,
the sugary-sweet coffee set his brain on edge, and it turned out the ink
ribbons in the typewriter are all tangled anyway. He got high in front of
a notebook and just ended up doodling ten pages of dragons. He hasn‟t
written a usable word in weeks. He‟s considering switching to
parchment and quill pen if this keeps up.

Part of it is distraction. Louis has been evasive all break, and even if
Zayn hadn‟t known him for years, the way he vanished after curtain
call at Grease still would have raised more than a few red flags. It
hadn‟t been until Louis had dodged his calls for a few days that Zayn

351
had remembered the good news Harry had gotten that night and put two
and two together.

His best friend has a broken heart and refuses to talk about it, and for
all Zayn knows he‟s on some destructive bender that Zayn‟s going to
have to clean up. Admittedly, that‟d probably be pretty difficult to pull
off at his mum‟s house, but Louis Tomlinson is nothing if not
inventive. Give him access to a chemist‟s and enough motivation and
he could be cooking meth in his mum‟s bath inside a week just for the
hell of it.

So yeah, Zayn‟s worried about his friend, and that‟s part of his block.
It‟s not all of it, though. There‟s also—as there always is—Liam.

Liam had come with him to see the final show on Saturday, and Zayn
had really, truly, honest-to-God thought that they were getting
somewhere. Like, okay, sure, Liam probably had as much stake in the
show as Zayn by that point, so maybe it‟s not that surprising that he‟d
want to go, but Zayn had asked him specifically to go with him, and
he‟d said yes. Well, all right, Zayn had found out that Liam was
planning to go on Saturday and had asked if he wanted to sit with him,
but still. There had been a plan. Just the two of them. That foretold only
good things, surely, but—well.

It‟s not like anything had gone wrong, exactly. It was very fun and
Liam was lovely and was adorably enthralled by the entire thing, but
that was it. He hadn‟t wanted to come to the cast party, saying he had
work in the morning and begging off, and had sort of awkwardly
wobbled around before offering Zayn a fist bump as way of saying
goodbye. A fist bump. That‟s how much work there is left for Zayn to
do, apparently. Months of effort have only graduated him to a fist bump
level of intimacy.

Normally, feeling down about Liam would only fuel one of Zayn‟s
occasional writing binges, one of those lost weekends where he comes
out the other side with little memory of what happened, a lot of empty
takeaway containers around his flat, a few new chapters written, and,

352
on one memorable occasion, a new tattoo. Not this time, though. This
time he just feels tired.

After half a day of writing zero new words for his novel but several
dozen tweets about the ineffable impossibility of creation, he decides
he needs some fresh air. Well, what he really does is toss his phone
across the room, shout “Fuck it,” then go check to make sure his phone
is okay, but then he decides to go for a walk. At least he can pretend
he‟s being productive if he‟s doing it to put himself in a writing
headspace, right?

That‟s how he finds himself in town, walking past a street of twee little
shops that sell things that he can mock right now as being useless and
materialistic but would probably like to use to tastefully decorate a
studio if he were being honest and had the money. Whatever. He has a
classic wardrobe and a certain je ne sais quoi. He doesn‟t need a mirror
with a frame shaped like tree roots. He doesn‟t.

He crosses the street, whose other side is populated primarily with

restaurants, pubs, and cafes, including two different coffee joints he‟d
stopped by in his campaign for inspiration. Remembering that one of
them made particularly delicious blackcurrant jam to go with their
particularly delicious scones, he stops consideringly outside. It‟s not
until he walks through the jingling door that he sees who‟s sat on a
couch by the window: Liam. And he‟s not alone.

Zayn instinctively dives behind a display of coffee mugs, peering out

from around them to get a second look. There‟s a woman with him—a
beautiful woman, if Zayn is being fair, which he has exactly zero plans
to do—on the couch, right up next to him with her hand on his arm.
Liam is smiling, which means this isn‟t some stranger encroaching on
his personal space. This is a beautiful woman that he knows and likes
and wants touching him and Zayn is contemplating feeding himself into
the coffee grinder.

She squeezes Liam‟s arm and says something that makes him laugh,
and all Zayn can think of is how many months it took him to work up
the nerve to touch him like that, how lucky he felt when he finally got

353
the chance. He‟s angry and sad and humiliated and he‟s got one foot in
a basket of seasonal roasts and a pensioner staring at him from a nearby
table, but mostly he‟s filled with mad, fight-or-flight adrenaline,
because he either needs to make what‟s happening stop or he needs to
stop seeing it. Right now.

Flight seems like the safer option, and the one that requires him to have
the least motor control. He extracts his foot, whips around, and walks
back out the door, praying that Liam didn‟t see him as he crosses back
to the other side of the street. A taxi nearly hits him, screeching to a
stop a few inches from his legs, but in another unkindness the universe
fails to put him out of his misery. He looks at the driver and lets out a
sort of strangled, wordless yell that utterly fails to encapsulate the
depths of his misery before moving on.

Okay. Okay. He‟s fine. He‟s totally fine. He knew that there was still
work to do, so this isn‟t a huge surprise. He can live with this. And hey,
Liam‟s the friendliest human to ever walk the earth, after all. For all
Zayn knows, he met that girl ten minutes ago and was never going to
see her again. Liam would probably let known axe murderers grope in
him in coffee shops without putting up a fuss. This is fine. He‟s okay.

He needs to talk to some gin about this.

The gin has a lot of things to say, some of which Zayn may have
actually been mumbling to himself face-down on his couch, but when
he wakes up with a near-fatal hangover the next morning it‟s on top of
a sketchpad that he apparently scrawled several thousand words into
with a light blue colored pencil sometime over the course of the night.
It‟s misspelled and somewhat incoherent and some of it isn‟t English,
but it‟s still words—and it‟s good, or will be. Zayn doesn‟t even bother
to shower, afraid he‟ll lose whatever streak he‟s started. He just puts
the kettle on, boots up his laptop, and starts moving things from page to
screen, editing as he goes.

It‟s like the floodgates have opened, and for the rest of break Zayn is as
productive as he‟s ever been, only stopping writing to eat, sleep, and
call up his artiest friends from uni to see if he‟s getting the details of

354
being in a band right. His editor is thrilled with him, and he‟s pretty
thrilled with himself if he‟s being honest. He‟s on track to finish his
final draft by the end of autumn, even a little bit ahead of schedule
now, and he‟s found himself in one of those good headspaces where he
actually thinks he might deserve to get published. Liam might be
fighting destiny, but it‟s springtime and Zayn refuses to give up. He
just needs to change strategy, that‟s all.

He‟s so distracted by his newfound efficiency that he does something

he‟s rather ashamed of—he forgets about Louis. Okay, he doesn‟t
forget, not really, but when he remembers it‟s always beaten back by
the tide of words pouring out of him, always filed under “to do when I
take a break,” and he forgets to take breaks. So, by the transitive
property—he wasn‟t completely pants at maths, no matter what his
report cards said—he forgets about Louis.

He realizes it the night before school starts again, as he lays out his
clothes for the next day, and promptly feels like complete shit. He is the
worst friend alive. All right, not the worst, what with the whole slaving
endlessly over a musical that wasn‟t even his job thing, but still. He‟s
fallen below his own standards. The only thing to do is to go to Louis‟
room before classes start and apologize. He‟ll bring along some tea the
way Louis takes it, too, as a peace offering.

Except when he gets there in the morning, Louis‟ car isn‟t in the
carpark and he‟s not in his room. Zayn thinks he might be running
late—it‟s always hard to come back after break—but he doesn‟t show
up for lunch, either. Harry does, though, and when Zayn asks, Harry
says Louis‟ sick and that he texted him as much the night before.

“He didn‟t say anything about it to you?” Harry says, looking sincere
but a bit nervous. Zayn just shakes his head. When he swings by Louis‟
room, though, he sees a supply teacher inside, so whether or not Louis
is actually sick, he‟s definitely not at work.

Louis continues to not be at work for the rest of the week, and, aside
from a singular and perfunctory i‟m sick response to Zayn‟s frantic
texts, seems uninterested in being in contact with anyone at all. It

355
would be one thing if Zayn thought Louis were really ill, but when
Louis is ill he never stops moaning about it, and this radio silence
makes Zayn completely sure that there‟s something else going on.
Something Harry-related. The fact that Harry seems utterly ignorant
just makes him annoyed with them both.

Finally, when Friday comes and goes and Zayn still hasn‟t heard a
damn thing, he turns left instead of right when he pulls out of the
school carpark at the end of the day and makes his way to Louis‟ flat.
He sees Louis‟ car parked out front, so at least he knows that Louis
really is in town. He parks behind him and makes his way up the stairs,
taking them two at a time and preparing to put his foot up Tomlinson
arse.

He pounds on Louis‟ door, waits, and then pounds again. Remembering

that Louis has started keeping a key under the mat for Harry, he lifts it
up, but there‟s nothing there. Hm. Zayn frowns and knocks again, and
this time shouts too, not particularly caring if he disturbs the neighbors.

“I know you‟re in there, Lou!” he yells. “Let me in, or I‟ll call Liam
and tell him you‟ve fallen and hurt yourself and he‟ll come break your
door down with an axe.”

There‟s a silence, and the quality of it confirms to Zayn that Louis is

inside because he can goddamn hear Louis sulking without a sound.
Then, finally, come the soft pads of feet over to the door and the clunk
of it unlocking before it opens to reveal one perfectly healthy-looking
Louis Tomlinson.

“You‟re a dick,” Zayn says, pushing his way inside. “I‟ve missed you.
How are you? Have I mentioned you‟re a dick?” He pulls Louis into a
hug and then punches him hard in the arm. “Where the hell have you
been?”

“I told you,” Louis says, rubbing his arm, “I‟ve been sick.” He gives a
halfhearted sniff that ought to get his acting degree revoked.

356
“With what, arsehole disease?” Zayn snorts. “Come off it, mate, I know
something‟s up, you were dodging me all break.” When Louis stays
quiet, Zayn rolls his eyes and pushes him toward the living room and
the sofa. “Is this to do with Harry? And London?”

Louis flops onto the sofa and looks at him with eyes that are far too
innocent. “What are you talking about? Why would that make me
dodge you? Which I haven‟t been doing, by the way.” He hooks his
ankle around Zayn‟s and trips him onto the sofa with a grin.

“Twat,” Zayn says, reaching out to smack Louis across the head and
mostly hitting air. “At least admit you were ignoring my texts.”

Louis heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the cushions. “Fine, I
was ignoring your texts. I was ignoring everyone‟s texts. I just wanted
some time with my family, yeah? It‟s not a big deal.”

Zayn hums in not-quite-agreement. “So. Harry and London. That has

nothing to do with you wanting family time?”

“No, Zayn, I did actually love my family before I met Harry, as you
may remember,” Louis says. “Just because your life is a constant
melodrama doesn‟t mean everyone‟s is. Harry and London is a thing,
and I‟ll deal with it, but I‟ll deal with it my own way, all right? Let it
go, mate, you‟re actually worse than my mum.”

“She‟s a lovely woman and I‟m honored by the comparison,” Zayn

says as poshly as he can muster, but he lets the rest of it lie. Louis is
clearly full of shit, but if he‟s this determined not to talk about it then
there‟s nothing Zayn can do that won‟t end in a fight, and he‟s missed
Louis too much to want to be on the outs with him right now.

“So,” Louis says after a beat. “How goes the next great British novel?
And the next great British power couple?”

357
“The novel‟s good,” Zayn says, putting a mental pin in the London
thing to remind him to return to it later in the conversation. He knows a
Louis Tomlinson deflection when he sees one, but he‟ll take the bait for
now. “Really good. Nearly two-thirds done now, I think.”

“Wa-hey!” Louis shouts joyfully, throwing his arms up. Zayn flinches a
little, startled by the volume of his voice, the exaggerated animation of
the gesture. “That‟s brilliant, Zayn, seriously. Knew you had it in you.
And the eye candy? Is he rewarding your genius with sexual favours
yet?”

This time it‟s Zayn‟s turn to sigh heavily. “No. Haven‟t made as much
headway there—“

“Filthy,” Louis says with a broad smile.

“Fuck off,” Zayn laughs. “I dunno, I feel like I‟ve hit a wall there?
Like, I‟m stalled with him or something. I‟m gonna try a new tactic, I
think, see what it turns up. I‟ll let you know how it goes.”

“I‟m sure you will,” Louis says. “Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I
can order something in.” He stretches languidly, and Zayn is reminded
of Duchess. Owners and pets really do start to act alike.

“Sure,” he says. “Want to ask the other boys „round? I‟m sure Harry‟d
be thrilled to see you up and about.” He looks at Louis pointedly.

“Zayn,” Louis says, flopping a hand over his eyes. “Please do not
meddle. Please. For the love of all that is holy. You get a look on your
face like you think you‟re being clever and it‟s all I can do not to
murder you. Leave it alone.”

“I‟m not going to leave it alone unless I know you‟re okay.”

358
“I‟m okay!” Louis says, half-shouting. It‟s bullshit. Zayn knows it‟s
bullshit, knew things were bad when he confirmed for himself that
Louis has been faking sick for a week. He knows it now, too, can read
it in the fact that Louis won‟t make eye contact with him. Kudos to
Louis for knowing that Zayn could spot a lie in his eyes, but he‟s a fool
if he thinks that‟s all he has to do to throw him off.

Zayn would be a fool, though, if he thought that pressing the issue

would get him anywhere. As far as he can tell, right now Louis is at
least willing to pretend to talk about whatever the hell is going on with
him for the sake of acting like he‟s okay. Zayn wants to pry, but he‟s
pretty sure that if he pushes any further Louis will go full-on brick-
wall, which doesn‟t do anybody any good at all.

The waiting game it is, then. “I‟ll promise not to meddle if you promise
to deal with whatever it is you‟re pretending isn‟t bothering you,” Zayn
says. Louis wordlessly extends his pinkie, and Zayn links it with his.

“Deal,” Louis says. “All right, moving on to more important things.

Indian or Chinese?”

“Chinese, please,” Zayn says, and tries to swallow his worry.

If Louis had a single, tiny bit of self-preservation instinct left, he‟d end
it now. He‟d put a stop to this thing with Harry and walk away with a
lot of decent memories and at least a little self-respect. That‟s exactly
what he should do. He should sit down with Harry, explain that hey,
they had some laughs, and now it‟s run it‟s course, so let‟s be friends,
yeah? No hard feelings.

He‟s not going to do that. He knows it, the way he knew in school that
he would leave every assignment until the last minute and the way he
knows he‟ll always hit the snooze button at least once in the morning.
It‟s stupid, and it‟s going to fuck him over, and he‟s still going to
completely fail to end this. Maybe a stronger, smarter person would be

359
able to look Harry in the eye and tell him they didn‟t want him, but
Louis has no illusions of being that person. So he needs to find a Plan
B.

The only way this is going to work, the only way Louis is going to
make it through the next few months alive, is if it‟s just sex. Nothing
sweet, nothing gentle. He can‟t let Harry touch him like he means
something. He can‟t let Harry smile when he kisses him, can‟t let his
thumb trace over the corners of Harry‟s mouth when he does. He can‟t
let himself sink back into this. He won‟t. He knew the warning signs
before and chose to ignore them. This time he knows better. This time
he‟ll trust his instincts when alarm bells start going off, when too close,
too much starts running on loop in his brain. He can still make this
work. He can still win this thing. God knows he‟s done it before.

Apparently Zayn did not think his promise not to interfere with things
extended to include not telling anybody he was back in town, because
he wakes up Saturday morning to a text from Niall calling him a dick
and a text from Harry that he puts off for an hour before finally biting
the bullet and opening it up.

a little blonde birdy told me that you‟re back!!! hope you‟re feeling
better.. let me make you dinner tonight, yeah ? miss you xx

Louis only spends about ten minutes with his face buried in his hands.
He can‟t just blindly react to this. That‟s how he got into this mess in
the first place. He needs to strategize.

All right. What are his options? He could say yes, of course, if he
wanted to sabotage himself completely and spend a few hours mooning
at Harry across his stupid fucking table in his stupid fucking flat. No
thanks. Louis can admit that he wants to see him, as much as it makes
him hate himself, but he‟s not an idiot. He can‟t go on like before, not
when he knows how hollow it all is. That‟s off the table.

He could blow Harry off completely. He could ignore the text, or just
turn him down. It‟s tempting, because it gives him more time before he

360
has to look Harry in the eye again, but he knows it‟ll backfire. It‟s too
out of character. Harry will figure out something‟s up and ask
questions, or he‟ll talk to Zayn and Niall and they‟ll ask questions, and
if Harry comes to Louis angry or upset and looking for answers Louis
is terrified of what truths might come out of his mouth. He‟s a good
actor, but he‟s not that good.

It‟s decided, then. Harry can‟t know anything‟s wrong. It has to be

down the middle. There‟s no chance of a clean break, so it‟ll have to be
a slow drift, a gradual slide away from him that pulls them apart
without Louis having to ever talk about it. Hell, if he plays this right,
Harry won‟t even notice.

Louis pretends he doesn‟t notice the way his stomach twists at that
thought.

feeling better, yeah. why don‟t you come over to mine instead? i‟ll
order in and we can play doctor ;)

He taps out the message carefully and hits send.

They set a time and Louis spends the rest of the day talking himself up
for what he‟s going to have to do. He doesn‟t care. He does not care.
He‟s losing Harry and he doesn‟t care because why the fuck should he?
If he tells himself this enough times eventually it‟ll be true.

The weather seems to be in on it too, turning dark and stormy in the

late morning and pissing down rain for hours, turning the world beyond
his balcony gray and heavy. Matches his mental state. He sits out there
with his knees pulled up to his chest and lets little flecks of rain splash
onto him from the edge of the balcony and watches the time tick down
on his phone, and he‟s going to do this. He‟s going to treat this just like
he intended at the beginning, just like everyone he‟s been with between
age twenty and now, like it doesn‟t mean anything, like he doesn‟t feel
anything about it.

361
Then he opens the door and Harry is there, solid and gorgeous and
smiling, and God, Louis is so, so fucked.
“Hi,” Harry says, ducking inside and kissing Louis hello before Louis
even has a chance to deflect it. Louis at least manages to gather himself
enough to step sideways out of his hug, although it‟s a near thing, and
it‟s harder than he ever anticipated to pretend like he doesn‟t want it.

“Don‟t let the rain in,” Louis says. He steps back and leaves Harry to
toe off his muddy boots and shake out his hair, and he feels a stab of
anger, too, on top of the ache. If Harry‟s going to leave him then he
could have the decency to make it a little easier on Louis. It‟d be nice if
he‟d be a little less goddamn lovely for a second so Louis didn‟t have
to spend every second in his presence swimming upstream. Louis likes
that anger; he grabs onto it, clings to it. He‟s going to need an anchor,
and being pissed off is nice and familiar.

“Feeling better?” Harry says as he shrugs out of his jacket.

“Oh yeah, loads,” Louis lies, as if his sides don‟t feel like they‟re
splitting open as they fucking speak. “Good as new.”

“Good, I was worried,” Harry says. Louis is just going to pretend he

doesn‟t say the last part.

Normally Louis doesn‟t mind talking to Harry about nothing for hours,
but with London looming over their heads like an axe, small talk is
excruciating. And besides, he doesn‟t care, right? What would he do if
he didn‟t care?

“So,” he says brightly. “London, hm? That‟s exciting.”

Harry‟s eyes light up, and Louis is going to be sick everywhere. “Yeah!
I‟m really excited, it‟s going to be great, I think. I actually talked to my
boss—well, my future boss, I guess—over break, and I think we‟re
going to get along really well, which is good.” He twists his face into a

362
wry little smile. “I‟ve never had a proper full-time job before, so it‟d be
bad if my boss and I hated each other straight off.”

How the hell had Louis not seen this coming? “That‟s definitely good,”
he says, swallowing dryly. He turns his back on Harry and heads off
into the kitchen, where the Indian delivery is already waiting on the
counter. He pulls a plate down—just one—and starts helping himself.
“Went ahead and ordered the usual.” He winces at the phrasing. He‟s
going to have to start cutting that sort of stuff out, “the usual,” anything
that refers to them as a unit or refers to their history. They don‟t have a
shared history anymore, just like they don‟t have a shared future.

Harry‟s been over for a grand total of five minutes, and now Louis is
getting worked up over Indian food. Fucked. So, so fucked.

Harry grabs a second plate and starts loading it up, leaning into Louis‟
side at the counter. Louis allows it, but doesn‟t lean back, doesn‟t let
himself enjoy the warm weight. He drops his plate onto the kitchen
table and moves to the fridge, grabbing himself a beer.

“Get one for me too, babe?” Harry says, his mouth already half full of
food, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a second before
reaching back into the fridge and grabbing another bottle. He sets it
down next to Harry rather than handing it to him and then moves on to
his own plate, safe on the other side of the table.

“How was Doncaster?” Harry says once he‟s swallowed. “Were the
girls all home?”

And, okay, this can‟t happen. He can‟t let Harry anywhere near that
part of his life.

“Fine, fine,” Louis says. “Good to see them. What about you? Get up to
anything exciting?” Harry blinks a little at the brush-off, but takes it in
stride.

363
“Did some looking around about flats in London,” he says, looking
eager. “Gemma‟s helping me out, giving me some advice. I called a
couple of places up, seeing if they think there‟ll be vacancies in July.”

“Sounds fun,” Louis says, tucking into his food with much more
urgency than is necessary.

“Yeah, the place I‟m going to be working is in a really cool part of

London,” Harry says excitedly. “Lots to do around there, it‟s brilliant.
I‟ve been to that area before but it‟s going to be amazing to actually,
like, live there, you know?”

“Sounds great,” Louis says flatly. He carries on shoveling food into his
mouth so he has an excuse to not to say anything else.

Harry nods excitedly. “You‟d really like it there, Lou. Lots of exciting
artist types. Actors too.” He raises his eyebrows, as if he expects Louis
to chime in with how pleased he is that Harry is going to be constantly
surrounded by gorgeous eccentric people the second he leaves. All he
can hear every time Harry opens his mouth is I can‟t wait to leave you,
and Harry seems to expect him to nod along happily.

“Well, I‟m a boring teacher type,” Louis says, “so I‟m sure it‟ll suit you
better than it would me.”

“No, I swear, it‟s the coolest,” Harry goes on. “There are all these
different weird restaurants everywhere, and this place that one of my
friends says has these crazy fruit tarts, and all kinds of shops, and
there‟s a tube stop like twenty feet away from where my offices are
gonna be, and it‟s London so I‟ll never run out of things to take pictures
of. It‟s perfect.”

“Perfect,” Louis echoes back.

“I think there should be some flats around there that I can afford, but
I‟ll have to actually go down there to check them all out first. Rent

364
shouldn‟t be too bad if I‟m splitting it,” Harry says brightly, and that‟s
all Louis can take.

“Well, I hope you can find a flatmate, then,” he says.

It‟s silent at the table for a moment, and Louis just keeps staring down
at his plate, busily sawing a piece of chicken in half.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I guess.” He chews thoughtfully for a bit, brow

furrowed, swallows, and then looks up. “Lou.”

Nothing good is going to come from that tone of voice. “Yes, Harold?”

Harry doesn‟t smile at the nickname, just keeps looking serious.

“There‟s something I want to talk to you about.”

No, no, absolutely not. Abort mission, release parachute,

motherfucking eject. Louis is very familiar with nervousness, but this is
absolute hair-raising panic. He has no idea what Harry is going to say,
but he‟s damn sure he doesn‟t want to hear it. He‟s never had a
conversation that started like this end well in his life, and somehow he
doubts this is gonna be the one to break the pattern. This needs to get
derailed now.

So Louis does the only thing he can think to do and stands up from the
table. “There will be plenty of time to talk later,” he says, pitching his
voice low. “I‟ve got other plans for you tonight.” Harry looks a little
exasperated but mostly amused as Louis comes around the table and
slides into his lap. Looping his arms around Harry‟s neck, Louis leans
in and lets his lips brush just below his ear. “I‟ve missed you,” he says,
and the worst part is it isn‟t even a lie.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Louis seals it shut with a
rough kiss. He presses his chest flush against Harry‟s and rolls his hips,
desperate to get things moving before Harry remembers to finish
whatever he was going to say.

365
It takes Harry a few moments to respond, and when he does, it‟s only to
wrap his hands around Louis‟ waist, and God, it shouldn‟t be possible.
Harry‟s hands are impossibly huge and impossibly gentle on him and
Louis feels himself crumbling under the touch, and it just shouldn‟t
happen like this, not when he‟s trying so fucking hard to protect
himself. It‟s like it takes all his willpower to remember the reality of
the situation, and Harry shouldn‟t have that power over him. It‟s not
fair. He deserves to be able to sleep with a pretty boy without it feeling
like it matters.

He tries to grind his hips down again, screws his eyes shut and bites
down on Harry‟s lip too hard to try to put a little edge on things, but
Harry just rubs circles on Louis‟ back with his hands, feeling out the
spots of tension and digging his fingertips in. He knows this particular
routine because it‟s one Harry always uses on him when he‟s stressed
or ill, trying to soothe him. Trying to take care of him. The fucking
irony, honestly, Louis could scream. Or at least he would if he could
stop relaxing into it, despite his best efforts otherwise.

Harry manages to slow things down enough that they‟re not going
double time anymore, and then he feels Harry‟s hands sliding down
under his arse and thighs, which means he‟s about to lift Louis up and
carry him to the bedroom, and his first automatic thought is yes yes yes
before his breath stops in his throat.

He won‟t go to bed with Harry. He‟ll sleep with him, sure, he‟ll fuck
him and he‟ll even enjoy it, but he‟s not going to go to bed with him
tonight. Tonight needs to be quick and dirty and absolutely nothing
else. He‟s already fucked himself over enough, and it needs to stop
here. He swore to himself years ago that he would never let anybody
else ever get the best of him, that he would never let anybody get their
hands on his heart again. He swore. He never wanted it to get this far
with Harry, never wanted this to go beyond sex and friendship and a
fun way to pass the time. He never meant to end up here, under Harry‟s
hands and wanting it too much. But here he is, exactly where he
promised himself he‟d never be again, and he feels absolutely
powerless to get himself out. And he doesn‟t understand why.

366
Or maybe he does know why, but there‟s no way in hell he‟d ever
admit it now.

If he lets Harry take him to bed, he knows that Harry‟s going to lay him
out and take his time and make it slow and deep, making up for lost
time, and Louis would rather die. He can‟t make himself that
vulnerable with Harry ever again. Maybe he can‟t stop himself from
melting into Harry‟s hands, but he can at least keep this here. He can
keep it fast and physical and he can ignore the fact that though he‟s felt
guilty during sex before, this is the first time he‟s felt it with Harry.

He reaches back and grabs one of Harry‟s hands and brings it around
until his palm is covering Louis‟ crotch, pressing down so that the heel
of his hand grinds down against him. “Want you so much,” Louis
breathes. “S‟been so long. Was thinking about what I want to do to
you.”

“Yeah?” Harry pants into his neck, “Anything, Lou, fuck.”

“Want you to fuck me,” Louis says, pulling on Harry‟s hair. “Here.
Don‟t wanna move, just want you in me. Just want you to sit there and
let me ride your cock. However I want.” He lets the last words drag out,
filthy, and knows it‟s going to work when Harry lets out a shaky
breath. And fuck, he does want it, wants it even more with the way
Harry‟s hips jerk up against him. He just has more reasons to want it
like this than Harry knows.

“Okay, Lou, yeah,” Harry says, pressing wet kisses to his collarbone.
“Yeah, God, do it.”

Louis starts to work on Harry‟s belt, giving a pleased little hum and
meeting Harry‟s eyes with a wicked look. It‟s a fucking mistake,
because what‟s in Harry‟s eyes is so open and simple and affectionate
that Louis is honest-to-God winded. Louis leans in and hooks his chin
over Harry‟s shoulder, and only when he knows Harry can‟t see him
does he let his face crumple for a moment as he slides his hand into
Harry‟s jeans.

367
They fuck like that, Louis in Harry‟s lap and his chin on Harry‟s
shoulder, letting everything he‟s feeling play out on his face as long as
it‟s hidden from Harry. When it‟s over, he‟ll pull back and he‟ll look at
Harry like he doesn‟t care, like it doesn‟t mean anything to him more
than a warm body under his. He‟ll get to his feet and he‟ll clean up the
half-eaten dinner like nothing ever happened, and he won‟t let Harry
kiss the corners of his eyes like he likes to do when he‟s feeling all
loose and fucked out. He‟ll step away. He‟ll step out of this.

For now, though, he shuts his eyes and buries his fingers in Harry‟s
hair, and he tries to concentrate on the rhythm of his hips and the
feeling of Harry inside of him and nothing else, nothing else at all.
Nothing.

368
 FIFTEEN

Louis has this thing that he‟s always done. It‟s a little trick for when
he‟s lying in bed and doesn‟t want to get up but knows he has to, like
most mornings of his life. He picks a number, and then he lets himself
savor the feeling of being curled up all warm in his bed for as long as it
takes him to count backwards to zero, and then the rule is that he hauls
himself out of bed all at once and doesn‟t look back. It works a treat
every time.

It goes like this now.

He allows himself small moments. Obviously cold turkey isn‟t an

option, as ridiculous as that is, so instead he lets himself have Harry in
pieces. A few seconds of Harry‟s lips in his hair when he‟s making a
shopping list. A moment of Harry‟s voice singing low and raspy along
to the music on the radio. Just little bits, shorter and shorter every time
before he cuts them off with some change of subject or sudden shift in
momentum or his hand on Harry‟s belt. He figures that this way he‟ll
train himself not to miss it at all. He‟ll remember what it‟s like not to
need any of that. It‟ll work.

Helping him along is the fact that Harry hasn‟t quite twigged to what‟s
going on. He notices when Louis pulls away from him sooner than he
normally would, or when he doesn‟t automatically invite Harry over
after work, or when he doesn‟t respond when Harry drops one of their
inside jokes. Louis knows he notices, because Harry telegraphs
everything he feels on his face, and there‟s confusion in that hurt, but
not accusation, which is good. The longer he can manage to keep

369
pushing them apart without Harry figuring it all the way out, the easier
this will be.

At first Louis hates those moments when Harry‟s face falls, and he tries
to avoid eye contact every time he does something he thinks will cause
one. Ignore a touch, then look away. Leave a joke hanging, then look
away. He starts feeling like he‟s spending half his time with Harry
trying not to look at him.

That feels wrong, though. It feels like the coward‟s way out, and Louis
will be damned if he ever gives anyone reason to call him a coward, so
he starts doing the opposite, starts looking Harry dead in the eye as he
pulls himself away. It hurts, God, it hurts like hell, but it‟s right. He‟s
not ashamed of what he‟s doing. He‟s not doing it to punish Harry, he‟s
doing it to save himself. Harry will be fine. And it‟s important to see
the effect it‟s having. He gets a little voice in the back of his head, and
every time he watches a smile leave Harry‟s face it whispers see, look,
he likes you a little bit less now, see how easy this is, see how simple it
will be for him to leave you.

Yeah. This is gonna work. It‟s already working.

Sometimes he fucks up, which isn‟t surprising, since Louis can‟t think
of anything he hasn‟t fucked up at least once. Sometimes, if he‟s tired,
or tipsy, or just plain weak, he pulls Harry back in like he needs him to
breathe. There are stolen moments, hours, afternoons where it‟s like it
was, where Louis lets himself be fooled. He lets Harry take him home
after the footy team wins a match, lets himself touch Harry for hours
before he wakes up sweating in the middle of the night and calls a taxi
home. One morning he wakes up in his flat, makes up some tea the way
Harry takes it, and brings it to him at school, pulling him into a quick,
furtive kiss before he hands it over and walks away without an
explanation, curling the way Harry smiled at him into a secret place in
his chest. Once, Harry falls asleep on his sofa, and Louis takes a picture
of him on his phone before he wakes him up and kicks him out. It feels
like a relapse every time.

370
It feels like time starts passing faster, which is kind of it, because Louis
doesn‟t know how long he can keep this going. He‟s shedding days like
feathers and counting the time in how long he can go without wanting
to hear Harry‟s voice, how long he‟ll let the phone ring before he‟ll
answer it, how long he‟ll allow Harry to hold him after sex before he
pretends to remember something he has to do. It‟s a slow, quiet slide,
like drowning peacefully. If he turns the music up loud enough in the
car he almost doesn‟t even notice how deafeningly silent the drive to
work and back seems now when he‟s alone.

Zayn‟s quiet about things, thankfully, and Stan only sends him about
one carefully concerned text a week in between his usual texts about
inane bullshit, and Niall just tries to keep things light when they‟re all
together, so he can‟t complain about everyone else in his life. Just
Harry, and himself, and he‟s not good at staying angry at Harry, so it‟s
mostly just himself. But then, that‟s nothing particularly new.
Nobody‟s harder on Louis than he is. He‟s always known that, and he‟s
never made any effort to change it. At least it keeps him focused on
something. Yelling at himself is a familiar refrain by now. It‟s
comfortable. He‟d rather wrap himself up in his old friendly anxieties
than face what fresh hell is rattling around in the back of his head.

April‟s almost over now, he tells himself. A couple more months, and
then it‟s done. The beginning of this year went by incredibly fast. If
he‟s lucky, the end will do the same.

Louis is marking papers at the kitchen counter while Harry rewatches

last night‟s match from the couch. They both know the result, 2-1 Man
United, but Harry seems content to sit and stare in silence. Louis is sure
Harry had a better reason when he invited himself over, but he didn‟t
bother to remember it.

He lets go of a slow, deflating sigh and starts to underline a sentence,

then turns the line into a circle around the entire paragraph. For lack of

371
a better word, NO, he scrawls on the side, and then drops his head
heavily down on the depressingly-high yet-to-be-marked pile.

“Why did past Louis assign an essay he knew present Louis would
have to grade?” he whines into the paper. He lifts his head and blows
his fringe off his forehead. “Past Louis is the worst.” Harry snorts, but
keeps his eyes on the television.

About two minutes and three paragraphs of drivel later, Harry clears his
throat. “Lou,” he says, still looking at the game. “Do you think you‟ll
stay on at the school? I mean, like, permanently?”

Louis looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?” he asks, cocking

his head to the side.

“Just,” Harry seems to grasp for words, his brow furrowed, “you
always seem stressed out. And, I mean, you just said you hate
marking.”

Now it‟s Louis‟ turn to snort. “Nobody likes marking, Haz. And
nobody likes every part of their job.” He picks up the stack of marked
papers and taps them on the counter, straightening them out. “I like
actually, you know, teaching. Talking to the kids. Getting to know
them. Putting on shows. Introducing them to the things I love.” He puts
the marked stack to the side. “If I have to deal with marking a few
papers for that, I don‟t mind. And anyway, if I held out for a job that I
loved 100% of the time I‟d be waiting a long time.”

Harry doesn‟t say anything. “Plus,” Louis adds, “If I was totally happy
you wouldn‟t get to hear me bitch about it, and I know how that thrills
you.”

Harry leans across the coffee table, grabs the remote, and puts the
match on mute. “Louis,” he says, and there‟s that pause again that has
Louis taking his glasses off in preparation, “Are you happy at your job?
Honestly?”

372
Louis puts his glasses down gently on the stack of marked papers.
“What?”

Harry‟s looking at him, finally. “I mean, I don‟t know, Lou, you‟re

always overworked. You‟re only friends with three of your coworkers,
if you count me. You‟re exhausted all the time, you don‟t have time for
anything else, you‟re always worrying if you‟ll have enough money to
make ends meet. You‟re not even out at work. I don‟t know, Lou, it just
sometimes seems like it isn‟t what you want to do forever.”

Louis‟ mouth smiles. How interesting that Harry of all people would
complain that Louis gave up too much for his job. “It‟s not a perfect
job, Haz, but spend a few months out of work and you‟d be amazed
how your imagination broadens. I even convinced myself that pot
noodle was actual food.”

“I‟m serious, Lou.” He‟s got that pissed-off toddler face on that Louis
hates so much.

“So‟m I. Ate that shite every day for weeks.”

“Christ, Louis, I‟m trying to have a conversation here.”

“And I‟m trying not to, Haz, since I‟ve got better things to do. Like my
work, which you‟ve decided I hate,” he says, tapping his finger against
the stack in front of him. “Where the hell is this coming from, anyway?
Since when do you care what I do permanently?”

“Does it matter? Why don‟t you want to talk about this?”

Louis grinds his teeth and turns his face away, trying to tamp down the
rapid swell of panic in his chest, because this isn‟t how it‟s supposed to
go. This whole process is only going to keep working if Harry never
catches on or says anything about it. All he wants is for Harry to leave
it alone and just let them fall apart naturally, because it's all a foregone

373
conclusion and fighting for or about anything is just making it more
painful than it has to be for no good reason. Nothing‟s going to change.

“Because,” Louis drags a hand down his face, because he has to give
Harry an answer, “because you and I would come at this conversation
from very different places and it ends with us liking each other less.”

Harry has a look on his face like Louis just admitted to stabbing
grannies recreationally. “You don‟t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Duchess is climbing haughtily into Harry‟s lap, and he lifts
his hands to make room. Louis wonders idly how many more times
he‟ll watch that happen. Then he wonders when he started counting
down instead of up. “Just let it go, Harry.”

“Why are you so sure we‟ll disagree?” Harry says, raising his voice.
“Why are you so sure I‟m wrong when you won‟t even talk about it?”

“Why the fuck are you so hung up on this?” Louis snaps, because he
was honestly finished with this conversation before it started.

“Because I think you‟re too afraid to go after what you really want or to
be happy!” Harry shouts, throwing up his hands, and no.

“Who the fuck do you think you are,” Louis bites out, “To talk to me
about fear?” When there‟s no response, he continues, because Harry is
going to fucking learn today. “Go on, tell me. What the hell do you
know about fear, Harry? What have you ever, ever had to be afraid of
in your life?”

“That‟s not fair—” Harry starts, but fuck that.

“I don‟t give a shit if it‟s fair, Harry. You think it‟s fair to tell me that
because my life isn‟t exciting enough for you that makes me a
coward?”

374
“That‟s not what I was saying.” Harry stands and walks towards the
kitchen, staying on the other side of the counter with his shoulders
tense.

“First off, that‟s exactly what you were saying, so go to hell,” Louis
says, voice tight. “Secondly, I don‟t know what exactly you think I
would be doing if I wasn‟t at the school. The only thing I‟m qualified to
do is teach, so if it‟s all the same to you, I‟ll stay at the job where I‟ve
got friends and a flat and tenure track, thanks.”

Harry puts both hands on the edge of the counter, staring at Louis
across it. “You‟re qualified to act. And sing. And don‟t tell me you
don‟t love it, I‟ve seen you, you live to perform.”

Louis laughs, really laughs, because this is all just hilarious. “Tried
that, didn‟t I?” he says. “I spent a year running from audition to
audition, sitting in rooms with ten other nervous blokes with my same
haircut, and you know what? It didn‟t work out. Because sometimes, in
the real world, things don‟t work out, Harry, though I‟m not surprised
you don‟t know that.”

Harry doesn‟t answer that, just stares back at him with a look Louis
can‟t read, so he keeps going.

“And you know what?” he continues. “I‟m glad it didn‟t, because I

enjoy my life now, as unimpressive as it is. It wasn‟t my first choice,
but teaching is something I like, always has been, and I‟m fucking good
at it. It‟s not glamorous, but it‟s what I do, and I actually make a
difference for some of these kids, difficult as that may be for you to
believe.”

Harry just looks at him, his nostrils flaring. “That‟s not difficult for me
to believe at all, Louis, I‟m just trying—.”

“Then stop implying that it‟s beneath me, or whatever it is that you‟re
trying to say. Yeah, it‟s exhausting, and the pay is shit, but I like it,
Harry, and I wouldn‟t pick anything else over it, ever.” Harry blinks a

375
little at his forcefulness, but Louis barrels on. “Maybe it‟s not good
enough for you, or not the way you think life should go, but it‟s not
your life, Harry, it‟s mine. So just. Drop it. And don‟t you dare act like
it‟s the coward‟s way out when you don‟t know a goddamn thing about
it or me.”

“Fine, it‟s not my life and I don‟t know shit, but stop fucking acting
like I‟m some naive child.” Harry says, moving around the counter and
getting in Louis‟ space. He looks angry and tense and fully present and
Louis is fucking glad. “If I don‟t know things then fucking tell me—”

“I‟ll tell you if you can name one thing you know about fear,” Louis
says, standing up in a rush that has him half-tripping off his stool.

“I know you scare the shit out of me,” Harry snaps back, grabbing one
of Louis‟ wrists.

“Good,” Louis says, and reaches out to pull him down into a kiss that
hurts.

Harry‟s hands are on him in a way that he already knows will leave the
kind of bruises he wants, and Louis thinks at least this still works. For
the rest of the night he doesn‟t think anything at all.

The next morning, Louis wakes up to the buzz of his alarm in an empty
bed.

He makes toast and stares at it for a bit before picking it up and

sweeping it into the trash. He isn‟t hungry.

He gets through the workday on autopilot, barely remembering what

happened in every class after it‟s over. Harry doesn‟t come to the
lounge for lunch. Zayn takes one look at Louis‟ face and decides not to
ask, thank God, and cuts Niall off when he starts to. Zayn doesn‟t seem
that interested in talking himself, so it‟s a dreary hour filled mostly with
the sounds of chewing.

376
Harry doesn‟t show during his free period, either, but Louis does get a
text from him. Louis can‟t help but wonder where he is, if he‟s sitting
in his car or in the gym or in the lounge now that the rest of them have
cleared out.

sorry. was out of line and picking fights. none of my business. forgive
me? x

The problem is, it‟s not a question of forgiving. That‟s not what
matters. Whether Louis forgives him or not, Harry is still leaving,
which means that nothing he does now really matters one way or
another, and Louis just doesn‟t have the energy to stay angry. His heart
is too heavy with everything else. Harry‟s still leaving, and Louis still
doesn‟t have the strength to stay away from him. So. Here they are.

Harry knows now, he thinks, that things aren‟t okay. He has to. Maybe
Louis‟ moments of weakness were enough to hide it before, but their
fight last night must have given him some kind of sign. Maybe that‟s
for the best. Maybe Harry won‟t push it.

He leaves the text about an hour and then types out come over
tomorrow with something sugary and i‟ll consider it. He wavers over
adding a final x, but then finally does because, well, fuck it. It‟s not like
they won‟t end up sleeping together tomorrow, or like he doesn‟t have
to talk himself out of inviting Harry over tonight. It‟s all a fucking mess
and he can‟t get himself anywhere but farther into it.

Louis always makes fun of Zayn for keeping a spare set of clothing in
his classroom, but Zayn knew it would pay off. It only takes one
mishap—a geography teacher not watching where he was going with
that coffee—to render a shirt unwearable. Thankfully, Zayn‟s got a free
period, and has time to get changed. He grabs the spare white button-up
from the closet of his room and heads to the men‟s room. And Louis
had called him neurotic. What would Louis do if he‟d been
unexpectedly spilled on, hmm? Feel bad, that‟s what.

377
Well, actually, he‟d come nag Zayn to let him borrow his spare shirt.
But that‟s beside the point.

Zayn walks into the men‟s room and heads straight for the handicapped
stall, the one with its own mirror. He quickly undoes the buttons of his
ruined shirt, stripping down to the undershirt beneath.

Christ, this is the last thing he needs today. It‟s half his own fault,
really. He‟s incredibly antsy right now and it was a particularly twitchy
gesture of his that put him in the path of that rogue geography teacher
in the first place. It‟s just that—well, he hasn‟t talked to Liam for a few
weeks now, and he thinks he might be going through withdrawal.

It feels stupid and adolescent, but since the direct, vaguely obsessive
approach hasn‟t been working, he might as well try to play it cool,
right? People always want what they can‟t have. So Zayn hasn‟t texted
Liam in a while. In fact, he won‟t do anything at all until Liam contacts
him first. It‟s a brilliant strategy.

It had better be, anyway, because it‟s stressing him the hell out. His
eye-bags are getting out of control, and he pokes at them unhappily in
the mirror. Puffy. Swollen with the burden of dragging destiny along.
Whatever, it‟ll be fine. He‟s definitely not worried. Liam will call him
any day now for sure.

He‟s about to pull on the spare shirt when he hears someone else come
into the bathroom. Normally it wouldn‟t matter, but when he hears the
man‟s voice he recognizes that it‟s Harry. “Sorry, mum, go ahead,” he
says, and Zayn realises he must be on the phone.

He‟s about to call out a greeting, maybe make fun of Harry for being
the mummy‟s boy that he is, when Harry continues. “Yeah, no, it‟s
okay. I‟m alone now, I can talk.”

Zayn freezes, his mouth halfway open, and stands motionless as the
appropriate moment to reveal himself sails by. He should say
something, he really should, but it‟ll already be awkward.

378
Okay, maybe that‟s not the main reason. Maybe it‟s just that everything
has been so off since Harry got the internship and he doesn‟t
understand what‟s happening and nobody will fucking tell him
anything and he‟s worried. Is he still a bad friend for standing there
paralyzed while Harry has a private conversation if he‟s doing it out of
concern? Anyway, the stressed note in Harry‟s voice has him curious.
Zayn‟s witnessed a full range of emotions from Harry—happiness,
anger, mischief, compassion, utter madness—but he‟s never heard him
sound this tired.

“No, mum, I‟m excited about it too. I‟m the one who applied for it,
remember? I want this. It‟s just—” He lets out a long breath. “I don‟t
know. Things are complicated now. You know how important he is to
me.”

Wait. No. This is, oh God, this is bad. This was a bad idea. Zayn should
not be hearing this. When he gets out of his room, he should break into
Louis‟ emergency scotch—because apparently that‟s an emergency
stockpile worth having—and get so blackout drunk that he forgets
everything he‟s hearing.

“Mum, come on. You‟re making it sound a lot simpler than it is,” Harry
says. “He‟s not „just‟ anything, all right?”

Zayn winces silently, glancing up into his own huge, panicked eyes in
the mirror. He would actually plug his ears with his fingers if he
weren‟t afraid that any movement would alert Harry to his presence.

“The offer is amazing,” Harry says, sounding like he‟s trying very hard
to keep his voice even, “I know it is, but I love him too, and, God, um,
I don‟t know what to do. I don‟t know what I want anymore.”

Fuck.

If Zayn weren‟t already holding his breath, he would be now. Harry

loves him. Harry loves Louis. And not only that, but he said it casually,
like he‟d said it a thousand times before. Fuck.

379
Has he told Louis yet? If he has, Louis hasn‟t said a word to Zayn
about it. Then again, for being his best mate in the world, Louis doesn‟t
tell Zayn a lot of things. But he said he would talk to Harry about this
stuff, right? It‟s been over a month since then. Surely they‟ve talked
about this. They must have talked about it by now.

He can‟t handle the thought of hearing Harry say that he loves Louis
before Louis ever hears it himself. He can‟t deal with that reality.

On the other side of the bathroom, Harry laughs harshly at something

his mother‟s said. When he speaks again, he sounds weary, worn-out.
“Yeah, I know. I know. This was always—yeah. I‟ll talk to him. It‟s
just, he‟s so... I haven‟t wanted to—” He falls silent as she interrupts.

Zayn shouldn‟t know this. Zayn can‟t know any of this, can‟t have
inside information on what‟s coming down the pipeline for Louis in
this quasi-relationship-whatever.

“I will, mum, okay? I promise. I promise,” Harry pauses. “I‟ll figure

this out somehow.” Another pause, and then he laughs again, sounding
a bit more genuine this time. “Thanks for the support, I guess? Okay,
mum, I‟ve got to run, but I‟ll talk to you soon, yeah?” A final pause.
“Thanks, mum. Love you too. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and Zayn is briefly thankful for his freedom, but
Harry but doesn‟t leave. Zayn can hear him pacing back and forth, can
hear the soft pad and squeak of his trainers on the floor tile. The
footsteps stop, and the sound of the tap running fills the room. There
are a few splashing sounds followed by a heavy sigh, and Zayn can
picture Harry leaning over the sink, his face wet from where he just
rubbed his hands over it.

Finally, finally, Harry leaves. Zayn waits until he can no longer hear his
footsteps in the outside hallway before he unsticks his joints. He tries to
carry on buttoning up his shirt, but his fingers are trembling slightly,
and he feels unsettled all over. What he would give to take back the
fleeting instinct of wanting to know what‟s going on. He feels guilty,

380
and like he‟s violated Harry‟s privacy, and sick, and even more
confused than he did before. He doesn‟t like where any of this is going,
and he doesn‟t like how unstable it all feels.

He straightens his collar in the mirror, pulling on his spare cardigan

over his shirt. He‟ll just have to, you know, pretend this never
happened. That‟s all. Just pretend it was some kind of weird midday
fever dream and never mention it to Louis or Harry or anyone ever lest
he reveal what a nosy prick he is. And Harry and Louis have already
talked about this, so it‟ll be worked out. And Liam will call him
eventually, even though it‟s been weeks, he‟s probably just been busy
but he‟ll definitely call soon. Definitely. Okay. Everything will be fine,
right? All of them will be fine.

Maybe Louis was right about the emergency booze supply.

It‟s a Saturday night, nothing good is on telly, and Louis can‟t think of
a thing to do that doesn‟t involve calling up Harry. He stares at his
empty flat. He did things before he met Harry. He lived for two and a
half decades before he met Harry. Surely he hadn‟t been twiddling his
thumbs the whole time.

“This is ridiculous,” he says to Duchess, who‟s sat in his lap. He

strokes her fur idly. “I know people. I have friends.” She kneads her
claws into his leg affectionately as a response.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends a text to Zayn. Zayn will
probably be out, doing something that involves a lot of people with
excellent bone structure, but it‟s worth a shot. He‟s seemed a bit
subdued lately; maybe he‟s moping around too. Misery loves company.

bored. movie night? i‟ll even let u pick what to watch.

381
Louis prowls around aimlessly as he waits for a response, marking
time. When his phone buzzes he‟s checking the refrigerator for the
second time, hoping idly that something appetizing will have
materialised.

sure. be over in an hour.

He lets the fridge door fall closed softly. No emoticon. No “x.” This is
bad. This is unprecedented levels of bad. Zayn once told Louis that
he‟d broken his wrist via text and still managed at least a winky face.

By the time Zayn reaches his flat, Louis has three kinds of alcohol and
two flavors of ice cream on the kitchen counter. He‟s laid them out
strategically, knowing Zayn will grab for the merlot and the mint
chocolate chip and curl up on the couch with them both as soon as he‟s
through the door. It‟s just as well. Louis could probably do with a little
sympathy boozing tonight.

The minute he lets Zayn in, though, he bypasses it all and heads straight
for the balcony, not giving even the wine a second glance. Duchess
hisses at him from the safety of Louis‟ room, but Zayn doesn‟t even
bother to make a snide comment before unlatching the balcony door
and walking out into the night.

All right, then. It‟s that kind of night, Louis supposes. He grabs the
corkscrew from a drawer in the kitchen and the bottle of red, eyeing
Zayn‟s tense shoulders through the open door as he follows him
outside.

“Spill, Malik,” he says sternly as he steps outside, uncorking the wine

as quickly as he can.

There‟s a tight pause as Zayn sets and unsets his jaw before fishing a
pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

382
“There‟s nothing to spill,” he says tersely, tapping a cigarette out of the
pack and lighting it in short, tense movements. He takes a long drag
before he continues, setting the pack down on the railing. “Nothing that
I‟m not the last person to figure out, anyway.”

The cork of Louis‟ bottle comes loose with a doleful pop. He offers it
to Zayn, who waves it away silently. That‟s new. Louis takes a long
pull himself, not bothering with a glass.

“Well, I‟m in the dark,” Louis says, wiping his lips. He steps up
carefully, leaning up against the railing next to Zayn. “Catch me up.”

Zayn snorts humorlessly, taking another drag. He stares out at the view,
which is less a view of the city and more a view of another housing
complex exactly like Louis‟. Appropriately depressing, Louis thinks.
He wonders if Zayn ever feels as trapped as he does. They don‟t talk
about it much.

“I haven‟t seen Liam all month. Haven‟t heard a word. D‟you know
why?” Louis shakes his head. “Because I haven‟t tried to. Because I
haven‟t done anything to make it happen.” Another drag, and the
cigarette is already burnt down almost to the filter.

Louis furrows his brow and is quietly thankful that Zayn didn‟t take the
whiskey that‟s still on the kitchen counter. “I‟m not following.”

Zayn laughs quietly, pulling another cigarette from the pack and
lighting it with the old one before flicking the butt over the side of the
balcony. “I‟d think the infinitely cynical Louis Tomlinson would get it
right off the bat,” he says.

Louis just blinks at him. Zayn takes another drag.

“He doesn‟t care, Louis. All, all this,” he says, gesturing vaguely to
himself, “all the time we‟ve spent together? Doesn‟t matter. I could
never speak to him again and he wouldn‟t miss me.” He blows a long

383
stream of smoke out into the night air. “Probably wouldn‟t even
notice,” he says softly.

Louis sets the wine down gingerly. “Zayn. You don‟t believe that.”

“I do, actually,” Zayn snaps, still not looking at him, “Because I‟ve,
Jesus, I‟ve considered the fucking evidence, and you know what? If this
were actually something, I wouldn‟t be doing all the work. I wouldn‟t
be making all, all the goddamn effort. If this, whatever it is, if it dies
the moment I stop bending over fucking backwards, then it doesn‟t
exist. It‟s not anything.” He breathes out hard through his nose. “And
I‟ve been wasting my fucking time.”

Louis looks nervously at how fast he‟s already burnt through the
second cigarette. “Zayn—”

“No, Louis,” Zayn interrupts, his voice hoarse. “It‟s a waste of time,
it‟s always been a waste of time, and you‟ve fucking known it from the
start, so don‟t you dare,” he takes a deep breath, “don‟t you dare try to
turn this around on me now. Not now.” He drops his head down into
his hands, elbows braced on the railing. “Fucking destiny. I really
thought it was destiny. Christ, I‟m so stupid.”

Louis swallows, unsure of what Zayn wants to hear. He reaches back

down and picks up the wine again, taking a long sip before he speaks, if
only to buy himself a few seconds. “All right. But, even, even if it‟s not
destiny, that doesn‟t mean it can‟t still work, Zayn. Most people who
fall for each other aren‟t, I don‟t know, their love isn‟t written in the
stars.”

Zayn makes a broken sound that‟s almost a laugh. “Love. That‟s rich.
Love. Romance. All of it. It‟s always been bullshit, and I‟ve been
trying so hard to believe in it, like if I just worked hard enough at it I
could make it come true. Christ.” He‟s flicking his pack back open
again and Louis really doesn‟t know how to play this.

384
“That‟s, Zayn, that‟s not true,” he attempts. He‟s not sure what he‟s
saying, not sure how much he even believes it, but it‟s all he can think
to do. “It‟s not all bullshit.”

Zayn pauses with his third cigarette halfway out of the pack “Yeah?”
He puts the pack back down, and Louis hopes this means he‟s said
something halfway right. “You‟re telling me that you believe in love
and romance now? Why?” His mouth twists. “Because of you and
Harry? You want to enlighten me, then, Louis? Because I am fucking
lost, here, so if you two managed to figure something out I‟d love to
hear it.”

Louis doesn‟t say anything.

“Come on, Lou, share the wealth. What did you say when you told him
how you felt about him? It convinced him, whatever it was, so
convince me.” He drops the butt of the second cigarette and grinds it
out with his heel before leaning back against the railing and watching
Louis with crossed arms.

Sometimes, when Louis has fights with Zayn—not that this is a fight,
he thinks, but it‟s starting to feel alarmingly like one—he‟ll have these
moments of suspension in the middle of it all where he‟s suddenly so
aware of how much he doesn‟t want to be having the argument at all,
how much he wishes he could just disengage and they could just go
back to normal and act like it never happened. He feels like that right
now, but it‟s because there‟s nothing he can say to that that won‟t make
things worse, and he knows it.

Louis bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and stares at his bare
feet on the balcony and forces the words out. “Well, er, we haven‟t
strictly speaking—that is, there hasn‟t been one time where anyone has
exactly, uh, told anyone anything.”

Silence.

385
It stretches so long that Louis has to glance back up to see what Zayn is
doing, and what he‟s doing is just staring at him, face frozen and
unreadable. Louis takes two steps back.

“What?” he says.

“Louis,” Zayn says, flat. “Tell me you‟re not fucking saying what I
think you‟re saying.”

He reaches for the pack and lights up again, his hands shaking.

“Look, Zayn, it‟s not the end of the world just because we‟ve never sat
down and, I don‟t know, fucking defined what we are,” Louis says. He
feels his back hit the balcony door. “It doesn‟t matter, stop freaking
out.”

Third cigarette hanging from his lips, Zayn just looks at him like he‟s
about to explode. “It doesn‟t matter? Louis, he‟s leaving.”

Louis feels his jaw clench on reflex. Oh, right, like Louis had fucking
forgotten that, thanks so much. “So?”

“So he‟s leaving and you can‟t even tell him that you want him to
stay,” Zayn says, scrubbing one hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ,
the two of you have been shagging for what, six months, and you can‟t
even call him your fucking boyfriend. You can‟t even tell him you love
him, which you fucking do—” Louis flinches but Zayn doesn‟t even
pause “—but you want to look at me and hold up the two of you as
evidence for why love is real? You‟ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Fuck, Louis, if anything, the two of you are better evidence for us all
being fucking doomed.”

Louis feels like his blood his buzzing in his fingers and toes, like he‟s
sick to his stomach, like he‟s right on the edge of saying something
he‟ll regret. All he can manage is a tight, “He doesn‟t want to stay.”

386
Zayn snorts again, bitter. “And you know this how? Because I‟m
assuming you haven‟t talked about that either.”

“Why would he want to stay?” Louis snaps. He needs something

stronger than wine if he‟s actually being forced to say these things out
loud. The whiskey is only a few steps away, he reminds himself. “He‟s
going to have a brilliant life in London, what would keep him here?”

Zayn looks at him like he‟s as sorry for him as he is angry, which is
just about as much as Louis can take. “You.”

Louis spits out a laugh. “Me. Right. Just look at the wonders I have to
offer him,” he says, gesturing expansively to his flat. “Who wouldn‟t
want a life with a, a failed performer who can barely pay his bills and
has no plans to do a damned thing with his life?” He rubs a hand over
his face. “He‟ll be able to find a newer, shinier model of me in about
thirty seconds, and who the fuck am I to stop him?”

“You don‟t think he gets a say in this?”

“If he wanted a say, he would have had one,” Louis says. “When have
you ever known Harry to not speak up when he gives a damn about
something? He hasn‟t asked about it because he knows what I know,
which is that this, this dalliance or whatever the fuck, has had an
expiration date on it from the beginning. Not everything lasts forever.
It‟s fine.”

Zayn turns away from him and walks to the other side of the balcony,
looking east with his back to Louis. “You two are so fucking stupid, I
swear to God,” he says, and Louis can see how hard he‟s gripping the
railing. “You need to get your shit together—actually, no, I take that
back,” he says, whirling around. “If you‟ve managed take something
this good and fuck it up this badly, then maybe the two of you don‟t
deserve to fix it. If you can‟t manage to fucking talk to each other—”

“Fuck you, Zayn, it‟s not that easy and you know it,” Louis says, and
he‟s vaguely aware that he‟s shouting and that his neighbors will

387
complain but right now he doesn‟t give a shit. “You of all people
should know better than to act like it‟s that fucking simple for me.”

“Maybe I would,” Zayn says, throwing up his hands, “except you never
tell me shit, Louis! Yeah, I know that you‟ve got issues and can‟t deal
with commitment or vulnerability, okay, but I‟ve got no clue why! I‟m
supposed to be your best mate, and God, Louis, I fucking try, but it‟s
hard when I don‟t have a goddamn clue what your deal is. I don‟t know
if it was a bad break-up, or a lot of bad break-ups, or if it‟s something
to do with your dad—”

“Don‟t—” Louis snaps. “Talk about shit you don‟t understand.”

“Then don‟t fucking expect me to be able to read your mind, Lou!”

Zayn throws the third butt down into the street below. “For all I know
you‟ve got a great reason for being so fucking cagey, but you won‟t tell
me and that‟s fine, okay, that‟s fine but then you don‟t get to get pissed
at me when I don‟t understand why you do the shit you do.”

“Well then you could at least stop acting like it‟d be so fucking easy for
me to do whatever it is you want me to do,” Louis shouts back. “Just
because you‟re a 24-hour feelings machine—”

“Stop it, Louis, Jesus,” Zayn says, throwing his hands in the air. “I
don‟t give a shit what you say about me, but stop acting like there‟s all
this shit you can‟t do. You can, okay? You could do fucking anything,
all right, I know you and you could do anything but you‟ve decided that
it‟s easier just not to try, and I‟m done pretending it doesn‟t piss me the
fuck off.”

“Well I think the same thing about you and I manage to deal with it just
fine,” Louis says, too full of fury—who the fuck does Zayn think he is,
where does he get off telling Louis what to do when he doesn‟t know
what it would cost him—to think about whether or not what he‟s saying
is a good idea.

Zayn frowns and folds his arms. “What d‟you mean?”

388
“I mean that is pisses me off to see you waiting around for some guy
when you could have literally anyone,” Louis says, hearing the nasty
note in his own voice and not caring even a little. “And you know it,
too, you know how many people want you, and you don‟t give a damn
because you‟ve decided that you can only be satisfied with the most
unattainable people possible.”

“It‟s not like I have a fucking choice—” Zayn starts, but Louis cuts him
off.

“Or maybe it‟s that you think being in unrequited love makes you more
interesting, more like one of the characters in the novels you love so
much,” he says, and he sees the look on Zayn‟s face twist but he
doesn‟t even try to stop himself. “And God knows you‟re obsessed
with being fucking interesting and deep and fascinating, since you‟ve
never been sure that you haven‟t just been coasting by on your looks,
which is the biggest pile of bullshit I‟ve ever heard since you‟re
fucking brilliant and would still have a job and a book deal if you were
the goddamn Elephant Man, you complete tosser.”

Not wanting to wait for Zayn‟s response, Louis pulls the balcony door
open roughly and storms back into his flat, going straight for the
kitchen and pulling out a glass.

Zayn follows him in as Louis cracks open the whiskey and pours
himself more than is probably advisable. “You think I want to be
miserable?” he says, bracing his hands against the counter.

“Fucking seems like it,” Louis says as a little bit of whiskey sloshes on
to the counter. His hands are shaking harder than he realised.

“You think I wouldn‟t do anything, fucking anything, Louis,” Zayn

pleads, “to have what you and Harry have? Or what you could have?
Why else do you think I‟m so angry?”

“Because you‟re a nosy bastard,” Louis mutters into his drink. He takes
a long sip, letting it burn all the way down.

389
“Because I have tried so, so hard to find something real, and you two
fucking stumbled into it and now you‟re not even trying to hold onto
it,” Zayn says. “I‟ve been working my arse off trying to get someone to
notice me and you can‟t be fucked to tell someone you‟ve been
sleeping with for months that hey, you kind of like them as more than a
friend. And maybe I wouldn‟t mind if it made you happy, but it clearly
doesn‟t, which means I‟ve got to watch my best mate be stupid and
miserable. So excuse me for being a little fucking frustrated.”

Zayn‟s voice has dropped off by the end, down to barely a mumble, and
when Louis looks up, it‟s just Zayn on the other side of his counter,
slight shoulders and sad eyes and Zayn. Louis feels some of the heat
seep out of him.

The thing is that Zayn is his best friend. And sometimes he forgets how
important things like feelings and talking about feelings—things that
Louis abhors—are to him, and he forgets that keeping that from him
probably hurts. And that making fun of him all the time for his
ridiculous obsessions probably does sting a little. Especially since Zayn
is always trying to support him and help him out, after his own
incredibly annoying fashion. All right. All right.

Louis sets his glass down, rubs a hand over his mouth, and lets out a
long exhale through his nose.

“Okay,” he says.

Zayn stares back at him. “Okay what?”

“Okay, I get what you‟re saying,” Louis says. “Or at least I think I do.
But I think that you and I come at relationships from really, really
different places, and I don‟t think it‟s fair for you to put your own shit
on the way I am with Harry. It‟s not the same, and I think you know
that.”

Louis takes Zayn‟s slight incline of the head as permission to continue.

“And it frustrates me to see you so hung up on some guy when it all

390
comes so easily to you, so I don‟t have much sympathy for you. It‟s
hard for me to understand that intense commitment to someone you‟re
not actually with, because I don‟t see how it could end well. But that‟s
me putting my shit on you. And I guess maybe that‟s not fair either.”

Zayn is silent for a moment, thumbing the edge of the counter. “I didn‟t
mean to make you feel worse about it,” he says finally. “You and
Harry, I mean. It just drives me mad. You‟re my best friend, all right? I
want you to be happy.”

Louis feels personally betrayed by the lump that catches in his throat at
that. “I know.”

“And I want you to tell me things,” Zayn goes on, looking back up at
Louis. “We‟ve been friends for ages and there‟s still so much you
haven‟t told me, and I‟ve always tried to make you feel like I was
somebody you could talk to about that shit, and it kind of sucks,
because I feel like you don‟t trust me.”

“Zayn,” Louis says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I do trust you.
You know I trust you. God, do you think—there‟s nobody else I want
helping me clean up all my messes, okay?”

“As if anybody else would,” Zayn says, but there‟s affection in his tone
and it‟s the best thing Louis‟ heard all night.

“Trust me, I know. And it means a lot to me, I swear,” Louis says. “It‟s
just... that shit, I don‟t talk to anyone about that. I don‟t really even talk
to my mum about that. I don‟t even like to think about it. It‟s not your
fault, it‟s mine, because I‟m a fucked up emotionally constipated
weirdo, all right? But if I was going to talk to anybody about it, it‟d be
you. And you sure as hell have gotten closer to it than anyone else, if
that‟s worth anything.”

Zayn nods a little but stays quiet, so Louis continues.

391
“And I‟m gonna work on that, okay?” Louis says. “I‟m gonna tell you
everything, the whole sordid story, start to finish, when I‟m ready. But
I‟m not ready yet.”

He holds Zayn‟s eyes for a minute, then reaches out and tugs on one of
his hoodie strings.

“All right?”

At last, Zayn smiles a little, and Louis feels some of the weight on his
chest lift. “That‟s fair,” Zayn says.

“Excellent,” Louis says, taking a deep breath and deftly hiding his eyes
with a glasses cleaning maneuver. He picks up the glass of whiskey and
dumps it down the drain. “Can we not fight anymore right now? I hate
it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Zayn says. He comes around the counter and catches
Louis by the sink, hauling him into a rough hug. “We‟re still good?” he
says, muffled by Louis‟ shoulder.

“Still good,” Louis says as he squeezes back. Neither of them lets go

and Louis feels it, so powerfully all of the sudden, how much he‟s been
missing having somebody‟s arms around him lately, how much he‟s
needed somebody to take care of him, and he‟s not going to bother
hating himself for it tonight. Zayn rubs one hand through the hair on
the nape of Louis‟ neck and it‟s not nearly enough to fix everything
else but it‟s enough that for the moment, Louis doesn‟t feel alone.
Because Zayn‟s here, and Zayn‟s always going to be, and Zayn‟s heart
is hurting for somebody else too.

“Love you,” Zayn says.

“Love you too,” Louis says back, and it feels good to say it to someone,
honestly. Feels like home.

392
They break off finally, and he‟s pretty sure he‟s got Zayn‟s snot on his
shirt, and that‟s okay. “So,” Louis says brightly. “We need to find you a
rebound, eh?” Zayn punches him on the arm and Louis punches back
and then they‟re laughing and climbing onto the couch with half-melted
ice cream and making fun of the late night adverts on telly, and it‟s all
right. Everything may be terrible, but this, at least, is all right.

393
394
 SIXTEEN

Harry‟s leaving at the beginning of July.

His internship doesn‟t start until halfway through the month, but he
wants to head down to London a couple of weeks in advance so he can
have time to get settled. He‟ll be working in central London, so he‟s
hoping to find a flat somewhere near a tube stop that isn‟t terribly
expensive and getting some help from his parents. He won‟t need a car
there, so he‟s shipping most of his things over ahead of time and his
mum and sister are going to come collect his car from Manchester and
keep it for him in Holmes Chapel.

Louis knows all of this clinically, just information tacked up inside his
head that he chooses not to process. Harry rattles it all off one
afternoon over a sandwich on Louis‟ couch, and Louis waits until he‟s
done speaking and then pushes him onto his back and ignores the
whole thing completely.

That‟s the only kind of sex they have anymore, and it‟s starting to feel
like the only kind of conversation they have anymore either. It‟s not
anything definite. It‟s not like the first time Harry ever kissed him, or
the look on his face when he told him about the internship, some sharp
thing pinning down a point on the map of his life to mark exactly when
and where something happened. There‟s not a moment when Louis
knows for sure that they‟ve fallen apart. They just keep drifting.

Harry hardly ever sleeps over anymore, and Louis isn‟t sure whose idea
that was. He imagines he can‟t have seemed particularly welcoming the

395
past few weeks, immediately rolling off of Harry and onto the far side
of the bed as soon as they‟ve both gotten off. So okay, maybe he started
it, but still. What is he supposed to do, let Harry hold him when they
both know that they‟re just killing time? Louis‟ not willing to play
make believe, but that doesn‟t make him the bad guy. He remembers
the first time Harry went back to his own flat in months, two fingers on
his tense back for half a second and then the sound of Harry pulling his
jeans back on and letting himself out, and the dull ache in the back of
his throat.

He hates how much he misses small pieces of Harry. He misses Harry‟s

hands around his waist and his lips against the side of his neck in the
mornings when he‟s making his tea. He misses Harry‟s stupid voice
mumbling nonsense about pop music and art and vinyl records at all
hours of the day and night. He misses fairy lights on the ceilings and
the way things felt when they were good, misses the way Harry‟s face
used to light up when he saw him. He wishes he didn‟t miss any of it.

Mostly, he wishes he‟d never let himself get used to it. Or that at least
he hadn‟t known better. Because he had, he‟d absolutely known better,
and now that means he doesn‟t even have the right to be upset, because
he brought this entire goddamn mess upon himself. If he hadn‟t known
better, at least he wouldn‟t make himself nauseous every time he was
self-indulgent enough to miss something he knew wouldn‟t last.

And this is what he wanted, wasn‟t it? He wanted things to fade out, he
wanted Harry to let him get away. He wanted to move on, right?

Fuck. It doesn‟t matter what he misses or what he wants. It never

mattered. He was an idiot to think it did.

Harry goes hunting for a flat in London and doesn‟t mention it to Louis
until he‟s already there, just a text from Victoria Station that he won‟t
be around that weekend. So that‟s that, Louis assumes. There‟s
officially future for Harry somewhere else, another flat all picked out
and signed for, and he‟s not invited. It‟s not an outright rejection, he
guesses, but it‟s enough. It sure as hell isn‟t an invitation. It‟s enough to
sting, and it‟s enough to make it inescapably real.

396
Whatever. He slept alone for twenty-six years, he can do it for the next
twenty-six too.

He figures he should start preparing now, as much as he can. The first

step is to start cleaning out his flat. He doesn‟t have to get rid of
everything that reminds him of Harry; he probably couldn‟t without
burning the place down, anyway. He just needs to get rid of the things
that remind him of Harry-and-him.

There isn‟t a huge amount of physical stuff, thank God. The one major
thing is the bear. He still has the stuffed bear Harry won for him at that
carnival a million years ago stashed away in the back of his closet, and
he can‟t stand its glass eyes staring at him every time he gets dressed
anymore. He can‟t bring himself to throw it out, though. He tries, but it
just looks at him all accusingly from the bin.

His rescue comes in the form of a toy drive at the school for the local
children‟s hospital. Early one morning, Louis lugs the bear into the
school and drops it off in one of the big colorful collection boxes in
front of the cafeteria. He pats it on the top of the head once before
walking off, and then feels like a complete twat. At least no one saw
him.

What he doesn‟t count on, though, is that he has to walk to the

computer lab during his free period, which takes him by the cafeteria.
And Harry decides to come with him.

Louis hopes like hell there have been enough donations to cover the
bear up, but he curses inwardly when he sees that the head is still
poking out of the box. Harry is in the middle of a rant on the terrible
management of the England national football team when he spots it.

“Is that—“ he starts, and then trails off, his pace slowing a bit. He
doesn‟t stop, though, just catches up to Louis and walks next to him in
silence. They only get a few more yards before Louis can‟t endure it.

397
“Figured a sick kid would get more use out of it than I would,” he says
quietly.

“Yeah, no, it makes sense,” Harry says quickly. “I just—no, you‟re

right.” He‟s quiet for the rest of the hour, though, and when they walk
by the cafeteria again on their way back to Louis‟ classroom Harry
stares at his phone the whole time.

Hopefully Harry thinks that Louis can give the bear away because it
doesn‟t mean much to him. Hopefully he never figures out that it‟s the
exact opposite.

Once his flat is clear of incriminating objects, Louis starts cleaning out
the rest of his life.
He starts with weeding out Harry‟s music from his iTunes, which is no
small feat, since there‟s so much of it. He deletes almost all of it,
because even the stuff that he really likes has become unlistenable
because it all reminds him of Harry. He doesn‟t think about there being
consequences for that until Harry is in his classroom during his free
period and gets an itch to listen to a particular song.

“Pull up that album I gave you last month,” he says absentmindedly.

“The folky one with the female singer.”

Louis knows which one he means, but it won‟t do any good. He

searches for a lie, can‟t find one, and gives up. “Oh, um. I don‟t have it
anymore.”

Harry looks up at him, expression unreadable like he‟s waiting for

Louis to say something else. Louis doesn‟t. “Oh,” Harry says. “Okay.
What about Ed Sheeran‟s new album?”

Louis winces internally, but there‟s nothing to be done. “Don‟t have

that one either.” He‟s not going to apologize.

398
“Ah,” Harry says. He doesn‟t say anything else for a long time that
afternoon.

The next day he doesn‟t come by Louis‟ room at all during free period.
Louis spends that hour berating himself every time he glances at the
door, half-expecting him to rush inside with flushed cheeks and some
excuse for why he‟s late. It doesn‟t happen.

Harry‟s in the teachers‟ lounge for lunch like always, though. He greets
Louis with poorly-hidden nervousness in his eyes, but Louis doesn‟t
ask. Harry can do whatever he wants with his time. It‟s fine. Louis just
got used to it, is all. Harry wove his way into Louis life long before
they started sleeping together, and picking apart those threads is going
to take some time. It‟s fine.

If he‟s being honest, it had kind of started to feel strained during those
times anyway. It‟s hard to face it, because they had become such fast
mates, but the tension between them has taken its toll, and Louis finds
himself enduring awkward pauses more often than not when they‟re
alone these days, wrung out of words he can say out loud and keeping
everything else under lock and key. There‟s not much else left, and it
hurts, but that‟s what it is now. That‟s what he‟s chosen.

He wishes it were still winter so he could hide from all of this inside his
coat, so the air would be cold on his skin and he wouldn‟t feel like
crawling out of it all the time, but time keeps passing and it‟s more than
halfway through May now. Outside it‟s warmer and softer and sunnier,
and Louis feels at odds with everything. He goes home alone at night
and sits on the kitchen floor in shorts and an old t-shirt, feeling the cool
tiles against his thighs and shutting his eyes against the memories that
dredges up.

God, he hates how much he doesn‟t want Harry to go.

At least it‟s almost over, he thinks. He may not be able to let go of

Harry on his own, but at least soon he won‟t have a choice. Somehow

399
that seems like a mercy, like he can let go and relax soon enough. Like
freezing to death. It‟s just like freezing to death.

It‟s a sorry fucking state of affairs, Zayn thinks.

Harry and Louis are worse off than he ever imagined, and he‟s
powerless to do anything but sit there and watch two of his best friends
make each other miserable because they won‟t fucking admit they‟re in
love with each other. Seeing it every day is like one long root canal that
won‟t end, and that‟s on top of things with Liam, which are nonexistent
at the moment and have been that way for a while. He‟s given up
entirely by now. Liam is probably very happy with his beautiful
nameless girlfriend, looking effortlessly handsome and getting felt up
in coffee shops all over the country. How nice for him.

He stands, staring into his fridge, and contemplates the eternal

question: suck it up and eat the last of the unappetizing leftovers, or go
get take-out? The leftover stir-fry looks truly heinous, but if he goes
outside he‟ll have to change out of his comfy t-shirt and sweatpants,
and he really is not feeling up to dressing like an adult. Maybe he‟ll
split the difference and order in a pizza.

No wonder he and Louis are best friends. They‟re equally pathetic and
equally incapable of fending for themselves like grown humans.

Zayn‟s just about to give up on dinner too when he‟s startled out of his
reverie by a knock on the door. He frowns into the fridge. He didn‟t
order food in earlier and forget about it, right? That would be a new
low.

He slumps over to the door and pulls it open, ready to repel whatever
neighbor has had the misfortune to require his assistance this afternoon.
Morning? Probably afternoo—

400
Liam is standing in his doorway. Zayn doesn‟t remember taking any
hallucinogenic drugs recently, and yet there Liam stands, looking all
wholesome and plaid with his hand on the back of his neck, just like
Zayn remembers him. He‟d kind of been hoping that he‟d been
imagining that, or that he‟d exaggerated it in his own mind, but no. He
really does look like that.

“Hi,” Zayn says blankly, standing there in the least attractive clothing
he owns.

“Hi, Zayn,” Liam says, smiling sheepishly. Zayn just blinks at him.

Liam shifts his weight back and forth. “Sorry, this is so rude, I should
have called first. I don‟t know why I didn‟t, actually, I just. I don‟t
know. Sorry.”

“What are you doing here?” Zayn knows he‟s being rude, but right now
all he can deal with is gathering as much information as possible before
choosing what kind of meltdown he‟s going to have. Efficiency is
important.

“It‟s, um. I just hadn‟t heard from you in a while, and I, uh. Did I... do
something wrong?” The look on his face is the picture of dejection.

Oh, Zayn had thought he‟d reached the absolute bottom of his self-
loathing, but he had been so wrong. A year and a half of trying to be
with this person, the happiest person Zayn knows, and all he‟s managed
to do is make him sad. Of course.

The nice thing about hating himself this much, though, is that the next
decision he makes isn‟t even that difficult. What‟s a little more
humiliation at this point? If it takes that apologetic look off Liam‟s
face, it‟ll be worth it.

“Liam, I—no, hold on. Come inside,” Zayn says, holding the door
open. “D‟you want tea? I can put the kettle on.”

401
“Oh, no thank you,” Liam says, stepping across the threshold. “Unless
you wanted to have some? Because, I mean, go ahead if you do.”
“Nah, just felt like the thing to say,” Zayn says, scratching the back of
his head. “Um, here, sorry, hold on a minute.” He starts clearing off the
kitchen table, picking up the debris that‟s accumulated on the extra
chair he never uses. “Here, sit down. Sorry.”

Liam sits down carefully, watching Zayn like he thinks he‟s going to
take off and leave a human-shaped hole in the wall at any second. Zayn
isn‟t entirely sure he won‟t, but he sits down across from Liam anyway.
He can flee in five minutes. Right now he has something he needs to
do.

“So,” Zayn says, looking across the table at Liam‟s upsettingly earnest
face. He‟s got a little line between his eyebrows. Zayn has never
wanted to draw someone so badly. “You asked me if you‟d done
something wrong.”

“I just—I‟m sorry, I feel really silly,” Liam says. “It‟s just that we were
talking all the time? And hanging out? And then it all just stopped, and
I got kind of paranoid about it, and I didn‟t want to ask about it because
I thought it‟d be weird.” He fiddles with the sleeves of his shirt and
half-smiles down at them. “But then not asking drove me crazy and
that‟s why I‟m showing up on your doorstep like a nutter. Which, sorry
about that again.”

If he apologizes again Zayn is going to burst into flames out of sheer

guilt. “Don‟t be. It‟s good, I‟m glad you did. Gives me a chance to
explain myself, I guess. Because I‟m the one who did something
wrong, by the way. Not you. You didn‟t do anything,” Zayn says,
forcing himself to keep contact with Liam‟s eyes, huge and brown and
terribly relieved.

“Okay, I‟m glad you‟re not cross with me or anything,” Liam says,
“Really glad. But—”

402
“Why have I been avoiding you? Right. This is going to sound crazy,
because it is, but just bear with me, yeah?” Zayn takes a deep breath. In
for a penny, in for a pound. He looks Liam right in the eye and keeps
his voice as steady as he can. “I was avoiding you because I was trying
to play hard to get. Because I have feelings for you. Have for a long
time, actually. But I was being an idiot, because all I‟ve done is make
you feel bad, and I can‟t be sorry enough for that. And you really,
really haven‟t done anything wrong.”

Well. That‟s out there. Not planned. Not calculated. Just done. It feels
like the whole world should have shifted on its axis, but his kitchen still
looks exactly the same. He still feels like the same person, just with
slightly higher blood pressure. Liam even still looks mostly the same,
though his expression is significantly more shocked than it was thirty
seconds ago.

“Is it really that surprising?” Zayn has to laugh. He kind of wants to

laugh hysterically, actually. “I‟ve—God, you‟ve got no idea, have you?
I‟ve been a complete idiot over you since I met you.”

Liam‟s mouth drops open a little. “What?” he finally manages. Well, at

the very least, Zayn knows what it‟s like to not be the speechless one
now.

“Sorry, this is a lot to spring on you at once. It was just...” Zayn says.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “You showed up out of nowhere and
you were perfect and I knew I‟d never meet somebody like that ever
again, and I kept thinking if I could just get you to notice me then
maybe I could have a shot, and, ugh, I‟ve been so stupid. Trying the
hard to get thing was just the last in a very long line of very, very stupid
things I‟ve tried to get your attention.”

“No, Zayn,” Liam says, eyebrows knitting into a frown, and damn him
for being so earnest and nice when Zayn is hanging what little is left of
his dignity out to dry. “Don‟t say that. You‟re not stupid.”

403
“No, I am. Really,” Zayn barrels on, determined to prove that Liam has
no reason to apologize to him. And the honesty actually feels pretty
good. If this bridge is getting burned, he‟s gonna burn it all the way to
the ground. “You want proof? Okay, how‟s this: there‟s nothing wrong
with my building. I just told you that because I thought maybe you‟d
come „round to check and I‟d get to see you.”

He pauses to see Liam‟s reaction. He doesn‟t seem appropriately

horrified, just sort of stunned into silence, so Zayn grabs a shovel and
digs his grave deeper. “I reported the sprinklers on my hall at school
because I wanted to see you, Liam. I put Louis‟ cat up a tree because I
wanted to see you. More than once. I, I almost fucking started a grease
fire in Louis‟ kitchen, to see you. I accidentally caught my own hair on
fire and then I spent a week hiding in closets every time you came
around because I was too embarrassed to let you see me, all right, that‟s
what I do with my life. Because I really like you and I had no idea what
to do about it.”

Liam is staring at him now, unblinking, and Zayn just keeps plodding
on. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. Being afraid is boring, keeping secrets is
boring, and not telling this incredible man how much he adores him is
the most boring of all.

“I wanted so badly to make you to notice me and I didn‟t know how

else to do it. I had it in my head that we were supposed to be together
and if I wanted it bad enough that it would happen, but I‟m stupid, I‟m
so stupid, because you don‟t even know. A fucking year and a half of
my life, all of this shit, and you don‟t even know. I should have told
you from the beginning, when you were standing on my doorstep with
Yeats, because I wanted to be with you even back then. I‟m sorry for
every second I spent making silly plans and not letting you know how
wonderful I think you are. Because I do.” This is the most powerful
Zayn has ever felt in his life.

“Zayn...” Liam says, and there‟s no way Zayn is interested in hearing

the end of that sentence before he says his piece. Liam can let him
down easy once he‟s finished.

404
“I think you‟re wonderful,” Zayn says, forcing himself not to drop his
eyes to the floor. He doesn‟t know half of what he‟s saying before he
says it, but it‟s too late to stop now. “I‟m a tragic idiot and half an
arsonist besides, and I don‟t even care that you probably think I‟m
mental now, because I honestly deserve it. And if you don‟t want to see
me ever again, that‟s fine. But not before I‟m sure that you know that
you‟re the best person I‟ve ever met, and the bravest, and the most
impossibly kind.” He takes a deep breath and smiles. “And you‟re cute,
too, for the record. And it‟s fine if you don‟t feel the same way. I don‟t
expect you to, since I‟m pretty sure you‟ve got a girlfriend anyway. It‟s
okay. Honestly, I‟m glad you didn‟t fall for my bullshit, because it was
pathetic, and demeaning, and I needed to learn that. So thanks, I guess.
I regret all that stuff. But I don‟t for a second regret the way I feel about
you.”

Zayn can‟t think of anything else to say, and finally looks away, opting
to stare at the floor. He sits there, catching his breath, and tries not to
think about all the months of effort he‟s destroyed. It‟s honestly okay.
This is the best he‟s felt about himself in a very, very long time.

The silence stretches out until Liam finally breaks it. “I haven‟t got a
girlfriend.”

Zayn‟s head snaps up. “You don‟t?”

Liam shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. “I, I saw you in town with someone the other day,
and the way you were acting—I just assumed, I‟m sorry.”

Liam shakes his head ruefully. “Not your fault. Pretty sure I know who
it was. She‟s my ex, we‟re still friendly. Probably looks a little too
friendly if you don‟t know us. But no, I don‟t have a girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. He doesn‟t know where to go from there. The fact
that Liam hasn‟t run screaming from his flat is probably a good sign,

405
though. There‟s another long silence, just the two of them sitting at
Zayn‟s dinner table, but finally Liam breaks it again.

“I,” Liam starts, looking unsure, and then he cuts himself off and he‟s...
he‟s smiling. “Can I kiss you?”

Zayn feels, as if from far away, his entire brain shut down.

“What,” he says.

“Sorry, I just,” Liam says, face pink. “I figured you were done with
your speech, and I had to sit and process it for a second, but I have, and
I want to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

Zayn is broken. This is the moment he‟s been waiting for and he is
broken, can‟t process it, can‟t remember how to form words. He
manages a nod and a strangled sort of noise, and Liam‟s smile spreads
across his whole face, eyes scrunching up at the corners that way
Zayn‟s always loved.

“Okay,” Liam says. He leans forward across the table, and when he
reaches out to touch the side of Zayn‟s face, his palm is sweating.

And suddenly Zayn is hit with the realisation that Liam is nervous.
Liam runs into burning buildings for a living, and Zayn makes him
nervous. No matter what else happens here, that‟s—that‟s something.

Zayn is still so frozen in shock that he doesn‟t realise he‟s supposed to

be doing anything until Liam is leaning in slowly, so slowly, and then
Zayn leans in too to meet him halfway across the table and tilts his chin
up a fraction of an inch and Liam‟s lips catch on his and Zayn stops
breathing.

It‟s the gentlest, most careful kiss of Zayn‟s life, the table between
them and his hands flat on the smooth surface. Liam‟s lips are even

406
softer than he ever thought they would be. It‟s all Zayn can do to press
cautiously back, afraid that any sudden movements will spook one or
both of them. Liam drops one final peck against Zayn‟s mouth and
pulls away, his hand hand reaching out to rest on top of Zayn‟s.

Zayn stares at Liam, and Liam stares right back. He scuffs his feet on
the floor bashfully, looking at Zayn through his eyelashes. “I‟m not
very good at speeches, but, uh. Yeah. Me too,” he says. “I mean, not
the arson, but, you know, the other stuff. I like you, too.”

Now it‟s Zayn‟s turn to say, “What?”

Liam looks somewhat confused. “I mean, I—I like you, Zayn, I like
you like you—”

“No, I know what you‟re saying, just—really?” This can‟t possibly be

right. “Why didn‟t you say anything?”

Liam fixes him with a look that‟s so dead serious that Zayn wants to
kiss him all over his face. “Do you have any idea how terrifying you
are? You‟re so clever, and creative, and good at everything. And you‟re
gorgeous, by the way, though you already know that. You‟re way out
of my league. You‟re just—you‟re cool.”

Zayn just sort of gapes at him and then starts laughing. “I am, Christ, I
am the least cool human being alive, Liam. Did I mention that I
accidentally lit my own hair on fire? For God‟s sake, I have two boxes
of comic books that I keep under my bed. Also, you‟re beautiful, shut
up.”

Liam blushes and squeezes Zayn‟s hand. “I like comics too, so that just
makes you cooler, actually.”

“Really? Who‟s your favorite?” Zayn asks, and this isn‟t really the
time, but still.

407
“Batman,” Liam says, because of course it‟s Batman. “You?”

“Green Lantern.”

“Nice.”

“You realize this is just proving my point that you should have said
something earlier,” Zayn says softly, trying not to let a smile split his
face entirely in half.

Liam at least has the decency to look bashful. “I dunno, Zayn, I thought
you were flirting with me sometimes? But then I thought you were
flirting with Louis and the rest of the lads too, and I could never really
tell, because I‟m crap at this stuff, so I just sort of gave up, I guess. I
couldn‟t really see what you would want with me..” He swallows and
looks almost frightened. “Zayn, I‟ve only really ever been in two real
relationships, both with women I thought I was going to marry. I‟m not
artistic or any sort of genius. For what it‟s worth, that poetry book was
a gift for my sister. I just go to work and see my family and think about
getting a dog. Spending time with you and your friends is the most
excitement I‟ve had in a very long time, and I‟m not sure I ever really
kept up.”

Zayn turns his hand over and laces his fingers with Liam‟s. He‟s
considering quitting his job and turning complimenting Liam into a
full-time career. “First off, they‟re your friends too, now, and you fit in
just fine. Secondly, I don‟t want all these things you‟re upset that
you‟re not. I want you, even if you don‟t read poetry. I want someone
who‟s genuine and sweet and likes Batman and who‟s steady enough to
balance out all the ridiculous shit in my head and my life.” He grins.
“Not that I don‟t intend to corrupt you a little. But I still just want you.”

“Okay,” Liam says. “Okay. Good.” He brings their linked hands up to

his mouth, and presses a kiss to the back of Zayn‟s hand. “I want that.
You and me.”

408
Then he smiles, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and
whatever part of Zayn‟s brain that was focused on trying to react to this
like a reasonable human evaporates into a cloud of dust.

He lets go of Liam‟s hand long enough to move around the table and
pull him upright, hands fisted in his shirt. Liam is laughing as Zayn
reels him into a kiss—their second kiss, and isn‟t that the best thought
Zayn has ever had. Normally Zayn has moves, would be sweeping
someone off their feet by now—possibly literally—but as it stands he‟s
pleased with himself that he manages to pull Liam to him as he slumps
back against a wall. Liam wants him. Liam knows everything, and
Liam still wants him. Zayn thinks he might be shaking.

Liam‟s hands go to his waist, steadying him, and Zayn slides his up to
cradle Liam‟s jaw. He wants to deepen the kiss, wants Liam‟s tongue in
his mouth, but they‟re both too damn happy. Neither of them can stop
smiling, pressing endless grinning kisses to each other‟s lips. Liam is
laughing against Zayn‟s mouth, and it‟s the best sound he‟s ever heard
in his life.

They slow down after a few minutes, the kisses growing longer and
longer as giddiness gives way to something else. Zayn tilts his head
slightly, because that‟s about all the motor control he‟s got, and the
feeling of Liam‟s lips opening under his is like a goddamn thunderbolt
to the spine. He darts his tongue inside, just a quick tentative slide
against Liam‟s, and is rewarded by the low noise Liam makes in his
throat. Liam curls his tongue around Zayn‟s but then pulls away
suddenly, giggling.

“Everything okay?” Zayn says, his hands falling to Liam‟s shoulders.

“Yeah, perfect, I‟m sorry, just,” Liam pauses, running his hands up and
down Zayn‟s sides. “I‟ve never done this with a guy before?” He rushes
to continue, probably seeing Zayn‟s slightly panicked expression.
“Don‟t worry, this is—I am very sure that I want this. I‟ve just got
stage fright, I guess.”

409
Zayn just gapes at him. Liam shouldn‟t be able to surprise him after all
this time, but by now Zayn should have stopped expecting Liam to be
like anyone else he‟s ever met.

“Did we not just talk about how I‟m, like, head-over-heels for you?” he
says, and God, he can‟t believe he gets to say that out loud. “You‟re not
going to scare me off, okay? I want whatever, Christ, whatever you‟re
willing to give me.”

Liam nods, smiling. “Okay.” He pulls Zayn in close and nuzzles his
nose against his cheek. “God, Zayn, I knew I would like this, but,” and
Zayn can hear him swallow, “I really like it.”

And fuck, it‟s not fair to say things like that, not right after Zayn had
made a mental note to take things slow. He pushes blindly at Liam‟s
shoulders, backing him up against the kitchen counter, and takes his
mouth, groaning at the way Liam sucks on his tongue. Liam chases
after him as he pulls back, swiping his tongue across Zayn‟s bottom lip
before biting down so, so gently, and Zayn has to break away to catch
his breath. He looks up at Liam, and if he weren‟t already halfway in
love with him, the expression of proud astonishment on Liam‟s face
would have done the trick.

“I think,” Zayn starts, lost for words. “I think it‟s safe to say that I like
it too.”

“Yay!” Liam says in a small voice, smiling with his entire face, and
okay, maybe it‟s more than halfway. He reaches out, and Zayn‟s not
quite sure what he‟s doing until he feels Liam‟s index finger and thumb
close quickly over one of his earrings before pulling away. “Sorry,”
Liam says guiltily, “I‟ve just always—sorry.” He looks like a puppy
about to get smacked with a newspaper.

Always, Zayn thinks wonderingly, and grabs the collar of Liam‟s shirt.
He‟s got no finesse, just pulls Liam into a rough, clumsy kiss that he
hopes says everything he doesn‟t have words for. God, this is nothing
like how Zayn imagined, and so, so much better.

410
“Could you,” Zayn says, breaking the kiss even though every nerve in
his body is screaming at him to do exactly the opposite, “could you,
God, can you give me a second? I need to...” he trails off helplessly,
gesturing over his shoulder toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, of course,” Liam says, and Zayn has to kiss him again one last
time before breaking away.

He leans back against the bathroom door as soon as he gets it shut

behind him. Breathe, Malik, fucking breathe. If he has a stroke and dies
before he ever gets a chance to see Liam naked he will never forgive
himself.

He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his sweatshirt, because he feels
like if he doesn‟t tell somebody about this right now he‟s going to
burst. He wants climb up on the roof and shout about it until his
neighbors call the police, honestly, but for now a text to Louis will do.

DESTINY ACHIEVED :D :D :D :DDDDDDD XXXXXX

It takes him a couple of tries since he can‟t seem to get his hands to
stop shaking, but finally he manages to hit send. Then he switches his
phone to silent, drops it on the bathroom counter, and wrenches the
door open again.

He‟s confronted with the sight of Liam standing in his living room,
hands in his pockets. Zayn is suddenly reminded of old cartoon movies,
the ones he used to watch when he was a kid and had vague ambitions
of being one of those artists one day. You could always tell what parts
of a scene were going to move because they were animated just a bit
brighter than everything around them. That‟s what Liam looks like in
his flat, like the realest thing in the room, waiting on him.

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?” Liam blurts out, immediately
flushing red as soon as the words leave his mouth. He looks like he
wants to backtrack or apologize, but he doesn‟t, just looks Zayn right in
the eyes.

411
Zayn wanted to shout before, but this makes him want to sing. He
knows there are a million love songs in the world, but he can‟t think of
a single one that would cover this, that could capture the feeling of
seeing such a wonderful person be brave enough to offer you
everything you‟ve ever wanted without blinking.

Maybe he‟ll write one.

He leaves the bathroom door and walks over to Liam, not stopping until
he can hook his chin over Liam‟s shoulder. “Yeah, I‟d love that,” he
says softly, murmuring the words into Liam‟s neck and slipping his
arms around him.

Liam returns the embrace, rocking them back and forth slightly. “Good,
because I‟ve been trying to figure out how to ask you that for months.”
Zayn can‟t help but laugh again, shoulders shaking under Liam‟s
hands. “I‟m serious!” he says, but he‟s smiling.

“I know you are,” Zayn says. “I‟m laughing at myself because I‟m
infatuated with an idiot.”

Liam just tugs him closer and kisses him quickly. “A complete idiot.
But I‟m infatuated with an arsonist, so I guess we‟re even.”

“Are you—” Zayn swallows, afraid to ruin the moment. “I‟m really am
sorry about all that stuff. It was ridiculous and dangerous and hopefully
just romantic enough that you won‟t send me to prison.”

“I mean, it‟s not my favorite thing about you,” Liam says thoughtfully,
running his hands up and down Zayn‟s arms. “It makes me sad that you
thought you had to do that stuff. And if I weren‟t, you know,
completely biased I‟d probably be more concerned. But assuming you
didn‟t actually hurt anybody and you‟re not going to do it again, I think
I can be convinced not to turn you in.” He leans in for one more kiss,
and then he pulls Zayn into another hug. ”Okay, firestarter, let‟s go get
dinner.” He presses his lips to Zayn‟s temple. “Let‟s go to dinner now.”

412
Zayn tries to clear the haze in his mind. The feeling of Liam‟s hands
stroking up and down his back isn‟t helping. He thinks back to the time
his phone had shown. “It‟s... it‟s three o‟clock in the afternoon.”

“Who cares?” Liam pulls away. His eyes are soft as they run over
Zayn‟s face. “I think it‟s been put off long enough, don‟t you?”

Nodding somewhat hysterically, Zayn slides back into Liam‟s space for
a joyful kiss. This is happening, and it‟s real, and it‟s theirs. He leans
his forehead against Liam‟s, grinning in relief, and lets go of the year-
and-a-half-long breath he‟s been holding. “I‟ll get my coat.”

413
414
 SEVENTEEN

After the initial text message and a two hour phone call the next day
during which Zayn explains every moment in elaborate detail, Louis
sees nothing of Zayn except at work. The rest of his free time is entirely
spent holed up somewhere with Liam, probably doing things to each
others‟ bodies hitherto unknown to the natural world. Or maybe not,
since Liam seems pretty vanilla, but it‟s not like Louis would know
otherwise, because Zayn has hardly come up for air for two weeks now.
Louis honestly expected to have to endure hours upon hours of updates
on every perfect moment of their perfect new relationship, but so far,
Zayn has been surprisingly quiet on that front. He‟s probably too
wrapped up in Liam to bother.

Whenever Louis does see Zayn, it seems that being with Liam is doing
him extremely well. He looks better than he has in months, practically
floating down the halls with the air of a man who has reached the
highest point of happiness and leveled out at nirvana, whistling and
swaying his hips as he goes. It‟s not just his aura but his actual looks,
the brighter eyes, the springier hair, the way his shirts hang on his
shoulders. It‟s like everywhere he goes, the whispery sound of pants
hitting the floor follows.

Meanwhile, Louis wakes up in the morning and stares at his own

zombie face in the mirror and tries to force himself to be pleased about
the fact that Harry has stopped calling or coming around altogether.

He‟s happy for Zayn. He really, truly, honestly is happy for him. He
loves Zayn, and he wants him to be happy, and he has been rooting for
Zayn and Liam in his own way for a while. Plus he likes Liam, and he‟s

415
sure he‟ll enjoy having Liam around when he starts coming „round for
more than just whisking Zayn off to lunch at some sexy and exotic
location practically every day.

So maybe Louis is jealous. A little bit. He‟s not going to delude himself
into thinking he could ever make a relationship like that work, but he‟s
jealous that they can. It‟d be nice, he thinks, to be capable of having
something like that, instead of what he does have, which is sleepless
nights and cold sweats and stale bread because he can‟t even muster up
the energy to go to fucking Tesco's.

Naturally, Liam and Zayn want to go out for a group dinner to celebrate
their two-week anniversary, because apparently that‟s a thing. Liam
makes a reservation for five and Zayn invites the rest of them
personally, and Louis would like nothing better to make an excuse and
stay home, but he knows how much this means to Zayn. Plus, after the
week he spent faking sick and moping around his flat like a tosser, he
knows Zayn would see right through it and probably force him to come
anyway.

He arrives at the restaurant fifteen minutes late and the other four lads
are already seated at a table in the back, Liam and Zayn grinning at him
from adjacent chairs, Niall already demolishing the basket of bread,
and Harry. It‟s the first time he‟s seen Harry in over a week, and he
feels his heart climb into his throat when Harry looks up and dimples at
him nervously. The only open seat is the one between Harry and Zayn.
Louis tries to swallow his panic.

“Evening, lads,” he says, too bright. He sits down, right on the edge of
the chair, and folds his hands on the table. “What a momentous
occasion, eh?”

The dinner goes pretty much exactly how Louis expected at first. Liam
and Zayn are appropriately nauseating but admittedly adorable, all
smiles and bashful handholding and blushing whenever one of them
refers to them as “we” or “us.” It‟s the first Louis has really, properly
seen them together like this, and he has to admit that they‟re stupidly
cute together. The first time Liam actually says the word “boyfriend”

416
out loud at the table Zayn looks like he‟s torn between swooning out of
his chair and jumping up onto the table and ripping his clothes off.
Niall keeps teasing them, but that only seems to please Zayn more. As
it turns out, being teased about being too obnoxiously smitten with the
new boyfriend he spent a year and a half trying to land is not something
Zayn seems to mind.

Niall has just shifted his attention from taking the piss out of Zayn to
flirting with the pretty young waitress when Louis feels Harry‟s hand
slide onto his thigh under the table.

It takes every bit of restraint in Louis‟ body to not jump out of his skin
and upend the table at the touch. He hasn‟t had Harry‟s hands on him in
what feels like ages, and it‟s a bit of a shock now, in the middle of this
restaurant with Liam and Zayn beaming at each other across the way.
Louis sits, resolutely still, eyes forward, and carries on eating his salad
as if nothing at all is amiss. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see
Harry doing the same.

The whole night he‟s been carefully avoiding Harry‟s eye, pretending
like he hasn‟t been itching to talk to him for weeks. Louis hasn‟t even
really talked to him aside from regular friendly conversation, shallow
little talk about the drink menu or whatever. This was how the plan was
supposed to go. Harry isn‟t special, so Louis won‟t treat him like he is.
He‟d been doing all right, but it‟s harder now, almost impossible with
Harry touching him.

Harry‟s hand stays there on his thigh, the warmth and weight of it
painfully familiar. It‟s all Louis can think about, all he can focus on
even as Liam carries on awkwardly trying to eat with his left hand so
he can hold onto Zayn‟s with his right. He wants to reach down and
cover it Harry‟s hand with his own, squeeze until Harry‟s fingernails
cut into his skin, leave some marks. He wants everything he shouldn‟t,
and he‟s been doing better at pretending he doesn‟t now that Harry
hasn‟t been around as much, but here it is again.

Eventually he excuses himself and heads off to the toilets, desperate to

get away for a minute. He‟s standing over the sink, considering how

417
much filling it up and dunking his head in would ruin his shirt, when
the door swings open and Harry steps inside.

Louis meets his eyes in the mirror, and Harry‟s face is unfathomable.

“Haz,” he says automatically, forgetting for a moment that he‟s not

supposed to use that nickname anymore. Something in Harry‟s face
goes completely broken, and then Harry crosses the tiny room and
grabs Louis by the shoulders.

Louis lets himself be pushed backwards until his back hits the wall, and
Harry crowds him up against it, breath coming short and fast. He holds
Louis still like that and looks at him, just looks at him, and Louis can
barely stand to look back. He‟s never felt so exposed in his life, and
he‟s terrified that Harry‟s going to see everything on his face, every last
bit of how much this means to him, everything he can‟t afford to let
out. It‟s the same reason he‟s never let Harry get a picture of his face,
because he‟s terrified, as good as he is at hiding, that something in his
eyes is going to give him away.

Harry‟s eyes dart from Louis‟ eyes to his lips, and it‟s all Louis can do
not to tell him to just do it, just kiss him already.

Louis lets his eyes fall shut and waits, hoping it‟ll hurt, hoping Harry
won‟t be kind about it. A long, heavy moment passes, and then another,
and then Harry sighs and Louis feels the fingers on his shoulders dig in
before going slack. He feels Harry‟s breath on his skin as he presses a
kiss to Louis‟ forehead, and then he‟s gone. It‟s over as fast as it
happened, and Louis is left alone with an empty room and his own
exhausted reflection in the mirror over the sink.

For an infuriating moment, it feels like Louis hasn‟t made any real
progress with this at all. It‟s still there. No matter how much distance
they gain, it‟s still there, that maddening chemistry between them, that
thing Louis can‟t name. He can‟t make it go away. He can‟t make it
stop.

418
He hunches over the sink, head in his hands. Why can‟t he just make it
fucking stop?

He spends five minutes scrubbing his hands raw at the sink for no
reason, just to feel like he‟s got some of this off of his skin, before
toweling them off and heading back to the table.

Thankfully Liam is now regaling them all with a story of somebody he

rescued from a collapsing building or something, so Louis doesn‟t have
to worry about enduring silence. He sits back down next to Harry, who
is still and quiet, swilling the little bit of water around in his glass. He
tries not to notice the palpable tension between them.

A few minutes later a free dessert arrives, some massive chocolate

fudge confection covered in blazing sparklers courtesy of Niall, who
lied to the waitress and told her it was Liam‟s birthday. Liam turns
bright pink as all of the waiters congregate around their table to sing
him happy birthday, and Louis even manages to clap along with the rest
of the restaurant as Zayn pecks Liam on the cheek before Liam turns
and kisses Zayn on the lips.

Niall calls for a toast, and Harry volunteers to do the honors. He pushes
his chair back and stands, lifting his glass into the air and clearing his
throat a little before he begins.

“When two people find each other,” Harry says, smiling down at the
ridiculously happy couple, “it‟s a pretty amazing thing. The best thing,
really. Liam and Zayn, the two of you are proof of that. It took a while,
but with a little help, destiny finally got its way. The rest of us couldn‟t
be happier, mostly because now we don‟t have to listen to Zayn whine
about it anymore.” Niall laughs, and Zayn blushes and flips Harry the
bird. “But seriously, you guys, congratulations. You two are really,
really lucky.”

Louis drops his eyes down to his plate so he doesn‟t have to see the
look on Harry‟s face, but he can‟t stop himself from hearing Harry add
softly, “Just... really lucky.”

419
It‟s quiet at the table for a moment, and then Niall shouts, “Cheers!”
and they all say it back, downing gulps of the champagne Liam insisted
upon buying. Louis is determined not to feel anything about it.

Finally they pay the bill and head outside, and everyone starts hugging
goodbye. Louis knew this was inevitable, but his heart still stutters
when he finds himself face to face with Harry and his broad chest and
waiting arms, the last ones who haven‟t said goodbye. Three months
ago they‟d be going home together, kissing each other goodnight in
Louis‟ bed hours later, the shape of each other‟s mouths stained on
their skin. Tonight, it‟s this.

He lets Harry wrap him up in his arms, and God, it‟s like a shot of
morphine in his veins, making him go soft and pliant. He can‟t help it.
In a moment of complete weakness, he lets himself slide one hand up
into Harry‟s hair, and he feels Harry‟s hand fist in his shirt in response.

Then he realizes what he‟s doing, and he breaks off immediately,

taking three giant steps backward.

“Right, this was lovely, must run, night boys!” Louis chirps, waving
robotically at them all. He turns on his heel and marches off to his car
and doesn‟t look back.

As he drives home, he tries to come up with a contingency plan. If

being close to Harry over the course of a meal is becoming too much
for him now, he needs to be distracted. He needs to keep his hands and
his mind busy until Harry goes. From now on, he decides, he‟s going to
throw himself into his work every spare minute he has. It‟s not like he
doesn‟t have piles of marking to get through before the year ends
anyway. Maybe if he‟s buried under projects and essays and report
cards, he‟ll be too overwhelmed to feel anything even close to desire.

Sticking to the plan, the next week Louis tries to get a jump start on
marking his student‟s final projects. He‟s sitting at his desk during his
free period, working his way through a soliloquy that seems

420
particularly unconcerned with the constraints of English grammar,
when there are three sharp raps on the door.

He looks up to see none other than Mike Kendall in his doorway, tall
and ginger and smiling a little goofily. “Hi, Mr. T!” he says, his
baritone voice booming. Louis half winces and half grins at the
nickname, which caught on among the footy players during Grease and
hasn‟t vanished yet.

“Hi, Mike,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair. “Has the theatre‟s
siren song drawn you back to darken my doorstep?”

Mike just laughs. “Nah, sorry. Just wanted to see if you were coming to
the match tonight.” Ah, that‟s right. The last match of the footy season
is tonight, some tournament or another. He remembers Harry
mentioning it a few weeks back, talking about how it was lucky the
season ended just before he had to leave. Louis has no plans to attend.

“I‟m not sure—“ he starts, but Mike jumps in, all cajoling enthusiasm.

“C‟mon, Mr. T, please?” Puppy eyes shouldn‟t be possible from a

hulking teenager, but they‟re coming out nonetheless. “Me and the lads
helped you out with your thing, it‟d be sick if you came to see us at our
thing.”

He does have a point. Plus, Louis has a soft spot for his former T-Bird.
The kid has spirit, even if he sometimes reminds Louis of those
walking trees from Lord of the Rings. “I‟ll see what I can do,” he says,
tilting a look at Mike that makes it clear that‟s all he‟ll get.

“Brilliant!” Mike says, punching the air. “Okay, I‟ve gotta get to class.
Bye, Mr. T! See you tonight!” And then he‟s gone.

Louis hasn‟t been to one of the football matches in what has to be

months. He‟d gone regularly for most of first and second term, sitting

421
in the middle of the stands and yelling his lungs out, usually with Zayn
or Niall or both in tow. He hasn‟t been back since Easter, though.

So when he finds himself at the pitch that night, it all feels a little alien.
He climbs all the way to the top of the stands, moving to a back corner
away from the cheering parents and friends. He pulls on his sunglasses
and sips on the iced coffee he bought on the way and tries not to feel
horrendously out of place.

Harry‟s there, of course, on the sidelines with his boys, but he doesn‟t
ever look up at the stands. It‟s not like he‟d be expecting anyone to be
there. Louis tries not to watch him, but since he couldn‟t manage that
when he‟d known Harry for two weeks it‟s not like he‟s going to pull it
off now. It‟s almost nice, being able to watch Harry without worrying
about talking to him or touching him or any of it.

He‟s a blur up and down the sideline like always, shouting out
instructions and encouragements to the players in a hoarse voice,
coordinating with the head coach, and checking in with the kids on the
bench. Louis‟ been a teacher for a while, and he knows what it looks
like when somebody cares about what they‟re doing. He sees the way
the leftback grins when Harry whoops after he nabs the ball from the
other team‟s striker, sees the team captain point at Harry when he
scores a goal. Those boys love him. Louis can‟t imagine that Harry
won‟t be loved wherever he goes, that people won‟t always flock to
him. He wonders what that‟s like.

Then it‟s halftime, all tied up at 1-1, and Louis expects the players to
come off the field. Instead, about half of them stay on the field, with
some of the substitute players joining them. One of the subs has a
microphone with them, and he hands it to the team captain, a compact
midfielder with a shock of blond hair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “Allow me to introduce myself. I‟m

Tony Stockton,” a ragged cheer goes up from the stands, “Thanks.
Anyway, I‟m team captain, and I‟m also a year 13. Since this is our last
match of the season, we‟ve brought all of the year 13s out to say
goodbye. These lads have all been committed to this team from day

422
one, and we‟d really appreciate it if you would be so kind as to give
each one a round of applause as I read out their names.”

He goes down the list, and the crowd cheers for each one. It‟s always
easy to pick out the family of the boy in question, with loud whoops
coming from small groups in the stands. Finally, once every name has
been called, there‟s a mass round of applause, and Louis finds himself
clapping along as well. He doesn‟t really know any of the year 13s
well, but he remembers how it felt to have something like this end,
something that felt like it ran your whole life while you were in school.

Tony clears his throat into the microphone, and the cheers die down.
“We actually have another farewell tonight,” he says, humor in his
voice. “We‟re also saying goodbye to our irreplaceable assistant coach,
who will be leaving us for the capital! The poshest footy coach who
isn‟t really that good at footy, Mr. Harry Styles!” All the boys start
clapping, and one of the younger lads on the sidelines gives him a little
shove towards the pitch. Harry jogs out to join the year 13s, grinning
ruefully, and is immediately engulfed in a massive group hug.

He looks very young, and very, very happy.

Louis doesn‟t realize he‟s moving until he stumbles halfway down the
stands and nearly upends a family of four. “Sorry, sorry,” he says,
stepping around them and finally reaching solid ground. He‟s not being
subtle, and if Harry has looked up he‟s almost certainly seen him, but
Louis would rather not know, so he keeps his eyes on the ground as he
rushes back towards the carpark.

He hurries back to his car as fast as he can, trying to force down the
sudden panicked nausea. All he can think about—all he‟s running away
from right now—is how happy Harry looked, happy and loved, and
how he was born to be happy and loved and probably always has been,
and how soon somebody else is going to be making him feel that way,
and how much he doesn‟t need Louis for that. He never did.

He can‟t run fast enough.

423
 at the pitch. come here.

It‟s almost midnight on the last day of June, and this is the first thing
Harry‟s texted him in weeks.

Harry‟s leaving tomorrow, and Louis hasn‟t spoken to him in two

weeks. He hasn‟t seen him since the football match, hasn‟t kissed him
in a month. It‟s almost midnight on the last day of June, and Harry is
going to leave tomorrow. Harry hasn‟t called, and Louis will never
forgive himself if he‟s the one who breaks, and it‟s time to let it go for
good. Or at least it was supposed to be, until the text message.

He paces through his flat, wishing he was less fucking bone-tired so

he‟d at least have the energy to throw the tantrum he wants to throw.
He wants to break half the things in his flat. He wants to tell Harry to
go to hell. But God knows he doesn‟t have the strength to do any of
that.

He knew what he was going to do as soon as he read the text message,

no matter how much he pretends to deliberate with himself over it. He‟s
going to meet Harry at the pitch. He‟s spent too much time revisiting
the night the two of them were alone there, told Harry too much about
what that night did to him. He‟s going. Fuck it, he‟s going.

The drive is short, and he swears at himself the whole way.

The stadium lights are off but the gate‟s been left open for him, and
when he makes his way through it and around the stands, he can just
barely make out Harry sitting in the middle of the pitch, broad
shoulders under the moonlight and the Manchester light pollution. He‟s
not moving, just waiting, knees drawn up to his chest and arms folded
on top.

424
Louis looks out at his back in the distance and tries so hard not to think
of this person as Harry. He tries not to think of all the things that body
represents in his world, of all the places he‟s left his marks on it, of the
heart inside it and the way it feels when it‟s pressed up against his own
chest. He tries so hard not to think, this is the last time.

He makes his way out to the center of the pitch slowly, counting his
steps. When he reaches Harry, he sits down on the grass across from
him and waits.

“Hi,” Harry says, not looking at him.

“Hi,” Louis says lamely. He‟s got no idea what else to say.

“Hi,” Harry says again.

“Already said that,” Louis says automatically, and Harry just barely
stops a tiny smile.

It‟s silent after that, just the two of them breathing and the distant
sounds of the city around them. Louis doesn‟t know what the hell either
of them are doing here, or what he‟s supposed to be doing, or what
Harry wants from him at all.

“Your train tomorrow,” he hears himself say, “it‟s, it‟s at two, right, or
is it—”

He never gets the rest of the sentence out, because Harry surges
forward onto his knees and crushes his mouth into Louis‟ before he can
say anything else. Louis tips over backwards with the momentum of it
and Harry follows, crawling between Louis‟ thighs and digging his
fingers into his hair.

Louis takes about half a second to catch on, and then he slides his
hands up under Harry‟s t-shirt and thinks yes, God, just fuck this out of

425
me, because maybe they can get each other out of their systems like
this, maybe they can just leave it all here. He digs his nails into Harry‟s
back and opens his mouth up to his tongue, feeling the grass of the
pitch tickle the back of his neck, and wonders if this at least will let him
stop thinking for a while.

But then Harry‟s pulling back, hauling Louis up to a sitting position

with him before shrugging off his jacket. “Here,” he murmurs, and
leans around Louis to lay it out flat behind him before pushing him
back down with insistent hands, the smooth material in between Louis
and the wet grass.

His fucking jacket, God, Louis can‟t expend anything on attaching

some kind of meaning to that. He doesn‟t care, categorically refuses to
care, and would prefer to skip straight to the part where Harry fucks
him until he screams, but Harry seems content to press bruising kisses
to Louis‟ mouth for the next thousand years.

Normally Louis would be more than capable of speeding things up

himself, but somewhere along the line Harry‟s snuck his hands to
Louis‟ wrists and pinned them down in the grass above his head.
Frustrated, Louis nips at Harry‟s lips a little too hard, and he mutters,
“Come on,” when Harry pulls away with a hiss of pain.

He looks up at Harry, straight into his eyes for the first time since he
got there, and he knows exactly what he wants must be written on his
face. Harry‟s own face is unreadable, and he gives Louis a short shake
of his head, but he does press his hips down hard into Louis‟, biting his
own lip as he watches Louis‟ head loll back. Louis pulls one leg up and
around Harry‟s, pulling him closer.

“Louis,” Harry says. He‟s looking at Louis like he can see straight
through him, and Louis can‟t play it this way.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Don‟t.”

426
When he opens his eyes, Harry is still looking at him steadily. “Don‟t
what?” he says, voice flat, his hands still on Louis‟ wrists. The light
from the city, so far away and muted, is the only thing moving on his
face.

Louis is arching back up into Harry, is saying words. “Don‟t,” is what

he‟s saying, pressing his lips against Harry‟s neck, kissing along his
jaw. He leans up close, pressing one desperate kiss to Harry‟s mouth,
then another.

Both of them have their eyes open, and Louis finds himself staring at
eyelashes when Harry mumbles, “Don‟t what?” against his lips.

Louis‟ eyes fall closed and he moves by muscle memory, pressing

another kiss to the corner of Harry‟s mouth. He thinks you know what
when he tugs on Harry‟s bottom lip with his teeth, thinks you know I
can‟t say it when Harry‟s hips move against his.

“Come on,” he whispers again, and it sounds so loud in the empty dark.

Harry just ducks his head, lightly kissing Louis‟ neck again and again,
his grip on Louis‟ wrists not giving an inch. Suddenly he bites down,
his teeth scraping well above what Louis‟ collar would hide. It goes
straight to Louis‟ dick, yes yes yes sparking all the way down his spine,
but—

“Careful,” he hisses, “marks.” Harry freezes, his breath hot on Louis‟

skin, and he lets go of Louis‟ wrists. Louis can hear the soft sound of
Harry‟s hands as they move down to fist in the jacket underneath them,
and Harry pushes his head blindly into the juncture of Louis‟ shoulder.

It‟s silent on the pitch, but Louis still feels the soft “Please” more than
he hears it.

Louis can‟t control his hands now that they‟re free, and he smoothes
them down the line of Harry‟s back before reaching up to tangle them

427
in his hair. The way the soft strands wind around his fingers feels
hellishly familiar, and oh, Louis will never, ever talk about this.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, Haz.”

Harry breathes out harshly, his entire body wracked with it, and then
he‟s back to work, sucking hard at Louis‟ throat and sliding one arm
down to slip under Louis‟ waist where his back has arched up off the
ground. Louis can feel a second heartbeat in his neck, throbbing under
Harry‟s lips, and he knows the mark it leaves will be livid and obvious
and still not enough.

After what feels like years, one of Harry‟s hands finds the back of
Louis‟ thigh where it‟s wrapped tight around him and slides up until his
palm settles on the swell of his arse, and Louis‟ breath catches in his
throat when Harry digs his fingers in. There‟s something about the way
Harry‟s touching him, something possessive, fingers spread all the way
out like he‟s trying to count him up in handfuls and cover as much of
him as he can at once. It makes Louis feel very, very small.

Louis‟ shirt is almost rucked up to his armpits by now, but neither of

them seem particularly concerned with it, so he settles for getting his
hand between them and under Harry‟s shirt again. He presses his palm
up against the skin of Harry‟s stomach and it‟s burning hot and
trembling against his touch, and he doesn‟t let himself memorize the
way his heart turns over in his chest at that. All he memorizes is the
noise Harry makes when Louis tightens the leg around him and the way
the muscles under his hand go taught when he cants his hips up.

Harry‟s grip on his arse tightens, palming it before sliding his hand up
and dipping below his waistband to feel skin instead. He lifts his hips
up a little bit, just enough to take the edge off while he leans in to kiss
Louis again. This time he takes it so slow it almost hurts, ghosting over
Louis‟ lips until Louis has to close the distance himself and then
holding onto his tongue for long enough that Louis isn‟t prepared at all
when Harry‟s hips drop back down and grind him into the pitch.

428
The hand under Harry‟s shirt closes down hard on Harry‟s belt buckle
in response, and Harry swears when Louis changes the angle of their
hips. They move together like that, rough friction and Louis‟ face in
Harry‟s neck, until Louis starts working on the fastenings of Harry‟s
jeans.

“Lou,” Harry says, and Louis freezes, because Harry‟s not allowed to
say his name like that anymore.

He opens his eyes again, more out of panic than anything else, and even
in the dark he can see Harry‟s lashes fanned out on his cheeks. He stays
like that for a moment with Louis frozen underneath him, and then he
presses one more kiss to Louis‟ mouth and starts crawling backwards.

Louis drops his leg from around Harry and props himself up on his
elbows to watch him shift down to settle in between his thighs. “This
okay?” Harry mumbles as his practiced hands make quick work of
Louis‟ belt and fly. Louis only manages a nod, but Harry must not see
it, because his head snaps up at the silence. “Lou? Okay?” he asks
again, insistently this time.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Louis says. Harry nods, his face serious, and
then slips his hands into Louis‟ jeans and boxers, sliding them down his
thighs. God, Louis is so fired if they get caught, but when has that
stopped them before? Harry wraps his hand around Louis‟ already half-
hard cock and bends his head to take it into his mouth, when Louis
finds himself reaching out to stop him.

“Wait—” he hears himself say, voice rough. Harry looks up at him, and
in the moonlight he‟s as beautiful as anything Louis‟ ever seen. “Could
you just—just touch me?” Louis grinds out around the stubborn lump
in his throat. “Just touch me and,” oh, he hates himself, “and kiss me.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment, closes his eyes in a way that
looks like it hurts, and then nods again. “Hold on,” he says, scooting
back. One by one he carefully pulls off Louis‟ shoes, then pulls his
jeans and boxers all the way off, folding them and putting them to the

429
side. Half-naked and lying on Harry‟s jacket, Louis is grateful that the
pitch lights aren‟t on. This is as exposed as he‟s ever felt in his life.

Harry moves back up to sit between Louis‟ legs, dragging the tips of
his fingers along the line of Louis‟ thigh. Wrapping his right hand back
around Louis‟ cock, he slips his left arm under and around Louis‟ waist
to haul him up close, almost into his lap, the material of his jeans rough
against Louis‟ skin. Thrown by the sudden movement, Louis clasps his
arms around Harry‟s neck to regain his balance, his nose bumping
softly against Harry‟s cheek before they find their bearings, mouths
slotting together like gravity.

Spreading his left hand across the small of Louis‟ back, Harry picks up
a slow pace on Louis‟ cock with his right, firm and sure and enough for
Louis to gasp against his lips. Louis slides his fingers under the collar
of Harry‟s shirt, desperate for the feel of his skin somewhere other than
the white-hot points of contact under Harry‟s hands and mouth. Harry
tugs gently on Louis‟ bottom lip and then pulls away, dusting kisses
along his jaw up to his ear, then dropping to his neck again. When he
nips at the mark he left earlier it‟s a sharp pain that makes Louis yelp,
but he still turns his head to give Harry easier access. It hurts, but God,
it feels good to just let Harry take whatever it is that he wants and not
fucking think about it. It feels good that there‟s anything he wants at
all.

Louis can hear his own harsh breathing, feel the way his chest is
expanding rhythmically to meet Harry‟s in counterpoint with the hand
on his cock and the teeth at his throat. He loses track of time, and
there‟s no telling how many minutes pass before Harry licks gently
over what can only be a massive bruise and moves back up to Louis‟
mouth. Feeling liquid and drugged, Louis slides his hands up to Harry‟s
face and cradles his jaw, angling his head to better slip his tongue into
Harry‟s mouth.

Harry shivers under him and his hand squeezes on Louis‟ cock,
slippery from where Louis is already leaking. Louis can‟t help but push
up into his slick grip, knowing he‟s making needy noises and not caring
a bit. Harry must hear how desperate he is, because he makes a soft
sound of assent against Louis‟ lips and slides him down off his lap. He

430
lets go of Louis long enough to pull off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, tossing
it over to the pile of Louis‟ clothes, as Louis does the same. Still fully-
dressed from the waist down, Harry rubs a thumb along Louis‟
cheekbone before carefully lifting his glasses off and setting them on
top of their clothes.

Pushing him back down onto the outspread jacket, Harry noses at the
sparse hair on Louis‟ chest before sucking hard at one of his nipples,
making Louis dig his nails into the back of Harry‟s neck. “I‟m gonna
fuck you, okay?” Harry murmurs against his chest. “You want me to
fuck you?” His hand slides down to roll Louis‟ balls between his
fingers as he speaks, and Louis can already feel tremors building in the
muscles of his thighs.

“Yeah, Hazza,” Louis manages, his breath hitching, “I want you to, I
want you—” and then Harry is rolling off him and getting to his feet.
He toes off his shoes and socks and takes something out of his pocket
before sliding off his jeans, no pants underneath. He‟s hard, as hard as
Louis is, and Louis wants to put his hands on him. The moon is behind
him, and naked in the night he looks tall and marble and utterly
unearthly. Louis watches him, chest heaving, and when he sees Harry
looking back he just splays his legs wider.

Harry falls back to his knees between Louis‟ thighs, and up close Louis
can see that what he took out of his jeans pocket was a small packet of
lube, which he tears open and spreads over his first two fingers.
Turning his head, he presses a kiss to the inside of Louis‟ knee, and
then starts to open him up, working his middle finger inside. Louis
relaxes around him, dropping his head against the ground and closing
his eyes as he focuses on the feeling. It feels good, this part, always
does, half the feeling of Harry stroking him open and half the feeling of
what‟s to come, the anticipation of the way Harry‟s going to fuck him.

They‟ve done this so many times that Harry starts finding his prostate
almost immediately after he works a second finger in. The slow, steady
rhythm he picks up has Louis‟ fingers fisting in the fabric underneath
him of their own accord, his face twisting to the side as his hips rock
back against Harry‟s hand. “You wanna know how you feel, Lou?”
Harry says quietly, and normally all Louis wants is to hear Harry sing

431
his praises, begs him to talk to him in that voice all sticky-slow, but it‟s
not what he wants tonight.

“No,” he says, and he can feel Harry‟s hand falter, but he keeps his
eyes closed. “Just... can you just touch me?” he says softly, screwing
his eyes shut even tighter. “I just want you to touch me.”

Harry‟s other hand falls to his waist, not stilling him, fingertips just
pressing lightly into the soft flesh there. “Don‟t touch yourself, then,”
he says, his voice low, and then goes quiet. Louis shakes his head in
agreement. As much as his cock needs attention, he doesn‟t want to
come too soon, and with the unrelenting way Harry is fucking him with
his fingers he‟s already too close to the edge.

Stretching him further, Harry adds a third finger and another drizzle of
lube, gliding back inside to pick up his rhythm again. Louis can barely
stay ahead of it, no time to recover from one white-hot push against his
prostate before the next one comes, but he still arches back against it,
his body wanting as much as it can even while his brain starts to short-
circuit. Harry is fucking merciless, apparently making up for not being
able to talk by trying to fuck Louis to death. Louis throws an arm over
his own face, muffling the weak moans he can hear coming from his
mouth.

“God, look at you,” Harry says, and Louis can‟t see him but he can
imagine his face, knows what that growling tone means. He can‟t even
be bothered to be annoyed that Harry couldn‟t manage to be quiet for
five minutes, can‟t spare the brain cells. “You were made for this, you
know that?” Harry continues, twisting his fingers in wickedly on the
next thrust.

“Oh God oh God oh God,” Louis lets out in a rush, his legs shaking as
he pushes back even harder on Harry‟s fingers, desperate for the
lightning it sends through him, for the way it has his cock heavy and
full.

432
“Could you come like this?” Harry asks, voice still harsh. Louis feels
him lean forward, his hand leaving his waist, and gasps when Harry‟s
thumb presses hard into the bruise on his throat. His eyes fly open to
meet Harry‟s. “You could, couldn‟t you? God, look at how much you
fucking love it,” Harry says, his fingers still driving in, Louis‟ eyes
rolling back a little every time. “M‟gonna make you come like this.”

His pace doesn‟t let up for a second, playing Louis‟ body like an
instrument. Maybe Louis should resent the loss of control, but his brain
is still stuck on oh God oh God oh God from earlier and hasn‟t yet
found anything more worth thinking, aside from maybe Harry Harry
Harry. He didn‟t want to come earlier, but he needs too, now, needs it
like he needs to breathe. Harry slides his free hand down Louis‟ chest,
nails dragging, and only pauses to pinch one of his nipples hard enough
to make Louis whine. Taking in his reaction, Harry does it again, and
Louis can feel a familiar tension gathering. He chases it, grinding down
hard on Harry, and God God yes yes Harry please Harry God—

He spills all over his own stomach, the muscles there quivering
uncontrollably. When he blinks back to himself, Harry is pressing
kisses down his sternum, his fingers still inside him but unmoving.
“Fucking amazing, amazing, Lou, God, I—” and then he reaches
Louis‟ stomach and licks at the mess there, staring up at Louis the
entire time.

Louis lifts a shaking arm and grabs blindly at Harry‟s head, pulling him
up his body for a wet kiss that‟s more an excuse for Louis to catch his
breath than anything else. Harry hasn‟t pulled his fingers out, though,
and as he kisses Louis he pushes them in deep, the renewed pressure
wrenching a sob from Louis.

Harry nuzzles against his ear, his other hand stroking lightly up and
down Louis‟ side. “Lou,” he murmurs, “God, Lou, incredible.” He
kisses his ear, his shoulder, trailing kisses down his arm and sucking on
his fingers. Already dizzy, Louis‟ head starts spinning at Harry‟s words
and the soft way he‟s touching him. This is a last, not a first, and Louis
can‟t deal with anything that feels like a promise tonight. “Do you think
you could get hard again?” Harry asks, breaking his reverie. “Do you
think you could come again?”

433
“Hazza,” Louis croaks out, and it‟s the first word he‟s said in God
knows how long. “I don‟t know, I don‟t—” he trails off, as Harry bites
down on the soft pad of his thumb.
“Can I try?” Harry says, and Louis feels like his skin is on fire but he
still nods. The smile he gets from Harry is worth it.

Scooting back on his knees, Harry withdraws his fingers just enough to
apply more lube, and then slides them back in, encountering little
resistance with Louis already as fucked-out as he is. Setting a slower
rhythm than he had before, he ducks his head and licks carefully at
Louis‟ spent cock.

“Fuck,” Louis grinds out. It feels good but it hurts, too, like a layer of
his skin has been burned away. When Harry looks up at him, though,
he just slides his fingers into his hair and waits. Harry goes back to
work, this time gently sucking the head of Louis‟ cock into his mouth,
his eyes falling closed and his face going peaceful as Louis strokes his
hair clumsily.

It‟s so much, it‟s too much, but it‟s working. Louis can feel his cock
slowly start to fill up again as Harry sucks more and more of it into his
mouth, his lips wet with spit and the remains of Louis‟ first orgasm.
Soon enough Louis is thrusting shallowly into Harry‟s mouth, torn
between the wet heat around his cock and the long fingers inside him.
He can‟t look away from Harry, his face blissful as Louis weakly fucks
up into him, seeming to have no thought at all for his own neglected
cock which Louis hasn‟t touched once all night.

Finally Harry pulls off, his mouth wrecked, and the cool night air is a
shock but a relief, too, a moment for Louis to feel like he might not fall
completely apart. Taking his chance to form coherent thoughts, Louis
manages to summon a complete sentence. “Fuck me,” he chokes out.
“Now. Please, Harry, I need you to—”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says, his voice completely destroyed. “I can do

that.”

434
He climbs up over Louis, close enough that his curls fall almost to
brush against Louis‟ face. Bracing himself up on one hand, he uses the
other to line himself up, Louis using what strength he has left to wrap
his legs around his waist. For all his teasing, Harry doesn‟t waste time
here, sliding into Louis sure and deep. Louis groans at the sudden
fullness, because Harry‟s fingers are fucking miraculous, but his cock
is big, and the weight of it inside him is an entirely different kind of
overwhelming.

Louis lets his head loll back, but then Harry‟s fingers are on his face
and lips, and Louis can‟t help but suck them into his mouth, licking and
biting at the skin there. He lifts his arms to wrap them around Harry,
dragging his nails down his back, and Harry growls at the feel of it,
fucking into Louis hard. Louis is glad to have something in his mouth
then, to stifle the sounds he‟d be making otherwise.

He feels raw and red and open, and the slide of Harry‟s cock feels
amazing, but it feels like too much for one body, too. It‟s like an itch
that can only be scratched by tearing off his skin, like it hurts but he‟ll
kill anyone who tries to stop it. Tears spring to his eyes, not from pain
or sadness but from how fucking overwhelming it is, like he needs to
get rid of something to make room for how this feels. He knows the
exact moment when Harry spots them, sees the way his mouth goes lax
before he pulls his fingers from Louis‟ mouth. He drops onto his
forearms to kiss Louis with a groan, pushing his tongue into his mouth
and moaning when Louis winds his fingers into his hair and pulls hard.

Suddenly Harry breaks the kiss, leaning back. He slides one hand under
Louis‟ arse and another under his waist and lifts, sitting back and
pulling Louis up into his lap like before. This time, though, he lays his
legs out behind Louis and lies back, pulling Louis on top of him. It
happens so fast that Louis is breathless, drunk on Harry‟s strength and
the fact that his cock is still deep inside him.

Getting his bearings, he braces his hands on Harry‟s shoulders, taking

deep breaths. He‟s always liked riding Harry, liked the control it gave
him and the way he could watch every little thing he did play out on
Harry‟s face. Now, though, it feels more exposed, just Louis with the
sky behind him and Harry watching him right back. He feels stripped

435
bare by Harry‟s vulnerability, the way he‟s spread out on the grass,
covered in sweat and waiting on Louis to make the next move.

Louis is too wrecked to do what he normally would, too drained of

energy to bounce on Harry‟s cock until Harry‟s fingers dig bruises into
his thighs. It‟s all he can do to stay upright, his legs boneless and his
own cock throbbing. Instead, he rolls his hips experimentally. Harry‟s
cock doesn‟t move in or out of him much, but it moves inside him,
throwing up sparks behind his eyes. As for Harry, he swears and lets
his head drop hard against the ground, so Louis doesn‟t think he‟s
complaining.

Holding himself up with his hands on Harry‟s chest, Louis keeps

grinding against him, grateful for the assistance when Harry‟s hands
come to his hips to help him find a rhythm. He feels absolutely ruined,
fucking split open on Harry‟s cock and hungry for it, and if he knew
how to ask for more he would.

He doesn‟t have to, though, because Harry drops a hand to Louis‟ cock
and starts stroking it, fast and tight and perfect. “C‟mon,” Harry breaths
out, flushed all the way down his chest, “Want you to come again.”
Louis can‟t say no, rutting hard into his hand and rolling back onto his
cock until finally, finally, he gets there, coming with a wordless shout
and spilling all over Harry‟s hand and stomach.

Harry keeps him from falling over, sitting up to catch Louis and hold
him in his lap. After two orgasms the feeling of Harry still inside him
seems impossible, and Louis clings to Harry‟s neck to try to stay afloat.
Thankfully, Harry is right there with him, and after one, two, three
thrusts upward that have Louis biting down on Harry‟s shoulder, Harry
shakes and comes soundlessly, the heat of his release leaving Louis
even fuller than before.

Gently, Harry tips them to the side, laying Louis out before he carefully
starts pulling out. Louis winces a little at the drag against raw flesh, but
he‟s mostly too tired to care. When they‟re finally separated, Louis
rolls over and curls in on himself, not really interested in post-coital

436
anything at all. Harry‟s hand falls on his bicep, squeezing slightly, but
Louis doesn‟t move.

They stay there a little while, silent in the dark, until Louis finally can‟t
take it, can‟t take the feeling of Harry‟s eyes on his back and the weight
of his hand and the knowledge that he‟ll be gone by the next time the
sun sets. Maybe Harry wants to make believe, wants to pretend that
tonight was anything other than what it was, but Louis isn‟t going to
play along to make him feel better about it. Louis doesn‟t think he
could if he wanted to.

“So,” he says, still not turning around. “Your train. It leaves at two?”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and Harry‟s hand lifts away. The next
sound he hears is the rumple of clothing, the jangle of Harry‟s belt
buckle as he does up his jeans. Louis finally rolls over, just to grab his
own clothes. They‟re a little bit wet, dew starting to form on the pitch,
but he really doesn‟t care. He stands up, wobbling a little, and slides on
his glasses. Harry is dressed already when he looks up at him, face
unreadable in the dark, and when he sees Louis is ready he starts
walking back towards the carpark.

They walk back together without speaking, not quite side-by-side,

passing in and out of the puddles of light cast by the streetlamps.
Finally, they reach Harry‟s car, and Louis speaks before he knows he‟s
made the decision.

“Do you want a ride tomorrow?” he asks. “To the station, I mean.”

Harry stares at him, driver‟s side door open, and then nods. “Sure.”

Louis nods back. “Okay. I‟ll pick you up at half one, then.” Harry nods
again and slides into his car without a word, slamming the door and
starting the engine.

437
Listening to the sound of Harry drive away, Louis walks over to his
own car and unlocks it clumsily. He doesn‟t bother opening the driver‟s
side. Instead, he opens the back and drags the spare blanket up off the
floorboards. He curls up in the back seat and waits for sleep to take
him, and he doesn‟t think about anything at all.

They don‟t speak during the drive to the train station.

Every time Louis looks in the rearview, he catches a glimpse of Harry‟s

duffle bag in the backseat.

The silence is suffocating. He thinks about turning on the radio, but

can‟t bear the idea of reaching toward the other side of the car. Harry‟s
personal space seems to have expanded to fill everything but the
driver‟s seat, and Louis can‟t bring himself to enter it. Even breathing
seems a violation. He‟s an arsehole. Jesus. He‟s such an arsehole.
Harry‟s an arsehole, too. Everyone is an arsehole. The world is a giant
arsehole.

They stop at a red light. Louis looks down at his hand on the gear shift,
looks to the left at Harry‟s empty hands. The impulse is strong, but then
the light is green and Louis‟ hands are busy again.

Louis‟ taking the long way, but Harry hasn‟t said anything. Maybe he
still doesn‟t know the town well enough to notice.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, Louis doesn‟t think he‟s ever
driven so safely in his life. As long as he just moves from one
immediate task to another—speed up, turn on the turn signal, brake
gently, take the turn—he won‟t think about where it is they‟re going.
He half expects the rules of the road to have changed today, because
there‟s no way things can be normal when this is happening, when

438
Louis‟ life is collapsing to a singular point in time that‟s about ten
minutes away. But everything works like it always has, stoplights
switching from red to green like clockwork and traffic flowing steadily
even while there‟s an eighty-vehicle pile-up in Louis‟ head.

Maybe it‟s like this all the time, he thinks idly. He wonders how many
people he walks by every day who are having the worst day of their
lives. He can‟t figure out if it‟s depressing or reassuring, that a person‟s
greatest despair barely makes a ripple in the world. That what feels like
the apocalypse doesn‟t really matter to anybody outside this car.

One more right turn, and then he can‟t pretend that all these small
actions didn‟t add up to anything, because they‟re at the station. Louis
doesn‟t feel like he‟s making conscious decisions to move his hands, to
press down on the pedals, but his car still glides into the carpark
without even a squeak of the brakes.

He parks the car, and Harry is opening the door before Louis can put
the parking brake on. Louis feels his legs moving before he‟s aware of
deciding to move them, feels himself get out too. He comes around to
the other side of the car as Harry reaches in the back and pulls out his
bag.

Harry closes the door, and Louis puts his hands in his pockets.

“Well,” Louis says. “Good luck, I suppose, not that you‟ll need it.” He
makes himself meet Harry‟s eyes. If he can‟t manage to say anything of
use, he can at least do that.

The late-afternoon sun has Harry‟s eyes glowing as they run frantically
over Louis‟ face.

Harry reaches out and grabs hold of Louis shirtfront, pulling him in
close and trapping himself between Louis and the car, and kisses him
hard.

439
Louis is off-balance but doesn‟t care, freeing his hands from his
pockets and bracing himself against the car, one arm on either side of
Harry. He hears the thump of the duffle hitting the ground, feels
Harry‟s arm curl around his waist to pull him that much closer. His
hands on the hot roof of the car, Louis kisses Harry like a drowning
man.
Harry smells like grass and Louis‟ fabric softener. He tastes like snow.

Harry pulls away abruptly, still fenced in by Louis‟ arms. He bends at

the knees to grab his bag, stands, and presses a rough kiss to Louis‟
cheek. Then he ducks under Louis‟ right arm and walks toward the
station, leaving Louis staring at his own reflection in the car‟s window.

Louis turns and watches him go, tries futilely in the last moments to
memorize Harry‟s walk, the line of his shoulders, the curve of his
waist. There‟s not enough time. There would never have been enough
time.

And then he‟s out of sight, slipping out of view as easily as any other
body. As if he were anyone else.

This is when I would go after him, Louis thinks, and turns to unlock the
car with shaking hands.

Louis goes back to his flat, locks the door, shuts the balcony, pulls
down the blinds, and doesn‟t talk to anyone for a week.

440
 EIGHTEEN

It‟s finally here. The day. The day of days.

Liam and Zayn are going to sleep together tonight.

Zayn had insisted on trying to take things slow, because Liam was new
to the whole sex with blokes thing, and he didn‟t want to rush him, and
he wanted to be a supportive boyfriend—boyfriend!!!!—and all of that
still stands, but they‟ve been waiting forever and the day is finally here.

He thinks Liam might be more eager than he is, honestly. It‟s not like
they haven‟t been fooling around, figuring each other out, and Liam‟s
always been the one to want to go further. He‟s been telling Zayn he
was ready for weeks now, but Zayn wanted to wait until he could do it
right, give it the time they deserved. The time that Liam deserved. Plus,
well, the idea of Liam being desperate for him is more than a little hot.

Zayn has unbelievable willpower when it comes to making things

perfect for Liam, but he‟s glad he doesn‟t have to wait anymore. This is
the day. They decided on it last week, and Zayn felt a bit silly
scheduling sex, but he has to admit it‟s the right time. It‟s a Friday,
they both have the whole weekend free, and Zayn even skived off a
little bit early so he could have enough time to fix up his flat before
Liam came over. He just knows it‟s going to be flawless.

So naturally, Zayn is half falling off a step ladder and attempting to pry
his screaming smoke detector off the wall with a screwdriver when

441
Liam walks in the door. Liam freezes in the doorway, taking in the
scene. There‟s half a bag of rose petals leading towards Zayn‟s room,
but the other half is still inside the bag, which is melted and smoking
from where a strategically-placed scented candle fell on it. Burnt rose
petals and plastic do not smell particularly good. The floor is wet from
where Zayn panicked and put out the fire not with a glass of water or a
fire extinguisher, but the closest liquid he had on hand: the bottle of red
wine he‟d just uncorked. There is faintly sickly-sweet smoke
everywhere.

“You know...” Liam says, hovering by the door, mouth twitching, “you
don‟t have to do all this anymore.”

“I swear to God, this wasn‟t on purpose,” Zayn tells him, resuming his
work on the smoke detector. “I was, I was nervous, about the whole
thing, and I was just trying to, to set the mood.” He manages to get the
cover off at last and pops the batteries out, and sweet silence fills the
room. Liam is biting back a smile. “There, there were rose petals, and
then I—candles, and I knocked one over, and then everything was on
fire—”

“Are you all right?” Liam asks, cutting him off.

Zayn exhales, stepping down off the ladder. “I‟m an idiot, aren‟t I?”

“No, you‟re not,” Liam says.

“Yes, I am,” Zayn says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just
wanted everything to be perfect.”

Zayn will never understand what it is about the daft things he says
sometimes that makes Liam light up like the sun, like he does then. He
guesses that‟s how he knows this whole thing isn‟t just a fluke, because
they seem to be mutually amazed by each other and mutually
bewildered by this fact, which he thinks probably means they‟re meant
for each other.

442
Whatever it is, Liam‟s face dissolves into a fond smile and he leaves
his keys on the counter and crosses the room to where Zayn is standing.

“It is perfect,” Liam says, pulling Zayn in by the waist. “All I need is
you.”

From anyone else it would sound like a line, but from Liam it‟s all
earnest, and God, that never gets old.

“You‟re just saying that to get into my pants,” Zayn says. He reaches
up and wraps his arms around Liam‟s neck, smiling.

“No,” Liam says, “but now that you mention it...” He dips his head and
kisses Zayn with a surprising amount of heat, backing him up against
the kitchen counter. Zayn can‟t help but go along with it, sighing at the
slide of Liam‟s tongue against him, but forces himself to break free for
a moment.

“Good. Excellent plan. Great,” he says, a little out of breath. “Just, let
me get this cleaned up, and then, yes. That. Absolutely.”

Liam makes a little disappointed noise that has Zayn‟s toes curling
inside his shoes. “We can clean it up later,” he says, sliding a hand up
under Zayn‟s t-shirt. “Hell, I‟ll clean it up later on my own.”

Zayn slides his hands down off Liam‟s shoulders, meaning to push him
away but getting distracted by the way his broad chest feels under his
hands. “It‟ll—it‟ll stain the floorboards,” he says absently, rubbing his
thumb in circles over Liam‟s nipple through the cotton of his shirt.

Liam draws in a sharp breath and leans in to press a kiss below Zayn‟s
ear. “I‟ll tear up the floorboards and put in new ones, Zayn, I swear to
God. Just take me to bed, I‟ve been thinking about it all week.” Zayn
can‟t help the shudder that runs through him, and yeah, fuck the
floorboards.

443
He pushes blindly at Liam‟s chest and grabs his hand, pulling him
through his flat. He‟s pretty sure they track wine all over his living
room carpet, but that doesn‟t seem to matter much when he has a
laughing Liam Payne grabbing him around the waist and lifting him to
carry him through the door into this bedroom.

Liam tosses him gently onto the bed and crawls on top of him before
he‟s stopped bouncing, pressing giggling kisses along his jaw. “„m in
love with you,” he mumbles happily against Zayn‟s neck. “Have I
mentioned that?” He has, of course. They‟ve said it dozens of times by
now, because neither of them are the type to feel anything halfway.
They barely made it three weeks in before they were saying it a
thousand times a day like a couple of idiot teenagers, but Zayn still
feels something squeeze around his lungs, stealing his breath when
Liam says it. He wonders if this will ever feel quite real.

“Always bears repeating,” he grins into Liam‟s hair before pulling him
up and kissing him properly. “I‟m in love with you, too,” he breaths
between kisses, barely pulling away enough to get the words out. “I‟m
in love with you.”

And maybe it‟s not perfect, or exactly like Zayn planned it. Maybe
there are no rose petals and candlelight and maybe the flat smells like
death, and Liam gets his shirt caught on one of Zayn‟s earrings and
Zayn‟s jeans get tangled up around his ankles when he tries to shimmy
out of them, and neither of them seem to know how to function for a
few seconds once they‟re both undressed. It‟s okay. If he‟s learned
anything from this whole experience with Liam, it‟s that things rarely
work out the way he plans, and a lot of the time it‟s even better the
clumsy, reckless way.

He takes his time with Liam, laying him flat on his back and going
down on him for ages. Some things don‟t stop just because they‟re
together now, and Zayn is still always going to want to kiss every inch
of him, is always going to treat it like an unbelievable privilege that he
gets to do so. Besides, he loves taking Liam apart like this. He loves
dragging it out and making him beg, because Liam is Liam, and there‟s
nothing like the sound of that sweet mouth cursing at the ceiling and

444
the feeling of looking up his body to see those gentle hands white-
knuckled in the sheets.

As always, Liam is full of surprises, and as soon as he‟s finished he

rolls them over and returns the favor. The most unexpected thing about
sex with Liam is how hungry he is for it, considering this is unfamiliar
territory for him. Now that Liam knows he has permission, he doesn‟t
shy away from anything anymore, not even the stubble on Zayn‟s jaw
when he kisses him there. His hands are still careful, but they aren‟t
unsure. He may not quite know what he‟s doing when he‟s sucking
Zayn off, but he‟s not afraid of it, and when he pulls off and tells him,
“This is my favorite thing to do,” in a hoarse voice before blushing and
swallowing him down again, Zayn fucking believes it.

It‟s been a while since Zayn was with somebody so inexperienced, but
he finds that he likes it. Maybe it‟s just because it‟s Liam, but it‟s
exciting to get to introduce someone to this, to show him exactly
what‟s so good about it. Zayn‟s had a lot of sex in his life, but he can‟t
remember the last time he was so excited about it. He guesses Liam‟s
enthusiasm is infectious. He leads Liam through the prep with a hand
on his wrist, shuddering out instructions through the feeling of Liam
opening him up, and he watches Liam‟s expression of wonder when he
sees what it‟s doing to him. It‟s amazing, and it‟s his, and he‟s the first
one who gets to show Liam how this feels, and he wants to be the last
one too.

He rides Liam with his hands braced on his shoulders, his necklaces
swinging between them as he moves, and Liam holds onto his hips and
tells him he loves him about a million times, even as he drags his nails
down Zayn‟s back and makes him shiver. Zayn tries to keep it slow,
because he remembers his first time and he knows Liam isn‟t going to
last long, but it‟s too hard to look down at the man underneath him and
think about how long he‟s wanted this and not have to have it all at
once. They‟ll have other chances to make it last. They have all the time
in the world.

He leans in close and kisses Liam hard, and Liam uses the moment to
roll them over and take Zayn in hand. That‟s what does it, the change
of angle, Liam‟s body pinning him down like Zayn always knew it

445
could. Zayn wraps his arms around Liam‟s neck and kisses him until
they both come, and afterwards too.

The first round is quick, but the next lasts much longer, and Zayn can
barely breathe by the time he‟s coming back down again. Always the
gentleman, Liam cleans them both up carefully, and then they just lie
together for a while, Liam‟s head on Zayn‟s chest and Zayn‟s hand
carding through Liam‟s hair. Zayn‟s tired, exhausted like he always is
after sex, but he doesn‟t want to fall asleep just yet. Not when this
moment feels so crystalline, so perfect and so breakable. The two of
them are going to sleep together plenty more times—Zayn plans on
ensuring it—but this is the only time it‟ll be the first time, and Zayn
isn‟t anywhere near tired enough to want to give up the sleepy, satisfied
look in Liam‟s eyes.

“You good?” he murmurs, lifting Liam‟s hand to his mouth and

pressing his lips to his knuckles. He thinks Liam would have told him if
he weren‟t, but this is still, you know, a pretty major event, and he‟s
going to check in anyway.

“I‟m great,” Liam says, propping his chin up on Zayn‟s chest. “Still
love you, by the way,” he says with a little grin.

“Love you too,” Zayn replies, wondering if Liam can feel the way his
sluggish heart still picks up at that even though it must be the twentieth
time he‟s heard it tonight. He can tell Liam gets a thrill out of it, out of
being able to speak so freely when they‟d both kept quiet so long. “I‟m
so glad—” he lets out in a rush, not quite sure where he‟s going, “I‟m
so glad we can tell each other things. Please don‟t ever think you can‟t
tell me things or talk to me. Even if it‟s not something I‟m going to
like.”

Liam‟s mouth purses a little, and if Zayn weren‟t melted into the bed
he‟d kiss it. “Of course. And same to you, obviously.” Worry starts to
wash over his face. “Is there something you need to talk to me about?”

446
“No, no,” Zayn says, reaching his hand down to scratch between
Liam‟s shoulder blades and reassure him. “We‟re good, love, I
promise.” Mollified, Liam drops his head back down and nuzzles his
nose against Zayn‟s sternum. “It‟s just—” he doesn‟t know quite how
to express himself, but he figures Liam will know what he means. He
heaves a sigh that lifts Liam‟s head up and down as his ribcage
expands. “Louis and Harry.”

Liam hums knowingly. “We aren‟t Louis and Harry,” he mumbles

against Zayn‟s skin. “If you ever try to run off to London I‟ll buy a tent
and camp out on the pavement outside your fancy new flat. I promise.”

Zayn grins down at the man he loves. “Likewise.” There‟s still

something itching at him, though, so he presses one more time. “But
seriously, no matter what‟s going on—in our lives or in your head—I‟d
always rather have you talk to me than not, yeah?”

Tightening the arm he has around Zayn‟s waist, Liam nods. “I will.
You‟re really upset about the two of them, aren‟t you?” His voice is
getting slower and thicker with sleep, and Zayn commends him for at
least trying to stay awake. He‟s sliding that direction himself, eyelids
heavier and heavier every time he blinks.

“It‟s just hard to see them fall apart,” Zayn says. “Now that I know
what they‟re losing.” The last thing he registers before drifting off is
the feeling of Liam smiling against his chest.

At first, the only emotion Louis can really handle is anger.

That‟s what he latches on to. Anger doesn‟t make him weaker, doesn‟t
sit on his chest at night and make him want to look up train tickets to
London. He can trust anger. It doesn‟t hurt, and it doesn‟t try to fool
him into thinking he and Harry could have been anything more than
what they were. He and anger have come to an uneasy truce over the

447
years, and he needs that. Louis knows where he stands with anger, and
he hasn‟t felt solid ground under his feet in what feels like months.

So he doesn‟t change the sheets and he doesn‟t scrub the smell of Harry
out of his flat. He doesn‟t take the photo Harry gave him for his
birthday down from his bedroom wall. Changing those parts of his life
would be admitting the impact Harry had on them meant something,
and it didn‟t, and he has to remember that. He needs to be able to look
at that picture and not feel a thing. That‟s when he‟ll know he‟s okay
again.

He calls Harry names in his head, comes up with reasons to hate

everything he ever did, lets all the sweet things turn sour in his mouth.
Fucking Harry, with his easy life and never anything to lose, with his
pretentious taste in music and his even more pretentious friends, with
his skill for getting people to love him without even trying when Louis
feels like he can‟t pull that off even when he works his arse off for it.
Fucking, fucking Harry.

He's got two weeks left of the last term, and he makes it through finals
and marking on instinct. He knows he‟s phoning it in, and he feels like
focusing on work might be a good distraction, but he just can‟t seem to
concentrate on anything properly and mostly he just wants it to be over.

The only worthwhile thing he manages out of all of it is printing out

and distributing flyers for a summer acting workshop. It‟s an idea that
comes to him in a moment of desperation, looking at the next six wide
open weeks on his calendar with nothing to keep him occupied.
Working with kids is the only thing that always makes sense, so he
comes up with the idea to offer one-on-one acting classes over the
summer holidays. It‟s something, at least.

The worst part is Zayn and Liam. He‟s so happy for Zayn, really, he is,
and he genuinely likes Liam, but that doesn‟t mean he‟s immune to
watching people be disgustingly in love right in front of him all the
time. The fact of the matter is, though, that for all the menagerie of
friends and acquaintances he‟s accumulated in Manchester, the two of
them and Niall are the only ones he ever really wants to spend his time

448
with, so he puts up with it. It‟s not like it matters, anyway. It shouldn‟t
matter. It doesn‟t mean anything to him.

He tells them he wants to go out for drinks, and they all agree, mostly
because they all seem to be waiting for him to snap at any moment. He
drags them out with him three times in one week, hell-bent on enjoying
himself. He laughs as loudly as he remembers how and downs drinks
and flirts recklessly, but it never works and he always ends up closing
out his tab and going home alone, walking aimlessly around his flat
like he‟ll remember something for him to do if he just keeps moving
long enough. He never has anything to do. Sometimes he sits on top of
his bed and stares at the wall, feeling himself sober up. He doesn‟t
think this is how he used to have fun.

Louis Tomlinson isn‟t a quitter, though, so two nights later he rounds

them all up again and drags them out to the nearest bar with a drink
special on a Tuesday. He doesn‟t stay still the entire taxi ride over,
animated and twitchy and ignoring the worried looks Liam keeps
shooting him. As if Liam even knows him well enough to know what‟s
worrying or not. Half of what Louis does on a normal day would
probably worry Liam.

The night‟s a bust, just like all the rest of them. Louis hates everyone in
the bar on sight, which probably isn‟t fair, but fuck fair. He alternates
between glaring at everyone who has the gall to look at him and
resenting everyone who passes him by. He‟s not sure what he wants,
but it‟s not here. Niall ends up leaving with a pretty girl with even
prettier tattoos halfway through the night, and Louis spends the next
two hours getting systematically drunk on mojitos and watching Liam
and Zayn flirt with each two barstools over. He wishes his drink were
big enough to drown in.

In the taxi on the way home, he pretends to fall asleep against the
window so nobody asks him about how he‟s feeling or if he‟s okay or
does he want to talk about anything. Not that Liam and Zayn seem to
remember he‟s there anyway, but it feels better to just disengage
completely.

449
Next to him, Zayn is cozied up to Liam, slurring things to each other in
that infuriating secret mumbly language that only couples understand.

“You know, you are allowed to kiss me in public,” Zayn teases, and
wow, Louis really, really does not want to have to sit through this
conversation.

“Sorry,” Liam says. He sounds so incredibly sheepish that Louis wants

to fling himself out the window. “It‟s just, I dunno, I‟m just still
figuring out what I‟m doing? Like, I know how to kiss you when we‟re
alone, but when we‟re out I don‟t know when that‟s okay, and then I
get all caught up in my head thinking I‟m bad at all the boyfriend-y
parts of being your boyfriend and I don‟t do anything at all. It‟s my
fault. I‟m always sort of afraid you‟re going to notice I‟m kind of
awkward and weird and not that great at this and then you won‟t want
to be with me anymore.”

Louis hears Zayn laugh a little. “Can I tell you something? I‟m always
afraid of the same thing.”

“Really?” Liam says, all wide-eyed shock and innocence. Jesus Christ.

“Have you met me?” Zayn says. “Listen, I told you, there‟s nothing you
can do that‟s gonna scare me off, okay? And you‟re not a bad
boyfriend. You never have to be afraid of that.”

“Okay,” Liam says after a moment.

“And I want you to kiss me whenever you want to,” Zayn tells him, so
quietly that Louis feels like he‟s intruding on the moment just by being
alive.

“What if I kind of want to kiss you all the time?” Liam says. Louis
wants to throw up on both of them.

450
Zayn laughs again. “I can definitely live with that.”

And now there‟s the sound of clothes rustling, and then the soft smack
of lips, and fucking hell, they‟re having a right fucking snog in the
backseat of the taxi while Louis just sits there and endures it, and the
worst part of all is that it reminds him of that night in the taxi with
Harry and how Harry had held him after they‟d fucked the headboard
into the wall and kissed him behind the ear and everything is terrible
and he is so, so lonely.

He misses Harry. He hates Harry and everything that happened because

of him and God, he misses Harry.

Admitting that to himself feels like ripping the bottom out of his
stomach and letting it all drop, but it‟s true, and he can‟t keep denying
it. Being around Liam and Zayn makes him miserable not because he
finds romance so repulsive but because looking at them is like seeing a
fucking ghost, except he‟s the one that‟s dead. It feels like the universe
is punishing him, holding Liam and Zayn up and saying look at all
these wonderful things you weren‟t good enough to have.

Breaking through his thoughts, Louis hears Zayn whisper, “I love you.”
He hears the universe whisper back, look at what you were too fucked
up to deserve.

When the taxi reaches his street, he pretends to wake up and ducks out
with a mumbled goodbye, leaving the lovebirds to make their way
home together. He climbs the stairs to his flat, walks straight to the
bathroom, and spends an hour sitting on the floor of his shower, letting
the hot water cloud the glass with steam.

He reaches for that familiar anger, and finds nothing there. Even that
has abandoned him now.

451
Louis‟ step-dad left when he was somewhere between seventeen and
eighteen.

He should remember it more specifically, he thinks. Down to a date. It

seems like the kind of event that should be seared into his mental
calendar, a date that he dreads when it rolls around every year, but the
thing was, he didn‟t leave all at once. It was messier than that, a more
gradual thing. It took him ages to finish moving all of his things, and
then the calls started getting less frequent, and he was sort of just...not
around. Not totally gone, because how can someone like that ever
really be gone? But he wasn‟t there anymore.

With Harry, it‟s different. He knows exactly where Harry is and why.
He knows exactly the station where he dropped him off, exactly the
look on his face when he knew it was the last time he would ever see
him. It‟s like a death, honestly, if he really looks it in the eyes. It‟s like
a loss, like trying to lay somebody to rest and find a way to live in all
the spaces they‟ll never touch again. It‟s a shock, and it shouldn‟t be
because Louis knew it was coming, but he still feels numb with it as he
sits alone in his bed.

He doesn‟t bother lying to himself anymore. He wasn‟t very good at it,

anyway. There‟s no more point in pretending he doesn‟t care. That fact
can‟t hurt him any more than it already has, and besides, once you‟ve
accepted the sadness, you can‟t really undo it.

Louis remembers the little pamphlets in the waiting room at the

medical center back when he was in uni, one of them outlining the
stages of grief. He‟d read through most of those pamphlets at some
point or another. He reckons this is the depression part. At least that‟s
not uncharted territory.

452
He spends weeks squirreling sadness away inside his flat, wrapping it
around him like a blanket, because it hurts like hell but at least it‟s
honest. Anger drove him wild, but sadness lets him be. For a while he
doesn‟t get out of bed except to feed Duchess or get food for himself,
which he always ends up bringing back to his bedroom. The dishes
accumulate, empty glasses and bottles on every surface, and there‟s a
layer of laundry on the floor so thick he can hardly see the ugly carpet
anymore. It‟s a fucking mess and he hates living in it, but he doesn‟t
have the energy to change anything and as much as he doesn‟t want to
be there, he really doesn‟t want to be anywhere else. Eventually he
gives up and just starts wearing the same pair of oversized joggers
every day, because it‟s not like anyone‟s going to see him anyway.

He knows he‟s avoiding his friends. The problem is, the more days that
go by without him talking to anyone, the more he feels like calling any
of them would only draw attention to the fact that he hasn‟t been
around, and he‟s too ashamed to admit to any of them that he hasn‟t left
his room in weeks. He can‟t stand the looks they‟d give them, how
concerned they would be, how they‟d want him to talk about how he‟s
feeling. He‟d be nothing but a burden at best and a charity case at
worst. He can‟t face that.

So he lets his phone go dead and he doesn‟t recharge it. He thinks about
it, gets as close as almost plugging it into the wall, but the gripping
anxiety of having to answer anyone‟s questions about anything shuts
him down before he can go through with it. He feels like an idiot every
time. It‟s just a phone. It‟s just a phone. Maybe he‟s just defective.

It‟s an awful, cyclical, paralyzing sadness, and he doesn‟t know how to

drag himself out of it.

He tries reading, tries watching television, tries skimming through

scripts to pick out some selections for the summer acting workshop
he‟s promised to do and is going to have to start preparing for soon,
somehow—none of it works. Nothing holds his interest anymore. Well,
nothing except thoughts of Harry, of bright city lights in his hair and
what kind of mad adventures he‟s probably getting up to on his own.
He imagines Harry found his feet quickly, that he‟s happier now than
he ever was when he had Louis like a weight around his neck all the

453
time. He pictures Harry swaying on the tube, or singing something
under his breath as he walks home to his flat at night, or in Hyde Park,
running his fingers through the grass. He can‟t decide if the thought of
Harry being okay without him hurts more or less now.

If nothing else, he at least hopes that Harry thinks of him, and that he
doesn‟t hate him completely.

He loses track of the days, loses track of day and night, so he‟s not even
sure what time it is when he hears someone pounding on the door of his
flat.

He sits frozen in his bed as whoever‟s on the other side of the door
waits for a response. He wonders if it‟s Zayn like it was last time, here
to try to coax him into another conversation he doesn‟t want to have,
and wonders if he can convince him he‟s asleep if he just waits long
enough. The pounding starts up again.

“Louis!” the person at the door shouts, and it‟s Niall‟s voice. “It‟s me!
Open up, man!”

Louis is wearing the same smelly pair of joggers he‟s had on for days
and a shirt that has a jam stain on the front, and his flat is an absolute
disaster. There‟s no way anybody is going to be allowed to see this.
However, there is also no way Niall is going to leave without some
kind of answer, so Louis drags his pitiful arse out of bed.

“I‟m fine, Niall,” Louis says, leaning against the door. “Go home.
Don‟t worry about me.”

“Bullshit,” Niall says. “Open the door, Lou.”

454
God, he‟s even got Niall worried about him. Niall never worries about
anything, and Louis‟ got him breaking down his door at—he glances at
the clock on the oven—eight o‟clock at night to check on him. He feels
like such a twat.

“It‟s okay,” Louis tells him. “I‟m not—”

“Will you shut up and open the door already?” Niall interrupts. “You
really think I‟m gonna judge?”

Louis clenches his teeth, shoving both hands into his hair. It‟s true,
Niall is probably the friend of his least likely to look at his current state
like it‟s some kind of desperate cry for help. He‟s also the most likely
to call in serious reinforcements if Louis doesn‟t let him in. Louis‟
mum loves Niall. There doesn‟t seem to be much of a choice here.

“Fine,” Louis says, and unlocks the door. Niall storms in and, true to
his word, says nothing about the state of Louis‟ flat or Louis himself.
He just pulls Louis into a bear hug and claps him on the back.

“Have you been eating?” he says, not letting go. Louis nods, and it‟s
mostly true. He hasn‟t exactly been making himself three square meals
a day, but he‟s been snacking enough that he‟s probably fine.
“Drinking?” He shakes his head. At least that isn‟t a path he‟s gone
down just yet. “Good,” Niall says, giving him a squeeze before holding
Louis out at arm‟s length. “Get in the shower, then. We‟re going out.”

“Niall—” Louis starts, exasperated.

“Shut up, Lou. We‟re going out. It‟s gonna be great. Get in the
shower,” Niall says again, and this time he starts pushing Louis
towards the bathroom. Louis resists at first, and then Niall gets a look
on his face like he might forcibly bathe Louis himself if he doesn‟t get
moving, and Louis would rather not see that come to pass.

455
“I‟ve already tried that, Niall,” Louis protests, but walks into the
bathroom anyway. Niall pushes in behind him and turns on the shower,
and the sound of the knobs on the wall squeaking is something Louis
hasn‟t heard in a truly embarrassing amount of days. “Going out
doesn‟t work.”

“Trust me, mate, you haven‟t tried this yet. Not what I‟ve got planned,”
Niall says with a grin. He turns around, his back facing Louis, but
doesn‟t leave the room. “Get in the shower.”

“Are you serious?” Louis asks, staring at Niall‟s back. When he gets no
response, he resignedly starts to strip, finally stepping into the the
shower when he‟s naked. He pulls the shower curtain around and
shouts, “Happy?”

“Very!” Niall chirps. “You stay in there and get less smelling like
death, and I‟ll find you something to wear.” Louis feels a twinge of
panic and shame at the thought of Niall rummaging through his filthy
room, but tries to just focus on shampooing his hair since he knows the
matter is beyond his control at this point. Niall turned the water on a
little too hot, but it‟s a nice constant sting. It keeps him from thinking
of reasons why he should kick Niall out and crawl back into bed.

When he‟s shampooed and soaped and practically squeaking, thank you
very much, he turns the water off and makes his way back into the
living room with a towel around his waist. Niall is on the couch, and
when he sees Louis he grins and throws a pile of clothes at him, which
Louis barely manages to catch without dropping his towel.

“Put those on and dry your hair,” Niall says. “And then we are getting
the hell out of here.”

Louis doesn‟t even bother protesting this time, just rolls his eyes and
head back into the bathroom. He‟d rather not go into his bedroom right
now, would rather not have to imagine what Niall thought when he
went inside. He pulls on the white t-shirt and jeans Niall picked out, but

456
not before snorting at the tiny briefs Niall apparently thought were an
appropriate underwear selection.

He plugs in his hairdryer and makes a go of it, getting all the way to
“slightly damp” before giving up. It‟ll dry straight and soft by the time
they get wherever it is Niall thinks they‟re going. He can‟t be fucked to
actually style it when he‟s only going out under extreme duress.

When he walks back out, Niall throws his arms up into the air and
whoops. “Wahey! You‟re gorgeous!” he says. “I‟ve already got your
coat. Get your wallet and let‟s roll!”

Louis eventually finds his wallet wedged in his sofa cushions, and then
they‟re on their way, Niall driving them into a corner of the city Louis
hasn‟t visited in at least a year. He feels a stress migraine coming on.

“Where exactly are we going?” Louis asks from the passenger seat,
leaning his forehead against the glass and watching the incoming
headlights slide by.

“We‟re going to a gig,” Niall says gleefully, and Louis turns to see him
smile knowingly as he takes a left turn.

“A gig for who?”

“You‟ll see. It‟s a surprise.”

Louis doesn‟t want to be surprised. Louis doesn‟t want to be surprised

ever again for the rest of his life. Louis wants to turn this car around
and crawl back into bed where he never has to think about anything. He
never should have agreed to this. Matter of fact, he never really agreed
to anything, just sort of got carried along by the oncoming tide of
Niall‟s enthusiasm.

457
Niall pulls up outside some building that has flashing lights and a
queue that goes on for ages. Louis‟ pretty sure he‟s parked illegally, but
Niall doesn‟t seem to care, hopping out happily and coming around to
open Louis‟ door for him. “Come on, Tommo!” he says cheerfully.
“Party don‟t start „til we walk in!”

With a groan, Louis drags himself out of the car. “You are a menace,”
he says, and Niall just smiles wider. “We‟re going to be queuing for
hours,” Louis whines, wondering if he can be annoying enough that
Niall will just give up and take him back home.

“Nah,” Niall says, and grabs Louis‟ hand to drag them toward the front
of the queue. Louis is fully prepared to get thrown onto the pavement
by the bouncer, but when he sees them he just grins and lets them
through, ignoring the complaints of the people in the queue.

“About time you got here!” he yells over the din, clapping Niall on the
shoulder. Niall just tips his hat at him and leads Louis through, off the
street and into the dark interior of the club.

“How the fuck do you always pull that off?” Louis shouts, and Niall
just shrugs mysteriously. He pulls Louis over away from the dancefloor
and towards the bar.

“Stay here,” he says, shoving Louis onto a barstool. “Get a drink, tell
them it‟s on my tab, they‟ll know who I am.”

“Where are you going?” Louis says, starting to panic as Niall starts
walking away from the bar. The last thing he needs is to be alone in a
crowd right now.

“I‟ll be back!” Niall shouts over his shoulder. “Just stay there!” And
then he‟s gone.

Great. He‟s stuck at a club that he has no desire whatsoever to be at,

and he‟s just been abandoned by his only friend in the building,

458
probably to go chat up the birds or something. Just great. Somehow his
life has gotten even more pathetic.

He catches the bartender‟s eye and orders a beer. For a moment he

contemplates asking her to put it on Niall‟s supposed tab, but he‟s
pretty sure Niall is just overestimating how infamous he is. There‟s no
way that he and the lads have ever been to this place before, and if
they‟ve never been then there‟s no chance Niall has been here enough
times to have a regular tab.

Taking a sip of his lager, he pays the bartender. “Question,” he says,

counting out his bills. “Who exactly is playing here tonight?” He tips
generously. If he‟s going to deal with this night he‟s going to need to
be on good terms with the woman in charge of the booze.

Smiling, the bartender takes his money. “You‟re in for a good show,
love. The Craic is playing tonight.”

Louis feels a ping of familiarity at the name, but can‟t place it. “Who‟s
that? I‟ve heard the name before.”

“Bit of a local legend, he is. Pretty much just plays locally. Completely
mental, but a brilliant DJ. He‟s got a decent following in the city,
mostly among the kids,” she says, nodding over at a few tables full of
students.

That‟s right. Louis had heard some of his kids mention this guy, talking
in poorly-hushed whispers about trying to sneak into 18+ clubs to see
him. When he looks at the crowd rapidly filling up the floor, bobbing
along to the half-decent opening act, he sees that the first few rows
seem to be primarily composed of people who barely look old enough
to be there, a few of them wearing homemade t-shirts with The Craic‟s
name on them in bold letters. He‟s not sure why Niall thinks this show
is going to cheer him up, exactly, but then again he‟s not sure of why
Niall does about half of the things he does. He‟ll ask him when he gets
back.

459
Except Niall doesn‟t come back. It‟s been twenty minutes and Louis is
still alone at the bar, feeling like a complete tit while the opening act
clears out and the headliner gets ready to come on. Some night out this
is. He‟s just flagging the bartender down to order another beer when the
lights go down and the crowd goes absolutely mad, making his head
pound with the volume of their cheering. Looks like he‟s going to have
to sit through this alone. He is going to absolutely murder Niall, and
then he is going to steal his car and drive home and never speak to
anybody but Duchess ever again.

The headliner, whoever the hell they are, jumps out from backstage,
and the shouts pitch up even higher, hands and drinks going up in the
air all over the room. The DJ‟s got on a backwards snapback and a
loose tank and sunglasses, and Louis nearly drops his beer when he
puts it all together.

“How the fuck are ya?” Niall shouts into the microphone. The crowd
screams back.

Niall. Niall is The Craic.

Louis stares, mouth hanging open, as Niall takes his place behind the
turntables and puts his headphones on, waving his arms to get the
crowd even more worked up. Louis does not know how to process this.

Then the music starts and things go absolutely mental.

The floor explodes with dancing, pulsing under the lights, and Louis is
one of the few people left at the bar as patrons abandon their drinks to
go join the crush. Niall is in control of it all, smile wide on his face as
he switches from record to record. Louis‟ seen him do this before, has
had him DJ at countless parties, but he‟s never seen him with a couple
hundred people going mad for him. They‟re clearly there for him, too,
recognizing tracks he plays and cheering for their favorites. He
deserves the cheers. He‟s good.

460
Louis knew that Niall had a knack for making insane mashups and
remixes, but he‟s never heard Niall play anything like this. It‟s a mess
of samples of rap songs and top 40 and things Louis has never heard
before all laid over a pounding bassline, and then weaved into it all are
sounds that Louis can tell are recordings of Niall himself, guitar riffs
and vocals looped and worked into the beat. It sounds fucking great,
and the crowd is jumping and sweaty and waving their arms around,
and Niall is just as animated behind the tables. There‟s even a light
show, one that Louis imagines Niall probably created himself. It‟s
amazing.

Louis can‟t quite bring himself to get up and throw himself into the
crowd since he isn‟t up for being touched by that many strangers
tonight, but he can‟t help dancing along in his seat a little, bopping his
head and swaying to the beats. It looks like fun out there, like the kind
of scene he enjoyed once. Next time he‟ll go and dance, he finds
himself thinking, and oh, that‟s unexpected. That‟s a sort of thought he
hasn‟t had in a while.

Niall‟s set lasts an hour, and then he‟s thanking the crowd for a “great
fucking night,” and heading backstage, laughing like a lunatic all the
way. Louis orders himself one more beer, figuring Niall is going to
have to spend some time with his adoring fanbase before he makes his
way back to Louis, but he‟s only a few sips in when he feels a hand
clap on his shoulder and turns to see the man himself behind him,
covered in sweat. People are staring, clearly recognizing Niall but
apparently too intimidated—by Niall, of all people—to come say hello.
Louis is friends with a damn celebrity.

“Niall Horan, you little shit,” Louis says, smiling for what feels like the
first time in ages, and he pulls Niall into a crushing hug.

“What‟d you think of the show, man?” Niall says, returning the
embrace before pulling back. He takes his hat off and runs a hand
through his hair. He looks almost nervous, which is hilarious given the
circumstances.

461
“Are you kidding me? It was fucking phenomenal,” Louis tells him.
“Why didn‟t you ever tell us that you‟re a fucking celebrity?”

“Knew you‟d be jealous,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “Nah, man, I

dunno. I started doing it secretly just to see if I could, y‟know? And
then when it blew up it seemed like too much to explain. And it kinda
made me feel like a superhero.”

“Oh my God, you‟ve got a secret identity,” Louis says. “Zayn is gonna
be so jealous.”

Niall just laughs. “I figured when it was time to reveal myself, it‟d be
obvious. And it was! So now I can make you bastards come to all of
my shows and support me like proper friends.”

“You know we would‟ve if we‟d known,” Louis says, momentarily

serious.

“Yeah, I know,” Niall says, and then jumps on Louis‟ back like a spider
monkey.

Louis tries to tell Niall to stay at the club with his adoring public, that
he could get a taxi home, but Niall was insistent on heading home. Now
they‟re blasting some pop station, occasionally singing along with Niall
drumming on the steering wheel. It feels nice, feels easy and young.
Louis isn‟t stupid enough to ignore the fact that there‟s anxiety and
dread and hurt creeping around the edges of his mind, won‟t pretend for
a second that they won‟t resurface later, but right now he feels okay.
It‟s nice that he can still feel that way, even just momentarily.

“Niall,” he says, lolling his head back against the seat. He‟d only had a
few drinks, but it‟s enough to have him just a little more pliant than
normal. “You said you‟d know when the time was right to tell us about
this whole thing. This whole Craic business.”

“Yeah?” Niall says, guiding the car around a roundabout.

462
“Why was tonight the right time?” Louis asks.

Niall pauses for a moment, his brow furrowed under the brim of his hat.
“You know I didn‟t start out wanting to be an orchestra director, right?”
he says finally, and Louis is a little tipsy but he‟s not drunk enough to
be this confused by conversation.

“Okay?” Louis prompts. “I mean, I didn‟t really know but I could have
guessed.”

Niall nods. “I wanted to be a musician. Like, full-time. Wanted to be

famous, wanted to write songs, wanted to tour the world. Still kind of
do, actually, but it‟s not that easy, is it? I tried a little bit during
university, played a couple of gigs, put together a couple of bands, but
it never worked out.”

Louis nods. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Us creative types, right? So I got this job right out
of uni, and it wasn‟t what I‟d imagined doing, but it was a good job and
I made friends and it makes me happy, so who am I to complain? But I
still missed making music. Missed performing in front of people. So I
figured out a way to do it anyway.”

“What, you just picked up a turntable and started booking gigs?” Louis
says. Honestly, knowing Niall, it wouldn‟t even be that surprising.

“Nah,” Niall says, scrunching up his nose as they pull up to a red light.
“Was at a pub, pretty fucking pissed, too, and their DJ didn‟t show. I
lied and told them I was a DJ, they were desperate, and from then on
I‟ve just kept on going.”

“That‟s brilliant,” Louis laughs, and it is. “You committed disc jockey
identity fraud and became a legend.”

463
“Something like that,” Niall grins. “But you wanted to know why I told
you about it tonight.” Louis nods. “I always wanted to be a musician.
And I kind of am, now. I get to do gigs and make people happy and I
get a lot of free drinks. It‟s brilliant. And just because it isn‟t the way I
thought I‟d be living my dream doesn‟t mean it isn‟t worth doing.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Louis says, though there are
some dots he can connect for himself.

“I‟m trying to tell you that you‟ve got to do something for yourself
sometimes, man.” Niall pulls up to Louis‟ block of flats and turns to
look at Louis seriously once he‟s put the car in park. “If something
makes you happy, then you should do it any way you can. Even if it
takes you somewhere kinda weird, it‟s better to be happy and weird
than sad and normal, yeah? And if you‟re happy, other people will like
what you‟re doing.”

Louis looks at him consideringly in the yellow light of the nighttime

street. “You and your unexpected depths, Horan,” he says. “You spring
them on me when I‟m least ready.”

“Not my fault you forget about them,” Niall says, sticking out his
tongue. “All right, get out of my car, cranky, we‟re going up to yours.”

“„We‟?” Louis says questioningly as he gets out of the passenger side.

He should have known better than to think this night was over yet.

When they get up to his flat, though, Niall doesn‟t have any plans for
further debauchery. Instead, he just tells Louis to change into
pajamas—and requests a pair for himself—and sets up shop on the
sofa, flicking through the television channels until he finds a James
Bond marathon, then turns the volume down so it‟s just a low murmur.

“Niall, if it‟s all the same, I think I‟ll just go to bed,” Louis says, once
they‟re both wearing flannel trousers.

464
“No,” Niall says, pulling Louis down onto the sofa by the arm. “You‟re
still sad. I‟m going to cuddle you until you‟re not sad anymore.” Niall
gets like this sometimes when he‟s drunk, all affection and warm
hands. He‟s not drunk right now, actually, didn‟t touch a drop all night,
but Louis knows that post-performance high as well as anyone, knows
how it gets you buzzing.

“This is a flagrant violation of my personal space,” Louis huffs as if

personal space is a thing he‟s ever cared about, but he allows himself to
be climbed upon nevertheless. Niall paws at him like a puppy until he
seems satisfied that he‟s made himself a comfortable spot to curl up on,
and then he nuzzles his face into Louis‟ chest.

“Don‟t be sad, Louis,” Niall says. “I love you.”

“You are not like any straight boy I have ever met,” Louis says, patting
Niall on top of his blonde head.

“Who said I was a straight boy?” Niall argues half-heartedly. He

squeezes Louis around the middle, like he‟s trying to physically force
some of his happiness to be transferred to Louis by osmosis. “What
about all those times with Zayn, then?”

“A, you were drunk all of those times,” Louis says. “And b, Zayn
doesn‟t count, love. Nobody‟s that straight.”

“All right, all right,” Niall says. “Just shut up and go to sleep.”

“Really?” Louis says. He gestures weakly to the sofa around them.

“Right here?”

“Yep,” Niall says. “Not letting you sleep alone tonight.”

465
“Okay,” Louis says, flooded with a hesitant warmth but pulling a spare
blanket off the top of the sofa anyway. “Good night, Niall,” he says,
pulling the blanket over them both.

“G‟night,” Niall says, muffled with his face squished against Louis. It
was, Louis thinks as the soft sounds of Goldfinger lull them to sleep. It
was a good night. The first one in a while.

He can tell Niall‟s already asleep by the soft sound of snoring muffled
against his chest, but sleep doesn‟t come as fast for Louis. He‟s still
thinking about what Niall said earlier about how he needs to do
something for himself sometime, and what exactly that means.

Louis has never really given much thought to whether or not he does
things for himself. He always assumed he was sort of selfish,
considering how much of his time and energy for most of the recent
years of his life has been spent protecting himself. Keeping himself
safe. But when he really thinks about it, really looks at it properly, it‟s
true that he never really does much that‟s just for him. He‟s been so
busy protecting himself that he‟s forgotten how to take care of himself.
He‟d forgotten there was a difference.

Maybe Niall is right. Maybe that‟s what it‟s going to take to finally
crawl out of this. He‟s not sure anything will get him over Harry at this
point, as much as it hurts to admit it, but this wouldn‟t be about getting
over Harry. It would be about getting out of this rut he‟s been stuck in,
not just since Harry left but for years. It‟d be about finally feeling good
again. He can barely remember what that‟s like, but he‟d like to. Maybe
he could.

He thinks, as he starts to drift off, that maybe he could try. He has to try
something, because he can‟t keep living like this. Maybe it‟s time to try
something new.

466
 NINETEEN

The weekend before Harry left, he came „round to Zayn‟s flat to return
a few odd things of Zayn‟s he‟d accumulated—a scarf left in Harry‟s
car, a borrowed t-shirt, that sort of thing. He ended up staying for a few
hours, telling Zayn about his internship, which is at some kind of
fashion photography studio that takes the kind of weird pictures Zayn
used to rip out of magazines and put up on his wall when he was in uni.
When he left, he gave Zayn a business card for the studio, and Zayn
hugged him hard and promised to call and to come visit him in the city
one day. He passed the business card on to Louis once Harry was gone,
and he watched helplessly as Louis chucked it into the bin.

Anyway, Zayn‟s kept in touch with Harry since he left. It‟s not like
they talk every day, because Harry‟s busy settling into his new life and
Zayn‟s busy settling into Liam, and even when they do talk Harry‟s
more withdrawn than he ever was, but Zayn makes a point to at least
text him every couple of days. Typically his hermit tendencies keep
him from bothering to keep in touch with anyone, but he‟s always made
exceptions for people he loves, and he does love Harry. Just because he
and Louis couldn‟t work things out doesn‟t mean Zayn‟s going to stop
being friends with him.

He mentioned it to Louis once, only once, just a careful “talked to

Harry today” slipped into the conversation, and Louis brushed it off as
if he hadn‟t said anything at all. Since then, Zayn has let it be. Louis
doesn‟t ask about Harry, and Harry‟s text messages are too brief to ever
mention Louis, and mostly Zayn wants to beat them both with a rock.
At least Louis has actually started leaving his flat again lately. Small
victories, yeah?

467
Harry‟s been gone for over a month and a half by the time Zayn is able
to set up a Skype date that works for both of them, and Niall comes
over to his flat to join in. Zayn doesn‟t know what to expect at all, but
he‟s pleased to see Harry again.

The internet connection at Harry‟s flat is horrendous, so it takes them

fifteen minutes to get the camera feed working. “Can you see me yet?”
says Harry‟s voice as a fuzzy, pixelated Harry finally appears on the
screen, wearing a blazer and a confused expression.

“Yeah, yeah, I can see you!” Zayn says, smiling and waving. “Nice
blazer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, looking down at his chest. “Just got off of
work.”

The picture gets a little clearer, and Zayn immediately wishes it hadn‟t,
because he can see now that Harry looks like hell. He‟s even paler than
usual, and the circles around his eyes stand out in dark purple as if he
hasn‟t slept in weeks.

“You look like shit,” Niall says flatly, dropping down next to Zayn on
the couch. Zayn elbows him in the ribs. Niall just shrugs.

Harry laughs a little. “Thanks, Niall.”

“Ignore him,” Zayn says, shoving Niall‟s face out of the frame. “How
are you?”

Harry shrugs and twitches out a smile. “Can‟t complain.”

“Yeah?” Zayn raises his eyebrows.

468
“Not without sounding like an ungrateful bastard,” Harry says. “Job‟s
good. Really good, actually, I‟m getting great experience. Bit
corporate, I guess, but good. Flat‟s good. So, like I said. Can‟t
complain.”

“So you feel like shit and you feel guilty about it,” Niall says, hooking
his chin over Zayn‟s shoulder. Zayn doesn‟t even bother to punish him
for that one. It‟s not like he‟s wrong.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Harry says, hiding a bit behind his fringe. Zayn‟s
always thought it was a bit excessive, but now he sees its strategic use.
“Can we—let‟s talk about you lot, yeah? How are things with Liam,
Zayn?”

Okay, sure, it‟s an obvious ploy, but Zayn doesn‟t mind falling for it. It
makes Harry look a little less like the consumptive heroine of an opera,
first off, so he‟s really just being a good friend. Also, he has a
secondary internal monologue running at all times whose sole subject is
Liam, so it‟s nice to let some of that out. Mostly the being a good
friend thing, though.

He‟s a little worried that being as aggressively, blissfully in love as he

is will just make Harry look more like a melted wax figure of himself,
but instead it perks him up a little bit. “You two are really great,” he
says when Zayn pauses for breath. “I wish I were around to see it.” His
smile fades a little at that, so Zayn launches quickly into a laundry list
of different places around town that he‟s kissed Liam.

He loses track of time for a bit, but Niall interrupts him halfway
through a really great story about something cute Liam did with his
nose the other day. Niall covers Zayn‟s mouth with his hands and
screams at the top of his lungs, and Jesus, he‟s scrawny but he has
pipes on him. Harry laughs, though, which is nice to see, and once he‟s
satisfied that he‟s successfully silenced Zayn, Niall starts into a story of
his own, something about a show at a bar and realising that he had
hooked up with every single one of the bartenders. Zayn licks his hand
to try to get him off, but Niall just breaks off his story with a brief,
“Don‟t give a shit, mate,” before continuing on.

469
It‟s good, it feels normal, just lads messing about and trading stories
with no boyfriends or not-boyfriends there to make things weird.
Except it still is a little weird, the one thing that none of them is
mentioning looming in the background of the conversation. The whole
time Zayn keeps waiting for the question, and when it finally comes,
it‟s on the tail end of a completely random story, some mishap Harry
had on the tube last week with a strange Portuguese man and his dog.
Zayn‟s laughing and Niall‟s laughing and Harry‟s laughing, and then
the laughter dies down, and Harry goes quiet.

“So, um...” Harry says after a long while. “How, how is he?”

His eyes look impossibly sad, and Zayn feels fucking terrible. He hates
feeling caught in the middle almost much as he hates watching them do
this shit to themselves, and he knows there‟s nothing he can say here.
It‟s not his place to try to speak for whatever‟s going on in Louis‟ head,
and even if he wanted to, he doesn‟t even know how to answer.

He looks to Niall for some kind of help, but Niall just scrubs a hand
through his hair and shakes his head.

“I dunno, Harry...” Zayn says. “I mean, is there any way I could answer
that question that wouldn‟t just make you feel worse?”

Harry picks at one of his thumbnails and says nothing for a moment,
and then he says, quietly, “No.”

“You might get a real answer if you asked him yourself,” Zayn says
softly. “If you really wanted to know. I‟ll be honest, Hazza, I only
know what‟s going on in his head half of the time anyway.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Harry says, with a laugh that Zayn
doesn‟t like at all.

470
“Look, mate,” Niall says, sprawling half across Zayn‟s lap so that only
half of his face is visible in the Skype window. “You‟re not happy.
What‟s gonna make you happy? Because you should do that.”

“S‟not always that simple, Nialler,” Zayn says, ruffling his hair.
“Fuck that, yeah it is,” Niall says. “Harry. Why are you sad?” There‟s a
pause, the sound of Harry‟s deep breaths coming fuzzily through.

“I miss him,” Harry says finally, still looking down at his hands. “Even
if we never... even if we couldn‟t ever be together, I just wish I could
talk to him. He was my best mate, you know?”

“You could call him,” Niall says.

Harry laughs another humourless laugh. “You really think he‟d

answer?”

Niall snorts. “I think that there‟s a good chance he‟d ignore it because
he‟d convinced himself it was the right thing to do. Because he‟s a
fucking idiot. But not because he actually didn‟t want to talk to you.”
He leans upright a bit, and Zayn winces as his bony elbow digs into his
thigh. “Give him some credit, yeah?”

“No, I know, I just,” Harry heaves a sigh. “I‟d feel really stupid, you
know? I already feel stupid. I feel like there‟s nothing I can say that he
doesn‟t already know, so I have no idea what I‟d tell him.”

And okay, Zayn had been assuming that Louis was the resident
shithead in this relationship, but maybe there was room for two.
“Really, Harry?” he says, shoving Niall off him. “There‟s nothing he
doesn‟t know?”

Harry frowns a little at him on the screen. “No?”

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. “You love him, right?”

471
There's a pause while Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. "I don't
know. I did."

“And did you ever tell him?”

“No, but—”

Niall interrupts, collapsing flat on the floor with a groan. “You think he
might need to know that, dickhead?”

Harry‟s full-on pouting now. “No, hold on, fuck you guys. If you lot
knew, which you apparently did, there‟s no fucking way he didn't.
Maybe I didn‟t say the words, but I told him every goddamn day. He
knew.”

“Harry,” Zayn says. “If you love him, or loved him, whatever, then you
know him pretty well.” Harry nods. “Then you should know that
expecting him to ever, ever assume something like that is a terrible
idea. Come on, man. He‟s not a stray cat who‟s gonna come inside if
you keep putting food out. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know, but,” Harry‟s face crumples a bit, and God, Zayn hates
being cross with him right now, but he needs to know this stuff. “Fuck,
it's not fair that I had to be the one putting stuff on the line all the time.
It scared me too, maybe not as much as him, but he didn't tell me
anything, he never did."

Zayn takes a moment, and then tries to word things as carefully as he

can. “I‟ve known Louis for a couple years now,” he says softly. “And
Harry, trust me, when the two of you were together I saw him put
things on the line every single day. Maybe it was stuff that feels simple
to you or me, but it was hard for him. And it‟s not your fault that he
didn‟t tell you any of that, but you should still know.”

472
Harry‟s got his head in his hands now, and Zayn can‟t see his face but
he can hear the lump in his throat. "Does it even fucking matter
anymore?" he says thickly. "Like, what's the fucking point?"

Niall leans heavily against Zayn‟s side, and Zayn wishes he would bust
something out, some bit of wisdom that would change Harry‟s mind,
but there‟s nothing.

Harry wipes a hand down his face and continues. “I wanted to be with
him. You know that. And I wanted to think that—I don‟t know, that
just because I loved him it'd work out, but I've kind of figured out that
that's not how things are. Which is shit, but life is kind of shit
sometimes, isn't it? Anyway, it doesn't even matter, because it's over
now, and I have to live with that, you know? I can't stop my life. I've
just got to learn from this and move on."

Zayn clenches his fingers around his knees. That sounds exactly like
something Louis would say.

“Fair enough,” Niall says. “I think this is all incredibly shite, but you
do what you have to do. If that‟s what you think will make you happy.”

"I just want it to stop, honestly. I want to not deal with this anymore,"
Harry says. "That's all I really want right now."

Zayn nods slowly. “Okay. I can understand that.” He wants to drive to

London and drag Harry back to Manchester by the scruff of his neck
and lock him and Louis in a broom closet until they learn to love each
other right, but it doesn‟t look like that‟s on the table.

“Thanks,” Harry says. “Lads, I don‟t mean to end this on such a shitty
note, but is it all right if I sign off for the night? I‟m really tired.” Zayn
would be suspicious, but he really does look wrung out. “Thanks for
this, both of you. It‟s been really good to catch up.”

473
“Same, man,” Niall says. “Don‟t be a stranger, okay? You didn‟t break
up with all of us.” Zayn nudges him hard, but Harry just laughs.

“I know. I‟ll be in touch, I swear. And—I‟m sorry, but would you mind
not passing any of this along? Like, this stays between us, yeah? All of
it.” It looks like it‟s breaking his heart to say it, and Zayn is developing
an ulcer.

“Yeah, mate, that‟s fine,” Niall says. “If he asks, though, what do you
want us to say? If he asks after you.”

Harry smiles a little. “He won‟t ask,” he says, and hangs up.

Louis is doing better, and for once he isn‟t just saying that.

It‟s been slow, and it‟s been difficult, but he‟s edging along. He started
small. At first it was just forcing himself to get up and brush his teeth
every morning at the same time. Just getting up and brushing his teeth,
that‟s it, the smallest little ritual to feel like he could do this, like he
was doing something to get things back under control before
progressing to the next step.

Next he spent two days cleaning his flat, finally taking care of the
stacks of dishes and piles of laundry he‟d allowed to build up. It was
tedious and boring but living like that was only making him feel
shittier, so he put on some Take That and powered through it, Duchess
at his heels as he moved about the rooms. When that was finally done,
he lay all of his scripts out on the kitchen table and started
systematically going through them, highlighting passages and picking
out pages to make copies of for the kids he‟s working with now. That
felt good too, but the work went quickly, and once he used up all his
sticky tabs he didn‟t know what to do with his hands.

474
He needed something else, afraid if he didn‟t keep moving he‟d
backslide and wind up right back where he started. He ended up
digging out his trainers and deciding to start going for morning runs,
just from his flat to the little park nearby and back again. If he‟s being
completely honest, he ends up walking more often than he actually
runs, but it‟s still nice. He likes strapping his iPod to his arm and
wearing the running shorts he bought special as if he were a real
runner—makes him feel like he‟s in an advert for sports drinks or
something. And besides, it gets him out in the fresh air, which helps
more than he ever expected it to.

He was heading home from one of his walks one morning when he
passed a sign stuck up on a post advertising auditions for some
community theater production, little rip-off tabs with the address and
date of the tryouts at the bottom. Louis stared at it for a long minute
before taking one, then he immediately reconsidered and ripped the
whole poster down instead, shoving it in his pocket and jogging off.

He spent a week in his flat rehearsing, and when he finally went in for
auditions he was so nervous he thought he might be sick all over the
judges, but in the end he actually landed a decent role. It‟s the first time
in forever he‟s actually gotten something he tried out for, and that feels
incredible, having someone objective tell him that yes, he is actually
good at the thing he loves to do.

His acting workshops started up around the same time as rehearsals for
his play, so now his time is split between working with the kids during
the day and going to rehearsal at night. He loves being in a cast again,
loves singing and learning the choreography and practicing his lines,
loves getting feedback from his director and watching the whole thing
come together from the inside. Sure, the dressing rooms smell
distressingly of fish, and the male lead has a truly impressive ability to
miss his cues, but still. It‟s fun, every bit as fun as he remembered. He
missed this so much.

His castmates have little get togethers sometimes down at the pub, but
he always begs off, no matter how much they try to talk him into it.
That‟s another thing, the whole being around people thing. He‟s trying
to ease back into it, but being around Liam and Zayn still hurts a lot so

475
he can‟t handle them for long. He feels like a dick for avoiding them,
especially when Liam is making so much of an effort to get to know
Louis better. He even offers to go running with Louis when he hears
about his new pastime, but Louis keeps putting him off. He needs that
time to just be his for now. Also, Liam makes the mistake of revealing
that he was once on the Olympic reserve team for the 1000 metre—of
course he was—and if Louis had been considering accepting his
company he definitely wouldn‟t after that. Nothing like an Olympic
runner to make you feel inadequate when you‟re jogging along to Girls
Aloud.

So maybe it‟s taking him longer to get back into being social, but he‟s
taking baby steps. He starts calling Stan every afternoon to tell him
about his day or sometimes just to talk. Stan is more than willing to put
up with it, and those conversations become sort of an anchor, enough to
keep him from totally isolating himself. He structures his days this
way—wake up, tea, brush his teeth, run, do things, call Stan, do more
things, sleep, repeat. It‟s a little ridiculous, and sometimes it‟s a chore
to make himself stick to it, but it keeps him from sinking back into his
depression or getting lost in his own head. It‟s good for him.

Of course, there‟s still Harry, but when you miss someone every second
of the day, when it comes as steady as breathing, you learn to live with
it. And Louis does. It‟s not something that keeps him from his life.
Instead it follows him everywhere, every stage he walks across, every
hallway of the school, every inch of his flat, every night in the pub and
run to Tesco's. It rides along in the passenger seat of his car and waits
for him in the bath. It‟s an ache and a shadow and it‟s his, and he lives
with it now. Sometimes it‟s almost enough to make him feel like he‟s
not alone in his bed.

Sometimes there are moments that hurt more. There are always little
sharp edges for Louis to catch himself on, little pins to prick him.
Sometimes it‟s just a song on the radio that he knows Harry always
liked, or an advert for a sappy romantic comedy he‟s sure Harry would
be dying to see. Sometimes it‟s the weather when he wakes up in the
morning, or a boy with curly hair in line in front of him at the coffee
shop. One night the middle of tidying up his flat, it‟s the hoodie he
finds shoved under his bed that still smells faintly of Harry, and he puts
it on and sleeps in it that night.

476
It‟s times like those that Louis is so, so thankful for his job. The whole
summer acting workshop idea must have been some kind of stroke of
feverish genius from July-Louis‟ mess of a brain, because it‟s been the
thing keeping him going. The community theater stuff is really, really
great, and it feels so good to perform again, but the kids. There‟s no
element of competition or insecurity with the kids, no worrying if he‟s
keeping up with anybody else. He thinks it‟s good for him to be
challenged by something right now, but it‟s also so good to just have
the kids. It‟s good to feel like he‟s still doing something for somebody.

There are about a dozen kids signed up for the program, which isn‟t a
terribly huge turnout but far more than he expected. He takes them in
shifts, a couple of hours of one-on-one time twice a week for each of
them, and he‟s thankful for something that keeps him in his classroom
and out of his lonely flat for most of the day.

Stuart Standhill was one of the first kids to sign up when Louis put up
the posters, and if he‟s being honest, he‟s one of Louis‟ favorite
students to work with. The kid has got talent, and it‟s a thrill to feel like
he‟s contributing to something that‟s going to be great someday. He
makes Stuart memorize monologues from movies, scenes from
television shows, dozens of foreign accents, anything he can think to
throw at him, and Stuart takes to it all like a fish to water. Louis knows
he‟s going to be a star.

This afternoon is no exception. It‟s their final session since the first
term is only a week away, and Stuart decided to turn it into a one-man
review of everything they‟ve worked on, ranging from an impassioned
recitation from Braveheart to an entire Monty Python sketch. Louis
gives him a standing ovation at the end and Stuart takes an elaborate
bow. He tells Stuart how great he‟s done, how he thinks he‟s destined
for big things, and Stuart beams and blushes and thanks him again and
again.

Louis has just started gathering up the scripts he brought along and
packing them back into his bag when he notices Stuart still hovering in
front of him.

477
“Anything else I can do for you?” Louis says.

“Um, yeah, actually,” Stuart says. “Can I. Um. Can I talk to you about
something?”
Louis freezes, hunched over his bag. Stuart is looking back at him,
aiming for casual, but the hands clenched into fists in his pockets give
him away. This, Louis thinks, is it. This is finally it.

“Anything,” Louis says, setting his bag aside. He comes back around
the desk cautiously like Stuart might get spooked and run at any
moment. “You can close the door, if you‟d like.”

“Okay,” Stuart says, sounding relieved. He backtracks to the door of

Louis‟ room and pulls it shut before taking a seat in a desk in the front
row. He looks incredibly small. Louis leans back against his own desk,
trying to look as relaxed as possible. He can feel them both holding
their breath.

“So,” Stuart begins. “Um. I‟ve been thinking a lot lately, and it‟s like, I
don‟t really know who to talk to about this stuff, but it‟s. You know.
It‟s something I need to talk to somebody about, and I kind of feel like
I can talk to you?” Brave words, but he doesn‟t seem to be quite able to
look at anything but his cuticles.

“Of course,” Louis says, smiling gently. “And nothing has to leave this
room, all right?”

Stuart bites his lip and steels his shoulders. “Okay. Um. Well.” He
laughs a little, nervously, before finally looking up at Louis. “I‟m gay.”

Louis keeps his face as neutral as possible, setting aside all his thoughts
of yes dear I know and you and me both and oh I‟m so proud of you.
Instead, he just says, “Okay.”

478
Stuart nods, as if Louis has said something of value. “Okay.” He
swallows hard, drumming his fingernails on the desk. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” Louis asks. Has he managed to screw this up already.

Stuart scuffs his feet lightly against the linoleum. “It‟s just that, well, I
guess I'm still not used to saying that out loud.” Even now, he can‟t
stop moving, fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie, and Louis is filled
with such blind affection he can‟t quite stand it.

“How does it feel?” Louis thinks of his mother crying on the couch
eight years or so back, but also of his first days of uni and a girl with a
rainbow pin who shook his hand at orientation and the rush of power
that came with a simple “me too.”

“Fucking terrifying,” Stuart laughs. “And good. Really, really good.”

Louis believes it, sees it in the way he‟s relaxed back into his seat.

“Sounds about right,” Louis says with a smile, hoping that it‟s enough
to confirm what he knows Stuart must suspect. “So how long ago did
you, ah, come to this conclusion?”

Stuart runs both his hands through his hair and lets out a breath. “I
don‟t know. It‟s difficult to say, because like, I think I always knew?”
Louis nods. “But I guess, I don‟t know, I never wanted to admit it to
myself? It‟s scary. Like, proper fucking—sorry, sir—proper terrifying.”
He grins when he sees that Louis isn‟t going to chastise him for the
slip. “And, I don‟t know, I never wanted to be different, you know?
And I didn‟t want to deal with everything that came with it, and I didn‟t
want to let anybody down, because I guess I thought that‟s what it
would be. Letting people down. Somehow. So I just boxed it away, I
suppose. But I think it‟s always been there.”

“That makes sense,” Louis nods. “Though I hope you don‟t still feel
that being gay makes you any sort of letdown, Stuart.” He‟s pleased to
see him shake his head, though he doubts it‟s as easy as the boy is

479
making it out to be. “What made you change your mind? About telling
people. If you don‟t mind my asking.”

Stuart, who Louis has seen do an interpretation of the mating dance of

the male honeybee without hesitation, actually blushes at that, and oh,
isn‟t this getting interesting. “Um. Do you know Mike Kendall? Red
hair, on the footy team? He was one of the T-Birds in Grease?”

Well, well, well. “Yeah, of course I know him.”

“He‟s kind of, um, my boyfriend.” And if Louis thought Stuart was
squirmy before, it‟s nothing to how he is now, tapping his feet and
tugging on his sweatshirt cuffs and utterly failing to fight a smile.

Oh, Louis wants to hold a parade for this kid. “Is that so.”

“Yeah. It was like, I don‟t know. We‟d gone to school together forever
but we never really knew each other? Like, obviously I knew who he
was, but I never really thought about him. But then he was in the play
with me and I helped him with the choreography and stuff and we
started getting to know each other.” Louis thinks of the two of them
dancing in their leather jackets and wishes he‟d managed to catch it on
film. “And, I don‟t know, I was kind of in awe of him. Because my
absolute worst fear, like, the thing that kept me up at night, right? It had
actually happened to him, as bad as it could get, and he seemed like he
was okay. Like, everybody found out he was gay, and he just kept
doing what he always did.” Stuart‟s full-on beaming now, looking at
Louis like he‟s just so happy to be able to brag about how wonderful
Mike is.

“And I just thought that was amazing. Still do, actually. But that‟s why
we started hanging out, „cause I wanted him to teach me his ways or
something, and he was just, you know, really nice to be around. He‟s
really, really cool. I‟m kind of a lot to deal with sometimes?” Louis
snorts and nods for him to continue. “And he balances me out, I guess.
I don‟t know, it was just nice to be around someone who was like me,
and who made me happy, and who treated me like he didn‟t care what I

480
was. And didn‟t mind when I acted like a complete prat. So when I
realised that I maybe sort of really kind of wanted to snog him it wasn‟t
the end of the world, because for the first time I knew that even if he
didn‟t like me, he wasn‟t going to punch me. Which was nice.”

“Definitely a good trait in a potential partner,” Louis intones, and Stuart

giggles.

“Agreed, sir. Anyway. In the end, I spent weeks working up the nerve
and then I showed up at his house in the middle of the night like a twat
and was daft and awkward and then we snogged in a shrub.”

Louis laughs out loud at that, because, well, it was funny, the image of
Stuart tackling his lanky beau into some shrubbery. “Well done.”

“Thanks.” Stuart does look proper proud of himself, as well he should.

“So now we‟re going out. Which is brilliant. He‟s brilliant. And I don‟t
know, eventually things with Mike just became too much to keep
pretending. I don‟t really see the point anymore? I always thought that I
had to figure out how to be normal if I wanted to be happy, but like, I
keep thinking, what if I can be this and be happy too? Because I am
happy.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “And to be honest, being gay
is one of the least weird things about me. And Mike likes all my other
weirdnesses, mostly. So yeah. Fuck it, sir, pardon the language. I think
I‟m sticking with weird.”

“Go with what works, I always say,” Louis says, rubbing his chin with
mock thoughtfulness. “You seem in good shape, Mr. Standhill.” Better
shape than most of us, he doesn‟t say.

Stuart ducks his head but doesn‟t disagree. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate
that. So I guess what I‟m asking is... what do I do now?”

Ah. “Well.” Louis takes off his glasses and cleans them with one of his
shirttails. “From personal experience, let me tell you, you are already
ahead of the game. Most people your age who struggle with their

481
sexuality spend years getting to where you are right now. And it‟s not
like it‟s a race anyway.”

Stuart nods seriously. Louis is used to students thinking he has the

answers, but rarely has he felt the weight of it so much as right now.
“Thanks. Really. That‟s really good to hear.”

“Do you feel like you want to tell your family? You don‟t have to, but
it‟s what a lot of people do when they first figure it out.”

Stuart takes a few deep breaths, staring into the middle distance, before
answering. “I want them to know. I don‟t want feel like I‟m lying to
them all the time. I just want to be done pretending.” His eyes move to
meet Louis‟ again. “I don‟t want to be worrying about who knows what
while trying to live my life.”

“Very reasonable.” And very scary. “How do you think they‟ll take it?”

“I‟m not sure,” Stuart says, heaving a sigh and resting his chin on one
of his hands. “My parents are pretty relaxed about most things, so I
don‟t think they‟ll kick me out or anything crazy like that, but I don‟t
know if they‟ll be happy about it. I‟m sure they must have suspected at
some point, though. Everyone did, didn‟t they?” Louis stares back and
him and pointedly doesn‟t answer. Stuart snorts. “Yeah, fair enough. So
I‟d be willing to suspect that my mum won‟t be surprised, at least. I‟m
really worried about my little brother, though. He‟s always sort of
looked up to me, and I‟m really afraid that I‟m going to lose that if he
finds out. He‟s young, you know? I don‟t know, I‟ve just always
wanted them all to be proud of me. And I know that coming out to
them shouldn‟t change that, but it doesn‟t mean it won‟t, or that it‟d
hurt any less.”

“Fair enough,” Louis says, conscious of how Stuart has started

avoiding his eyes again. “You‟re allowed to be hurt by things that are
stupid, or thoughtless, or wrong. That‟s okay. But in terms of them
being proud of you—Stuart.” He looks back up at Louis at the sound of
his name. “They should be. Proud of you, that is. They have a lot to be

482
proud of, they really do. You‟re a great student, a brilliant actor,
extremely talented and charismatic, people love you, and you‟ve got a
good head on your shoulders. You have a lot to offer. Being gay is a
part of who you are, but it‟s not all there is. And even if they don‟t like
it, it doesn‟t take away from any of the other things that are great about
you.” Stuart nods, and Louis smiles. “Plus you pulled the first lad you
ever properly tried for so there‟s something else to be proud of right
there.”

The laugh that pulls out of Stuart is the best thing Louis‟ heard in
weeks. “Thanks.”

“And Stuart,” Louis continues, “Are you proud? Of yourself, that is?”

Stuart drums his fingers on the desk, stares at his shoes for a moment,
and then lifts his head with determination in his face. “Yeah. I am, sir.”

“Well then. Great.” They smile at each other for a moment before
Louis moves on. “So what about him? Mike, I mean. Do you want to
tell your family about him?”

Stuart nods, mostly to himself. “I think so. I feel like it‟s a lot to put on
them all at once. „Hey, guess what, your son is gay and also here‟s the
boy he‟s going out with!‟ But I just, I wouldn‟t feel right not telling
them about him, because they‟re so important to me and it doesn‟t feel
right to hide him from them when he‟s such a big part of my life. I want
to do better for him than that. He‟s been so great about this whole
thing. He‟s so sure of himself, and he‟s just... really, really good. And
good for me. Stable. I hope they‟ll see that.”

“I hope they do too,” Louis says. “It sounds like you two have
something really special.”

Stuart wrings his hands for a bit, indecision written all over him, before
he blurts out, “I haven‟t told him yet, but, um, I think I, I think I might
be in love with him. Does that sound stupid?” He cringes slightly,
every inch a teenage boy.

483
Louis has to make a concerted effort not to hug him. “No, Stuart. Not at
all.”

He pulls one of his feet up into his lap and starts fiddling with his
shoelaces. “How can you know if you‟re in love with somebody?”

Louis has to huff a laugh. To think he‟d thought he was out of his depth
with Chekhov. “I don‟t know. I‟m not sure anybody knows. I don‟t
think you can really quantify it. It‟s such a messy thing. I think
sometimes you just have to go with your gut and shut everything else
up.”

Stuart leaves his shoelace alone in favor of chewing on the strings of

his hoodie. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Tomlinson?” He winces
immediately. “Sorry, that‟s, I shouldn‟t have asked that, it‟s none of my
business.”

“No, no, it‟s okay,” Louis says, waving him off. When it comes to it,
it‟s easier to say than he thought it would be. Maybe because it‟s not to
the person in question, or because Stuart expects him to be better at this
than he is. “I thought I was a few times when I was younger, but... just
once, really, I think. Only once. But it was enough for me to respect
what it can do.”

“Do you think I should tell him?” Stuart asks after a moment, voice
small.

“Do you want to tell him?” Louis responds, gaze steady.

“Yes.”

Louis nods. “Then yes. If he‟s anything like how you describe him, I
doubt you‟ll scare him off now.”

484
“Yeah. Yeah, you‟re right. Okay. Okay, I will. And I‟m going to tell
my family everything soon.” Stuart looks resolute, and Louis knows
this will be harder than Stuart thinks it will be, but he thinks the kid
might just be all right.

“Have you told any of your friends yet?”

He shrugs. “Most of my close friends. I mean, I‟m realising that

everybody sort of already knew, which is convenient but kind of
embarrassing. But I felt like I still wanted to tell them myself, if that
makes sense.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, voice
pitched low. “Mike and I have been talking about next year a lot, and I
think when school starts back, we‟re going to try to be, like, public?
About being together? I don‟t know. The thought of that still scares the
hell out of me, but I‟ve found that I‟ll do a lot of things that scare the
hell out of me. For him.” Another pause. “And for myself, too, I think.”

Louis is rethinking the parade plans from earlier. Maybe some sort of
festival would be more appropriate. Or a bank holiday of some kind.
“That‟s... that‟s really, really brave, Stuart. I‟m really proud of you.
Even if you two change your minds, even thinking about that right now
is really amazing.”

Stuart grins and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thanks. And thanks
for listening to me talk, sir. I feel a lot better about a lot of it now.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Standhill,” Louis smiles. “Honestly, though,

any time you want to talk about anything, I‟m always around. What
you‟re doing right now is really hard, probably one of the biggest
challenges you‟ll ever have, and if there‟s anything I can ever do to
help, I‟d be happy to do it.”

“I sort of feel like you‟ve already been doing it, to be honest,” Stuart
says, which, wow. “I just, I‟ve always been really grateful that you
were around, because I love theater, and if I didn‟t have that as some
kind of place to get away from all this stuff, I don‟t know how I would
have made it? Like, I‟m sure I would have, but I‟m really, really glad I

485
didn‟t have to. I‟ve always felt like it was okay for me to be whatever I
was here. I really don‟t even know how to thank you for that.”

The two of them sit in silence for a moment before Louis has to break
it. “Fucking hell, Stuart, you‟re gonna make me cry. Cut that out.”

“Sorry, sir,” Stuart laughs. “Won‟t happen again.” He pulls his phone
out of his pocket and makes a face. “Um, wow, I just realised what time
it is. Really sorry, but I‟m actually, um. I have a date. In about 15
minutes, actually, so I should probably go.” He looks at Louis
apologetically.

Louis waves him off. “Of course. Wouldn‟t want to keep Mike
waiting.”

Stuart winks. “Definitely not. And thanks again, sir. Really.”

Louis doffs an imaginary cap. “You‟re very, very welcome. Glad to be

of use.”

Stuart heads out the door, but pauses halfway through and sticks his
head back into the classroom. “Oh, and thank Coach Styles for me too,
will you? If you see him?”

Louis‟ head snaps back up at that. “What? Why?”

Shrugging, Stuart says, “For getting the footy lads to try out for the
musical. If it weren‟t for the two of you, Mike and I would‟ve never
gotten together. So I owe him one too.”

Nodding, Louis wills his heart rate back into submission. “I‟ll let him
know. Now go see your boy.”

486
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Stuart looks like the human
embodiment of nervous energy. “I‟m gonna tell him. I‟m gonna tell
him today.”

Louis gives him a sharp salute as he leaves. “Good luck,” he says into
the empty room. After a few minutes, he manages to collect himself
and finish packing up his things, and when he drives home, he finds he
can‟t stop smiling.

That night when he‟s in bed with Duchess curled up by his feet, he
wants so badly to call Harry up and tell him all about his day. He told
Harry about Stuart a few times, whenever Harry was worrying about
Mike, and they used to commiserate about how hard it was to watch
and feel so limited in what they could do. He knows how excited Harry
would be to hear this news, how proud he‟d be of Stuart and Mike and
even of Louis himself. That part hurts to think about, but he knows it‟s
true. He can practically hear the way Harry‟s smile would sound in his
voice when he‟d shout down the phone, “Louis Tomlinson, you‟re a
fucking hero.”

And the crazy part is, he kind of feels like one. It‟s mind-blowing to
him that somebody actually looked at him and thought that‟s my
lifeline. He doesn‟t know how to deal with that. He feels better about
himself than he has in months, honestly. But he still doesn‟t call Harry.

It‟s sort of strange now. He feels like he‟s come a long way in the time
since Harry left, somehow. Far away from Harry, in all the space he left
behind, there‟s room to take out all of those things he never had the
courage to unpack before and open them up and look it all over. And he
thinks now, in this post-mortem state, he can just about admit it.

He can just about admit that they were in love.

He‟s not going to delude himself into thinking it would‟ve ever

worked, or that it still could. That‟s still not something it‟d be healthy
to let himself hold on to. But he can admit that somewhere along the
way, he felt it, and it was real. He can just about handle the thought that

487
he may have been in love with Harry—that he maybe still is, not that it
matters—and that for a while Harry was maybe in love with him, and
even though they fell out of it, it happened. He can‟t deny that.

So he fucked it up beyond repair, and maybe that was his only shot, and
maybe he‟ll just have to live with that forever. But there‟s also Stuart
Standhill and Mike Kendall and a whole bunch of kids who might have
a better chance at it than he did, and maybe Harry wasn‟t wrong about
everything.

Louis wonders what things might have been like if he and Harry had
met when they were younger. He thinks about 18-year-old Louis,
finally out of the closet and ready to throw himself headfirst into
something with the first fit boy who blinked twice at him, and how
different things might have been if that first boy had been 16-year-old
Harry selling cupcakes in a bakery somewhere. He wonders if they
would have fallen for each other right away, if he would have been able
to love Harry the way he deserved back then, before everything else
made him cautious. He wonders how much heartbreak he could have
saved himself, if they‟d still be together all these years later.

He thinks it means something that he can think those things now

without his brain short-circuiting, that he can tell a 16-year-old to go
tell his boyfriend he loves him without hesitation. He thinks he‟s better
than he was.

When he was in uni, he had a friend who was studying psychology. He

remembers her telling him about the “ideal self” and how the further
you are from it, the worse you feel. He thinks about everything that‟s
happened since then, uni and Manchester and the things he‟s learned
from Harry and the kids and community theater and a thousand tiny
revelations, and he thinks he‟s getting closer. He thinks he‟s inching
towards a Louis who‟s more like the Louis he‟d like to be.

He rolls over and pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, and just like
every other night, he falls asleep thinking of the phantom warmth
spooned up against his back and hand that‟s not holding his.

488
It goes on.

It‟s six o‟clock in the morning, and Duchess is lying across his neck
this time. It‟s the first day of term, and this year Louis starts it by nearly
being asphyxiated by his pet. An auspicious beginning.

He rolls Duchess off him and onto the side of the bed. She yowls and
swipes at him, but he‟s fast enough to avoid her claws this time. She‟s
fast, but he knows all her moves by now.

Louis manages to stand and half-walks, half-stumbles to his kitchen to

put the kettle on. He bounces on the balls of his feet, surprised by his
own energy. He‟s excited, he really is. Teaching the kids over the
summer was nice, but he wants to get back to his real job. He likes his
job, and he‟s missed it.

Once he‟s downed his first cup of tea, burning his tongue a little, he
rushes through the rest of his morning routine. In the bathroom, he
gives himself a curt nod in the mirror after he washes his face. Chin up,
soldier, he thinks. You know how to do this. He feels good this
morning, feels like this is going to be one of his good days, but he still
spends about half his time walking on eggshells around himself. He
can‟t do that today; at the very least, he can‟t let his students see him do
it.

A shower, a tasteful outfit, and two slices of toast out of the way, he
waves goodbye to a supremely uninterested Duchess, grabs his bag,
and heads out the door. He‟s five minutes ahead of schedule, even.
Thermos full of tea in one hand, he drives to school with the radio up,
humming along in an attempt to keep himself energized. He pulls into
his traditional parking space and sees Zayn‟s car already parked a few
spaces down.

489
He spies the man himself when he walks inside, Zayn coming out of
their lounge with a cup of tea in each hand. “Isn‟t it a beautiful day in
the neighborhood, Mr. Malik?” Louis singsongs at him, delighting in
the way Zayn‟s eyes narrow to slits. Some things don‟t change.

“Just „cause I haven‟t committed murder before doesn‟t mean I can‟t

start,” Zayn growls as he walks past. Still, he turns his head and calls
back after Louis, shouting out, “Good luck, Tommo, see you at lunch.”
Yeah. Some things don‟t change. It‟s going to be a good day.

He‟s just settled into his room and is waiting for his first batch of new
students to start doing the same when he notices a commotion in the
hall outside of his room. It‟s nothing out of the ordinary for the kids to
be buzzing on the first day back since they‟re all catching up from the
summer, but there‟s something strange about the particular scene he
sees when he pokes his head out of his door. Yeah, it‟s the same sort of
crush of noise and talking by the lockers, but they don‟t usually look so
shifty about it.

That‟s when he sees Mike Kendall come around the corner, great
ginger manchild that he is looming a head above most of the crowd,
and Stuart Standhill next to him. They‟re holding hands.

Louis feels his heart stop for a second as he watches them make their
way down the hall together. Stuart looks like he‟s about to explode,
either with pride or with nervous vomit. Mike, on the other hand, looks
utterly content with the world. Louis is not going to get teary over this,
nope. He‟s not.

Stuart looks up and catches Louis‟ eye across the hall, and Louis does
his best to smile encouragingly at him without running over to hug
them both or crying like a mum dropping her kid off for the first day of
school. Stuart returns the smile and gives Louis a little wobbly nod
before he passes.

Once Stuart and Mike are gone and he‟s alone with the hallway full of
noisy students, he can‟t help but notice that not everyone looks as

490
thrilled as he is about recent developments. He makes a mental note to
start writing students up like it‟s going out of style if he hears so much
as a snide word. Hell, he‟ll take on his fellow teachers if he has to.

He tells Zayn and Niall as much over lunch, the two of them nodding
along in agreement. Stuart will be in Zayn‟s afternoon literature class,
and he promises to keep an eye on him. Niall doesn‟t have Stuart or
Mike in his orchestra classes, but he‟ll “put the fuckers in detention
until they‟re back in nappies” if he hears anyone start talking shit, so
there‟s that at least. Louis bites into an apple and feels something like
peace, surrounded by friends as good as these. It‟s almost enough not to
notice the empty fourth chair at the table.

The first day passes in a blur, and Louis finds that he feels better about
his job than ever. He can feel it in the set of his shoulders, the way he
feels himself smile when he stands up at the front of his room. Maybe
he‟s still on the mend, but in some ways he‟s better than he‟s ever been.

His mum calls him later in the week to check on him, probably because
she knows how stressful the beginning of the year always is. He finally
admits to her then that he was seeing someone for a while, and that
things ended badly and he‟s been in the process of recovering from it
for months. She demands to know Harry‟s name and whereabouts and
offers to break his kneecaps herself, but Louis just laughs a little and
tells her not to worry, that he‟s not angry at him anymore, that Harry
wasn‟t the only one to blame. He wonders if she can tell how much he
misses Harry just by the tone of his voice on the phone.

He still misses Harry. Of course he still misses Harry. He thought

maybe that would‟ve faded by now but it hasn‟t. It‟s bearable, but it‟s
always there, and he‟s starting to think it always will be.

Now that he‟s let go of the anger and all the bad things, he can
remember Harry fondly. He wasn‟t perfect, and things were a mess, but
he was wonderful and sweet and funny and kind, and he was beautiful,
and for a little while he made Louis so, so happy.

491
If he has to miss somebody forever, at least he picked a good one.

Louis should have learned the first time around that he and complex
sound equipment don‟t mix. He‟d managed to stay away from it for the
first few weeks of term, but now the leaves are changing colors and
he‟s spending his free period sorting through more wires and cables
than he‟s ever seen in his life. His class on British theatre is about to
start a unit on Webber, and he‟s trying to get his afternoon lessons set
up in advance so he doesn‟t embarrass himself with a series of
technical difficulties. He‟ll embarrass himself in private, thank you
very much. Besides, it‟s not like he‟s got any fit boys with convenient
timing to help him out this time.

He‟s examining what appears to be a cable with USB ports on both

ends when there‟s a hesitant knock at his door. He looks up, expecting
one of his students, but is pleasantly surprised to see Liam standing in
his doorway. Normally Liam will just swing by to see Zayn over lunch;
he‟s never come to just see Louis before.

“Liam,” Louis says, putting down the USB abomination and dusting off
his hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just stopping by,” Liam tells him. He‟s got his hands in his pockets
and he‟s just hovering in the door like he doesn‟t know what else to do.
“Zayn said this is when your free period is?”

“Indeed it is,” Louis says, nodding at his empty classroom. “You can
come in, you know.”

“Right,” Liam says, ducking his head as he shuffles inside. He shuts the
door behind him. “Well, um. I just wanted to come and talk to you for a
bit.”

492
“Let me guess. Fire department putting on a Christmas pageant and you
need my expertise?” Louis jokes. He‟s actually got an idea of what
Liam is probably here to talk about, but he‟d been hoping to be spared
this conversation. Or at least to just hash it out with Zayn instead, who
knows how Louis gets. “I warn you, I charge an arm and a leg,
although I may lower my price if they take their tops off.”

Liam laughs, running a hand through his hair. “No, actually, um, I
noticed you haven‟t been around much lately,” Liam manages
haltingly. “And I‟ve been feeling really bad about it. Zayn really misses
hanging out with you. He keeps saying we need to let you do what you
want to do, but I just feel bad because he‟s your best friend. I feel like
it‟s my fault, because you sort of vanished after the two of us got
together.”

God, Louis feels like such a prick. “Liam, it‟s not—”

“No, it‟s okay,” Liam interrupts. “Like, if you don‟t like me or

something, that‟s okay, I just feel bad for taking up all of Zayn‟s time
and stealing your best friend. I never meant to come between you or
anything.”

Louis rubs his forehead with one hand, pushing his fringe back. “No,
Liam, it‟s really fine. It‟s not that I don‟t like you. I like you a lot,
actually, and I‟m really happy for you and Zayn. It‟s not that at all,”
Louis tells him. A few of months ago he‟d have probably run
screaming from a conversation like this, but he doesn‟t want to do that
anymore. What the hell has not talking about his feelings done for him
lately? Plus, Liam has a face that makes you want to spill all your
secrets, and Louis is not nearly as immune as he used to be. “It‟s just
that it‟s kind of hard for me to be around the two of you sometimes.
Because of everything.”

“Because of Harry?” Liam says, and then immediately cringes at

himself. “Sorry.”

“No, it‟s fine,” Louis says. “Yeah, because of Harry.”

493
“Oh,” Liam says. “Well, that‟s good. I mean, wow, no, sorry, I didn‟t
mean it‟s good that you‟re sad about Harry, I just meant it‟s good that
you don‟t hate me. Although now you might because I‟m making a
complete prat of myself.”

Louis laughs a little ruefully. “It‟s okay. Really, it‟s okay. It‟s not like
he‟s Voldemort, we can say his name. But yeah, it‟s just... it‟s hard for
me to see you two so happy together sometimes. And that‟s my
problem, and it‟s not fair to Zayn for me to stop hanging out with him
because of that, and I‟m sorry for worrying the two of you.”

“No, I get it,” Liam says. “Is it—do we remind you of how you were?
I‟ve been there, I know how it can be.”

“Sort of?” Louis says, taking his glasses off to clean them. “It‟s more
that you remind me of how we weren‟t, I guess. There were a lot of
things that I couldn‟t do with Harry, a lot of things I can‟t do and won‟t
ever get a chance to, I guess, and fucking something up as badly as I
did means it kind of hurts to be around people who got it right.”

Liam looks at him consideringly, head cocked to the side like a golden
retriever. “You‟re so sure it‟s over, then? I mean, I didn‟t know you
very well back then, but you seemed good together.”

Sliding his glasses back on, Louis sighs. “Sometimes being good
together isn‟t enough, Liam. I would give anything for things to have
ended differently, but it‟s too late now. It‟s over. So there‟s no use
worrying about what‟s done. I‟d rather focus on how I live now, and
part of that is figuring out how to be a better friend to Zayn. And to
you.”

Liam is still just looking at him. He opens his mouth and closes it a few
times, clearly trying to decide whether or not to say something.
Eventually he slides into one of the desks, leaning on his elbows. “Can
I tell you some stuff?” he says, sounding slightly confused by his own
words. “Stuff about me, I mean.”

494
Louis doesn't know where this is going, but if Liam is feeling self-
revelatory today he's not going to stop him. Maybe knowing him better
will make it easier to see him and Zayn as friends again, and not just
the walking embodiment of everything Louis' done wrong. He nods,
and Liam nods back, taking a deep breath and starting to talk.

"A couple of years ago, I was supposed to be getting married," Liam

begins. Louis remembers this, remembers Liam telling him he'd been
engaged while Zayn hid in a cupboard. "I'd been with this girl for ages,
and I was so in love with her, and we were planning a wedding and
everything, and it didn‟t work out. It wasn't really anybody's fault, but
we just sort of fell out of love. Well, she fell out of love with me,
mostly. I couldn't really understand it at the time, because I was so sure
that she and I were meant to get married and raise kids and have that
life. There was such a clear story, and then it just stopped. Fell apart.
And I was so upset about it that I took a job in Manchester just to get
away from all of that, and I didn't really know how I was ever going to
be happy without her."

Liam looks up to make sure Louis is still following. He nods at him to

continue, but he wonders what Liam is hoping to accomplish here.
Louis already knows that what seems like a fairytale can fall apart. This
isn't news to him, hasn't been since he was a teenager.

"I pretty much didn't do anything besides work when I first got here. I
definitely didn‟t try to find anyone else to be with. In my head, I was
supposed to be with her, you know? I couldn't imagine life going any
other way. That was who I was." He pauses for breath and then
continues, doing a piss-poor job of hiding his smile. "And then I met
Zayn. And I never, ever, ever expected to fall for somebody like him,
or anybody ever, really. But I did. Couldn't help it." He shrugs happily,
and Louis can't help but smile back.

"It took me totally off-guard, and I had no idea what to do about it. I
thought he was so cool and experienced and all that, and he had
terrifying friends like you, and I figured I never had a shot with him.
Plus there was the whole part where I never really liked a guy like that
before, or at least not so much that I would actually go after him. That
was really confusing, and I'm still not sure what it means, but, anyway,

495
the point is, I never thought he'd actually go for somebody like me."
Louis thinks about all the hours Zayn spent whining about Liam, and
wonders if Liam has any idea how wrong he actually was. He also
wonders if Liam has ever said this many words together in his life.

"I had myself tied in all these knots because of a story I was telling
myself, Louis. The way I felt about Zayn scared me, so I decided that
Zayn scared me, and I made up all these reasons for me to be afraid of
being with him. I very nearly convinced myself they were true, because
that was easier than actually taking the risk." Liam looks up from his
hands and looks Louis straight in the eyes. "That scares the hell out of
me, Louis, the fact that I almost tricked myself out of the best thing
that's ever happened to me because I was convinced I couldn't get that
lucky."

Louis isn't sure if his ears are ringing, or if Liam's words are just
ricocheting inside his brain.

"It's funny, because Zayn's always writing stories and talking about
stories, and that was what I was kind of getting mixed up in all along. I
got so caught up in telling myself how I thought it was going to
happen, or how I thought it should happen, and my own stupid
insecurities, that I sort of lost sight of what mattered, which was that
there was this person that I wanted to be with, this incredible person
who wanted to be with me too, and was telling himself an entirely
different story.

"I had no bloody idea what I was doing when I showed up at Zayn's
door after he stopped calling me. I kept telling myself how stupid I was
being the whole time I was going over, but I couldn't stop myself. Part
of me, the tiny secret smart part of me, set aside all the bullshit and saw
what was important, which was that I was happy when I was with him
and not happy when I wasn't. So I had to go see him. And I'm so glad I
did, because Zayn had given up me, and if I had never taken that
chance then I never would have gotten to see what we could be, which
is... pretty amazing. I just, I love him, Louis, so much, and I can't
imagine anything worse than if we had never talked again and he had
lived the rest of his life never knowing what he meant to me. That's the
worst ending I can think of.

496
"But that's the thing, though, there aren't really endings, are they? There
don't have to be, not unless we want there to be. Life keeps going, and
we keep going, and even if we can't rewrite we can still change our
minds. It's like Zayn says, we've got to write our own story, but we
don't have to stick with the plot we picked first, Louis. So that means
that happily ever after doesn't really exist, sure, but it means a lot of
better things do. If we go after them."

Liam stops talking, apparently out of words. Louis just sits there frozen
for what feels like at least a minute, staring at Liam, and then he feels
his mouth open and he hears his voice say, "Oh my God."

He's on his feet in less than a second, half tripping over cables and
cords as he runs back behind his desk and grabs his bag. He thinks he
might have kicked an extension cord halfway across the room, but he's
not sure. He definitely doesn't care.

Fuck it. Fuck being afraid, fuck talking himself down, fuck pretending
he doesn‟t feel the way that he does. Fuck giving up, even if it's too
late. It's not too late to stop lying, at least.

"Louis?" Liam says as Louis knocks over half the things on his desk in
a clumsy rush, grabbing his keys and his phone. "What are you doing?"

Louis stops halfway to the door, eyes wide, and he's sure he looks
absolutely mad but it's the last thing he's thinking about right now. This
is the closest he's felt to sane in months.

"I've got to get on a train," he says. "There's a two o'clock train, and I
have to be on it."

He runs out the door and makes it ten steps into the hallway before he
turns around, runs back, and hugs Liam as hard as he can. He hopes his
fingers digging into Liam‟s back say everything he doesn‟t have time
for right now. One last rib-cracking squeeze, and he sprints off again.
He‟s running very, very late.

497
498
 TWENTY

Louis slams open the door to his flat with enough force that it hits the
opposite wall and bounces back closed. By that time, though, he‟s
already at the rubbish drawer in the kitchen, rummaging around in a
panic. He knows it‟s in here, knows for a fact that he put it in this
drawer after he fished it out of the bin—there! He pulls out the business
card Zayn gave him, dog-eared and tea-stained but still legible, and
carefully slides it into his wallet. As he moves to close the drawer he
spots something else in the far back corner, almost hidden under
electrical tape and used-up batteries. He stares at it for a moment before
closing the drawer forcefully.

He checks to make sure Duchess‟s water bowl is full, making a mental

note to ask Zayn to come by to feed her. “I don‟t know what the fuck
I‟m doing,” he says to her as she winds between his legs. She just purrs
and headbutts his shins. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and grabs his bag off
the table. He pulls out all his work stuff—God, he hopes Liam thought
of a way to cover for him fucking off in the middle of the day—and
throws in a hoodie, an extra pair of pants, and a book he grabs blindly
off the shelf.

He feels like he needs things, like he needs a plan, but he can‟t think
properly. Everything is overwhelmed by a siren inside his head that‟s
wailing go go go and he‟s pretty sure that if he doesn‟t do this now
he‟ll never do it at all. He grabs a handful of granola bars—when the
fuck did he buy granola bars?—and throws that in the bag as well,
dimly aware that he probably will need to eat something at some point.
Breathing fast and hands shaking, he zips up his bag and looks around
his flat. Seeing nothing else he needs to bring with him, he walks
quickly out, closing the door behind him.

499
Ten seconds later, he storms back inside and walks straight to the
drawer in the kitchen. He yanks it open and grabs the shining object in
the very back, shoving it into the front pocket of his bag and banging
the drawer closed again before he can change his mind. Now he‟s
ready.

It‟s one-fifteen, and there‟s a two o‟clock train. He‟s going to be on it.

He throws himself into his car and speeds to the station, violating at
least half a dozen traffic laws along the way and not giving a damn
about any of them. He slams his car to a stop in the car park, half-
falling out onto the pavement and wrenching his bag out as he goes. It‟s
twenty to two by the time he screeches to a halt at the back of the queue
for the ticket booth, and it‟s all he can do not to yell at the pensioner
counting out coins at the front that he‟s on his way to the grand
romantic gesture he‟s been waiting his entire fucked up life to perform
and can she possibly count any faster please.

As soon as he‟s got his ticket he‟s off again, almost knocking over a
pile of luggage and at least three different people on his sprint to the
platform. One of them yells something after him, but he doesn‟t catch
what the man says, because all he can hear is his heart pounding in his
ears and his feet on the station floor and, above it all, the voice over the
loudspeakers telling him that time is running out.

He makes it onto the train. He‟s out of breath and he may have sprained
his ankle, but he makes it onto the train and drops down into a seat
that's thankfully surrounded by other empty ones just before the doors
close. He's not sure he could deal with making small talk right now.

In that moment of relief, he pulls out his phone, meaning to text Zayn
and ask him to go round and feed Duchess that night. Instead what
comes out is going to London, wish me luck x.

He hits send and then locks his phone, his knee jogging restlessly as the
train starts to heave forward, leaving the station. He can‟t quite keep his

500
thoughts together, though, and then he‟s unlocking his phone again and
tapping out another message.

That man of yours was worth every second xxxx

Louis turns his phone off after that, because he can‟t handle human
contact right now. The countryside races past like it‟s as impatient for
this as Louis is, like it‟s pushing the train along as fast as it can. He
tries to read his book, tries to distract himself with the half-finished
newspaper Sudoku he finds wedged in the seat cushions, but he can‟t
make himself focus. It‟s like that siren is still going off in his head, that
warning that‟s he running out of time, like he‟s going to run out of
courage any second now and collapse back into the person he‟s tired of
being. He spends half an hour just stalking up and down the aisle of the
train, swaying slightly as the tracks curve. Anything to keep moving.

Just outside two hours has the train pulling into Euston Station with a
whine, and Louis has been bouncing up and down by the car doors for
five minutes when they finally slide open with a hiss.

He ignores the voice telling him to mind the fucking gap and hauls
himself out onto the platform, fishing the business card out of his
wallet. He hasn‟t been to London in a while, and it takes him a few
minutes to figure out where the fuck he‟s going and sort out a tube pass
before he‟s running again. He doesn‟t even have a time limit anymore
but he can‟t afford to take his time about it. The half hour and one
transfer on the tube feel strangely familiar, takes him back to his days
of coming to the city for auditions and casting calls, riding the tube
with nerves filling up his head and the distant fear of rejection
humming along with the electricity on the tracks.

As soon as he‟s back on a platform, he‟s running up the steps toward

daylight. He doesn‟t take the time to take in the London sights and
instead narrows his focus down to the map outside the tube entrace. He
finds the street he‟s on, finds the street he needs to get to, and picks his
next move. That‟s all he can do, just pick the next place to go and get
there as fast as possible.

501
Somehow it feels like the studio should stand out more than it does,
since it‟s been such a huge fixture in Louis‟ mental landscape for
months as the thing that stole Harry away, but it doesn‟t. It‟s just a
simple building sandwiched between storefronts like any other place. It
doesn‟t look like the kind of place that could have ruined everything.
Strange.

He wrenches the front door open so swiftly the little bell on the top
almost comes off. The receptionist looks up as he walks in, putting
down her phone, and he doesn‟t even have time to come up with a lie.

“I‟m looking for Harry Styles?” he says, breathing heavily. He braces

up against the desk and tries to put together any sort of excuse, but his
heart is racing too fast.

“Are you the model who missed the shoot yesterday?” she asks, brow
arched. “That‟s convenient, I was just about to phone your agency.”

Fuck it, sure. “Yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is.” He tries to
smile winningly at her, but he‟s pretty sure it comes out a bit deranged.
Harry is somewhere in this building, and this is his last obstacle. He
feels like he‟s about to vibrate out of his skin. “You wanted to
reschedule?” he asks, taking a stab in the dark.

“Appointments aren‟t my job, first off, and you should be thanking

your lucky stars we‟re willing to reschedule and didn‟t just drop you on
the spot.” Louis nods, eyes wide, and wonders if he could find Harry
before security threw him out if he just made a break for the lift. The
woman sighs heavily. “Hold on, let me call upstairs and find the intern.
He‟s in charge of scheduling,” she says, and picks up her phone again.
Louis drums his fingers on her desk, sure that any second some
terrifyingly handsome bloke is going to walk through the door and
blow his cover. On hold, the receptionist looks him over. “Bit short for
a model, aren‟t you?” Louis just sort of shrugs, because it‟s not like
she‟s wrong.

502
He‟s saved from having to figure out a response to that when whoever
she‟s waiting on picks up her call. She exchanges a few words with
whoever‟s on the other end of the line—Louis tries not to think about
who it could be—and then hangs up. “Well, he‟s supposed to be
hanging clothes for a shoot right now,” she says, “But if you go up to
the studio he‟s prepping he should be able to reschedule you.” She
writes down and hands to him a room number on a sticky note. Room
217. “Don‟t be late again!” she calls after him as he walks away, and he
waves over his shoulder.

He rushes into the lift and presses the 2 button about twenty times.
How can it take this long to go up two floors? When the doors open
he‟s pretty sure he bursts out like he‟s in a goddamn action movie,
panicking slightly because he doesn‟t know if 217 is to the right or to
the left and right now that feels like a catastrophe. It‟s left, he figures
out, it‟s to the left and then he‟s at the door and he‟s inside. And the
room is empty.

It‟s not a particularly large room, but it‟s well-lit with a white backdrop
and few racks of clothes off to the side. It feels a bit like a stage. Louis
can take some comfort in that, at least. Familiar surroundings. If it has
to happen somewhere, it might as well happen here, where there's
nowhere for Louis to hide if he loses his nerve.

Now that he has nowhere to go, he starts to feel terror rising in him.
Before he‟d had the distraction of making his way here, spending the
last four hours or so barrelling his way to this spot in front of this plain
white backdrop. Now that he‟s stopped, all of his anxiety has caught up
to him at once. He knows this is where he needs to be, what he needs to
be doing, but he has no idea what he‟s going to say. He has no idea if
Harry will even be willing to hear him say it, after everything.

There‟s comfort, though, in the fact that there‟s nothing left to lose.
He‟s already lost Harry, lost what they had, and even if what happens
next doesn‟t get Harry back, at least he‟ll like himself a little better on
the other side. At least Harry will know.

503
Louis thinks of Niall and his ridiculous secret life that he willed into
existence by loving something enough to chase it down. He thinks
about Zayn‟s faith and patience, about Liam‟s honest bravery. He
thinks that if he can manage to be the best person he‟s ever been for the
next ten minutes or so, he might be able to do this.

The door opens, and Louis stops breathing.

It‟s so surreal, after all this time and all this distance, that Harry is
standing in front of him. The same body and the same mouth and the
same stupid curly hair. The same hands that haven‟t been touching him,
the same eyes that haven‟t been looking at him, the same person that
hasn‟t been filling up his bed and splitting Chinese takeaway and
making him laugh until he cries. It doesn‟t feel like they should be able
to share the same space like this anymore, but they are, and this is
happening, and suddenly all his nerves are lifting. Louis doesn‟t think
he could stop this even if he wanted to, and it‟s a relief. With Harry
right in front of him, he feels the full weight of everything he‟s been
holding back for months, and God, he finally gets to let it go.

He knows how he feels. He always knew, all along, even if he wasn‟t

ready to admit it. He‟s ready now.

Harry doesn‟t see him at first, too busy trying to wrangle a massive
armload of clothes. He‟s wearing a blazer over a white v-neck, all
effortless professional chic. He‟s still got his camera around his neck
even though he doesn‟t seem to be allowed to do any of the actual
photography, but things like that have never stopped Harry from taking
pictures of things before. Louis is terribly, terribly fond of him.

Wobbling and grunting a little, Harry drops the heap of clothing on a

nearby table. He straightens up and turns around, messing about with
his fringe in that habitual way of his, and then his eyes land on Louis
and he freezes on the spot.

His eyes run over Louis wildly, flicking back several times to his face
like he has to keep checking that it‟s really him. Louis wonders if

504
Harry‟s had close calls like Louis has, if he‟s seen people out of the
corner of his eye that looked just enough like him to give him a heart
attack as he walks down the street. The thought should please him, but
it just makes him sad.

Harry is still just looking at him, fiddling with his camera and blinking
rapidly, and he‟s just on the other side of the room but Louis feels like
he‟s miles away. He needs him closer.

“Hi,” Louis says, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from
doing anything stupid with them.

“Hi,” Harry says, looking stricken. He stares at Louis, and Louis stares
back, and then he lifts his camera and there‟s that old sound of the
shutter closing and opening as he takes a picture. Louis blinks a little at
the flash, but doesn‟t move or try to hide his face. Not today.

Harry lowers the camera a little, looking at Louis with that little line
between his brows like he can‟t imagine what Louis is doing there. He
looks scared, and Louis did that, and he‟s going to start making up for
it now.

He‟s an actor, or at least he used to be. He‟s given a lot of speeches in

his life, used a lot of beautiful language to say beautiful things. Harry
deserves that, deserves an epic soliloquy in iambic pentameter,
deserves a volume of sonnets, and Louis wants to give him that, but
when he looks at Harry and the fear in his face he doesn‟t feel like an
actor. He feels as much like himself as he ever has, stripped bare, and
so what bubbles uncontrollably out of his mouth is as simple and
inelegant as it is true.

“I‟m sorry,“ he starts, because it‟s the most urgent thing in his head.
Well, second most urgent. But right now he needs to get that look off
Harry‟s face. “Haz, I‟m so sorry. I know this is sudden, and out of the
blue, but I had to come see you. I had to tell you how sorry I am.”
Snap, and Harry‟s taken another picture, but he hasn‟t taken his eyes
off of Louis once.

505
“And I know,” Louis swallows hard, “I know that‟s not enough, and I
know it‟s probably too late, and maybe it doesn‟t matter to you, but I
just—I need you to hear everything.” Harry still hasn‟t said anything,
hasn‟t so much as nodded, but he‟s still looking at Louis and hasn‟t fled
the room yet, and Louis figures that‟s as good as he‟s going to get.

“I need you do know how much you meant to me. Mean to me. How
much I loved you, the whole time.” The words almost echo in the
unforgiving empty brightness of the room. Louis feels something rising
in his chest, like he‟s going to laugh or throw up or both, but he keeps
going. If he stops to think about what he‟s just said he‟ll fall apart.
“God, Harry, I loved you the whole time. Still do, as a matter of fact.”

Snap snap snap, and Harry is holding down the shutter button, but
Louis can see a tremor in his hands.

“I‟m sorry I never told you. I should have, I should have told you a
million times. I almost did, a dozen times, a hundred times, and I
fucked up every single one. I‟m so sorry for that, Haz. I loved you
before I ever touched you, and I think maybe at some point,” and here
Louis has to take a deep breath, “I think you may have loved me too.”

Harry hitches in a breath, and Louis knows the feeling.

“I hope so. God, I hope I got lucky enough that you loved me. And I‟m
sorry I didn‟t take better care of that, of what we had. I‟m sorry I
couldn‟t accept it then. And I‟m not—I didn‟t come here to try to
excuse how I was. I had reasons, but that‟s not what I want to say right
now.” He lets out a long, shuddering exhale, and digs down for the last
of himself. There‟s not much left, now, but if he goes home alone he
wants to go home empty, too, wants to leave everything he has in this
room. “I want to say that even though I never said so, I was with you
the whole time, Harry. You had all of me that I knew how to give. And
if you would ever have me again, I would give you all the rest.”

There‟s one more snap, and Louis has more to say but he also has to
know. “Jesus, Harry, is this the time?”

506
Finally, finally, Harry speaks, and it‟s like a jolt straight down Louis‟
spine to hear that same low voice. “You know what I realized? When I
moved?” Louis just shakes his head. “I don‟t have any pictures of you,
not straight-on. Not looking at the camera. Just ones I had to sneak, just
bits and pieces of you.”

“I‟m sorry for that, too,” Louis says, but Harry just barrels on.

“I‟ve got pictures of people I met on the street and never saw again, and
I didn‟t have any pictures of you. Which drove me crazy. And I
thought, when I saw you, I thought, well, this might be the last chance
you get, Styles, so.” He swallows thickly. “So you might as well get a
picture before he runs away again.”

There's a tiny voice in the back of Louis' head insisting that Harry's the
one who ran away, but Louis knows what he means. He was gone
before Harry ever was. It's only fair.

“I‟m not leaving,” he says slowly. “I mean, I will if you want me to,
obviously, but. I don‟t want to leave you. I never did. I want to be with
you.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and tugs at his own fingers,
wringing his hands and trying to stay in once piece long enough to get
this last bit out. “And I don‟t know how you feel anymore. Maybe you
hate me, I wouldn‟t blame you, but. I love you. I loved you the first
time you kissed me, and I loved you at Christmas, and I loved you
when I couldn‟t even look at you. I love you even more now, I think.
And I can‟t imagine I‟m going to stop anytime soon.”

That‟s all. It‟s all he has and he knows it isn‟t enough, isn‟t even close
to enough, but all he can do is stand there with what he‟s just done and
stare at Harry. Harry, who‟s looking at the floor and whose chest he can
see expanding against his shirt with fast, shallow breaths and who he
loves so, so much.

Carefully, Harry leans over and puts his camera down on the stool next
to him. He looks back up at Louis, and his eyes are wet, and there‟s
something rueful playing around the corners of his mouth.

507
“I tried,” Harry says, and his voice is rough and shocking in the quiet of
the room, “I tried to stop loving you, Louis, I tried so hard and I
couldn‟t, I couldn‟t,” and Louis doesn‟t remember moving but there
had been space between them, yards of space, and now there isn‟t, now
his hands are on Harry‟s lapels and Harry is tugging him in by the back
of his neck and saying, “I couldn‟t, Lou, I couldn‟t,” against the corner
of his mouth before shifting and yes.

He holds onto Harry‟s lapels like they‟re the only thing keeping him
alive, and maybe they are, because he‟s finally kissing Harry again and
he never wants to stop kissing Harry again and it‟s all out there, it‟s all
done and the world didn‟t end. It actually worked. He can‟t fucking
believe it, can‟t fucking believe he‟s standing here in a photography
studio in London kissing Harry, and Harry loves him, Harry loves him,
Harry still loves him.

Harry is mumbling things in between kisses, and Louis commits every

word to memory, “love you” and “love you” and “fucking wanker” and
then “love you” again. He says it back just as many times, and he‟s not
afraid of it anymore, not at all. How could he be, when it makes Harry
hold him closer and dig his fingers in and smile against Louis‟ mouth?
How could that frighten him, now that he knows how much worse it
was to go without? Louis would give up every secret he has to keep
Harry warm under his hands.

At some point Harry starts stumbling backwards, and Louis gets him up
against a table and kisses him like it‟s what he was born to do, like
every part of his life has been leading up to right now. His life has
never felt simpler. This is what he‟s supposed to be doing, this right
here, this is what he needs to do for as long as he can. He needs to
cradle Harry‟s face in his hands and pull Harry‟s lip into his mouth and
push his thigh between Harry‟s legs and he needs to tell Harry he loves
him every day for the rest of his life. Simple, simple, easy like
breathing.

Harry tries to spin them around, his arm around Louis‟ waist, but
they‟re so close together that they trip over each others‟ feet, falling
into the half-full rack of clothes. It goes crashing to the floor with a

508
metallic clang, and they stagger apart, Louis unable to keep in an
absurd little giggle.

“Oh shit,” he says, half-whispering, his hands still on Harry‟s chest.

He‟d sort of forgotten that Harry was supposed to be actually working.
It‟s kind of tough to remember even now, with Harry‟s mouth red and
his cheeks flushed. Louis did that. Louis gets to do that, hopefully
forever.

“Fuck,” Harry says, his hand tightening in the back of Louis‟ shirt.
“Fuck. Okay. Someone will have heard that.” He turns to look at Louis,
his eyes wild. “You can‟t be here, shit,” he says, and then rather
undermines his point by leaning down to kiss Louis again.

Louis only lets himself melt into it for a second before pulling back in a
supreme act of willpower. “Where,” he says, panting a little and
steadfastly ignoring the way Harry‟s eyes are fixed on his mouth.
“Where should I go? What do you need?”

Harry swears again, finally letting Louis go and pacing away, hands in
his hair. “There are some back stairs,” Harry says. He leans down and
start snatching clothes up off the ground haphazardly. “Turn left when
you leave the room, walk to the end of the hall, and you should find
them. Don‟t worry about the alarms, they don‟t actually go off. You‟ll
come out the back of the building.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, full of every kind of adrenaline. “What are you
going to do?”

“Give me fifteen minutes, and I‟ll meet you back there,” Harry says,
righting the clothes rack. Louis nods and heads toward the door,
silently going over and over Harry‟s directions in an attempt to keep his
head, when Harry‟s voice stops him. “Lou.”

Louis turns to look at him, but Harry doesn‟t say anything else. He just
looks at him, desperation and hope and still a little fear in his eyes.

509
Louis knows what it means. He feels it himself, the wrench of walking
away from Harry for even a moment so soon after finding him again.

“I‟ll be there, Hazza,” he says firmly. Harry nods this time, and Louis
can‟t help but smile at him for a moment before pushing through the
door and walking briskly to the stairs. They‟re right where Harry said
they would be.

He makes it down to the back of the building without incident, which is

mostly good, but it means he has fifteen full minutes to kill waiting for
Harry, which means in turn that he‟s so antsy that he wants to crawl out
of his own body. He paces back and forth behind the brick edifice of
the building, kicking restlessly at the gravel, running over every detail
of what just happened in his mind until he can‟t take it anymore.
Finally he just sits and puts his head between his knees, taking deep
breaths and trying to stay calm. Harry will kill him if he has a heart
attack.

He‟s nervous, but it‟s a good sort of nerves. He‟s nervous like he used
to get before a show he knew was going to be good, like when he knew
he had a chance to knock it out of the park and just wanted to get
started, to get onstage and prove what he could do. He thinks this might
be the role he was born for.

His head snaps up at the sound of crunching gravel, and there‟s Harry,
coming around the side of the building and stopping dead when he sees
Louis. Louis scrambles to his feet but doesn‟t move. Harry just leans
against the brick corner, looking winded, and Louis is going stay right
here and let him decide what comes next.

He can‟t keep from beaming, though, taking a moment to look at him

properly. Harry‟s hair is a little bit longer than it was, though still just
as curly, and he‟s wearing fewer bracelets on his wrists. Along with the
camera bag strapped across his chest he‟s carrying a briefcase, of all
things, which Louis is going to give him endless shit about later. But
that doesn‟t matter at the moment, because whatever was keeping
Harry frozen in place has snapped, and he‟s dropping the ludicrous
briefcase and covering the ground between them in a few long strides,

510
turning Louis to hold him against the brick wall and bury his head in
his neck.

“It‟s okay, it‟s okay,” Louis says mindlessly and half to himself, sliding
his hands up the curve of Harry‟s back. He feels Harry‟s warm breath
on his throat just as his hands reach up to tangle in his hair, and he can‟t
do anything but pull Harry‟s head up and kiss him.

A sound escapes him, half-laugh and half-sob, and Harry just swallows
it and gives back his own, crowding close to Louis and curling his
tongue into his mouth with a soft moan. Louis wants him this close
forever, resents every molecule of air that slides between them, hates
whatever made the universe big enough for more than just the two of
them.

Harry pulls back and presses a kiss to Louis‟ chin, moving to dust more
back along his jaw. Louis tips his head back and tries to focus. He
never wants to forget what this felt like, this moment right here.

“I missed you,” Harry mumbles against his skin.

“I love you,” Louis breathes out, because he can.

A shiver goes through Harry. “I love you, too,” he says quietly. He nips
at Louis‟ earlobe, and then continues. “Let me take you home, Lou.”

“Yes,” Louis says. “Please.”

“Liam,” Zayn hisses into his phone. He‟s in a utility cupboard again, a
place to which he swore never to return, but he‟s not supposed to make
personal calls during class time and these circumstances definitely fall
under the heading of extenuating. Even waiting until the break between
two blocks of class after he‟d read Louis‟ texts had been excruciating,

511
so there‟s no way he‟s waiting until the end of the day. Needs must.
“I‟ve been trying to get him to see reason for months. What did you say
to him?”

“I dunno,” Liam says. Zayn can picture his shrug. “I just told him how
much I loved you, and how I feel about us, and that seemed to work.”

Zayn is quiet for a long moment, biting down on the back of his hand.

“You have no idea,” he says finally, “how well you are going to get
shagged tonight.”

512
 TWENTY-ONE

Even though Harry ducked out of work a few minutes early, the tube is
still completely packed with commuters. There's barely enough room
for them to squeeze onto the same car together, much less sit down, but
Louis could not give less of a shit about it. He'd let Harry shove him
into the basket of a bicycle and pedal him home of that's what it took.
When the doors slide closed, Harry leans back against them and pulls
Louis close, giving him a little more breathing room.

Harry's chin hooks over Louis' shoulder and his arm wraps around his
waist, his other hand reaching out to grab onto the last free free
handrail. When they take the first curve, Louis sways but doesn't
stumble, secure in Harry's arms. He reaches out for the handrail
anyway, though, his fingers sliding over Harry's. He can feel Harry
smile against his shoulder, and he's quietly proud of himself.

Sneakily, Harry slips two of his fingers into Louis' front pocket, like
he's testing the waters, getting reacquainted with Louis' space and how
much permission he still has to it. Louis drags a finger down Harry's
wrist to say yes, and he feels Harry release a breath against him,
rubbing his nose into his hair. That matter settled, Louis sighs and lets
his eyes drift shut, lulled into relaxation by the motion of the tube and
the white noise of the people around him and the warmth of Harry's
body against his.

A particularly sharp turn pulls a screech from the tracks, and Louis
jerks back to alertness. He can hear Harry snickering at how jumpy he
is, is just making a mental note to make him pay for that later, when
he's distracted by noticing a pair of eyes on them. There's a woman on

513
the opposite side of the car, leaning against the other set of doors. She's
older, probably in her forties, with close-cropped brown hair, and Louis
isn't sure how long she's been staring at them.

He's prepared to bristle, to shoot her a death glare and leave her a
smoldering wreck, when she smiles at him. She looks fond, and
nostalgic, and endeared, and suddenly Louis is almost overwhelmed by
a wave of vindication. Damn right, strangers are smiling at them on the
tube. They're young and adorable and in love, and now that he thinks of
it, Louis kind of wants to shout about it until everyone within earshot
realizes how wonderful they are. Louis' never been much of a lad for
public displays of affection, but right now he hopes everyone who
looks at them can read it all over their faces. He wants them to assume.
They'll be right.

Seized by the impulse, he cranes his neck back and presses a kiss to
Harry's cheek.

"What was that for?" Harry mumbles.

"Just 'cause," Louis says as he turns back, and he winks at the grinning
woman on the other side of the car.

They get off at Harry's stop and Harry leads Louis up through the
station and onto the street by the hand. The sun is low in the sky, and
the lights are starting to come up on the buildings around them, making
up for all the stars that will be hidden behind clouds and light pollution.
It's not a very pretty street, but it's Harry's, and that makes it the best
thing Louis' ever seen, because he never thought he'd get a chance to
see it.

Harry lets them into the building and Louis can feel the static electricity
buzzing in the air between them, but they're stuck on the lift with an
assortment of strangers, so all he can do is lean his shoulder against
Harry's and wait for the little number five to light up on the panel above
the doors. They're off down the hall as soon as the doors creak open,
and this is it. He grins, unable to contain it anymore and bounces along

514
next to Harry, happy just to be with him, to feel his body next to him
and know that it's real. Harry's here. That's the happiest thing he can
think of.

"Fair warning," Harry says as he unlocks the door. "My flat isn't
much."

"That's what you said about the last one," Louis reminds him, "and I
liked it just fine."

Harry gets a funny little frown on his face, and he says, "This one isn't
like that one was."

The door swings open, and Louis steps inside as Harry shuts it behind
him. The flat is tiny and the only furniture is the battered dining set and
the mattress on the floor, but those are the only things it has in common
with Harry's old flat back in Manchester. There are no lights around the
ceiling and no scarves on the window, no soft sounds of music or
cupcakes on the counter, and all around him, the grubby walls are
completely, utterly bare. Louis looks around the floor and sees a pile of
boxes shoved into one corner, labeled with things like "bits and bobs"
and "homey touches" in a handwriting that Louis thinks probably
belongs to Harry's mum or sister. They haven't been unpacked.

The one on the top is open, like maybe Harry started trying to sort
through it all at some point but gave up. Louis can see photographs and
paintings and vinyl records peeking out of it, things he recognizes from
Harry's walls. The photo of the four of them at the carnival is sitting on
top.

Louis looks up at Harry, who is watching him look at the boxes and the
empty walls, and he doesn't know what to say. He feels sobered
suddenly, brought down a bit from the giddiness of being with Harry
again, now that he's confronted with the storm damage.

515
Harry just shrugs, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "It just didn't feel
right," he tells Louis. "Putting it all back up. It would have felt like a lie
to pretend like this was home."

"Haz," Louis says, and the emotion in his own voice almost takes him
by surprise. He wraps his arms around Harry's neck gently, standing up
on the tips of his toes to kiss Harry's forehead when he bows his head.
Harry slides his arms around Louis' waist and lets Louis cradle his head
against the side of his neck, hands buried in his hair.

It's been a little more than a year since he met Harry, and in that
moment, holding Harry in the doorway of a flat in London that barely
even looks like it's been lived in, every single one of those days catches
up to him.

"I'm sorry," Louis says again, but this time he's not the only one, this
time Harry says it at the same time. Louis chokes out a teary laugh at
that, feeling Harry do the same against his neck.

"You know, it's not always about you," Harry teases. "My job isn't
quite what I thought it would be, and I miss my family and the lads,
and sometimes—I don't know, it's easy to feel lost here sometimes.
There's lots of reasons it doesn't feel like home." He rubs between
Louis' shoulder blades gently. "But yeah, you were the biggest one.
Doesn't make it your fault, though."

Louis loosens his grip a little, letting his hands slide down to Harry's
shoulders, and Harry lifts his head and kisses Louis again. It starts as a
smile and then melts into something deeper, Harry's tongue swiping
across the inside of Louis' mouth. It feels brand new and achingly
familiar all at once, the way time has passed and so little has changed.

Except things have changed, Louis wants them to change, and he pulls
back from the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry's. "It feels like it's
my fault," he says quietly, feeling small.

516
"Hey," Harry says, cupping his hand around the back of Louis' neck
and pulling him back to look at him properly. "There were things I
could have done, okay? I'm kind of an adult, too, y'know, you don't
have to put all of it on you. I wasn't apologising just for fun." He
scratches gently at Louis' scalp with his blunt nails. "We can talk about
this, if you want."

"Do you want to do that now?" Louis says. It feels like it's important to
ask this. It feels like it's important to talk every part of this through,
because they spent so long not doing it, and he won't let that happen
again. It's still an effort for him, nowhere near second nature, but it's
not as hard as he thought it would be. He moves one hand down to pull
Harry's other hand away from his hip and lace their fingers together.
"Do you want to talk? About everything? We can do that."

Harry considers him for a moment, eyes warm. "I do want to talk about
all of that," Harry tells him. "I want to talk about everything. But right
now, I really don't want to stop kissing you, if that's okay." He leans in
close, pressing their foreheads back together, and Louis feels Harry's
free hand slide down to his hip, right at the waistband of his trousers.
"Can you promise me that you'll still be here? After?"

"I promise," Louis says without hesitation. "Anything. I promise."

"Thank God," Harry says, and then he's pulling Louis by the waistband
back towards the mattress. It takes all of three steps to get there, and
then Harry is toeing off his shoes before sinking down and pulling
Louis down on top of him.

"Posh new job and you couldn't even buy a bed," Louis teases before
Harry silences him with his mouth and a slap to the arse that makes
Louis squirm happily against him.

"Still better than that voyeuristic cat," Harry mutters against Louis
mouth in between kisses, already sliding his hands under Louis' jumper.

517
"You know," Louis says, his voice muffled as he sits up to let Harry
pull the jumper and the shirt underneath it over his head, "Duchess only
has lovely things to say about you."

Harry actually brightens up a little at that, the complete idiot. "Is that
so?" he grins as Louis pushes his blazer off of his shoulders.

"Don't look so smug about it," Louis says, leaning back to let Harry get
his jacket the rest of the way off. "She just knows you're a pushover."
Harry laughs and pulls his shirt off too, and Louis barely gives him the
chance to get all the way out of it before claiming his mouth again. He
can't believe he ever went without kissing Harry, can't believe he made
it through twenty-five years of life without it and can't believe he let
himself ever go without once he'd had it. Can't believe he almost let
himself go without it for the rest of his life.

Harry seems to have missed this just as much as Louis has, judging by
the way he moans when Louis presses the full length of his body down
into him and doesn't waste any time getting his hands on the swell of
Louis' arse. They're making up for lost time, moving fast and urgent,
trying to touch all of each other at once. Louis breaks the kiss to press
his mouth against the side of Harry's jaw, biting at Harry's ear, and the
sound of Harry's soft laugh is everything.

"Arm up," Louis says, touching Harry's left arm. He wants to find that
old familiar place on the inside of Harry's bicep and mark it again, like
he hasn't since that morning back in the spring in Harry's old flat. He
wants to make it his again.

Except Harry goes still at the words, and when Louis looks up at his
face, he's not smiling anymore. He's just looking at Louis, and Louis is
unnerved by what he sees there, the little bit of fear in his eyes.

"It's okay," Louis says instinctively. He kisses Harry's shoulder. "It's

okay."

518
And then Harry closes his eyes and lifts his arm, and that's when Louis
sees it.

Right there, in the little secret place where he used to leave the shape of
his mouth on Harry's skin, there's the outline of a star in black ink. It's
not fresh, Louis can tell. There's no redness around it, no raised edges,
just smooth skin and five points and dark lines standing out stark
against the fairness of Harry's skin.

Louis absolutely cannot move.

"I got it three weeks after I left," Harry says, and Louis is so startled by
the sound of his voice that he almost cracks his head against Harry's
when he looks up.

"Is it," Louis says, but his voice doesn't come out right and he has to
swallow and try again, "is it—"

"Yeah," Harry says. His eyes are open now, and he's looking at Louis
like he's trying to be very careful with the way he answers the question.
"I, um. I just kind of decided that even if it was over and I never saw
you again, I wanted to keep that part of my life with me. Like,
permanently."

He presses his lips together and waits for Louis to respond and, oh, if
Louis has any doubts left about what exactly Harry means when he
says that he loves him, this is the part where they're blown apart. This
isn't a photo or a note or a scrap of something novel and pretty. It isn't
something he can put on a wall or keep on his shelf. It's something
that's with him all the time. It's something that lives with him, that
keeps living with him.

"Do you like it?" Harry asks quietly, looking for a moment
breathtakingly young.

519
Harry wants this every bit as much as he does, Louis realises, just as
desperately and constantly and completely. In the breath between
coming to that conclusion and crushing his mouth into Harry's again,
Louis thinks that he has never loved anything quite so much in his
entire life.

Pushing Harry's shoulders flat against the mattress, Louis leaves his
mouth and goes to work on his arm, biting down on the tattoo. Harry
groans, his hips pushing against Louis where he's straddling him, and
God, Louis had almost forgotten how responsive he was. He thinks
about trying to keep him quiet, pushing his fingers into his mouth to
give him something else to do with it, but he decides he wants to hear
him. He wants to hear how loud Harry can get for him with nothing but
this.

He sucks down hard on the mark that's already forming in the star, one
hand braced on Harry's chest to feel the way it expands with every
heaving breath. He smooths his tongue over the red skin, feeling how
warm it is, and then nips gently at it, trying to stay inside the lines of
the star.

"Lou," Harry pants, and Louis bites down again, hard. "Fuck, Lou,"
Harry almost shouts, his hips snapping up again. Louis can feel the
hard line of him through their trousers and can't help but roll his hips
down against it, hissing a breath through his teeth. When he pulls away
from Harry's arm, the star is livid, with a promising bruise already
forming. He bends back down to lick at it a few more times before
giving it one last long suck that has Harry whining and fisting his hands
in the sheets. Louis realizes he's still grinding down against him, can't
stop himself, and if circumstances were different he'd want to see if he
could make Harry come just like this. He has other plans tonight,
though.

He leaves off, finally, sitting back up straight and just rubbing his
thumb lightly over the mark. "I'll take that as a yes, then," Harry says,
once he's caught his breath.

520
There's humour in his eyes, but Louis doesn't play along. He just leans
down and captures Harry's mouth in a careful kiss. It's sweet, and
delicate, and Louis doesn't deepen it until he feels Harry's eyelashes
flutter against his cheek. Then it's slow, and thorough, and when Louis
sits back up Harry is looking at him completely starry-eyed. "I love
you," Louis says. "So much."

Harry lifts a hand to Louis' face, running his thumb across his
cheekbone. "I love you too," he says, his voice low and just a little bit
broken. Louis turns his face into the touch, nipping lightly at the heel of
Harry's hand, and then starts shifting back down Harry's body.

"Budge up," he says, making himself room between Harry's legs. He

runs his nails through the coarse hair leading down from Harry's navel
before going to work on his belt and trousers. "What, wearing pants
now, Styles?" he says when he reaches the black boxer briefs
underneath.

"Yeah, I'm a sell-out," Harry grins, lifting his hips so Louis can slide
the whole lot down. A little bit of tugging and untangling later, and
Harry is finally naked. Louis briefly considers robbing a bank so he
could pay Harry to just loiter around his flat naked on a permanent
basis, but then he remembers the more pressing issue, which is Harry's
cock standing hard and flushed and waiting for him.

"Mmm, missed you," Louis says, and Harry is still laughing when he
bends his head to lick the first long stripe up the shaft. He has, is the
funny thing, he's missed this body that he knows so well. He's good at
this, he knows he's good at this, and sometimes getting Harry off felt
like a work of art.

So he knows that Harry likes having attention paid to the head, likes it
when Louis uses his hands to stroke him while he sucks him off. He
thinks that maybe Harry likes the way Louis' hands look wrapped
around him. Whatever it is, it still holds, because it's not long before
Harry is having trouble keeping himself from thrusting up into Louis'
mouth.

521
Blowjobs have never been Louis' favourite thing to do, honestly, but he
likes doing this for Harry. He likes how much it wrecks him, how
Harry seems surprised every single time. He likes how hard Harry tries
to stay in control, because he knows that Louis doesn't really like
having his mouth fucked. He likes the taste of him, and the way Harry
will kiss him frantically when it's over. The size of him might make
Louis' jaw ache after a while, but it's worth it for the way he gets harder
and harder in Louis' mouth. It's worth it for the sounds he makes.

He's being uncharacteristically quiet this time, actually, and Louis pulls
almost all the way off and lifts his eyes to check on him. What he sees
makes him moan around Harry's cock, pressing his hips down into the
bed.

Harry's got one arm—his left arm—braced back and clinging to the
edge of the mattress. His head is up on his pillows and tilted to the left,
and he's craned his neck to get his teeth in the flesh of his upper arm,
biting down on the bruise Louis left there, the one that's filling up the
tattoo Harry got for him. Louis can't tell if he's doing it to try to keep
himself under control or if it's getting him off too, if the pressure on the
sensitive spot is adding to whatever Louis' mouth and hands are making
him feel. He keeps his eyes on Harry as he swallows him down farther,
and he watches Harry bite down harder, the skin right under his teeth
blanching where they cut in. Louis feels his own cock twitch in his
trousers at the sight, at every different way Harry is his in this moment.

Louis doesn't want it to stop yet, hasn't had enough of Harry looking
like that, so he takes his time with it, coaxes Harry toward the edge
again and again without ever getting him quite there. Harry's chest is
covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and Louis watches it strain as he
works him, watches the muscles flutter and contract. He's gorgeous like
this. He's always been gorgeous, but the context of this, the knowledge
that this is the body of someone who loves him, of someone he loves,
makes it so striking. Louis has never thought of himself as particularly
lucky, but today is changing that fast enough to give him whiplash.

He takes Harry in deep again, living for the way Harry's mouth falls
open and his lower lip drags against the tattoo. Harry's so, so close,
Louis can taste it in his mouth, and this time he decides to let him have

522
it. He picks up the pace a little, and he feels one of Harry's hands on the
back of his head, twisting his fingers into Louis' hair. He expects
encouragement, but instead Harry tugs gently, pulling him off.

"I—" Harry starts, and then he looks down and sees Louis looking back
up at him, and his whole body shudders. He screws his eyes shut like
he's in pain, and Louis realises that he's trying not to come from just the
sight of Louis between his legs.

"You can come, Haz," Louis says gently, and he's still not even
touching Harry but the sound of his wrecked voice almost makes Harry
come again, and God, that's fucking amazing. "I want you to."

"Not yet," Harry grinds out, voice breaking, and he has to take a few
huge, shaky breaths before he's willed himself down enough that he can
stand to open his eyes again. He steadies himself and looks back down
at Louis. "I want—fuck, Lou, please, I want—"

"What, love?" Louis says, pushing up onto his hands.

Harry pulls Louis up and kisses him, tasting himself on Louis' tongue,
and then he moves his mouth to Louis' neck. "The first time you make
me come again," he says, catching his bottom teeth on Louis' throat as
he goes for his jaw, "I want it to be while I'm inside of you."

And Louis wanted to make Harry come, but yeah, okay, that sounds
better. "Yeah, Haz," he says, suddenly incredibly aware of how
restrictive his trousers are. "I want that, I want that."

Shifting his weight, Harry grabs Louis around the waist and rolls them
over. Louis has never quite gotten over that initial surprise, the shock at
the way Harry goes from being a bit taller than him to suddenly
surrounding him completely when they're close like that. It's offset, he
supposes, by the way Harry is fumbling with his belt buckle and
chanting "off, off, off," like a child.

523
"For God's sake," Louis says, half-laughing. "You get the shoes and I'll
get the rest, all right?" Harry obliges, pulling off his shoes and tossing
them aggressively into a corner as Louis peels off first his trousers and
then his pants. His cock bobs free, thick and full, and Harry wraps a
hand around it right away. Louis lets out a happy, toe-curling sigh to
finally be touched, and Harry looks just as pleased.

He assumes Harry is going to go down on him for a bit, considering

that always been Harry's default, especially when he's opening Louis
up, but instead he just looks at Louis for a bit as he strokes him.
Finally, he opens his mouth. "Lou—" he says, hesitant. "What if—
there's something I wanna try, yeah?"

"Yeah, Haz, what?" Louis says, pumping up into Harry's fist, desperate
for something more.

"I want to eat you out," Harry says, blushing a little but not backing
down.

Louis is surprised, but even more surprised by the way his cock pulses
in Harry's hand at the thought. He hadn't ever thought about it, but now
that the idea has been raised he wants it. He really wants it. "Yeah,
yeah, fuck," he says, and Harry's expression changes from nervous to
almost feral, and he surges up Louis' body to bite at his lips.

"Let me do this for you, God, I want to so much, ever since you did—"
and Louis remembers, remembers white knickers and how Harry
completely fell apart, and how intimate it felt even then. "Let me,"
Harry says again, and Louis is nodding and nodding and rolling over as
Harry grabs a pillow to slide under his hips.

He always feels that moment of vulnerability when he's in this position,

that moment of over-exposure where there's nothing but bedding in
front of him and he can't see what his bedfellow is doing. It's
heightened now in anticipation of something new, not for him per se
but for them, the first time they've done this. It's not just heightened,
though, he thinks as Harry runs his hands down Louis' back and rubs at

524
some of the knots there. It's also just better, God, it's hotter, because it's
Harry, because Louis is making this choice, because he's vulnerable
and he's choosing to let it happen. He's already leaking against the
pillow just from Harry's hands on his arse.

Then Harry's tongue makes first contact and Louis' entire torso arches
up off the bed.

God, it's not like he's never done this before, but it's the first time in a
while, and he'd forgotten how different it was from just fingers, how it's
softer but somehow more insistent, more overwhelming even before it's
inside. Harry's just giving him long, flat licks, and Louis can't help but
push back against it, needing more.

"Hazza," he whines, "don't tease, God," and almost immediately regrets

it when what was soft turns hard and urgent, licking him open and
leaving him a raw nerve. It's like his body doesn't even exist anymore
except for where Harry is touching him, like no other feeling could ever
break through the haze and static that fills his mind when Harry pushes
his tongue inside him.

When he did this for Harry, it was about wanting to make him feel
something he hadn't felt before, but this time seems like something
different. It's in the way Harry keeps drawing circles on Louis' hip with
his free hand, the way he seems so focused on what Louis is feeling.
Harry has always been generous in bed, but Louis has never felt quite
like this before, like Harry lives and dies by how much Louis gets off.

He knows he's making noise, couldn't possibly be keeping all of this

inside of him, but he couldn't describe it if he tried. There's nothing but
the feeling of being exposed, being taken apart, and he's blindly
grateful when Harry slides a finger inside him, because at least it gives
him something to focus on. At some point he must have stopped
bracing himself up on his elbows, because now he's lying flat on the
bed, biting down on Harry's sheets with his arse still propped up on the
pillow. He's so fucking hard, unbelievably hard, and the pillow gives
him some sort of contact but almost no friction when he tries to grind

525
down against it, torn between needing pressure on his dick and wanting
to keep pushing back against Harry.

It must show that he's getting close, because slowly the feeling starts to
fade away, and Harry is trailing kisses down his shaking thighs and up
his back instead, murmuring soothing things that for all Louis knows
could be responses to things he's said. "D'you want me now, love?"
Louis makes out as Harry kisses him between the shoulder blades. "Are
you ready?"

"Yes, God, please," Louis says, and when Harry pulls his finger out of
him Louis rolls over, maneuvering to keep the pillow underneath him.
Harry has gotten up and is rummaging through a bag by his bed,
coming out with a lube and a condom.

"Always keep those handy, eh?" Louis says, raising an eyebrow and
hoping Harry will hear the unspoken question behind it.

"Don't be jealous," Harry says with a knowing grin. "Haven't been

using it on anyone but myself, and you're a lot cuter than my right
hand."

Louis smiles back, spreading his legs as Harry slicks up two fingers.
They work in easily after everything, and Louis is already getting that
warm, well-fucked feeling. This is going to be a hell of a night.

"Hazza," he says, a thought striking him. Harry stops and looks up at

him, but Louis waves weakly at him. "God, no keep going. But I—I
haven't slept with anyone else. Since you, I mean."

Harry looks at him as if he's unsure of where this is going. "Okay? I

haven't either, I mean, so I guess that's good."

"So we don't need," Louis trails off, motioning toward the condom. "I
mean, unless you want it." His voice cracks a bit at the end of the
sentence as Harry pushes in a third finger.

526
"No, I don't want it," Harry says carefully. "As long as you're sure?" He
spreads his fingers out inside Louis, stretching him even more, and
Louis lets out a little hiccup of pleasure as they slide across his
prostate.

"I'm sure," he says. "I'm sure, Harry, and if it's all right by you I'd really
love for you to fuck me now."

"My pleasure," Harry says, leaning down to bite gently at Louis'

shoulder before slicking himself up. Louis watches him, and he tries to
process the thought that he's about to have Harry inside him again. It
feels like nothing could prepare him for this, but he's never been more
ready for anything.

"Go slow, yeah?" Louis says, wrapping his legs loosely around Harry's
waist. "It's been a while." Harry nods, stroking Louis' knee gently
before starting to push inside.

Louis' already sensitive, and he hisses out a breath at the stretch as the
head slips inside. "Okay?" Harry says, stilling, and Louis nods with his
eyes closed.

"Okay, just—it's a lot," he says, and he doesn't just mean the way Harry
feels inside him. It's all of it, the sudden influx of Harry back into his
life after not having any of him at all, the way he feels like he's
overdosing on every good thing it's possible to feel.

Harry reaches down and grabs his hand, lifting it to his mouth to press a
kiss to the centre of Louis' palm. "We can stop if you want," he says,
and Louis has to open his eyes to see the look on his face, all genuine
concern.

"No," Louis says, "No, I want this." He pulls his feet in where they're
hooked behind Harry's back, pushing him in just a little deeper. "I want
you. Just—slow, Haz, yeah?"

527
"Yeah," Harry says shakily, leaning forward to kiss along Louis'
collarbone. "I've got you," he says, pulling one arm back to stroke at
Louis' cock, which had softened a little at the burn. Harry's touch,
though, has him heavy and full again within minutes. Soon he's gasping
at the way Harry's slowly rocking them together, pushing inside bit by
tiny bit as he sucks on Louis' neck.

Finally, finally, after what feels like an eternity, Harry is all the way
inside, any pain a memory that seems increasingly distant. Louis is
ready, wants more, so he scratches his nails down Harry's back lightly.
"You can fuck me properly now," he says weakly. "If you'd like. No
rush."

Harry leans back up, bracing his weight on his free hand, and looks
down at him. It's been an effort for him to hold back, Louis can see it in
the sheen of sweat that covers his chest and the slight tremor in his
arms. "No rush?" he says, and apparently he's willing to hold off longer
if it means he gets to tease Louis more, all mock serious like he can't
see the way Louis' cock is leaking all over his hand as he strokes it
leisurely.

"In your own time," Louis replies, playing it off like his voice doesn't
crack in the middle. Harry grins, and Louis thinks for a moment that
he's going to oblige him, but instead he takes one hand off Louis'
cock—the bastard—and moves it to Louis' left nipple, pinching it hard
as he leans down to bite at the other one.

Louis fucking squeaks at that, and it's not particularly manly but he
doesn't have enough brain cells to spare to care about it when there's
heat rushing down his spine like that. He writhes down against Harry's
cock, trying to pull more of it inside, but there isn't any more to be had,
just a maddening thick pressure inside him that won't fucking move.

Harry's still got a mouth on his nipple, so Louis grabs a handful of his
hair and pulls him back, hard. He's momentarily distracted by the way
that makes Harry's pupils blow wide, the slick red openness of his
mouth, the curve of his neck to where Louis is pulling his head back,
but there are more urgent matters at hand.

528
"Fuck me," Louis says, leaning up to suck at Harry's lower lip, because,
okay, it really is very distracting. He bites down on it, pulling a groan
from Harry, and then lets go. "Now. Please."

Harry nods, mouth still open and obscene, and Louis was planning to
let go of his hair, but when Harry slides almost all of the way out and
then slams back into him Louis needs something to hold onto as he
drops his head back against the mattress and sees stars.

"Oh, God," Louis moans, and Harry drops onto his forearms to lick at
the sweat in the hollow of his throat. He keeps fucking into Louis,
setting a pace that isn't fast but hard and deep, every thrust lifting Louis'
hips slightly up off the pillow and pulling whines from his throat. God,
sometimes Louis thought he had been misremembering how good they
were together, had been exaggerating it in his mind, but no, they work
this fucking well. They belong together this much.

The way Harry is moving is steady and intense and has Louis slightly
unsure if he's breathing or not. Harry keeps driving in, and eventually
he shifts angle just slightly and there are fireworks going off at the base
of Louis' spine. "There, Hazza, Jesus fuck," he grinds out, clenching
around him, and suddenly Harry is going double-time and hitting that
angle every single time.

Louis' brain short-circuits, and he holds onto Harry's hair for dear life,
pulling hard enough to hurt. He's babbling nonsense again, he knows,
but this time he registers a few of the words. One of them that slips out
is mine, and Harry's head snaps up at it, his rhythm stuttering a little
before he picks it back up.

"Mine," Louis says again, torn apart by the way it makes Harry's
shoulders shake. "You're mine," he says, voice only breaking a little,
and Harry leans down to drop his forehead against Louis'. He is, he is,
this beautiful impossible human belongs to Louis, and Louis isn't ever
going to fail to appreciate that ever again.

529
"I'm close, Lou," Harry pants out against Louis' mouth, eyes closed.
Louis can't help but tilt his chin up and capture his mouth in a kiss
that's surprisingly gentle, given the way Harry is still pounding into
him, but it feels right, feels like everything in him wants to take care of
Harry, to keep him safe.

Harry groans into the kiss, and then slips an arm under Louis' waist and
rolls them onto their sides, hiking one of Louis' legs up around his
waist and pulling him impossibly close, chest-to-chest. The angle is
different but still good, not as deep but dragging insistently inside
Louis in a way that starts a buzzing in his spine as Harry rocks into
him.

"M'gonna come," Harry pants, and then drops his hand from Louis' leg
to slip it in between their bodies, finding Louis' cock and stripping it
fast. He's so close to him that Louis can feel his breath on his face when
he speaks. "I need--with me, Louis, I'm so close and I need to make
you--" he trails off, chest heaving and eyes staring desperately into
Louis'. Louis nods, and it's not far off now as it is anyway.

Louis means to reassure Harry, to tell him that he wants to come, has
wanted to make him come since he walked into the photography studio
and wants to come with him, but when he opens his mouth what comes
out instead is, "I love you."

Harry's eyes fly open, unimaginably green up close. "Say it again," he

says weakly.

"I love you," Louis says, loosening his still-tight hold in Harry's hair
and petting at it distractedly instead. He's amazed that he even has to
say it, feels like it's blazing from his eyes, like it's seeping from his
skin, like the fact that he loves Harry can be seen from space.

Eyes squeezing closed, Harry lets out a fragile sound, his rhythm
faltering again. His hand is still sure on Louis' cock, though, and Louis
can feel sparks rising behind his eyes.

530
Louis presses kisses to his chin, his cheekbones, his eyelids. "I love
you," he says again, and he doesn't think he's crying but there's a lump
in his throat.

Harry shudders and groans one last time, and Louis feels him come hot
and pulsing inside him, and the realisation that hearing the words I love
you from his mouth just made Harry come sends Louis over the edge
too, shaking through it with his hands on Harry's face. Harry collapses
next to him, his arm sliding underneath Louis' waist to hold him as
close as he can, and all Louis can do is bury a shout in Harry's shoulder
and wait out the aftershocks.

As they fade, Louis realises he's still talking, mumbling "I love you, I
love you, you're mine and I love you," into Harry's sweaty hair, "I love
you, I'm never going to leave you, I love you," desperate to put his
hands everywhere and prove it to Harry.

"Lou," Harry gasps, and his body seizes up again in Louis' arms.

"You've got me, you've got me," Louis says, nuzzling up under Harry's
chin and keeping his legs tight around his waist.

"I love you, too," Harry says in a ruined voice, and Louis has never
believed someone so much in his life.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, completely spent and
unable to move. Louis can feel Harry shaking in little erratic bursts, and
he doesn't know if he's crying or still feeling it, or if it's both. He rubs
his hands up and down Harry's back, lets the sweat gather up in his
palms, and the only thought in his mind that makes any sense is the
thing he's said a thousand times today, the thing he's been thinking and
not saying for a year.

After a few more minutes of soft touches and softer words, Louis
disentangles himself and walks on shaky legs to Harry's bathroom to
get a wet flannel. When he returns, he cleans Harry off first, delicately
wiping across his flushed forehead and neck before taking care of

531
himself. By the time he's done he can barely move, and Harry is laid
out flat on the destroyed sheets, eyes glazing over.

Louis tosses the flannel in the direction Harry threw his shoes and curls
up beside him, pulling the sheets up over them and tucking himself in
against Harry's chest. He's exhausted, and it's not just because of the
sex. Louis Tomlinson has had a big day.

He feels one of Harry's arms wrap around his waist, and he wills
himself not to relax into it immediately and drift off quite yet. His head
is a mess of post-sex haze, but he's got one last thing to say.

"Harry," he says. "Don't fall asleep yet."

"Mmm?" Harry grunts.

"Just one more thing," Louis tells him. "When we wake up, we're
talking. Okay?"

"Okay," Harry agrees sleepily.

"I mean it," Louis says, poking Harry in the ribs. "We're going to talk
about this, and don't you dare leave this bed until we have."

"Okay, okay," Harry says with a laugh in his voice.

"Okay," Louis concludes, satisfied. And then, because he can, and

because it's not just something he feels during sex and he needs Harry
to know that, he adds, "I love you. Again."

Harry turns onto his side a bit, facing Louis and ducking his head to
bump their noses together. "Well," he says, stifling a yawn. "I love you,
too. I did before, and I do now, and I will when we wake up. And most
likely while we're asleep as well. So, there."

532
"I'll take it," Louis says, and he kisses Harry goodnight.

For a few disorienting moments before Louis opens his eyes, he thinks
he's back in January the first time he slept over at Harry's flat in
Manchester, Harry's body spooned up against him and his fingers
grazing the floor where his arm is hanging off the mattress. It's not
surprising. He's had this dream before, come back to this place in his
head more times than he can count. He'll wake up soon and it'll all be
over, and he'll go back to missing Harry.

Then he feels Harry stroking his hair, and the memories of the last
twelve hours of his life come churning back to him. He opens his eyes,
and it's dark outside instead of the soft morning light of his memory,
and when he rolls over Harry's there, real and warm and looking at him
fondly.

"S'you," Louis says blearily, blinking into wakefulness and nosing

against Harry's neck.

"Hey, love," Harry says, speaking softly as he accepts Louis' kiss on the
side of his jaw. "I know I'm supposed to stay in the bed, but I've been
waiting for you to wake up for half an hour and I've really got to wee."

Louis laughs sleepily, rubbing his nose against Harry's shoulder. "How
romantic."

"I try," Harry says. He squeezes Louis' hip and then rolls out of bed and
pads to the toilet, naked as the day he was born.

Louis lies there, staring at Harry's unpacked boxes and blank walls, and
has never felt happier in his entire idiot life. He lets the day come back

533
slowly, watches it play out all over again in his half-asleep brain. There
were so many ways this could have gone, but it went this one. For once,
when it really mattered, things went right.
After a moment he calls out after Harry. "Time is it, Hazza?"

"Bout half ten at night," Harry says. "We passed out. I'm going to
shower, you want to join?"

"Be right there," Louis says, stretching before he rolls off of the
mattress and follows Harry into the bathroom.

They brush their teeth to get rid of the taste of sleep, bumping
shoulders and jostling for space in the mirror, and then kiss lazily in
Harry's unbelievably tiny shower, hands slippery as they rediscover
bruises they left earlier. Louis exalts in the feeling of not agonizing
over things before he does them, of not second-guessing himself every
thirty seconds. When he wants to rest his head against the damp skin
between Harry's shoulder blades, he does it. And when he wants to roll
up his towel and snap it at Harry's arse, he does that too, because he
might be changing but he hasn't changed that much.

"Cheeky," Harry says, rubbing where the towel hit him. "I'm hungry,
do you want food?" Louis stomach rumbles, answering for him.

Harry rummages through his clothes and gives Louis a pair of football
shorts and a worn cotton t-shirt, categorically refusing to give him any
pants. Louis starts tickling him as punishment, and then Harry grabs his
wrists, and they end up kissing for twenty more minutes on top of
Harry's clean laundry. Finally, he lets Harry up, and they end up in
Harry's kitchen—or what passes for a kitchen, anyway—staring into his
refrigerator.

"Why don't you have any food?" Louis asks, incredulous. "What do
you live on?"

534
"I guess I haven't been cooking as much," Harry says, scratching his
head. "Haven't had the time. Been ordering in a lot." He reaches into
the bottom shelf and pulls out a cardboard box. "Cold pizza?" he offers
with a grin.

So that's their midnight breakfast, cold pizza right out of the box with
their bare feet entangled under Harry's table. They chew in contented
silence, Harry occasionally reaching across to steal Louis' crusts and
munch on them. Louis looks at him, shirtless with a little bit of sauce
on his chin, and thinks, safe.

He clears his throat a little awkwardly, and Harry looks up. "So," Louis
says, kicking lightly against Harry's shins. "We should talk, yes?"

Harry swallows and nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, I think—I think that would be good," he says. "I mean, I have
questions, but—"

"That's okay, you should have questions, I—"

"No, but, I just want to say," Harry pauses, picking his words carefully.
"I want to be with you. That's not gonna change, no matter what you
say. I have questions because, because I want us to figure out how to be
together right this time. So, I guess, I just want you to know that
anything you want to tell me, you can."

Louis reaches across the table and takes his hand, because what else
can he do? "Okay," he says. "Thank you. And just to be clear, I want to
be with you, too. I'm sure I said something like that yesterday, but. In
case you forgot."

Harry grins. "I didn't forget."

Ducking his head, Louis squeezes his hand. "All right. Good. So, um.
Do you want to just ask me things? Because I'm honestly not sure
where to start."

535
"Okay," Harry says, taking a deep breath. "Did you want me to stay in
Manchester?"

"Yes," Louis says, amazed he even has to ask.

Harry blinks a couple of times but doesn't look away. "Why didn't you
ask me to?"

"Because," Louis says, sighing, "I thought you wanted to be here, that it
would make you happy. I thought that if you wanted to stay, you
would. I didn't think there was anything I could offer you to convince
you to stay if you wanted to go."

This time Harry reaches across the table, taking Louis' other hand in
his. "Louis, I don't—"

"It's all right," Louis says. "I don't—that's not what I believe anymore.
Not really. But you need to know what I was thinking then."

Harry nods, but he still looks stricken. "That makes sense. Can you—
do you want to ask me stuff, too? I don't want this to be an
interrogation."

Louis had prepared to answer for everything he'd done, but he hadn't
thought about questioning Harry in return. Now that he thinks of it,
though, there are some gaps he'd like filled. "Why didn't you tell me
you were applying for the internship?"

"Yeah, that was my fault," Harry says, hanging his head. "I fucked that
up. I never told you I was applying because it was in the middle of the
musical and you were about to work yourself to death, and I didn't want
to stress you out more, but I shouldn't have blindsided you with it. I
should have at least waited until after the cast party to tell you, Jesus
Christ."

536
"Would've been nice," Louis says, raising an eyebrow. Harry laughs
ruefully and continues.

"You're right. I'm really sorry about that, I couldn't have handled it
worse. I guess I just didn't realise how upset you'd be? I honestly never
thought I'd be going to London without you, or at least without trying
to do long-distance, so I hadn't been thinking of it as a bad thing for us.
It was such a long shot anyway that I never thought about the details
until I actually got it, and then I just assumed you would come with
me."

"You thought I was going to move to London with you?" Louis says,
incredulous. "Harry, I love you, but my life is in Manchester. Even if I
did move, God, that would be such a big decision."

Harry grimaces. "I know, I know. God, I—you were right about me,
you know? I've had it really easy, and I've always sort of just been able
to do the things that I wanted. And I never stayed in one place that
long, so I didn't even really think of it as a huge deal. I wanted you, I
wanted the job, and I thought I could have both because I don't really
hear „No' that often." He looks ashamed of himself, but Louis just
wants to hold him and tell him that it's okay to be young.

"It's all right," Louis says. "I mean, it's completely insane, but it's kind
of sweet, too, I guess. That you thought of me as that permanent."
Harry gives him a small smile, looking up at him through his fringe,
and okay. This is going all right. No urge to make an escape through a
window yet. "Your turn."

Nodding, Harry hooks his ankle behind Louis' under the table. "After I
got the internship," he says, trailing off. "Can you—why wouldn't you
talk to me? Why did you just—it was like you vanished, like we were
together and then we weren't. Even if you weren't going to ask me to
stay, why did you shut me out?"

There it is. The big one, or one of them, anyway. Louis takes a moment
to collect his thoughts, and then starts to speak, squeezing Harry's

537
hands tight and staring down at the table. Harry deserves to know, and
Louis deserves to be able to come clean.

"I was pushing you away because I didn't think I deserved you. I didn't
think you needed me." Harry takes a breath like he's going to speak, but
Louis keeps going. He needs to know. "Haz, you're brilliant, and you're
talented, and you make everyone love you, and it just—it made sense
that you would leave me. Nearly everyone leaves me eventually, been
that way my whole life, and I couldn't see why you would be any
different."

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to drop on
Harry. "I was going to tell you I loved you the night you got the
internship. Well, I don't know if I would have said the word „love,' but I
was going to tell you that I was ready to be with you for real. And then
you told me about the internship, and I realised how vulnerable I had
made myself to you, and I felt like an idiot. I thought you wanted to
leave me, or at least that you wanted something so much bigger than
me that I didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. I thought, if you
were going to be okay without me, I needed to do what I could to
protect myself. And I thought that if I could just downplay whatever
was between us, if I could make it into something that wasn't important,
then the end wouldn't hurt so much." He takes a shaking breath. "I
thought, since you were leaving me, I had to leave you first. Except I
couldn't, not really, couldn't stay away, so I had to at least act like it
didn't matter. Because I thought I didn't matter to you."

There's a silence, and then Harry says, "You always mattered to me."
Louis looks up at the sound of his voice and sees that Harry has tears in
his eyes. "Lou, you were what mattered the most, you—you were it,
God, I'm so sorry you didn't know that." He shakes his head suddenly,
like he needs to clear it. "I'm not sure I'll ever stop being sorry for that."

"Harry, it's not your fault that I'm like this," Louis says, suddenly not
caring about anything but the fact that he's made Harry cry. "It's not
your fault that I'm fucked up and can't—"

538
"Shut up, Louis," Harry says, and then lets out a little laugh. "Nothing
could make me feel worse than you putting yourself down right now,
okay? Let me just—can I tell you? How I felt. Just, I want to explain."

"Whatever you want, love," Louis says. Harry is still crying, still crying
over him, and nothing else seems particularly important.

"Okay," Harry says, sniffing a little."Just, first off, to make things clear,
I was always in love with you. Always, Louis, since before I even
kissed you. And I always knew that that was what it was, even though
I'd never felt that way before. Never, Lou," he repeats, making eye
contact. "But I also knew that, for whatever reason, you didn't want to
hear it, or weren't ready to. You didn't seem interested in talking about
what we were or how you felt. And I never wanted to force you into
anything. I've always—I don't know, the relationships I'd had were all
pretty casual, so I didn't really think defining what we were to each
other was that important. And I thought I might risk losing whatever I
had with you if I tried to have more than you were already offering, so I
just kept my mouth shut and tried to be whatever you needed."

"You were," Louis interrupts. "You were always there, it was—it drove
me crazy, honestly," he says, laughing. "Because I was trying so hard
not to be in love with you, and you made it so impossible."

Harry's face breaks into a grin, and it's like the sun. "Deal with it,
Tomlinson. I wanted you to be happy, whatever that took."

"How very dare you," Louis says, running his thumb across the back of
Harry's hand.

"I'm very evil," Harry says solemnly. "But Louis, honestly, if I'd had
any idea what you thought I would have told you. I just thought that we
were good together, that we were working even if we weren't talking
about it, so I thought the best thing was to just not say anything. I didn't
want to overstep, I guess."

539
"I get that," Louis says carefully. He has to try to figure out how to say
in words things he's barely thought about for years, and he's not sure
he's going to pull it off. "And I see how you thought you were looking
out for me. Also since it hasn't been said in about ten minutes, I love
you too." Harry smiles at him, and the tears are gone now, thank God.
"But you've got to understand, Harry, with me, if you don't tell me what
you're feeling, the conclusion I'm going to jump to is not going to be
that you're in love with me, or that everything's fine. Do you get that?
It's just not how my brain works."

Harry nods, more serious now, and Louis breathes a little easier. "I'm
starting to get it," he says. "And Zayn yelled at me a bit about it, too,
which helped." Louis makes a mental note to both smack and thank
Zayn. "I wish—I hope someday you can tell me why, though? If you
feel like you can share that with me?"

"I want to," Louis says. "It's been a long time since I've talked about
some stuff, and I want to tell you. And Zayn, too, but you first. Just—
maybe not this conversation? But soon?" Another nod, and Louis feels
another weight lift. "And I want you to know I've been working on it,
on trying to get to a place where I don't always assume the worst case
scenario. On trusting the people I love, and who love me. I really have,
and I think I can get there eventually? But if we're together—and I
want that, Harry, I want that more than anything—then you have to
meet me halfway. I'm not, like, magically okay now that I have you
back, even though it helps. Even though it helps a lot."

"I want to be with you, too, just as you are," Harry says, brow
furrowing a little. "I'm not asking you to change for me."

"No, you're not," Louis says. "I'm trying to change myself, to be more
like who I want to be. Who I was, once, honestly. And I'm doing it for
me, Haz, not you." He grins slyly. "What was it you said yesterday?
'Not everything's about you?'"

Harry kicks him under the table. "Wanker."

540
Louis kicks back before he continues. "I mean it, though. Me coming
here—me coming to find you—that's a part of me getting better, not the
purpose for it, yeah? And honestly, Harry, I'm glad you say that you'd
have told me how you felt months ago if you'd known what was going
in my head. But I probably wouldn't have been ready to hear it, really. I
wouldn't have known what to do with it, or how to trust you. I wouldn't
have believed you."

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and Louis just shrugs.

"Got nothing to do with you, really. Was always going to be like that
until I started actually, I don't know, taking care of myself. And I am,
I'm taking care of myself, more than I ever was when you were in
Manchester."

"That makes me happy," Harry says. "Really happy, Lou. And I hope—
I want to be part of how you take care of yourself, if that makes sense."

"You are," Louis says. "I wouldn't be here if you weren't. I couldn't be
here if I weren't working on being—I don't know, a healthier person? A
more whole person? I sound like a twat, but that's what I want to be.
Whole. Even if that sounds like bullshit."

"Doesn't sound like bullshit to me," Harry says softly.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't to you, would it?" Louis laughs. "Sentimental

bastard."

"You love it."

"I love you. And I love that you support my weird self-actualization
quest, or whatever the hell it is," Louis says. "But it's going to take
some time for me to get there, and until I do, you need to understand
some stuff about me. Like, okay, you didn't push me to talk about our
relationship because you didn't want to pressure me into anything I
didn't want, right?"

541
Harry nods seriously, and Louis loves him for the mental notes he
knows he's taking in his head. "Well, with me, part of not forcing me
into anything is making sure I know exactly what's going on inside
your head, so I can make decisions based on reality, and not just my
own screwed-up assumptions. So if you want something from me, or
aren't happy, or are confused, I need you to tell me, even if it isn't your
first instinct. Even if you think it isn't a big deal. Because otherwise I'll
make up my own story to explain what I think is going on, and it
probably won't be anything good."

"Okay," Harry says, squeezing Louis' hand. "I can do that. I promise I
can do that."

"I know you can," Louis says. "And I promise that if I catch myself
making mountains out of molehills, I'll sit down and ask you what's
going on instead of jumping to conclusions. I just can't promise that I'll
always be able to catch myself."

"I can live with that," Harry says, nodding solemnly before cracking a
smile. "I'd love to live with that." Louis smiles back, and they stay like
that for a while, sitting in silence with their hands connected across the
table. The pizza is long since forgotten, already cold and going colder.

Louis feels a bit strange, sort of like he has nothing to do. Obviously,
he knows that's not really true. He needs to make sure that leaving work
yesterday hasn't landed him in hot water, and he needs to call Zayn, and
he needs to start reorganizing large parts of his life around the fact that
part of his heart is going to spend the next few months in London.
But—these are things he will do, he knows he will, somehow, and
that's new. All those things are just items on a to-do list. None of them
are those lurking, choking worries that clog his throat and fog his brain,
the ones that follow him for months and abscess and grind down his
teeth. He doesn't seem to have any of those at all right now, and that's
new too.

"Can I ask something else?" Harry says softly, bringing Louis back to
the present. He just cocks his head in response, waiting for the
question. "Why now?" Harry asks. "I mean—why was it today?"

542
Shrugging a little, Louis tries to figure out how to explain a chain of
events he doesn't fully understand himself. "Stuart Standhill and Mike
Kendall are dating," is what he comes out with, which is as good a
place to start as any.

Harry's jaw honest-to-God drops. "You're shitting me," he says. "Stuart,

he finally—with Mike? With my Mike?"

"I know," Louis says. "Believe me, I know. Stuart came to me over the
summer—I was doing these lesson things, I'll tell you later—and told
me the whole thing. Before he told almost anybody else."

"Holy shit," Harry says, apparently having lost access to all non-
profane vocabulary. "Louis, that's—"

"I know," Louis says again, interrupting, because if he hears Harry say
any of the things Louis imagined he might in the depths of his weakest
nights he probably will start crying. "They're public, too, the whole
school knows. And they're making it work, they really are. Despite
everything. They really love each other, and it doesn't matter who
knows or what they think. And—and Stuart wanted me to know first."

Harry brings one of Louis' hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the
knuckles. "Louis," he says simply, and Louis can't imagine how
someone can fit so many things into any name, much less his.

"And there was this stuff with Niall, too, impossible stuff that you
wouldn't believe if I told you. But that was weeks ago, almost months,"
he says, focusing on the story at hand and not the reverent way Harry's
lips had brushed his skin. "Today it was Liam." Harry's brow furrows
in confusion, and Louis can't blame him. "Right? Liam Payne of all
people. Came to talk to me about something totally different, of course,
basically apologising to me for my own shit attitude, but in typical
handyman fashion ended up finding a whole different problem to fix."

"What did he say?" Harry asks, leaning forward across the table. "Also,
Zayn is going to shit himself."

543
"Oh, I'm aware," Louis says, momentarily thrilled that no matter how
serious the conversation, they'll always make time to take the piss out
of Zayn. He's definitely in love. "He basically just told me about how
they got together, and how sure he had been that Zayn wasn't
interested. Zayn! Uninterested in Liam! And I kept thinking the whole
time, like, God, how could one person have been so completely wrong
about what's going on? How could he have been so certain, and so
dumb?"

"Think I might see where this one is going, now."

Louis lets go of one of Harry's hands to swat at him, but then grabs it
back, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh of Harry's palm. "It was like
a bunch of different things sort of lined up together, I guess. Because if
love was real and worthwhile, and impossible things could happen, and
people could be that utterly, irredeemably wrong, then maybe—then
maybe I didn't have anything to lose by telling you how I felt. Maybe
there as a chance that I'd been wrong, too."

After a moment, Harry clears his throat. "Well. Remind me to thank

Liam. And Niall. And Mike and Stuart."

Raising his eyebrows, Louis says, "It takes a village, apparently." Harry
barks a laugh, and then falls silent, looking at Louis across the table
with his head tilted to the side before opening his mouth.

"Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Of course," Louis says. He's exhausted, but he'll stay up all night if
that's what Harry needs.

"Can I call you my boyfriend?" Harry asks, almost shy and definitely
sheepish, but smiling nonetheless.

It's a simple question, but it makes all of what's been said in the past
half an hour wash over Louis in a wave, overwhelming him for a

544
moment, and when it passes what's left is amazement at how much love
he can feel for one other person. One person has just heard some of his
darkest thoughts, some of the petty and childish insecurities he's been
most ashamed of, the things he'd always thought would make anybody
with half a brain cut their losses and move on, and after hearing all that,
this person is asking him permission to publicly lay claim to him.
Unbelievable.

"Yeah," Louis says in a small voice. "Yeah, I'd like that a lot."

"Okay," Harry says, and his grin is splitting his face in half. "That's—
yeah, I just, that's brilliant. I mean, I always—"

"Me too," Louis interrupts. "Always, I mean. Me too. The whole time."

"Good," Harry says. "Great."

They sit beaming at each other across the table for a moment, and then
Louis feels the adrenaline of the conversation start to slowly drain out
of him. His fight-or-flight instinct has been wailing at the back of his
brain the whole time, and suppressing it has left him fucking exhausted.
It's a good kind of tired, though, like after a long run or spending the
day on the beach or a lot of athletic sex. Which actually happened just a
couple of hours ago, now that Louis thinks of it, so no wonder he's
tired.

"Hazza," he says, stifling a yawn. "Can we—I mean, unless you have
more questions, but—I think I'd like to go back to bed? I promise we
can keep talking tomorrow, I'm just completely wrung out."

Harry's eyes are soft, and he nods. "Yeah, love, I'm tired too."

He shuffles up from the table, taking Louis' hand and tugging him up
too and leaving the pizza box on the table behind them. Harry pulls the
chain on the little lamp balanced on a crate near his bed and the room
goes dark and Louis can do nothing but follow blindly as Harry leads

545
him toward the mattress, trusting that Harry won't let anything happen
to him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that maybe they should
brush their teeth again, but the idea of doing anything but curling into
Harry's body heat seems unimaginably difficult, so when Harry pulls
him down and kisses him lightly, Louis follows, sighing softly into the
kiss before tucking his head against Harry's chest.

"I feel loads better now," Louis says. "Even though it's arse o'clock in
the morning and my sleep schedule is going to be totally fucked."

"Totally fucked indeed," Harry says in his lewdest voice. Louis elbows
him in the stomach.

"Is nothing sacred to you?" Louis says, mock appalled.

"Only your dick," Harry tells him. He pauses a moment. "And your
arse. And mouth. The holy trinity."

Louis can't keep himself from cracking up at that, even though it's such
typical, terrible, crude Harry humour. Or perhaps because it is. "Love
you," he says, and that still somehow hasn't gotten old.

He feels Harry's echo rumble in his chest, and feels very much at peace.

546
 TWENTY-TWO

Louis hates mornings. He hates them. He hates having to drag himself

out the warmth of his bed and pretend to be happy about it, hates how
bright the lights of his kitchen always seem when he's making his first
cup of tea, hates having to deal with traffic on the way to work. Once
for a project in uni he wrote an entire five hundred word monologue on
how much he hated mornings, in iambic pentameter. If there were an
organization against mornings, Zayn would probably have to fight him
for presidency.

He thinks, as he slowly blinks awake to the sight of Harry lying next to

him again, that maybe he could be persuaded to change his stance on
the issue.

"Good morning," Harry says.

"It is, isn't it?" Louis says, smiling. He noses down into the pillow,
feeling the warmth of the way Harry's looking at him just as much as he
feels the blanket tucked around his shoulders. Harry drops a kiss on the
top of his head and folds Louis in closer to his chest. Louis thinks he
could probably stay like this forever.

The thing is, though, he can't. The warmth, the fondness, Harry—that
can all stay. That will stay for good if Louis has anything to say about
it. But it's Saturday morning now and he has to deal with at least some
of the other parts of his life before things get too out of hand.

547
"You're thinking again," Harry says, and Louis can tell he's trying to
stay light, but there's a little note of concern underneath it. It's going to
take work to convince them both that this is for real, that they don't
need to be afraid that every moment of hesitation is somebody about to
cut and run.

"It's okay," Louis says, leaning up to kiss Harry again. "Everything is

still good. I'm just thinking that I really need to turn my phone back
on."

Harry groans a little. "Do you have to?" He pouts at Louis, tracing his
fingers over the curve of Louis' hip.

"As much as I would like to do this for a living," Louis says, reaching
down to palm the back of Harry's hand, "I do have an actual job I need
to see about. Your arse does not offer health benefits."

Harry grins wolfishly, squeezing a little. "I have been reliably informed
otherwise."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Hush," he says, rolling out of Harry's octopus
arms. His bag is slouched in the corner, exactly where it's been since he
shrugged it off and kicked it out of the way last night. So far away. "It'll
only take a minute."

Harry makes a grumpy face at him but relents, and Louis gets to his
feet and pads over to his bag. He fishes his phone out of the bottom and
wanders back over to the mattress.

"I kind of left in the middle of work and didn't bother to find a
replacement, so I'm not really sure what to expect," Louis says. He sits
back down at Harry's side and stares down at his phone, bracing
himself for what might be waiting for him on it.

Harry grins, leaning his head against Louis' knee. "You know, for
somebody who hates romantic comedies, you're kind of living one."

548
"I don't hate them so much anymore," Louis admits. He catches the grin
spreading across Harry's face. "Oi, don't look so pleased with yourself,
you little shit."

"To me you are perfect," Harry says without a trace of irony, and God,
Louis would smack him if he could stop feeling so stupidly lovesick for
more than five seconds.

"Quit distracting me," he says. He takes a deep breath and powers up

his phone.

Thirty-six. He has thirty-six missed calls from Zayn.

There are several text messages too, most of which he imagines are also
from Zayn, demanding answers in all capital letters and lots of angry
emoticons, but he doesn't have time to go through them all. Louis
should probably call him now before he goes into cardiac arrest, if he
hasn't already. It's hardly nine in the morning according to the clock on
his phone, and historically that would have meant Zayn was nowhere
near the realm of the living on a weekend, but Liam's an early riser and
it's starting to rub off on Zayn. Louis figures he'll probably be up by
now. He shows Harry the missed calls, snickering, and then calls Zayn
back, switching the phone to speaker and putting it down on the pillow
between them. It rings only once before Zayn picks up.

"About fucking time you called me back, arsehole!" Zayn shouts down
the line immediately. "Where are you? I have been off my fucking head
since yesterday, I swear to—" Louis can't keep a straight face anymore,
and when he starts laughing Harry does too. Zayn's voice shoots up an
octave. "Is that Harry?"

That sets them off again, and it's upwards of thirty seconds before
either of them can catch their breath long enough to answer. "Hi,
Zayn," Harry finally says, smirking like a kid caught with his hand in a
jar of sweets and feeling pretty pleased with himself for getting there.
He sticks his tongue out at Louis, and Louis wants to kiss him all over
his big dumb beautiful face.

549
"Oh my fucking God," Zayn says. "Oh my God. Are you two—Louis—
did you—explain! Explain yourselves, Jesus Christ, please. My heart
can't take the suspense."

Louis looks at Harry, who just nods silently, letting him take the lead.

"Well, darling," Louis says. "Your mum and dad are getting back
together."

"Don't fuck about, Louis!" Zayn shouts so loud and so shrill that Louis'
speakers buzz tinnily.

"I'm not, babe," Louis says, still laughing. "I'm in London, with Harry,
and we're, um, together now. Or again. Whatever, we're together.
Properly."

There's a moment of stunned silence, until Zayn recovers his wits.

"What happened?" he demands frantically. "Oh my God, tell me
everything, Louis, right now, I'm going to fucking kill you for making
me wait."

Louis can't help but cackle just a little at that, because, well, torturing
Zayn is great and he's happy and everything in his life is wonderful
right now. "I imagine Liam told you about our conversation, yes?" he
says.

"Of course," Zayn says, because they probably have developed two-
person true love telepathy by this point. "By the way, he stopped by the
school office and told them that you'd started suddenly projectile
vomiting and had to go to hospital, so you owe him."

"I owe him double, actually," Louis says, letting out the breath he
hadn't realised he'd been holding to hear that he wasn't going home
unemployed. "That whole conversation we had, about the two of you,
well, I just kind of—took it to heart a bit. Decided to do something
about it."

550
"And by that he means he turned up at the studio where I work and told
me that he loved me," Harry chimes in.

Another moment of silence, and then there's the muffled sound of Zayn
screaming into something, probably a pillow or his own hand. Louis
slaps a hand over his face. His best friend, despite everyone's insistence
on calling him "mysterious," has the emotional control of a thirteen-
year-old. Harry's grinning like an idiot, and Louis feels loved all at
once in so many different ways.

"Yeah, um, we talked it all out last night, and it's all right now," he goes
on over the sounds of Zayn having a fit on the other end of the phone.
He's fiddling with Harry's hair as he talks, pushing it off of his face, and
Harry mouths I love you at him. "Are you okay there, Zayn?"

There's a pause, and when Zayn finally speaks again, his voice is thick.
"I'm just really happy for the two of you. I love you both so much."

"Zayn..." Louis says. "Are you gonna cry?" It's becoming increasingly
likely that Louis actually died yesterday and the events of the past
twenty-four hours are actually just his reward in heaven.

"Shut up!" Zayn says petulantly, trying and failing to hide the sound of
sniffing. "You don't know what it's been like! You two are absolute
shitheads, and I've had to deal with it, and now it's done. These are
tears of purely selfish joy and relief."

"Deep breaths, Zayn," Harry says, amused and fond. "Hey, is Liam
there?"

"He's in the shower," Zayn tells him, perking right up.

"Promise me you'll thank him for me?" Harry says. "With blowjobs.
But also with words."

551
"Oh, that has been taken care of," Zayn says. "Trust me. „Spose it
couldn't hurt to double-check, though. You know, just in case," and
Louis can hear his smirk over the phone.

"Okay, Zayn, you do that," Louis pops in. "I love you, but I'd like
Harry to myself now."

"I bet you do," Zayn says, and Louis doesn't have to see him to be able
to picture the ridiculous, cartoonishly suggestive thing he's probably
doing with his eyebrows right now.

"Yes, exactly," Louis says.

"Wait, Lou, before you go..." Zayn says just as Louis is reaching for the
phone.

"Yeah?"

"I just, I'm really proud of you, Lou," Zayn tells him, his tone serious.
"I want you to know that."

Louis feels something warm in his chest spreading out to the ends of
his fingers, and he's glad Zayn isn't here to take the piss for the look on
his face right now. Harry squeezes his hand, and Louis clears his throat
a little before responding. "Thanks, Zayn."

"Now take care of each other, or I'll kill you both," Zayn says. "I mean
it, I'm not dealing with this again."

"Got it," Louis laughs. "Bye, babe."

"Bye!" Harry chips in. Zayn tells them both goodbye and hangs up, and
Louis is left alone with Harry again.

552
"Idiot," Louis says fondly, moving his phone to the floor.

"Which one of us?" Harry asks.

"Both," Louis says, smiling a little despite himself. He pokes at Harry's

chest. "You're just my idiot with benefits."

He lets Harry gather him up into a grinning kiss, warm and soft in
slept-in clothes and messy sheets. He still hasn't gotten over how good
it feels to kiss him again, or how much better it is now, now that he
doesn't have to worry about holding anything back.

After a little while the kissing slides into just holding each other, faces
close and legs tangled together, and Louis loves this too, loves being
able to be as gentle as he wants without having to justify or hide
anything. He's not so used to it yet that it doesn't feel like he's getting
away with something.

"I missed you so much," Louis says.

Harry's hands squeeze tighter around Louis' shirt, and he mumbles

back, "Me too."

Louis pulls back, feeling boneless and dizzy from having Harry so
close and so vulnerable. "Wanna know what I missed the most?"

"Sure," Harry tells him.

He brings one of Harry's hands up to his mouth, holding it open with

both of his own. He presses a kiss to his palm, and then one of each of
his fingertips, before turning it over and kissing each of his knuckles in
turn.

553
"I missed your hands," he says as he does this. "I missed your fingers. I
missed your wrists."

"That's more than one thing," Harry says softly.

"I missed your smart mouth," Louis says, leaning up to kiss that too. He
kisses Harry on the tip of his nose, on the underside of his chin, on the
lids of his eyes. "I missed this. And this. And this."

It goes on like that for hours, languid and lazy and endless kisses and
Louis spreading Harry out naked and telling him exactly what he
missed about every inch of his body. He spends ten minutes on Harry's
stomach, telling him how much he missed balancing plates of takeaway
on it when they were in bed and seeing the muscles there through his t-
shirts and feeling it tense up against him when Harry was about to
come. He spends another ten on Harry's thighs, pushing them apart and
running his fingertips over every inch of them, kissing them up and
down until Harry is trembling on the mattress. He bites on Harry's ear,
licks the cut of his pelvis, kisses every single bruise he left on Harry's
skin the night before. And he saves the tattoo for last, because it's his
very favourite part.

Harry rolls him over and returns the favour, telling Louis how he
missed the crinkles by his eyes and shape of his biceps and curve of his
arse. He spends five minutes complimenting the shape of his ankles, of
all things, and then is delighted to discover Louis is ticklish there. He
blows raspberries against the back of Louis' knees and whispers sweet
nothings against his soft belly, and Louis isn't used to being
complimented like this. Maybe six months ago the thought of being
laid on his back in the morning light and listening to someone say
lovely things about every part of his too-small, too-curvy, imperfect
body would have sent him into a fit of anxiety, but today he can
surrender to it. He accepts everything Harry has to give him, lets Harry
touch him wherever he wants.

They get each other off slowly, teasing up to it for a long time,
touching with slick fingers and open mouths until it's too much.
Finally, Louis gets Harry on his back and grinds down against him

554
languidly, the two of them rubbing together filthily. The blush on
Harry's face goes halfway down his chest, and he looks up at Louis
glassy-eyed and grinning as he puts both his hands on Louis' arse and
ruts against him. It's good, and it makes Louis laugh, which is even
better, and when they eventually come they go over the ledge together,
breathing hot into each other's mouths and spilling onto Harry's
stomach.

They lie there a moment, still touching each other softly like they both
need to reassure themselves that the other is still there. "It's still fun,
you know," Louis says into Harry's chest. Harry makes a little confused
noise, and Louis clarifies. "Doing this with you. It's still fun. Always
has been."

"Yay," Harry says, in a tiny wrung-out voice, and Louis feels very
pleased with himself indeed. Harry clumsily strokes Louis' hair, more
patting at it than anything else, and Louis leans into it happily.
Everything is fun with Harry. He wants to do everything with him.

Suddenly, he thinks of something that they've never done. Something

they need to do right now, and Louis thinks he owes it to Harry to do it
the right way this time. He wants to show Harry he's in it for real this
time around, and that starts at the beginning.

"Need to wee," Louis says, climbing off of Harry's chest. "Back in a

tick."

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and counts to thirty in his head
before he pulls out the phone he snuck in with him. Harry's name is
long gone from his recent calls list so he has to dig him up out of his
contacts, but he's still there, no matter how many times Louis
considered deleting the number over the past few months.

He hits send and soon Harry's phone is blasting Arcade Fire from the
other side of the door while it rings a few times on Louis' end of the
line. There's the sound of rustling sheets and the clink of Harry's belt

555
against the floor—must have left it in his jeans—and then Harry picks
up.

"Hello?" Harry says, sounding bemused.

"Hi, Harry," Louis says, chewing on his lip to keep the smile out of his
voice a bit. "This is Louis Tomlinson, from work. You gave me your
number?"
There's a second or two of hesitation, but Harry catches on quickly
enough. "Yeah, I remember," he says. "How are you?"

"I'm great, thanks," Louis says. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. I
should have called as soon as I got your number, but to be completely
honest with you, I was a bit scared."

"That's all right," Harry says gently.

"Thanks," Louis says. He keeps his voice light and conversational,

committing to the bit. "Anyway, I think you're quite charming, and I
was wondering if you'd like to go out for lunch with me today?"

He can feel Harry's grin through the phone, and he doesn't bother trying
to contain his own anymore. "Are you asking me on a date?" Harry
says.

"Yes," Louis says. "I'd very much like to take you on a date, if you're
interested."

"That sounds brilliant, actually," Harry says.

"Excellent," Louis says, surprised by the relief he feels at Harry's

response even though he already knew what the answer would be.
"Why don't I pick you up around one at yours, and we'll go somewhere
together? You can pick the place, I'll treat."

556
"Okay, I'll think of something," Harry says. "Can't wait."

"Neither can I," Louis tells him, and he means it. "See you soon."

He ends the call and leans back against the sink, giving it a minute
before he goes back to Harry. He wonders if this is exactly how the
conversation would have gone if he had actually done this, if he had
just mustered up the nerve to ask Harry out properly when he first met
him. It's funny, how the two of them keep doing this whole thing
backwards. He figures it's probably a little fucked up that he had to go
through this whole year before he finally got to the place where he can
ask Harry out for lunch, but he's done beating himself up about it. It's
just their weird, roundabout way of figuring out how to love each other,
and maybe there's a lot he would change, but what matters is that
they're here now. And God, do they deserve it.

Harry's waiting on the other side of the bathroom door when he opens
it, and he pulls Louis straight into a kiss.

"You asked me on a date," he says, smiling against Louis' cheek.

"Yes, I did," Louis says, trying not to sound overly satisfied with
himself and failing miserably. He puts his hands on Harry's chest and
pushes him back gently. "Which means you can't kiss me now, because
it would be quite scandalous if we kissed before our first date."

"Right," Harry says, schooling his face into a stern expression as he

pulls back. "I shall not impugn your virtue."

"Thank you very much," Louis says. Harry gives him a little salute, and
Louis rolls his eyes.

It's already noon, so they spend the next hour trying to make
themselves presentable to go out in public. Louis didn't take the time to
pack any actual clothes when he left Manchester, which means he's at
the mercy of Harry's wardrobe. It's easy to share clothes with Harry

557
when they're just dealing with joggers and t-shirts and things to laze
about the flat in, but date clothes are a different animal, and Harry is
shaped very differently than Louis is. Finding a jumper that fits him
isn't terribly hard, and he ends up in a dark grey one that is only a little
baggy on him and works fine as long as he pushes the sleeves up to
keep them from covering his hands. Trousers are another matter,
though, and he spends twenty minutes cursing Harry's skinny legs and
love of tight jeans—a thing he never thought he'd have anything but
utmost praises for—before he shimmies into a pair that fits once he
cuffs them at the bottom.

He kicks Harry out of the bathroom to fuss with his hair for a bit but
gives up after a minute or two; if he's being honest, sex hair is not
altogether that different from the way he styles it on a normal day
anyway. Next it's a round of shaving his face and brushing his teeth and
cleaning his glasses diligently before he's ready, giving himself an
appreciative once-over in the mirror.

"Voila," Louis says, exiting the bathroom with a flourish. He holds out
his arms and does a spin, letting Harry see every inch of him. Harry's
still only halfway dressed, but he stops in the middle of doing up his
jeans to applaud.

"You're gorgeous," Harry says.

"Thanks, love," Louis says, taking a little bow. He doesn't know why
he's blushing.

"I like you in my clothes," Harry continues as he does up his fly, and
Louis knows why he's blushing now.

"Like me better out of them," he shoots back, because he's never one to
be outdone in a battle of innuendo. "Are you almost ready?"

"I would be, if somebody hadn't distracted me and then taken ages in
the bathroom," Harry teases.

558
"Whoever that person was, he sounds like a man who gets what he
wants," Louis says.

"Yeah," Harry says. "He is."

Louis bites his lip, and Harry goes back to fastening his belt. He's no
stranger to watching Harry get undressed, but it's less common for him
to get a chance to watch Harry put clothes on. It feels quite domestic,
watching Harry build himself up into what strangers get to see. Louis
wonders if this is just one time of thousands to come, if he'll be lucky
enough to get to watch Harry get dressed for the rest of their lives.

That's a big thought to have before lunch, but Louis isn't afraid of it. He
is, however, struck with another idea. He leans down and picks
yesterday's trousers up off the floor, digging his wallet out of the
pocket.

"Haz," he says once he's pocketed his wallet again. "Stay here for a
second."

"What?" Harry says. He looks up and sees Louis crossing the room,
reaching for the door. "Where are you going?"

"Just trust me, yeah?" Louis says. "Stay here and finish getting ready."

Harry looks confused but nods anyway, and Louis lets himself out and
rides the lift down to the first floor. He sits on the front steps of the
building for a few minutes, killing time, until he decides it's been long
enough and stands to buzz Harry's flat.

"Hello?" says Harry's voice over the scratchy intercom when he

answers.

"Hi, it's Louis," Louis says politely. "I'm here to pick you up for our
date?"

559
There's a pause on the other end, and Louis can picture the look on
Harry's face, like he doesn't know where the hell somebody like Louis
even came from but he's glad he did. It's a look Louis' seen many, many
times. "I'll be right down," Harry says finally, and the intercom clicks
off.

A minute or so later, the front door of Harry's building opens and Harry
steps out. He's looking rather fetching indeed, dark wash jeans and a
soft cotton shirt under a leather jacket and a worn camera case over one
shoulder, slim and lovely under what little sun London has to offer
today. He's a stunner, and Louis feels incredibly smug that he's the only
one who gets to walk around holding his hand.

"You look great," Louis says, smiling as Harry meets him at the bottom
of the steps.

"Thanks," Harry says. "So do you."

"Have you decided where you'd like to go?" Louis says.

"Yeah, I have," Harry tells him. He reaches over and takes Louis' hand,
slotting their fingers together, and as they turn together to make their
way down the street, Louis realises it's the first time they've held hands
in broad daylight.

It's little revelations like this that are going to make this finally feel
real. It's one thing to hear Harry say he wants to be with him and
believe it, but it's another to experience what that means, to feel the
solid ground of a real relationship under his feet. A long time ago, the
Louis he used to be gave up on all the little trappings of being
committed to somebody else, convinced himself that he didn't want or
care about things like anniversaries or good morning kisses or holding
hands on the sidewalk. But he does want those things, always has, so he
smiles and grips Harry's hand tighter and lets himself be led to the
underground station a few streets over and tries to soak it all in.

560
They get off the tube at High Street Kensington and Harry tugs Louis
along by the hand, passing tourists and shoppers and a billion well-
dressed, beautiful people on their way to expensive, exciting things.
Louis eyes them all, daring them to look twice at Harry, to give him a
chance to exercise his new privilege of getting to be possessive of him.
He feels invincible, and punch-drunk, and recklessly, bottomlessly
happy.
Harry picks a posh little cafe with a menu that's half in French and art
on the walls that looks like it's worth more than Louis' car. The servings
are miniscule and plated in ridiculously artistic ways, and Louis teases
Harry mercilessly for picking somewhere so obviously intended to
impress him, but Harry's trying so hard and it's terribly endearing.

They spend the meal catching up, with Louis telling Harry all about
community theatre and the new school year and Harry telling Louis all
about his internship and the weird artsy friends he's made since he
moved to London. Louis has him explain the basics of photography to
him, general terminology and what the industry's like, that sort of thing.
He's decided that this time around he's going to be just as invested in
every part of Harry's life as Harry is in his, and that starts with asking
these questions. Harry seems thrilled to share as much of it with Louis
as he can, and Louis finds himself nodding along eagerly, caught up in
Harry's infectious enthusiasm.

Once they've split dessert and Louis has paid for the meal, they head
back out onto the sidewalk together.

"Sorry about the restaurant," Harry says, twitching with his hair. "I
wanted to take you somewhere nice, but um, I've never actually eaten
here before. Gemma likes it?"

He offers Louis an apologetic smile, and Louis just shakes his head and
laughs. "It's fine. To be honest, I didn't really care about the food."

"Yeah, me neither," Harry says. He takes a step forward, reaching up to

slide a hand to the side of Louis' face. "So, since you've bought me
lunch now, is it all right if I kiss you?"

561
"Mmm, such a gentleman," Louis says, pulling Harry in closer by the
waist. "Yes, you may kiss me."
Harry smiles and presses their lips together, and it's sweet and innocent
and perfect, right in the middle of the sidewalk with the sounds of
London all around them. They keep it short, like a proper first kiss, and
it almost feels like one. It feels like a first something.

"Where to next?" Harry asks him, close and soft. "You pick."

Louis considers for a moment before pulling Harry down the street with
him, dodging a small herd of schoolchildren in knee socks. The weather
is doing him the tremendous favour of holding out for this date, and
Louis intends to take full advantage.

So they wander into Kensington Gardens hand-in-hand, bypassing the

Palace and taking the road toward Hyde Park. He'd pictured Harry here
before, when they were apart, and he wants to be able to picture the two
of them here together.

There are dozens of other couples out today, sitting on benches with
their arms around each other, coasting on side-by-side bicycles,
crouching down by the edge of the pond with their children to feed the
ducks. Louis finds himself smiling at them, wanting to run up to them
with Harry like a five-year-old with a new toy and show them that,
look, he's got love too, he's one of them, he gets to be happy after all.
He doesn't, though, because he's not actually five, or mental, or keen to
have Harry look at him like he's either. But still, for a long time it was a
feeling he'd stopped believing he'd ever have again, and it nearly
knocks the wind out of him.

They carry on down the path toward the Serpentine, swinging their
hands between them and talking about everything from primary school
to their mums to football to reality television. It feels so good that this
hasn't changed between them either, that they can fall right back into
the easy rhythm they always had with each other. Louis really has
missed this part of their relationship just as tremendously as he missed
the rest, and it feels like he's got his best mate back.

562
They're just having a laugh over the whole kissing booth debacle of last
autumn's fair, competing to see who can do a better impression of
Zayn's annoyed face, when Louis decides to just say what he's thinking
for once.

"I wanted to kiss you that night," Louis confesses, and Harry looks up
at him through his eyelashes. "At the fair. Well, I mean, I wanted to
kiss you the minute I saw you, but when we were on the Ferris wheel
that night, I wanted to kiss you so badly I thought I was going to die,
and that's when I knew I was in trouble."

"Are we playing that game, then?" Harry says, grinning ruefully at him.
"All right. The carwash. I came up with that idea to try to impress you."

Louis laughs, remembering how excited Harry had been about putting
it on and the look on Zayn's face when they'd sprayed him with the
hose. "Really?"

"Yeah, I was planning on taking my shirt off or something, but then the
Zayn thing happened. I was trying to impress you with that too.
Because I was stupidly in love with you and I knew it already," Harry
says with a flippant hand gesture. "Your turn."

Louis thinks for a minute, trying to pick out a good one. "I wanted to
have sex with you that night we snuck onto the pitch to play football."

"Already told me that," Harry says. "Boring."

"Well," Louis says, lowering his voice and slipping two fingers into
Harry's back pocket, "I never told you that I went home that night and
had a wank thinking about it as soon as I got through the door."

"Louis!" Harry crows, clapping his hands like this is the best thing he's
ever heard. He reels Louis in by the sleeve and kisses the side of his
neck while Louis laughs and pretends to try to fight him off, kicking his
feet ineffectually against the ground. "Dirty bastard. I love it."

563
They go on like that for half an hour, trading stories of all the times
they wanted to do or say something to each other but never did. It's
incredibly freeing, Louis finds, to finally get all of these old things off
his chest, to turn them into a thing to laugh about with Harry. This is
how they're going to fix things, one piece at a time.

They cross Serpentine Bridge together and Harry lets go of Louis' hand
to pull out his camera half a mile later. He takes pictures of dogs and
children in the grass and Louis beside him, sometimes when he's
mugging for the camera and sometimes when he's not paying attention
at all, just talking or watching the people around them. Eventually
Harry tugs on Louis' arm to get him to stop, having decided that he
wants a picture of the two of them together in Hyde Park.

"It's film, so there's no way to review the pictures," Harry says, turning
the camera toward them and holding it out at arm's length. "We'll just
have to hope for the best."

"I've got a better idea, actually," Louis says. He reaches out and
gingerly takes the camera out of Harry's hands. "Watch."

There are people passing by them on the path left and right, and Louis
picks out a young woman with blue hair and her nose stuck in a
paperback. She's also got a camera of her own around her neck and
looks exactly like the type of friend Louis imagines Harry probably has
around here, so he figures she won't be averse to helping the cause.

"Excuse me," he says, stepping into her path. She looks up from her
book, seeming a bit annoyed at being interrupted, and Louis winces.
"Terribly sorry to bother you, but would you mind taking a picture of
me and my boyfriend?"

The word is out of his mouth before he even knows he's saying it, and
then suddenly he forgets all about the woman in front of him because
his heart is in his throat and his ears are ringing. He turns back to Harry
instinctively, checking his reaction, and Harry's beaming at him like
he's never been happier in his entire life, so he figures it's okay.

564
"All right," the woman says, yanking Louis back to reality. She tucks
her book under her arm and extends her hand for the camera.

"Thank you so much," Louis says, passing it to her. He hurries back to

where Harry's standing and puts an arm around his waist.

"Boyfriend," Harry whispers in his ear. Louis just squeezes Harry's

waist and smiles for the camera. He doesn't even think about trying to
hide anything. He knows the pictures will probably show every bit of
sappy, nauseating, lovesick happiness on his face in unforgiving detail.
Good. Let them.

"Three, two, one," the woman says, and Louis hears the sound of the
shutter as she takes the picture. "Okay, one more."

She counts off again, and this time Harry turns his head and plants a
kiss on Louis cheek just before she takes it. They both thank her about
a dozen times as she gives the camera back to Louis and continues on
her way, and Louis turns back to Harry and slips the camera over his
head.

"Boyfriend," Harry says again, wrapping his hands around Louis' on

the camera strap.

"Yeah, boyfriend," Louis says, and he loves the way the word feels on
his tongue almost as much as he loves the way Harry's face lights up
every time he says it. He gives the strap a little tug and steps backwards
toward the grass. "Come on."

Harry tucks the camera back in the case and follows, and they settle
down in the grass underneath a tree, Harry's back leaning up against the
trunk and Louis nestled between Harry's sprawling legs. Louis pulls
one of Harry's hands into his lap so he can hold it between both of his
own, and they sit like that for a while, talking in low voices to each
other, breathing each other in. Harry still smells like Harry, like fabric
softener and strawberry shampoo and grass and boy, and Louis

565
memorises everything about it. He wants to wear it everywhere he
goes.

The day's getting later and the weather is starting to get greyer and
colder, and Harry hugs Louis tight against his chest when he feels him
shivering at a gust of wind. Louis takes advantage of the moment and
lolls his head back onto Harry's shoulder, burying his nose in Harry's
hair and leaving his neck immediate and exposed. Harry takes the bait
and leans down to kiss a slow line down Louis' throat, making him
shiver all over again.

Louis turns in Harry's arms enough to get one hand on the side of
Harry's face and then kisses him properly on the mouth, tracing his
thumb over Harry's chin, letting it slide up to feel the place where their
lips meet. Harry kisses him back openly, completely, and Louis turns
around fully now so that he's sitting cross-legged between Harry's
thighs. He was chilly a minute ago, but with one hand pushed inside
Harry's leather jacket and the other in his hair, it's hard to remember
any of that.

"Hang on," Harry says, breaking the kiss. "Bloody tree. Here, scoot
back."

Louis laughs as Harry rubs the back of his neck, sliding his bum
backwards in the grass to give Harry more room. Harry leans forward
and grabs Louis around the waist before rolling them down and
backwards together. It takes a bit of rearranging to get into the position
Harry wants, but finally Louis balances out on Harry's chest with Harry
laid out flat on his back beneath him.

"This is quite cozy for the park," Louis says, tracing his fingers over
Harry's hipbone.

"Worried about traumatising someone's nan with our wanton displays

of passion?" Harry says, grinning.

566
"Nah," Louis says. "Just, we've never snogged where anybody could
see before. At least not sober."

Harry slides his hands up Louis' back, rubbing circles in the fabric of
his jumper. "See them over there?" Harry says, tilting his head to the
right. Louis follows Harry's line of vision to another young couple
across the way, a boy and a girl, wrapped up in each other in the grass.
"Snogging in the middle of the park. It's what you're supposed to do
with your boyfriend when you're young and stupid."

"Well, you're definitely young and stupid," Louis teases, and Harry
laughs and sticks out his tongue.

They end up snogging for a while there, nothing too heated, just gentle
kisses and Harry's hands on Louis' waist. It does make Louis feel young
and stupid, and maybe he spends plenty of time feeling stupid, but he
hasn't really felt young in years. Harry reminds him, sometimes, that
he's only twenty-six, that there's still so much ahead of him. He thinks
that's part of the reason why Harry was the only one who could open
him up when nobody else could, because he's the only one who makes
him feel like the story of his life wasn't written by the time he turned
twenty.

They're interrupted by the sound of Harry's stomach growling noisily,

and Louis has to break off to laugh at that, because it's so funny and so
typical.

"Sorry," Harry says, covering his face with one hand. "This is what I
get for trying to be posh."

"It's all right," Louis says. "We'll find somewhere better for dinner,
yeah? Somewhere with actual food."

"Actually, um," Harry says, thumbing Louis' ribs through his jumper,
"as much as I am enjoying this date, it's starting to be really difficult to
see you in my clothes and not want to get you out of them right now."

567
Louis grins. "Well, I'm flattered, but I don't put out on the first date."

"That is a lie," Harry laughs, and Louis swats at his shoulder. "Look,
what do you say we stop at Tesco's on the way home, and I'll make you
a gigantic dinner," he leans in close to Louis ear, "and then I'll eat it off
of you."

Louis swallows. "That sounds like an excellent plan."

In Tesco's, Louis takes great joy in trying to sneak things into the
shopping basket without Harry noticing, slipping in marshmallows and
feta cheese and one very out-of-place loaf of French bread. Harry
always catches him and puts the smuggled goods back on the shelf,
shaking his head but smiling, but by then Louis will be halfway down
another aisle, looking for another way to make Harry laugh. It feels like
they've been doing this for years, and under the fluorescent lights and
surrounded by cans of soup Louis feels as at home as he's ever been.

He helps Harry carry the shopping on the tube, plastic bag cutting into
his hand. He butts his head against Harry's shoulder affectionately as
the train takes a curve.

"What?" Harry asks, looking down at him.

"Nothing," Louis says, and does it again.

When they get back to Harry's flat, Louis tries to beg off and claim he
needs a shower, but Harry drags him into the kitchen. "You're helping,"
he says in a tone that brooks no argument. He hands Louis a package of
snap peas. "Drain these in the colander, would you? It's under the sink."

Louis looks at the sink. "Is that the thing with holes in, then?" he asks,
and Harry groans.

568
After Louis manages to burn a panful of rice, Harry puts him on
washing-up duty, cleaning the things Harry hands him as Harry does all
of the actual cooking. Louis hates washing dishes, but he amuses
himself by flicking water at Harry periodically while he does
something involving several frying pans and significant amounts of
steam. At one point, Harry snaps and pins Louis up against the sink,
kissing him with oven-mitted hands on either side of his face. "Stop
being a twat," he says against Louis' mouth.

"Never," Louis grins, and Harry grins back.

He does lay off a bit, though, and instead starts belting Katy Perry
songs in his most obnoxious voice until dinner is ready. It turns out that
Harry's put together some sort of delicious stir-fry concoction, all rice
and beef and vegetables and delicious sauce in portions that make a hell
of a lot more sense than what they dealt with at lunch. Louis can't help
but stuff his face in a way that's probably less than attractive, but Harry
just seems pleased he's enjoying it.

When they're finished, Louis moves to clear the table, but Harry stops
him. "If you want, you can go take that shower while I make dessert,"
he says, his hand curling around Louis' wrist, and who is Louis to say
no to that? He makes his way to the bathroom and strips off, stepping
under the spray happily as he imagines what sort of ridiculous thing
Harry is putting together. Probably some sort of elaborate pastry with
chocolate filling or something. He could have a souffle secreted about
his person somewhere, for all Louis knows.

After he rinses off, he steps out of the shower and towel dries before
walking back out into the flat with just a towel wrapped around his
waist. Harry is leaning against his kitchen counter, idly tossing a can of
whipped cream in his hand. He shrugs when he sees Louis.

"I was going to try to do something impressive," he drawls, "But then I

thought, you know, you already love me, so. Shall I just eat this off you
instead?"

569
"Yeah, that works," Louis says, and then drops his towel. He runs to the
bed, and Harry is right behind.

570
 TWENTY-THREE

Sunday morning is grey and rainy, which does nothing to make Louis
want to leave the warmth of Harry‟s bed when he groans awake. Even
when he‟s only been up for about thirty seconds, he still knows what
Sunday means. He has to leave today, has to go back to Manchester
tonight and back to work tomorrow, and while everything about his life
is easier now with Harry in it, he can‟t pretend he isn‟t dreading
walking away.

Shifting around in the sheets, he realises that he‟s alone. Rolling over,
he rubs a hand over his eyes and sees Harry bopping around the
kitchen. “Morning, sunshine,” Louis says, voice gravelly from sleep,
and the way Harry smiles at him makes the nickname apt.

They eat breakfast at the table, tea and toast and cold feet knocking
together. They‟re quiet, and Louis finds himself just watching Harry. It
feels silly, that just watching someone else eat breakfast could make his
heart swell, but Louis is starting to feel like he‟s going to be spending a
long time being very silly indeed.

It‟s just that Harry is a real person—who takes his tea like an idiot and
uses two separate knives for the butter and the jam—and he has flaws
too and he gets scared too and he loves too, loves with that same
screaming intensity as Louis does. He‟s just had more practice, or
maybe less. Louis watches Harry eat breakfast and doesn‟t want to go
home tonight with anything left unsaid.

571
“Want to see something cool?” Harry says out of the blue, and Louis
can just nod, because he‟s in love with a toddler.

Harry doesn‟t explain further, just nods happily and clears the table.
They get dressed quickly, Louis putting on his own trousers but
slipping into one of Harry‟s shirts, a soft cotton long-sleeved number
that‟s loose around the collar and has Harry looking at him with
promise in his eyes. He grabs his camera bag and an umbrella, and then
they‟re out the door.

Louis expects for them to head towards the tube again, but they walk in
another direction, Harry‟s arm tight around his waist to keep them both
under the umbrella.They walk for less than ten minutes, winding
around corners and crossing streets, until they reach a massive block of
flats. It‟s covered with graffiti and could only generously be described
as upright, and Louis is beginning to question Harry‟s common sense.

“As romantic as this is, love,” he says, shivering slightly in the rain.
“I‟m not sure we‟re at the „drug deal‟ point in our relationship. Don‟t
wanna rush that, that‟s really a second anniversary sort of thing.”

“Piss off,” Harry says, nudging Louis with his shoulder, and steps up to
the door, keying in the access code.

“Do you also live here?” Louis says, peering over Harry‟s shoulder as
they walk through the door. “Do you have secret identity? Are you a
superhero with a shit real estate agent?”

Harry just laughs, slinging an arm around Louis‟ neck and pulling him
towards the elevator. “Got it in one, Tommo. We‟re heading to my
lair.” He presses floor number 14, and they‟re headed up.

When Harry actually has a key to number 1426, Louis starts to actually
get a little nervous. “If you have, like, a secret wife or something, this
is really not the way to tell me,” he jokes, leaning against the doorframe
and watching Harry struggle with the lock. The whole hallway looks

572
like it‟s falling apart, peeling paint and bare light bulbs like a horror
movie set.

With a victorious laugh, Harry finally gets the lock to work, letting the
door swing open. Before he walks in, though, he turns and pins Louis
against the doorframe, kissing him with a thorough sweetness before
dropping one last peck on his cheek. “I haven‟t got a secret wife,”
Harry says, and then grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

It‟s just a normal flat, clearly lived-in, but Harry pulls him past the bed
in the main room and towards what should be the bedroom. “This is my
friend Benji‟s flat,” he says. “He was in the photography department at
Manchester and moved out here at around the same time.”

“Why do you have a key to Benji‟s flat?” Louis asks, watching Harry
pull out another key to open the door of the not-bedroom.

“This is why,” Harry says, and lets the door swing open. It‟s dark, and
Louis steps cautiously inside. When his eyes adjust, he realizes why
Harry hasn‟t turned the light on.

It‟s a darkroom.

There aren‟t any prints up now, which must be why Harry was able to
open the door and let the light of the flat inside, but Louis can still
recognize it for what it is. There are sinks and trays and stacks of photo
paper and bottles of chemicals that Louis couldn‟t identify with a gun
to his head, all surrounded by criss-crosses of string and clothespins for
prints to hang later.

Louis spins and looks at Harry accusingly. “You liar,” he says with a
grin. “This is totally your wife.”

Harry laughs, stepping inside the room. It‟s small, but there‟s space for
the two of them. “Ah, but you said secret wife. You can‟t pretend to be
surprised.”

573
“I suppose that‟s fair,” Louis says.

“Don‟t worry,” Harry says, taking his camera out of the bag and setting
it down on the bench. “She‟s Benji‟s, really. I just get to come by when
he‟s away.” He pulls the door closed, plunging them into darkness. “I
was thinking I would develop some of the prints from yesterday in the
park?” he says. In the pitch black his voice seems somehow louder.
“The first bit has to be in the dark, sorry.”

“S‟alright,” Louis says. “What shall I do in the meantime?” He feels a

bit at sea. He knows the room is small, but standing alone, touching
nothing in the darkness, he could be in outer space.

“There‟s cushions in the corner if you‟d like to sit,” Harry says, and
Louis can hear the sounds of him fiddling with equipment. “Or if you
want—I could sort of tell you about what I‟m doing?”

“I‟d like that,” Louis says, “Though I can‟t really see anything.”

“C‟mere,” Harry says, and Louis jumps at the sudden feeling of Harry‟s
hand finding him in the dark. His hand fumbles until it reaches Louis‟
and he pulls him closer. Lacing their fingers, Harry reaches down until
both their hands find the camera. “Ok, so this is where you start,” he
says, opening the back and taking the negatives out clumsily with
Louis‟ fingers still tangled in his.

Louis presses up against Harry‟s back and slides his other hand down
Harry‟s other arm until he finds his hand. He rests his head against
Harry‟s shoulder and feels him move, listening to the soft sound of his
voice and feeling the vibrations of it through his ribs. He listens to what
Harry says as he narrates what he‟s doing, he really does, because he
wants to understand, but he finds himself distracted by the way Harry
floods his senses in the dark. The clean sweat boy smell of him, the
living warmth coming through his t-shirt. Every hitch of his breath,
every shift of his shoulderblades is telegraphed to Louis as he does this
thing that he loves. It‟s not sexual, but it feels a lot like sex. It‟s
intimate.

574
Harry clears his throat after some time, and Louis blinks back to
alertness. “This next bit doesn‟t have to be in the dark,” he says,
shifting away from Louis and moving back toward the door. “Careful
of your eyes.” He flips a switch.

The room comes alive with dark red light, Harry reappearing before
Louis‟ eyes picked out in crimson. Like magic.

“There‟s still a decent bit left to do,” he says. “If you‟re bored we can
do something else?”

Louis thinks suddenly of the first time he set foot inside Harry‟s flat in
Manchester, the feeling he had that he was standing inside Harry‟s
brain. Here, bathed in dark red light, he thinks he might be inside
Harry‟s heart.

“I‟m not bored,” he says, leaning in to kiss the corner of Harry‟s mouth
as it curves into a smile.

He moves back and settles into the corner, curling up on the few
cushions that have been piled there, and watches idly as Harry goes
back to work. He can‟t pretend that he follows what Harry is doing,
what causes him to move pieces of film from one chemical to another
or how the picture ends up on the photo paper, but it‟s nice to just
watch Harry be in his element, just like it was nice to feel him earlier.
It‟s remarkably similar to how Harry is in the kitchen, now that he
thinks of it: puttering around, starting sentences he‟ll never finish,
singing snatches of songs that Louis half-remembers. Safe, Louis
thinks, and opens his mouth.

“Can I tell you the stuff you wanted to know?” he asks, sitting up on
the cushions. “The stuff I said I would tell you.”

Harry turns, putting down a set of tongs. “Yeah, of course,” he says,

starting to peel off a pair of gloves. “As long as you—”

575
“I‟m sure,” Louis says, biting down on his cheek to keep from smiling.
“And you should keep working. I want you to, actually, it makes it
easier for me. If you‟re doing something else.”

“Okay,” Harry says, looking a little unsure, and rolls the gloves back
down his hands before turning back to work.

Louis tries to collect his thoughts, to figure out what he wants to say,
but can‟t quite find the words. So he starts there, instead, starts from his
own hesitancy. “Have you ever had things that you didn‟t talk about,”
he says, voice small but loud in the tiny room, “Because it felt like too
much? Like, it felt like it was the stuff that defined you, defined your
life, and so there was no point to talking about it because it was like—I
don‟t know, like it was more than could ever be explained to anybody
else. Like a fish trying to explain what water is.”

Harry sort of nods, but doesn‟t turn around, and Louis thanks him
silently for giving him the space to do this his way.

“And then you try to talk about it,” he continues. “And it just—when
you put it into words, or even write it down, it just feels so small. Like,
it doesn‟t matter that it felt like the world was ending. The second it
comes out of your mouth it feels small, and stupid, and like you
shouldn‟t even be complaining at all. And like it shouldn‟t have
mattered, that if you were better it wouldn‟t have mattered. So when
you talk about it you‟re just giving yourself away, you‟re just showing
people how weak you are.”

Harry is gripping the edge of the sink hard as he flips a print over, but
still doesn‟t turn. Louis loves him so much.

“There‟s a lot of stuff like that for me, stuff that matters and hurts and
is important, but I never really talk about it. Not just because it hurts or
because I don‟t trust people, but because—it doesn‟t make me feel sad
anymore, not like it used to. It makes me feel stupid. I feel stupid that it
happened, and I feel stupid that I cared, and I feel stupid that I still care
now. But I think that maybe you‟ll be nicer to me than I am. You have

576
a habit of doing that. And it still is important, to understand why I do
some of the weird shit that I do, so I want you to know it. Even if it
feels small.”

He takes a moment to catch his breath, watching Harry begin to pin

prints to the line with barely-shaking hands, and then he begins.

He starts from the beginning, the story of little teenage Louis

Tomlinson in his closet made of paper. Harry‟s already heard most of
this part, because it was always relevant to the whole Stuart
conversation they sometimes used to have, and his high school years
feel somehow detached from everything that came after, so talking
about that time never seemed quite so dangerous. He talks about how
he‟d wanted to just be normal, to be liked, to make his parents proud of
him, even though his dad had been out of the picture for years and
Mark was about as close as he had to an actual father figure.

He came out to his mum when he was eighteen, and he‟d hated himself
for putting that on her when she was only beginning to process the
divorce, but lying to her felt even worse. She‟d been wonderful about
it, told him she loved him always and that it never made a difference to
her, made him promise to bring any suitable boys „round for her to
meet them. That had been the one great mercy of that whole situation,
how much closer he felt to his mother after telling her.

The end of sixth form was great, though, because it was finally
finishing school and feeling like the whole world was spread out before
him waiting for him to wreak havoc. He tells Harry about landing the
starring role in Grease, which he‟d loved since childhood (John
Travolta in tight trousers had perhaps been a revelatory experience),
and how much it had boosted his confidence. He remembers joy back
then, despite everything else, because he was young and on top of the
world and anything was possible. And he wanted to fall in love so, so
badly.

After graduation it was off to university with Stan in tow, signed up on

a three-year plan for an extended diploma in musical theatre. They
decided against rooming together, but they did live on the same hall

577
with randomly assigned flat mates. Louis‟ first memories of uni are
classes that made him excited to get up in the morning and nights of
getting much too drunk much too quickly and Kale.

Kale was older and tall and gorgeous and wore shirts with the names of
bands Louis had never heard of, and when Louis first laid eyes on him
he was convinced that it was love at first sight. His first couple of
months at uni were spent trying desperately to win Kale‟s approval and
swindling free drinks at bars near campus to afford the cost of going to
every show Kale‟s band ever played.

Louis had never done more than kissed a boy, and he wanted more than
anything for Kale to be his first time. He knows now he must not have
been subtle about things at all, because he seems to remember a lot of
getting drunk at parties and winding up on Kale‟s lap, but at eighteen
he hadn‟t really known how to go about things and he was starving for
it. He didn‟t care who knew.

Finally, one night after a party, he‟d found his way into Kale‟s bed. It
hadn‟t been gentle at all, not nearly enough for Louis‟ first time, but he
didn‟t care. All that mattered was that he was having sex with the boy
he‟d been obsessed with practically since he set foot on campus, and he
was so cool, and fit, and he picked Louis out of all the other eligible
people lining up to fuck him, and that meant Louis was special. He
remembers when it was over, lying there next to Kale in bed and
thinking he‟d been right about everything, that the world was fucking
his, and wasn‟t everyone going to be so impressed with the new
boyfriend he‟d managed to bag.

Of course, Kale had never called him again, mostly because he never
even asked for Louis‟ number. After a month it became clear that there
were no mixed signals, nothing complicated about it, as much as Louis
had tried to build it up in his head. The simple truth was that he was a
fuck, a single nameless, meaningless fuck in a long line of nameless,
meaningless fucks. That had stung like only the first proper rejection
could.

578
He‟d spent a while after that feeling idiotic and childish, and looking
back he almost feels endeared to his past self, like he wants to knit him
a little onesie that says “Baby‟s First Disillusionment With Love.”
Maybe if he‟d liked girls, or if there had been boys for him back in
Doncaster, he would have gotten it over with early, leaving the teen
angst in middle school where it belonged. He‟d been running behind.
He needed to catch up.

There were a lot of nights out with his and Stan‟s new friends, making
out with boys he didn‟t know in the back of clubs he doesn‟t remember
the names of, trying to get the whole thing out of his system.
Thankfully he was such a baby at the time that it didn‟t take him very
long to bounce back, or at least not to bounce onto the next boy he
thought he was in love with.

The next boy was Tom, his flat mate, the engineering student with good
study habits and nice hands. He had blonde hair and a cute smile and he
laughed at all of Louis‟ jokes, and by the end of first term they‟d
become fast friends over pizza and video games and bottles of alcohol
passed between them.

Except one day Louis looked at Tom, and suddenly friends wasn‟t
enough anymore. He remembers sitting across their little living room
every day and wanting so badly to close that distance between them,
listening to the sounds of Tom going about the little tasks of his life and
feeling like he was in love with them all. Back then his heart was
spilling everywhere, and he‟d wanted so badly to give it to somebody.
He gave it to Tom, and he never knew if Tom really understood that.

He knew that Tom liked how much Louis liked him, that he loved it
when Louis would be all over the place but then focus in on him like he
was the only thing in the world worth his undivided attention. He knew
that Tom didn‟t mind when Louis jumped up in his bed and laid his
head in his lap when they were up too late talking. One night in
particular, when they were very drunk and very alone, he let Louis kiss
him on the neck and then they never talked about it again. Louis was
gone for him, so gone, and he kept biding his time, waiting for Tom to
come around.

579
Then one day suddenly Tom had a girlfriend, some pretty brunette with
a nice figure, and Louis thought he was going to throw up when he
found out. The next thing he knew she was coming over all the time,
sitting cross-legged on Tom‟s bed and kissing him over textbooks, and
all Louis could do was sit there and watch Tom be everything he
wanted with somebody else every day.

That was too much for him to handle, even back then, and by third term
he had started finding ways to stay out of his flat as much as possible.
Thankfully his classes kept him busy, and even though he could never
seem to land a decent part in any of the uni productions, what he did
manage to scrape up was enough to keep him sane. He was in the back
of a dressing room dreading the walk back to his residential hall one
night when he spilled his makeup kit all over the floor and somebody
bent down to help him pick everything up, and that was how he met
Daniel.

Daniel was half Spanish and had lips like an angel, and he was Louis‟
first boyfriend. They started dating near the end of Louis‟ first year at
uni, and it lasted for six months, and Louis thought he was really,
properly in love this time. They did everything together, including a lot
of very educational things in bed that Louis attached a lot of feelings to
when they were happening, because when you‟re learning those things
with somebody you love, it feels important.

They dated over the summer and well into the first term of Louis‟
second year in uni, and Louis was only nineteen but he was already
imagining ten years down the road, both of them on stages in London
and going home to the same tastefully furnished flat. He couldn‟t
imagine ever not wanting to be with him, and he was sure Daniel felt
the same way, even if he was a bit cagey about it.

And then Louis told Daniel he loved him for the first time, and Daniel
dumped him a week later. He told Louis that he was too clingy, that
they were young and he just wanted to have fun and it wasn‟t like that
for him.

580
Louis explains to Harry that this was how he first started to learn. He
learned from Daniel, and from Tom and from Kale, that he wasn‟t a
person that other people wanted to expend themselves on. That love,
real love, probably didn‟t exist at all, and certainly wasn‟t going to
happen for him. He wasn‟t a person who people wanted to love, not
really, and even if he could get them to want to be with him for a while,
even if he managed to rope them in, eventually the shine would wear
off and they‟d get sick of him or find something better. He wasn‟t
anybody‟s place to stay, just a stop along the way.

All of those things cut down whatever sense of reckless hope he‟d
gotten when he first came out. It didn‟t help that he kept getting turned
down for every role he tried out for, that every single train ride to
London for a casting call went absolutely nowhere. He wasn‟t good
enough, and that was something he‟d always privately felt anyway, but
it was worse to have it proven to him as more than just an anxious
voice in the back of his head. He wasn‟t leading man material, not even
in his own life.

By this point in the story, Harry has run out of prints and has no
busywork left. Instead, he sits down on the bench and listens, though at
least he doesn‟t look at Louis, just stares down at his hands. Louis is
glad he‟s still playing along, because he‟s never, ever told anybody this
much before, and he‟s not sure he could do it with Harry looking at
him.

He needs Harry to know it, though. It‟s not just that he feels like he
owes it to him, it‟s that now that they‟re doing this for real, he needs
Harry to know exactly where he‟s coming from. He needs Harry to
know all the reasons he acts the way he does, because he needs this to
work. He needs this to work more than anything.

So he folds his arms on top of his knees and keeps going.

Christmas 2011, Louis was still reeling from Daniel. He was on a

tailspin, and his friends were doing everything they knew how to do for
him, but it wasn‟t enough. He was going to do something he would

581
regret, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop him. If he
was going to be alone, he might as well make sure he deserved it.

It was around that time that his dad had the nerve send him an
invitation to a Christmas party at his new house with his new family
after months without so much as a text message to check up on him.
Louis had known when he got the invitation in his email that it was just
extended as a gesture, and that he didn‟t actually expect or want Louis
to go. They weren‟t really close, never had been—no matter how much
Louis tried—and at that moment in time Louis was just unstable
enough, just close enough to the edge, that one stupid email triggered
every single pent up feeling he‟d ever had about how much his dad
didn‟t seem to give a shit about him.

He showed up at the party already tipsy, wearing his tightest, reddest

trousers, and made a point to offend or scandalise as many of his dad‟s
friends and business associates as possible. He may as well have worn a
sign around his neck: Go on, Dad, ignore me. I‟d like to see you try.
Every obvious Daddy issues cliche wrapped up in one human being,
with all the subtlety of a double-decker bus. He‟s as much ashamed of
that as anything, that he lost control that much. That he let himself be
that affected.

He was in the kitchen fixing himself a drink when a man sidled up next
to him and asked if he was sure he needed another. Louis remembers
looking up to tell the prick off and then stopping himself when he saw
that it was a man his dad had been doing business with since Louis was
a kid, some corporate lawyer with a black Porsche and a perfect jaw.
He was in his early forties, going gray at the temples, and Louis
remembered that his name was Nathan Grant and he played golf with
Louis‟ dad.

It‟d be a lie to say it seemed like a good idea at the time, because it
didn‟t. What it did seem like was a way to feel like he was getting back
at his dad and prove to himself that he was still desirable in some way
all at once. He locked them in the guest bedroom and let Grant fuck
him while his idiot dad and his idiot friends carried on outside, and at
least he felt like he was in control of something for a few minutes.

582
Of course, his dad found out, and of course, his dad blew the whole
thing way out of proportion. Came and got him from uni, dragged him
home to his mum and yelled at both of them for an hour. It turned out
that apparently Grant had an affinity for collecting much younger boys,
and Louis‟ dad couldn‟t believe Louis would humiliate him by being
“one of his slags” and blamed his mum for raising him to be this way.
It was a huge mess and Louis‟ mum cried all night and Louis had never
felt so completely worthless before in his entire life. It took months to
get over that night, to stop believing that the things his father had said
were true. They still come back to him sometimes, on bad days, and it‟s
always a conscious effort to push them back down.

He was hanging by a thread by the time he met Patrick, a dark-haired

boy who was studying history and seemed to be Louis‟ last hope. They
dated for eight months, through graduation and the summer after, and it
was good. It was really, really good, enough for Louis to start believing
again that maybe all the other times had just been bad luck. He was
fairly certain he was really in love this time, and for once Patrick felt
the same way too.

Except Patrick‟s parents would have disowned him if they had ever
found out he was gay, and Patrick seemed to think he deserved it. Louis
tried coming up with compromises, tried finding ways to reconcile how
much Patrick said he loved him and how ashamed he seemed to be of
it, but all he ever ended up doing was feeling worse about himself. It all
blew up when he pushed a little too hard one day about cutting off his
parents and Patrick told him that he might love him, but he was never
going to love him that much. That was the worst thing Louis had ever
heard, honestly. Worse than anything his dad could come up with on
his worst day. It was one thing for somebody to tell him they didn‟t
love him. It was another for them to tell him that loving him wasn‟t
enough.

In the end Patrick left, moved across the country and never spoke to
Louis again except for a few drunken late night phone calls. Last Louis
heard, Patrick was married to a nice girl with one on the way.

583
That was the one that finally broke him. Even when everything was
perfect, it still hadn‟t mattered. He couldn‟t make him stay. He couldn‟t
be enough. What was the fucking point?

He gave up on just about everything after that. It wasn‟t like he could

afford to keep making the trip to London for auditions anyway, so
giving up on that particular dream made sense. It was how his life was
supposed to go, just another thing he wanted and wasn‟t good enough
to have. He‟d always known it was a longshot, and he had probably
always been better suited for teaching anyway. That was all he had
wanted before he got carried away in delusions of being a star, and it
was time to get realistic. He shut himself away from practically
everyone in his life at that point, focused on going back to school for a
bit and sorting out his certifications and saving up as much money as he
could.

He packed up and ran from Doncaster as soon as he could afford it. He

couldn‟t take it anymore, couldn‟t keep living in his mother‟s house
when she barely had the money to support the girls, couldn‟t handle the
sympathetic way she looked at him and the constant reminder of
everything he‟d ever done to make things harder for her. He couldn‟t
pass all the places that reminded him of the people who‟d broken his
heart and all the things he used to care about before he figured out that
he wasn‟t ever going to get to be happy. He had to get out.

He ended up in Manchester because he didn‟t think his piece of shit car

could make it much farther, and also he had some old friends from uni
out there who didn‟t look at him like he was a cautionary tale. He
managed to find a decent flat and a job a few months later, which was
considerably better than the position he‟d been in since he graduated
uni, and he adopted a cat, and he met Zayn, and then Niall.

The next few years were nothing special. After Patrick he‟d sworn off
relationships, so he just kept to the habit he‟d developed in Doncaster
of having meaningless sex with strangers with names he only bothered
to learn if they bought him a drink first. If any of them ever showed an
interest in anything more than sex, he‟d give the poor sod a fake
number and send him on his merry way, never to be seen again. For
years, he didn‟t let his guard down for anyone. That was how he

584
operated, and maybe it didn‟t make him happy, but at least it worked.
Nobody hurt him because nobody could. At the time, it had seemed like
all he deserved.

Louis has reached the end of the story now, or at least the last part up to
what Harry already knows. He feels winded like he‟s just run a
marathon, and emptied out, but he also feels a strange sense of relief.
He hasn‟t talked about any of these things in so long, and he never
really realized how much it kept weighing on him. It‟s all out there
now, all the ugliest, darkest parts of his past, and there‟s nowhere
farther down to go.

He looks up from the floor and Harry is silent and completely still in
the red light save for a muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw.
He waits, but Harry doesn‟t move or say anything.

“So, that‟s everything,” Louis says, still watching Harry anxiously.

“That‟s who I was. I had sworn that I wouldn‟t ever let anybody get
close enough to hurt me again, until I met you.”

“And then I fucking left you too,” Harry spits out, coming back to life
suddenly. He surges to his feet and crosses the room to grip the
worktop, swearing under his breath.

“No, Haz, I‟m trying to explain to you why it‟s not all your fault,”
Louis attempts.

“Do you have any idea how much I want to murder every arsehole who
ever hurt you right now?” Harry says, spinning around, and Louis is
reminded quite vividly of the day Harry came storming into his
classroom and told him about Mike Kendall. “I swear to God, if I ever
met any of them—but no, I haven‟t even got the fucking right, because
I was just as bad as any of them, I was—”

“You weren‟t,” Louis says, “I told you, it was just as much my fault as
it was yours.”

585
“I don‟t care whose fucking fault it was!” Harry snaps, his voice
breaking. “I was fucking oblivious, and I let you think I didn‟t love
you, and—”

“Harry!” Louis half-shouts, cutting Harry off. Harry freezes, eyes wide
and mouth halfway open, and Louis tries not to find the shocked halibut
expression on his face as comical as he does. He steps up to Harry,
taking one of his hands and smiling softly at him. “I don‟t blame you
for anything, okay? I told you all that because I wanted you to know
where I‟m coming from, but you didn‟t know anything back then. It
wasn‟t fair to you either.”

“Doesn‟t undo what I did,” Harry mumbles after a moment. “The last
thing I ever wanted was to hurt you.”

“I know,” Louis says, touching the side of his face. “Hey, I was an
arsehole too, remember?”

Harry laughs a little, and Louis can tell he‟s starting to come back
down. “Yeah, you were.”

“See?” Louis says. “We‟re both arseholes. That‟s why we‟re meant for
each other.”

Harry full-on grins at that, looking up into Louis‟ eyes. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, leaning up to kiss the top of Harry‟s cheek.

Harry pulls Louis in by the small of his back, wrapping both arms
around him. “Sorry. You‟re trying to be open with me and I throw a
fit.”

“It‟s okay,” Louis says simply. “You love me.”

586
“I do,” Harry confirms. “And I love you for telling me everything you
just told me. And I love you for loving me in spite of all that other shit,
even after I was a complete twat.”

“That‟s the spirit,” Louis says, and he reaches down and catches Harry
totally off-guard with a surprise nipple twist. Harry yelps in pain and
alarm and slaps Louis‟ hand away, and then they‟re laughing, and then
they‟re kissing, and Louis hopes this Benji bloke doesn‟t mind if they
get a bit fresh in his darkroom.

Before this, Louis kept thinking it would feel like things had changed
when he finally spilled his life story to Harry, but it doesn‟t really.
There are still the same hands, the same kisses, the same laugh when
Louis pins Harry‟s hands to his chest and licks the end of his nose.
There‟s no nuclear fallout. For about the millionth time this weekend,
he‟s done something that used to scare the shit out of him, and the
world still hasn‟t ended.

Once the prints have dried, Harry cleans up after himself and takes
them down gently one by one. He gets down a large folder from one of
the top shelves and slides them inside carefully, and Louis watches. It‟s
hot, getting to see Harry do something he loves and is good at. Louis is
into it. He could get into photography if it means just watching Harry
do this all the time.

Harry packs up his things and they head out together, locking up behind
them. The rain has stopped when they get outside, and their linked
hands swing between them as the walk back.

When they get back to Harry‟s flat, Harry slaps the folder of prints
down on the kitchen counter and flips through them, Louis peering over
his shoulder. They‟re all from Saturday, pictures of Louis and their tiny
lunch and Hyde Park and Louis and even a few inside Tesco‟s. Louis‟
favorite, though, and the one that Harry pulls out of the pile, is the one
the woman with the blue hair had taken for them. Harry‟s lips are
pressed to Louis‟ cheek, and Louis‟ face is scrunched up in a
thoughtless, crinkled smile, and they look very much like themselves.

587
Harry pulls the print out and puts it up on the wall with a few pieces of
Blu-Tac. On the bare wall it looks stark and small, but Louis looks and
sees that it‟s right in the line of sight from Harry‟s bed, so maybe it‟s
not so small after all. He can easily imagine it surrounded by all of
Harry‟s magpie nest of pretty things, and he looks over at the boxes in
the corner, considering.

“Do you want to put the rest up?” Louis asks. “I could help.” Harry
scratches at the back of his neck with a hesitant look on his face.

“Well, the thing is,” he says, “my internship only lasts until December,
which is like two months from now. And I‟m not sure if I‟ll be staying
here after that?” He says the last sentence like it‟s a question, looking
down at his feet and glancing up at Louis through his fringe. Louis isn‟t
sure how he manages that when he‟s so goddamn tall, but that‟s not
really an urgent issue at the moment when there‟s confetti raining down
inside his head.

“Do you—did you have somewhere else in mind?” he asks, scuffing his
feet on the floor and feeling like the luckiest idiot in the country.

“Would you want me to come back?” Harry says, and he still looks
nervous, but he also looks like he‟s braving his way through it.

Louis just manages to hold back from shouting yes, yes, an entire
country full of yes, but it‟s a close thing. He takes a breath instead and
tries to his best think things through properly. He wants Harry with
him, wants to cook terrible dinners with him and have excellent sex
with him and go out on dates with him and wake up next to him in the
morning. That‟s a given. But he doesn‟t have a darkroom in his
apartment, and Manchester is great, but it isn‟t London.

“I want you to be with me,” he says carefully. “And I want to be with

you. And I want you to be happy.”

“Well, that‟s settled, then,” Harry says, but Louis keeps going.

588
“But—” he starts, but Harry interrupts.

“I don‟t like but‟s,” he says. “No buts.”

“Let me finish, you shit,” Louis laughs. “I want you with me, but I
don‟t know how to be somebody‟s whole life, Harry. And I don‟t want
you to give up your dreams and your talent and your career for me. So I
want you to come back. I just don‟t want you to come back just for
me.”

Harry looks at him, and Louis knows the expression because he‟s felt it
on his own face so many times. It‟s a nice rush to know he can make
Harry make that face, make his face go slack with incredulity. That‟s a
good feeling.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Yeah. Okay. We‟ll figure it out. I‟ll start—I‟ll
start looking.” And then he‟s right in Louis‟ space, pulling him into a
hug. “I love you a lot, you know.”

“I‟ve got some idea,” Louis says, curling his fingers into Harry‟s shirt.

“So,” Harry says, pulling back and holding Louis at arm‟s length.
“Until then—we‟re doing this, right? I mean, for real.”

Louis nods. “I‟m all in, if you are.”

Harry‟s face breaks into a goofy grin. “I‟m in. We can visit—I have to
work weekends sometimes, but not always—”

“And we have phones—”

“And Skype—”

589
“We can do it,” Louis says firmly. “Even if I can‟t be with you, I still
want to be, you know. With you. You know what I mean,” he says,
smacking Harry on the arm when he starts to snicker.

“I do,” Harry says, still laughing. “And you‟d better. If you think I
suffered through all that emotional monologuing this weekend for
nothing—”

Louis goes in for the kill, tickle attack right in his sides, and enjoys
Harry‟s shrieks as they crumple to a heap in the middle of the floor.
“How dare you!” he yells, biting Harry on the ear, and yeah. This is
going to work.

If Louis could be out on the last train, he would. He‟d be on the ten
o‟clock train tonight, falling into bed back home at some ridiculous
hour, exhausted and unshowered at work Monday morning but at least
content with the thought that he spent as much time with Harry in
London as he possibly could have.

He can‟t, though. He‟d been saving this weekend to get a small

mountain of marking done, and now he shudders to think how behind
he‟s going to be when he gets back. Not to mention he‟s starting to feel
guilty about how many times he‟s had to text Zayn to go see about
Duchess this weekend. He needs to get back at some reasonable time of
day. He knows this, objectively. But that doesn‟t make him complain
about it any less as they pull up the train schedule on Harry‟s laptop,
and it doesn‟t stop the dread from pooling in his stomach as they ride
the tube together to Euston Station to catch the five o‟clock to
Manchester.

Harry stays with him all the way through the station, and when they
arrive at the platform, the train is already there. Louis feels his hand
clench up around Harry‟s, and Harry squeezes back like a reminder that

590
he‟s still there, that the train in front of them doesn‟t really change
anything.

The doors aren‟t open yet, so Harry pulls his iPod out of his pocket and
gives Louis one of the earbuds. They don‟t say anything to each other,
just wait there side-by-side, listening to Harry‟s music together. The
song that‟s playing is familiar, and when Louis recognizes it, he leans
his head into Harry‟s shoulder and remembers the first time Harry
played it for him that night after the Valentine‟s dance. Always
ridiculous. He should have known back then that this whole love-of-
his-life business was going to get him in the end.

The platform is crowded with people, but Louis feels completely

separated from all of them. It‟s just him and Harry.

Finally, the doors slide open with a hiss, and everyone around them
starts gathering up their bags and suitcases and fishing out their tickets
and filtering on board. Louis feels last-minute panic tugging at his
heart, and if he were just a little bit more reckless he‟d just say fuck it
and skip the train and spend another night on Harry‟s mattress, but he‟s
not, and he can‟t.

Suddenly he remembers it, the thing he grabbed out of his kitchen

drawer at the last minute and shoved down in the bottom of the front
pouch of his bag. He pulls his hand out of Harry‟s and turns to face
him, reaching into his bag with shaking hands. He looks up at Harry
steadily as he digs for the thing amidst gum wrappers and long lost
receipts, and when he finally finds what he‟s looking for he extracts it
carefully and holds it up between them. It‟s the spare key to his flat.

“I know you won‟t have much time to come back to Manchester,”

Louis says. He reaches out and takes one of Harry‟s hands, turning it
palm up. “But when you do,” he presses the key into Harry‟s open
palm, “come home.”

He knows what this means, not just to him but to Harry too, and he
holds his breath as Harry stares down at it, cradling it in his hand like

591
he‟s afraid he might break it somehow. When he looks up at Louis, his
eyes are shining, but his mouth is curled up in a smirk on one side.

“Do you keep that there all the time,” he says, “or did you just think I
was a sure thing?”

Louis grins so big he can hardly see, and he says, very fondly, “Shut
up,” before he pulls Harry in by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him.
Harry slides the key into his pocket and wraps his arms around Louis‟
waist to kiss him back as enthusiastically as he pleases, lifting his feet
up off the ground and turning them in a slow circle. Laughing into
Harry‟s mouth, Louis listens to the sounds of the world moving on
around them and feels the sturdiness of Harry‟s body against him and
thinks that this, this won‟t go away.

Harry puts him down at last, and they can‟t put things off much longer.
It‟s time to go.

“I love you,” Louis says, touching the ends of Harry‟s hair where it
curls against his ear. Maybe if he can imprint the way that feels into the
nerves in his skin it won‟t be so hard to go without it until the next time
they see each other again.

“I love you too,” Harry says. “I‟ll come see you as soon as I can. And
I‟ll call you all the time. You‟ll be sick of me. You‟ll be like, „Why‟s
that Styles prick calling again, I just talked to him an hour ago, hasn‟t
he got anything better to do, what—‟”

“I won‟t get sick of you,” Louis says confidently. “I‟m going to whine
about how much I miss you all the time until Zayn bludgeons me to
death with his copy of War and Peace.”

“We‟re disgusting,” Harry says.

592
“Too right, we are,” Louis agrees happily. They‟re the last ones on the
platform by now, and Louis leans in for one last kiss. “I love you.
Again.”

“I love you too. Again,” Harry says, hugging him tightly.

Louis swallows and pulls out of Harry‟s arms, hiking his bag up higher
on his shoulder. “It won‟t be long,” he says, and then he turns and
walks the few feet to the edge of the platform, taking a deep breath as
he sets a foot in the train.

“Hey, Lou,” says Harry‟s voice behind him.

Louis stops in the door and turns around to see Harry still standing
right where he left him, hands pushed down deep in his pockets.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I am, you know,” Harry tells him. “A sure thing.”

Louis smiles around the tightness in his throat. “I know.”

He manages to find the last seat against a window, and he watches

Harry grow smaller and smaller in the distance as the train pulls away
from the platform until he‟s gone around the corner. He can do this.
They‟re going to make this work. This doesn‟t fall apart just because
they‟re in different places. It‟s all right.

He pulls out his phone and opens up a blank text to Stan, because it just
feels like the thing to do. He hasn‟t the faintest idea where to start, or
how to condense everything into a single text message. His entire life
has just been changed in the course of one weekend.

In the end, he types out five words.

593
 I went and got him

Stan texts back less than twenty seconds later.

I knew you would

594
 TWENTY-FOUR

Zayn is pulled unwillingly into wakefulness by Liam‟s hand on his

shoulder. “Zayn, wake up,” Liam murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
It‟s the middle of November, and it‟s warm in this bed, and Zayn is
going to do no such thing.

“Zayn,” Liam says again, this time shaking him roughly. “Bo needs to
go out, it‟s your turn.”

“Mmmph,” Zayn counters, curling into a ball. Bed warm. He loves bed.

He feels motion down by his feet and cracks one eyelid open
resentfully. Sure enough, Bo has jumped up on the bed and seems to be
trying to chew on his feet through the duvet. Despite the fact that he
feels more corpse than human, she notices that he‟s awake and rushes
up the bed to lick at his face.

“No,” he says, more to the universe than to the dog, putting a hand out
so she can mouth at his fingers instead.

“You‟re the one who wanted her,” Liam says teasingly, and Zayn could
kill him for being capable of banter before noon.

“Hrrrrghh,” Zayn shoots back, and, after a moment of psyching himself

up, rolls himself sideways out of bed, managing through some miracle
of physics to land on his feet. He pulls on joggers and a t-shirt and
some trainers blindly, Bo jumping up against his legs the whole time,

595
before stumbling out into the flat, pulling on a coat, and grabbing Bo‟s
leash.

“You‟re lucky you‟re cute,” Zayn says, and it‟s meant for Bo but it
goes just as well for Liam. He squints at the beams of light streaming
through the blinds of his kitchen window and curses the fact that for
once it‟s sunny in Manchester during winter. He snags his sunglasses
off the little table by the door and then lets Bo out into the hallway
before she gets a chance to scratch up the finish on his front door.

Downstairs, he doesn‟t even try to walk her, just leads her to the little
square of grass near the front steps of his building and stands there.

“Go,” he says.

Bo stares at him for a second, wagging her stumpy little tail, and then
pivots on the spot and bounces away.

He has to admit, she is cute, and getting a puppy was his idea. Last
week, at long last, he finished the final draft of his novel and sent it off
to his editor. As it turns out, the whole influx of love and happiness and
stability in his life was what he needed to make that final push to
completing the bloody thing, which came as a bit of a shock to Zayn,
who always felt that pain was the heart of creativity. It‟s hard to be
tragically poetic when you‟re dating Liam Payne, but it worked out in
the end.

Liam asked Zayn what he wanted to celebrate, and Zayn said he wanted
a puppy. It seemed like the next logical step, seeing as it‟s been almost
a month since Liam moved into his flat for good, and Liam just grinned
and agreed and asked him if he wanted to stop for frozen yogurt on the
way to the RSPCA. Together they picked out a little mutt with a
smushed face and brown splotches, took her home, and named her Bo,
short for Bo Peep, because Liam is twenty-five years old and his
favorite movie is still Toy Story. Zayn suspects she might be part
pitbull, but didn't mention it to the people at the RSPCA. He's not sure

596
they would have let them take her if they'd realized, and that makes him
like her that much more.

She‟s a little demon, and Liam is spoiling her rotten, but even now,
watching her sniff around a scraggly patch of grass in the cold, Zayn
can‟t be mad at her. Yeah, she‟s a pain in the arse, and she‟s already
ruined one of his favourite pairs of shoes, but. She turns Liam into a
happy rough-housing child, and she follows Zayn around devotedly,
and she‟s a living reminder that Zayn is at a place in his life where he‟s
responsible for keeping something else alive. That‟s probably worth the
early mornings, though he‟d never admit as much to Liam.

Bo starts sniffing around the single bare shrub outside his building,
showing zero signs of actually needing to pee, and Zayn starts
questioning if he‟s being played for a fool here. He sticks his cold
hands into his armpits and hops up and down a little to keep warm. He
can‟t really muster up the energy to be annoyed, honestly. If he thinks
about it, he‟s pretty sure this is the worst thing that‟s happened to him
all week, and that‟s pretty special.

Things are great with Liam, even if he does commit the mortal sin of
being a morning person. Zayn has way more free time now that he
doesn‟t have his editor breathing down his neck, which means more
time both for his boyfriend and for his friends. That‟s been especially
convenient ever since he, Louis, and Liam started making a habit of
going to see Niall play on the weekends. Those nights out usually keep
even Liam in bed later than usual the next day. Next time Zayn is going
to make him get up with Bo, just to watch him pretend to be cheerful
through the hangover. Evil, but nothing less than he deserves. Louis
would approve.

Ah, Louis. That‟s another part of why things have felt so nice and
settled lately. Ever since he got back from London, Zayn‟s gotten to see
him more than he has in months, and it‟s nice not just to have his best
mate back but to see him so much happier. He‟s still the same Louis,
but he‟s different, too. He‟s more like himself, even if Zayn has never
seen him this way before, and it‟s wonderful. Maybe it means having to
listen to a million stories about what Harry said on their last Skype date
or how much Harry likes the new Best Coast album or when he‟s going

597
to get to see Harry again, but Zayn doesn‟t mind at all. He‟s just really
fucking happy that Louis‟ happy, and that Harry‟s happy, nobody has
to tiptoe around each other anymore. Hell, Louis is actually opening up
about things, more than Zayn has ever seen him do before. A week or
so after he got back he sat Zayn down and gave him the rundown on his
romantic history over leftover Thai, and Zayn feels closer to him than
ever. If the price of that is dealing with Louis being as obnoxiously in
love as Zayn is, he‟ll gladly pay it. All is right in his little Zayn world.

Finally, Bo has finished up her business, and Zayn scratches her behind
her ears and tells her she‟s a good girl, and she pants up at him
euphorically and follows him up the stairs.

He gives her a treat once they get inside, toes off his shoes, and pads
back into the bedroom. Liam is still dozing in the bed, face smushed
into the pillow and hair a mess, and Zayn is still sometimes amazed that
this is his life.

Quietly, Zayn slips back under the duvet, and then presses his cold
hands to Liam‟s warm back. Liam splutters awake, scrambling away
from him under the covers, but Zayn just grins and grabs him around
the waist, spooning up behind him.

“Your hands are like ice, Zayn, God,” Liam whines, covering them up
with his own but not trying to escape anymore.

“S‟what you get,” Zayn mumbles, his lips pressed against Liam‟s back.
They lie like that a while, Liam rubbing his hands against Zayn‟s to
warm them up, until Liam heaves a breath and flops back over on his
back.

“We should get up,” he says, poking at Zayn‟s face.

His eyes still closed, Zayn shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I just tried
it. Up is terrible.”

598
“I‟ve got errands to run,” Liam says, all serious like “errands” doesn‟t
include spending half an hour watching cartoons and eating cereal.
“Are we going out with the boys tonight, by the way?” he asks, tugging
on Zayn‟s fringe.

Zayn just snuggles in closer, still refusing to open his eyes. “Mmm, no,
Louis‟ not in town, remember? Surprising Harry,” he says, half into
Liam‟s armpit. “We‟ve got all day, sleep.”

“Once I‟m awake I can‟t fall back asleep, you know that,” Liam says,
but his voice is soft and pleased. Bo comes back into the room, but this
time she just jumps up on the bed and curls up at Zayn‟s feet. Good
dog.

“Then just stay with me,” Zayn says.

Liam pulls one of Zayn‟s hands up to his lips and presses a warm kiss
against his knuckles. “Always.”

Louis is on another train to London.

He and Harry had really been hoping to get a chance to see each other
again before now, but they‟ve both been busy with work and it‟s taken
them this long just to find a weekend that works for both of them.
Louis is very, very thankful that Harry‟s internship only lasts for a few
more weeks, because he misses him terribly. It was one thing to miss
him when he thought he would never see him again, but this is a
different animal entirely. Knowing that he actually could and will have
Harry back makes the absence both more and less tolerable, more of an
acute itch than that old dull ache. Things between them are still great,
but Skype dates and dirty text messages and phone calls on their daily
commute only go so far, and there‟s only so many times Louis can
wank to the memories of that weekend.

599
They have been making a very respectable go of the whole long
distance thing. They haven‟t gone more than a few hours since London
without talking to each other unless they‟re sleeping, and even then
there‟s the odd text in the middle of the night every so often because
one of them can‟t sleep. Even Louis‟ sex life is still active, thanks to
Harry‟s affinity for phone sex and some very creative Skype sessions.
He may not be getting laid in the flesh, but there‟s something to be said
for how much he gets off on coaching Harry to the edge and watching
him come from his own hand and the sound of Louis‟ voice over
webcam. Still, he wants to touch Harry, wants to just sit in
companionable silence with him too, wants to be with him all the time.
They both want that, and it‟s hard going without it.

So when their schedules finally lined up this weekend, Harry

immediately started looking up tickets to Manchester, but Louis called
him off. He had another idea.

Back in October, when he first got back to Manchester from his trip to
London, the first thing he did was phone his mum. Well, actually, the
first thing he did was enjoy the three-person surprise party of Zayn,
Niall, and Liam waiting in his flat with balloons and a burnt cake with
the words You have a boyfriend!!! scrawled on it in sloppy icing (Niall
had eaten a piece by the time he got there, so it actually just said You
have a boyf, but the sentiment still got across). But once they‟d all gone
home, he phoned his mum and asked her if she remembered the boy
he‟d told her about.

“I‟ve got a boyfriend, mum,” he told her, unable to keep the grin out of
his voice. She shouted down the line and demanded the full story and
started crying when he let slip an “I love him,” and again when she told
him she was proud of him and he responded that he was pretty proud of
himself too.

So of course ever since, she‟s been badgering him to bring “that man of
his” home to meet the family, and Lottie‟s been on him about it too
since he sent them a picture and she got a look at just how fit her
brother‟s new boyfriend is. Maybe the rational thing to do might be to
wait farther into their relationship to drag Harry back to Doncaster, but
he already feels like they‟ve been together forever, and the timing just

600
feels right. And so when they had a weekend open, he checked with his
mum and then suggested the trip to Harry.

Harry agreed so eagerly Louis wonders if he‟s been wanting this for a
while, and feels a pang of guilt about shutting Harry out of so much of
his life for so long. He thinks that Harry would probably yell at him for
thinking that way, though, so he pushes it aside and focuses on the
present issue, which is that Harry is about to meet his family. His
whole family. His mum and all four sisters. He knows they‟ll love
him—everyone loves him, it‟s awful—but the idea of integrating these
two halves of his life is still a bit daunting.

That might be one of the reasons that he‟s pulling the ridiculous stunt
he‟s doing now; the sooner he meets up with Harry again, the calmer
he‟ll be. So, instead of going straight from Manchester to Doncaster
and meeting Harry there like he said, he saved and scrimped for a few
weeks to buy tickets from Manchester to London and from London to
Doncaster. As far as Harry knows, he‟ll be riding from London to
Doncaster alone, but Louis is going to surprise him at the platform and
ride with him all the way back. It‟s silly, absurd, and over-the-top, but
Louis wanted to do it, so he‟s doing it. It‟s something he‟s been
experimenting with, recently: doing things because they feel good.

So now he‟s here, only barely keeping from pressing his nose up
against the window as his train pulls into the station. His stomach is
fizzing, but not with nerves: just genuine excitement. He‟s going to see
his boy.

He grabs his suitcase down from the overhead compartment, arms

wobbling only a little at the weight—it never hurts to have wardrobe
options, okay?—and bounds out onto the platform. He has twenty
minutes to get to wherever Harry‟s train is leaving from, and he may or
may not throw a few elbows as he pulls his suitcase of the train and
makes his way to the escalator.

Looking up at the big board, he finds Harry‟s track number and makes
his way eagerly through the concourse. He slows down as he passes a

601
flower vendor, but then changes his mind. He may be more on board
with this whole romance thing now, but he‟s not Zayn.

Finally, he turns a corner and comes to track twelve, where, according

to the voice on the intercom, the 15:23 East Coast train service to
Newcastle, calling at Stevenage, Peterborough, Doncaster... will be
leaving in ten minutes. The doors of the train are still closed, though, so
he‟s got plenty of time. He weaves his way through the crowd of
people waiting, craning his neck as he looks for Harry. He hadn‟t
considered what could happen if he didn‟t find him in time. It‟s going
to be embarrassing if he has to get on this train by himself and find
Harry once they‟re in Doncaster.

He stops worrying, though, when he spots a very familiar top of a head

peeking over the crowd. A wave of affection hits him, filling him up
with you exist and I love you all the way down to his toes. He‟d
planned to sneak up on him, to surprise him and maybe scare him a
little, but when it comes down to it he can‟t contain himself.

“Hey, Styles!” he shouts, pitching his voice over the white noise of the
trains and the people, and Harry‟s head whips around to spot him. A
moment of disbelief, and then the sun rises in his face, and Louis would
have saved up two months‟ worth of pay for this moment right here.

Harry abandons the suitcase at his feet, and Louis doesn‟t even stop to
think about what a scene he‟s making because they‟re running toward
each other across the platform and as soon as the distance between
them closes his feet are off the ground and Harry‟s spinning him
around in the air.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry half-shouts into Louis‟ hair.
Louis starts to answer but Harry doesn‟t seem to actually care about the
explanation, just kisses him happily, squeezing him so tight that Louis
can hardly breathe.

“I didn‟t want to wait,” Louis tells him once he‟s been set back down.

602
Harry‟s mouth opens and closes a few times, still pulled wide by his
smile, and Louis hopes that this gesture is enough to show him how
much his feelings haven‟t changed since they‟ve been apart, how much
he‟s still in this for keeps. He tugs Harry down by the front of his shirt
for another kiss, because it‟s been too fucking long.

They break apart and Harry just stares at him, looking amazed, and is
about to say something when the doors slide open with a hiss. He grabs
Louis‟ hand and his suitcase. “Come on, we want to get seats together,”
he says, and the two of them hurry onto the car.

Louis manages to snag the last two adjacent seats, staring down a pair
of businessmen and elbowing through a gaggle of teens. Harry lifts
their suitcases up into the compartment, and then slides into the
window seat, putting the armrest up so there‟s nothing between them.
Louis stands there in the aisle for a second, just taking it in, looking at
Harry looking back at him. He can‟t stop smiling.

He drops down into the seat and fits under Harry‟s arm like a puzzle
piece, and they‟ve only been back in the same place for about ten
minutes but it already feels normal again. It feels just as much like
coming home as getting on a train to Doncaster. Louis shifts around,
rearranging Harry‟s ludicrous limbs until he‟s comfortable with his
head on Harry‟s chest. He reaches to play with Harry‟s necklaces as
they wait for the train to move, sliding the chains between his fingers
like he‟s always liked to do, but he stops short when he see what‟s
hanging from one of them. Running his fingers over it carefully, he
confirms that it is what he suspected: the spare key to his flat.

His eyes flick up to Harry‟s. He‟d think it was a nice gesture, but Harry
hadn‟t known he would be here. “You—do you wear this all the time?”
he asks hesitantly.

Harry just shrugs, looking only a little nervous, and plays lightly with
Louis‟ hair. “Don‟t wanna lose it,” he says finally, and his voice is
steady but Louis can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

603
Louis tips his chin up and catches Harry‟s mouth in a careful kiss. “I
love you,” he says reverently, letting the key drop and moving to twine
his hand in Harry‟s. They stay like that a moment, just curled into each
other as the train leaves the station. “Even if that is the cheesiest thing
I‟ve ever heard in my life,” Louis says finally, and the the woman in
the seat in front hushes them as they both burst into laughter.

The ride to Doncaster passes fairly quickly with Harry by his side
drawling on and on about nonsense. It‟s kind of amazing that even with
all the time they spend attached to their phones or computers these days
they still haven‟t run out of things to say to each other, but Louis
supposes that‟s how to tell when something‟s made to last. By the time
they‟re pulling into the station in Doncaster, Louis has almost forgotten
to be nervous about what comes next.

Harry hasn‟t, though, judging by the way he starts compulsively fixing

his hair every fifteen seconds as soon as the train whines to a stop.
Louis reaches for his hand to stop him from scalping himself and finds
it clammy and tense.

“Are you joking?” Louis says, only letting go of his hand to get out of
their seats and grab his suitcase. “Harry. It‟s my mum. She already
loves you by default because I‟m actually bringing someone home for
once. As long as you tone down the nudity and avoid sending anyone to
hospital, she‟s going to adore you.”

“I can‟t help it,” Harry says, following Louis off the train and onto the
platform. “You know I‟ve never met anyone‟s parents before,
actually.”

“Really?” Louis asks, looking behind him. He reaches out and grabs
Harry‟s hand again and leading him through the station and out to a
bank of taxis. “Well, I promise to be gentle with you.”

When the door to his house opens, they‟re greeted by an indeterminate

number of screaming teenagers, one of whom launches herself at Louis
and nearly knocks him over. Okay, maybe “gentle” wasn‟t the best

604
word, but Louis can‟t be fussed when he‟s surrounded by the people he
loves the most in the world. “Get off me, you monsters!” he shouts
loudly, holding tight to Harry and pulling him inside. “Help! Help! I‟m
being attacked!” he yells as dramatically as he can, smiling as his mum
comes down the stairs.

“Give the boys some space,” she says, pulling the twins away from
where they‟ve swarmed around Harry and gathering Louis into her
arms. “Missed you, love,” she says, and Louis holds her tight. “Now,
who‟s this, then?” she asks, turning to Harry, as if Louis hasn‟t told her
everything there is to know. Louis feels a sudden surge of affection for
her, that she‟s so determined to do this right.

Harry holds out his hand. “Harry Styles, ma‟am,” he says. Louis‟ mum
shakes his hand, and Louis can tell by the smile playing around her
mouth that she‟s as endeared by Harry‟s attempt at seriousness as he is.
“Very nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me to visit your lovely
home.”

“I didn‟t invite you, Louis did. Without my permission, I‟ll add,” she
says. When Harry blanches, she can‟t keep from laughing. “Oh, God,
I‟m joking, sweetheart. How have you not got a thicker skin hanging
around with my son?” she asks. “Come on in, make yourself at home.”
Harry relaxes a little, relieved, and Louis loves them both so much he
could sing.

They drop their stuff in the living room and get ushered into the
kitchen, where the girls sit around the table with them and start
quizzing Harry while Louis‟ mum gets started on dinner. Harry makes
several valiant efforts to offer help, but gets smacked away from the
stove every time with a dishtowel. Instead, he sits down and holds
Louis‟ hand under the table and answers questions about how old he is
(twenty-four) and what he does for a living (clean up after other people,
mostly, right now) and if he has any younger brothers (no, sorry, just an
older sister). Louis does absolutely nothing to help him, but Harry
holds his own pretty well under the onslaught, and Louis can see his
mum smiling in the kitchen.

605
Dinner is chaos, as per usual, fourteen arms trying to reach across for
the salt or pass the salad, and Louis thinks it must be strange for Harry,
who grew up with one older sister in a much larger house. He seems to
be enjoying himself, though, having lost some of his nervous stiffness
from earlier, and Louis thinks having the distraction of half a footie
team‟s worth of teenage girls probably helps.

When they finish the food, Harry insists on doing the washing up,
which means Louis has to get up and help him. “Can you not make me
look quite so bad?” he whispers, elbowing Harry hard in the side at the
sink. “My mum‟s going to trade me in exchange for you if you don‟t
watch it.”

Harry laughs and flicks water at him, but of course it‟s only when
Louis retaliates that his mum shouts, “Louis, behave yourself,” from
the other room. Typical.

After that they move to the living room for family game night, which
Louis fondly remembers hating all through his adolescence. It‟s fun
now, though, especially watching Lottie sulk and check her phone
every time their mum‟s looking the other way. They split up into teams
for Pictionary, and Harry and Louis hold their own for quite some time,
but Louis is 100% sure that Harry throws the game when the twins
have a chance to beat them. It‟s not like they don‟t have enough
advantages already, with their freaky twin bond thing.

Still, it‟s cute, and a good way to end the night, and Louis is fantasising
about giving Harry a thank-you blowjob when his mum speaks up.
“So,” she says, ushering the girls upstairs to get ready for bed. “I was
thinking Harry could take the downstairs sofa, and Lou, you can sleep
in the TV room.”

The two of them exchange looks. Louis had figured it‟d be hard for
them to get any alone time, but not getting to at least share a bed with
Harry their first night together in weeks is not going to be fun. Harry,
though, ever eager to please, shoots Louis a quieting look and says,
“Fine by me! Do you think I could borrow some sheets?” Louis is

606
going to give him a noogie for being a suck-up the second he gets him
alone.

He does exactly that when they‟re brushing their teeth in the bathroom,
and then gives him a minty kiss. “I‟ll see you in the morning,” Harry
says, giving him a squeeze on the arse, and Louis watches him go down
the stairs before he moves to the TV room.

Nestled in amongst the pillows, he stares at the ceiling, tossing and

turning and trying to get comfortable. He sleeps alone every night at
home, but this is different. He can practically feel Harry downstairs,
that same sort of itchy feeling he gets in the back of his mind when he
knows someone‟s watching him. He grabs his phone from where it‟s
charging on the floor. He doesn‟t want to text Harry, doesn‟t want to
make things worse for him, so he pulls up Stan‟s number.

seeing hazza for the first time in weeks and have to sleep apart bc we‟re
at mums. this blows. feel bad for me x

A few minutes later, the phone buzzes back.

go the fuck to sleep lou xx

Louis snorts, and then tries to follow Stan‟s advice. It‟s hard, though,
and he feels the lack of Harry in his arms like a phantom limb. He‟s
about to start literally counting sheep when he hears the creak of
footsteps on the stairs. Harry‟s head appears above the banister, hair
rumpled from being in bed, and he has a sheepish expression on his
face. “Couldn‟t sleep,” he whispers. “Don‟t want to break the rules,
but…” he trails off, shrugging.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” Louis whispers back, grinning,
and starts budging over to make room for him. Harry tries to squeeze in
next to him on the sofa, but between Louis‟ ridiculous arse and Harry‟s
ridiculous legs they can‟t get comfortable. “Fuck this,” Louis says, and
starts shoving all the pillows off the sofa. They go to sleep like that,
curled up in a pile of cushions and blankets on the floor, and Louis

607
wakes up with a crick in his neck but feels more well-rested than he has
in a long time.

Harry‟s blinking awake at the same time. “Morning,” Louis says,

tugging on an errant curl, and Harry smiles at him sleepily. They go
through their morning routines in the upstairs bathroom, and Louis
can‟t put into words how much he enjoys watching Harry shave next to
him while he washes his face. It‟s good. It‟s really good.

Downstairs, there‟s the sound of the front door opening, and Louis
hears his mum‟s voice say, “What are you doing in my garden this
early in the morning, Stan?”

“Morning, Ms. T!” says Stan, who, Louis confirms with a glance over
the bannister, is in his house. What the hell. Harry looks to him for an
explanation, but Louis hasn‟t got one. “Smells amazing in here, simply
fantastic. Are those pancakes?”

“Yes, they are, and if you‟re looking for Louis, he—” his Mum stops
short when she sees Louis coming down the stairs with Harry in tow.
She‟s standing at the kitchen counter next to the stove with a spatula,
and she puts a hand on her hip when Louis offers her a small wave.
“Well, look who didn‟t sleep on separate sofas after all.”

“Sorry, mum,” Louis says, and behind him Harry mumbles a sheepish
apology of his own, but she‟s smiling at them like she thinks it‟s cute,
so Louis figures they‟ll get away with this one.

“Morning, Lou!” Stan says, sounding altogether too cheerful.

Suspicious. “Morning, Harry! Why aren‟t you two dressed yet?”

“What?” Louis asks. Stan gives him a face that Louis‟ seen millions of
times in their long history of mischief-making, usually accompanied
with an elbow in his ribs to remind him to go along with the story.

“Yes, what?” Louis‟ mum echoes.

608
“Oh, Louis wanted me to take Harry and him out for breakfast.
Bonding and all that rot,” he tells her.

Harry mouths what? at him, and Louis mouths back who fucking
knows?

“All right,” Louis‟ mum says after a moment of consideration. “Just

have them back by lunchtime.”

“Will do, Ms. T,” Stan says. He turns back to Harry and Louis. “You
lads should go put on some proper trousers if you expect me to be seen
in public with you.”

Louis has no fucking clue what he‟s on about, but it‟s Stan, so he
figures there‟s a plan of some sort that he‟s not privy to yet. He pulls
Harry back upstairs and they change quickly, meeting Stan down by the
front door and following him outside.

“The fuck are you doing, Stan?” Louis asks as soon as the front door is
shut behind him.

“Shut up and get in the car,” Stan says, unlocking the car and ignoring
the question completely. “You‟ll thank me later.”

Louis rolls his eyes but complies, sliding into the backseat next to
Harry while Stan starts the car.

“Hello, Harry,” Stan says, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Hello, Stan,” Harry replies.

Stan puts the car in drive but doesn‟t let his foot off the brake just yet.
Instead he holds Harry‟s eyes in the mirror and says, quite casually,
“Bugger off like that again and I‟ll put you in the ground.”

609
Harry nods. “Duly noted.”

“Cheers,” Stan says, and he pulls away from the curb.

“If you‟re done threatening my boyfriend,” Louis says, “would you

mind telling me where the hell you‟re taking us?”

“It‟s a surprise,” Stan says, and Louis groans, but he knows Stan and he
knows that‟s all he‟s going to get out of him until he‟s ready to say
more. He doesn‟t say anything else for the rest of the drive except to
comment on the weather or the traffic, until finally they pull into a
carpark in front of a block of flats and Stan stops the car.

He reaches down and removes a key from his keyring, then turns
around and holds it out to Louis.

“I hope you realise that I am the best friend on the entire fucking planet
right now,” Stan says.

“Stan, what the fuck are you on about?” Louis says.

Stan shoves the key into his hand. “Number 102. It‟s my flat.”

“What—”

“I‟ll be back in three hours,” Stan says. “Wash the fucking sheets, you
animals.”

Louis stares at him. “You‟ve got to be joking. We can‟t—”

“Sure we can, Lou,” Harry says, already opening his door and jumping
out of the car like he‟s on fire, and Louis gets one last fleeting glimpse
of Stan winking at him before he‟s yanked bodily out into the carpark.

610
Harry ducks his head back in to thank Stan, and then he shuts the door
behind him and Stan pulls away.

Louis tries to argue, because it feels like he should, but if he‟s honest
his heart really isn‟t in it, and mostly he just wants to have sex with
Harry again, whatever that takes.

So they find Stan‟s flat together, and Louis lets them in. Stan lives
alone, and his flat has actually been cleaned to some extent, which is
almost as big of a gesture as Stan offering them his flat in the first
place. There‟s a brand new bottle of lube waiting on the bedside table.
It‟s got a bow on it. Louis does not know what he did to deserve the
people in his life.

Harry just laughs and pulls Louis down with him, and they spend two
very athletic hours in Stan‟s bed making up for the month and a half
they‟ve spent apart. Louis doesn‟t expect either of them to be able to
last long at first since they‟ve both been holding out for so long, but
neither of them wants to come first and they‟re both competitive
enough that it keeps them going. It‟s thorough, and it‟s loud, and it‟s
good, and Louis gets a fistful of Harry‟s hair and gives him something
to remember when he goes back to London.

After the second round and a brief spell of lying comatose on Harry‟s
chest, Louis forces himself out of bed and pulls his boxers back on,
making a mental note to buy Stan something huge and expensive for
his birthday this year. He manages to sweet talk Harry into getting up
so he can pull the sheets off the bed and put them in the washing
machine as requested. Once he‟s set the cycle and shut the lid, he
wanders out into the flat and finds Harry in the kitchen wearing nothing
but his pants. He‟s found the assortment of photos stuck up on Stan‟s
fridge with alphabet letters spelling out obscene words, and he‟s
laughing to himself at the awful, ridiculous pictures of Louis when he
was a teenager. Louis smacks him on the arse for that, and Harry chases
him through the flat, and they rather defeat the point of washing the
sheets when Harry picks him up and puts him on top of the washer and
then sucks him off right there in the middle of the rinse cycle. He
doesn‟t plan on telling Stan about that one.

611
At the end of the three hours, Stan drives them back to Louis‟ house,
making a big show of his martyrdom. “I‟m going to bleach everything
the second I get home,” he says as he comes to a stop. “Everything.”

Harry leans forward into the front and gives Stan a smacking kiss on
the cheek. “You‟re the best, Stan,” he says, and Louis howls with
laughter.

“And now I have to bleach my face, thanks for that,” Stan says. “Lou,
I‟ll see you at Christmas, yeah?” Louis nods, reaching out to ruffle
Stan‟s hair. “You too, right?” he continues, meeting Harry‟s eyes in the
rearview.

Harry nods seriously, and then opens to door to exit the car. Louis
lingers a moment. “You are the best, you know that?” he says.

“I‟m aware,” Stan says. “Now get out of my car,” he says with a smile.

“Love you too,” Louis grins, and then follows Harry out, waving as
Stan pulls away and drives off. They walk hand-in-hand back into the
house, but Harry immediately gets commandeered by the twins. Louis
is pretty sure they‟re in love with him, or at least they‟ve imprinted on
him like ducklings, and the thought fills him with immense satisfaction.

Louis goes to make tea for his mum in the kitchen, and eavesdrops on
their conversation. They‟ve got him reading one of their magazines,
taking some quiz about who their respective boyband soulmates are.
Harry, bless him, seems to be taking it immensely seriously,
interrogating each of them over their answers. Does Phoebe really like
a guy who‟s funny more than a guy who‟s nice? How sure is Daisy that
she‟d rather spend time alone than in a big group?

Louis‟ mum comes up behind him at the kettle, clearly also listening in.
She hugs him from behind, and Louis leans into it as he takes two
teacups out of the cabinet. “He seems like he‟s good for you,” she says
softly.

612
“He is,” Louis says, taking the kettle off the burner as it starts to
whistle. His mum goes to grab teabags, which she puts in the cups
before he pours in the water. “I think I‟m good for him, too.”

His mum smiles, leaning against the counter. “Well,” she says, eyes
only a little watery, “Anyone who makes you say that is welcome here
anytime he likes.”

Louis smiles back, handing her a steaming cup. “Don‟t tell him, will
you? Watching him be terrified of you is hilarious.” They clink their
cups together. “Want to go watch telly?” Louis asks, because some
things don‟t change.

“Love to,” she replies, and they walk upstairs together. Harry seems
perfectly happy where he is, and Louis notes as he walks by that Daisy
has started braiding part of his hair.

Part of him feels like he should be taking advantage of the little time he
has with Harry, but he‟s missed his mum too, and he doesn‟t have the
heart to break up the bonding session happening in the living room. It‟s
good, he thinks, to give Harry some time alone with his family, because
he hopes this is just the beginning of a very, very long arrangement.

He spends half the afternoon with his mum, curled up in her bed, and
he thinks this might be as close to heaven as he‟ll ever get. “You
deserve this, you know that, right?” his mum says at some point, and all
Louis can do is nod around the lump that forms suddenly in his throat.
How do mums do that?

When they go back downstairs to make sure everyone‟s ready to go out

for dinner, Harry is in the kitchen undoing the braid. “You survive
okay?” Louis asks, and Harry nods.

“Yeah, they‟re nice girls.” He makes an unhappy face. “I don‟t know

about those magazines they read, though. They‟re very—I don‟t know,
what if your sisters wanted a celebrity girlfriend instead of a
boyfriend?”

613
Louis goes up on his toes to kiss Harry on the cheek. “You‟re
ridiculous. Also, my sisters will never date anyone because they will be
children forever. Are you packed up? We‟re going straight to the
station from dinner.” Harry nods, and Louis goes to make sure that all
his own stuff is shoved back into his suitcase before he pulls Harry into
the downstairs toilet.

“What are you—“ Harry gets out before Louis drags him down into a
kiss. There‟s only so heated things can get in a tiny room containing a
toilet, but they still make a go of it, Louis‟ hands under Harry‟s shirt
and Harry‟s hands in Louis‟ hair. They break away after a minute,
panting, and only the fact that they wore each other out earlier in the
day is keeping Louis from trying for more. “What was that for?“ Harry
tries again.

“For making my mum happy,” Louis says, smoothing out the collar of
Harry‟s shirt.

“Okay, weird,” Harry says, quirking an eyebrow at him. “But I‟ll take
it.”

Louis pulls him out of the bathroom with a snort, and they grab their
bags from the living room and take them out to the minivan. The girls
and Louis‟ mum are already outside, so once the suitcases are in the
back they all pile in. Lottie sits on Louis‟ lap under much protest, and
the twins are a bit smushed, but they all manage to sort-of fit. They
make their way to the restaurant, the same Italian place that Louis‟
family has been going to for years, and sit down at a long table, sharing
pasta and breadsticks and dessert. It‟s the perfect way to end the
weekend, the chatter of his family and the taste of chocolate and
Harry‟s soft eyes across the table. He and Harry split the bill, and that
feels good, too, doing something nice for his family with the person he
loves.

They pile back into the van, and Louis catches his mum‟s eyes in the
rearview and gives her a grin. She drives them to the train station,
where they all clamber back out again, and Harry gets the bags out of
the boot. Louis gets a hug from all his girls at once, and Harry looks

614
amazed when he gets one too. “My brother is a bit shite, but you‟re
cool, so put up with him, yeah?” Lottie says, smirking at Louis.

“I‟ll try,” Harry says seriously, and then grins up at Louis too, who
sticks his tongue out at them both. Harry looks even more stunned,
though, when Louis‟ mum pulls him into her arms as well.

She says it quietly, but Louis can still hear her soft, “Thank you,” and
has to stare at the ground and scuff his feet to keep from either blushing
or crying or throwing himself at them both.

He hears Harry murmur back, “Thank you,” and that‟s it, this has to be
over now or else he‟s going to make a fool of himself.

“All right!” he chirps brightly. “Time to go. Love you all,” he says,
hugging his mum tightly. “Be good. I‟ll be home for Christmas.”

They wave goodbye as Louis and Harry head into the station. They‟re
catching different trains, Harry back to London and Louis home to
Manchester, but they have a few minutes before they have to part ways.

“So that was... a lot.” Harry says once they get inside. Louis laughs and
nods, squeezing Harry‟s hand in his.

“You were perfect,” Louis says. “They‟re all in love with you. Mum
wants you to come for Christmas.”

Harry grins and blushes, ducking his head. “Can I tell you something?”
he says, and Louis nods. “There‟s a job opening. In Manchester. Some
local magazine needs a photographer. They‟re pretty small, but they do
really cool stuff and they‟ve got a great reputation. I sent my
application in on Thursday. I haven‟t heard back yet, but one of my old
professors knows the editor, and he said he‟d put in a word for me, so
there‟s a strong chance that you‟ll be spending Christmas hols helping
me prep for a job interview.” He grins. “I assume I can crash at yours?”

615
“Hazza, that‟s amazing,” Louis says, kissing him quickly on the lips.
“That‟s—that‟s really, really good. And of course you‟ll stay at mine,
you tit.” He pauses, searching Harry‟s face for a moment. “And you
know that—if you end up needing somewhere to stay that‟s more, you
know, long-term…” he trails off, waiting for Harry to catch on. He
does, and he grins, and Louis grins back because he‟s been wanting to
ask him this for a while now, but he‟s never quite known when was the
right time. It‟s a big step, but Harry‟s looking at him like it‟s the easiest
decision he‟s ever made.

“That‟s my plan, if you‟ll have me,” Harry says.

“Of course I‟ll have you, you shit, like I‟d let you waste money on rent
for a separate flat,” Louis says, laughing. He wraps his hand around the
spare key that‟s still hanging around Harry‟s neck and pulls him into a
kiss that‟s just this side of too heated for a public place.

They pull apart reluctantly, as the track number for Harry‟s train comes
over the intercom. “Four more weeks,” Harry breathes.

“Four more weeks,” Louis says back, tucking the key back under the
collar of Harry‟s shirt. “I love you. Call me when you get home?”

Harry ducks to kiss him one more time. “I love you too. And I won't be
home, but yeah, I'll call.” And then he goes, heading to the platform.
He only looks back at Louis twice, and Louis admires his restraint.

Then he‟s out of sight, and Louis can feel the absence settling into his
bones, but it‟s all right. They‟re going to be fine. Four more weeks.

616
 TWENTY-FIVE

“Does it look even?” Louis says, perched on top of a ladder and lifting
the string of lights higher into the corner.

“I can‟t tell. What do you think?”

Louis rolls his eyes and cranes his neck around. “I can‟t tell, can I,
since I‟m trying to put them up. Come on, make an effort here, it‟s your
party, too.”

“This is not my party. Do not even pretend that any of this is about
me.”

“Well, it‟s your flat, too, anyway,” Louis says, giving up and pinning
the lights in place where they are. He spins around, hands on his hips,
and fixes Harry with a glare. “You‟re no help at all.”

“Excuse me,” Harry says, moving forward to lift Louis off the ladder
and put him down on the ground. “Who‟s handling all of the
refreshments, again? I am the most helpful.”

Louis sighs, stepping back from the ladder to survey the lights. They
are not, in fact, even, but only by a few inches, and Louis figures that
nobody but him will notice. He finds he doesn‟t mind altogether that
much, possibly because these particular lights are straight out of the last
of Harry‟s boxes, the same blinking, multi-coloured lights from his old
flat. Louis likes the way they look around the ceiling of his living

617
room, crooked and cheerful. He likes it a lot, actually. He may leave
them up for a while.

Not that he‟s done giving Harry shit, though.

“You‟re lucky the theme of the decorations this year leaves room for
imperfection,” Louis says, poking Harry in the nose. “Can you get the
rest of the lights? You‟re taller.”

“You just want to ogle my arse while I‟m not looking,” Harry teases.

“Got it in one, love,” Louis says with a wink.

Harry grins and then turns around, making a show of pretending to be

put-upon. “Anything for the birthday boy, I suppose.”

As Harry climbs back up the ladder, Louis can‟t help but stand back
and watch, not just the way he looks in those jeans—though that‟s very
nice as well—but the way he looks in Louis‟ flat. In their flat. He only
moved in a week ago, fresh off his internship and ready to start his new
job in Manchester in January, but he‟s already changing things in
noticeable ways.

For one, there are all sorts of fancy new cooking gadgets in the kitchen
that Louis doesn‟t know how to use and—after a mishap with a dessert
torch that ends with him setting his own jumper on fire and which Zayn
will never, ever hear about—is not allowed to touch without
supervision. The bathroom counter is twice as cluttered as it used to be.
The bed is much warmer. It‟s nice, everything that‟s changed, but it‟s
still a lot.

Louis likes it, the way that they're intermingling their lives, but he
won‟t say it‟s always easy. He‟s growing, and he‟s changing, but he
can‟t pretend he doesn‟t still have moments of oh God what am I doing
when he takes stock of all the ways he‟s given up space in his life and
his head and his heart to make room for Harry. The night he first
moved in Louis had to take a walk by himself, to roam around a few

618
streets alone and talk himself down before he could come back inside
to a place that was no longer his and his alone. But Harry let him do it,
and understood, and didn‟t push. Standing in their living room,
watching Harry nearly tip off the ladder as he strains to put up lights for
Louis, he doesn‟t feel even a hint of regret.

So it‟s good, and he‟s happy, and sometimes he loves Harry so much
he can't breathe, but that's a lot better than the things that used to
smother him. There‟s a box or two in Louis room that still need to be
unpacked, but for the most part, all the little pieces of Harry‟s life have
been integrated into the flat. They sorted through Harry‟s bits and bobs
and mixed them in with all of Louis‟ bits and bobs, Harry‟s little
wooden Buddha statue next to Louis‟ programmes on the bookshelf,
Harry‟s Gandalf bobblehead standing sentry in front of every season of
One Tree Hill on DVD. Louis had Harry help him pick out their
favourites of Harry‟s photos and then got them framed as an early
Christmas gift, and Harry took over arranging them on the walls all
over the flat since he‟s the one with the eye for composition. They
work well together, Louis thinks. And he has to admit, birthday sex is
even better when it‟s also still-can‟t-believe-I-get-to-have-you-here-all-
the-time sex. They've rechristened every room in the flat, and most of
the flat surfaces, too, just to be sure.

For the first time ever, he‟s got a co-host for his annual Christmas-
meets-birthday extravaganza, and perhaps Harry is not quite the
socialite that Louis is, but he‟s surprisingly good at party planning.
Even when he was still in London, Harry was calling bakeries and
comparing Yelp reviews on different caterers and texting Louis ideas
for themes full of exclamation marks in the middle of the day. It‟s a
good thing, because Louis may not have attempted a production this
term, but he did manage to land the lead in the modern retelling of A
Christmas Carol his community theatre decided to put on, and their run
only ended a couple of days ago. He could have managed it on his own,
but he would have enjoyed it a lot less.

The whole cast of the show is invited tonight, and Louis can admit that
he‟s nervous. He wants these people to like him, wants to keep them in
his life after the show‟s done. Now that he‟s branching out more he‟s
realizing how much he‟s missed being social outside of work. Niall and
Zayn and Liam and Harry and Stan obviously will always be top of the

619
list, but he needs to be more generous. The rest of the world deserves
its share of Louis Tomlinson too.

Once they‟ve finished with the lights, they move on to finishing up the
rest of the flat. All the furniture is shoved and stacked into their
bedroom to leave the rest of the apartment open for dancing, and they
tack little branches of mistletoe over every doorway in the flat. That
part leads to a bit of distraction, but Harry is determined to prove his
worth as a party planner, so he calls a mistletoe moratorium until
they're done setting up the refreshments. Duchess perches on the top of
the refrigerator and yowls periodically, eyeing Louis like she knows
what he‟s got in mind and will be damned if she‟ll allow it to come to
pass. It‟s no use. The dress code this year mandates something that
lights up, and Louis is getting that blinking LED collar on her if he has
to sacrifice an arm.

He does eventually manage to get the collar on Duchess after he and

Harry have taken care of all the last-minute things, and then it‟s time
for them to get themselves dressed. It‟s become sort of his favorite
thing since that time in London, watching Harry get dressed, and Harry
catches him smiling at him as he straightens his light-up bowtie in the
mirror. He pulls Louis in by his braces—covered in little lights to
match—and gives him a smiling kiss that tastes like the cookies he‟s
been sneaking. What can he say? Thematic apparel is his greatest
weakness.

Once again, Niall is the first to arrive to the party. He‟s DJing again,
and this year Louis‟ party is quite the hot ticket, since he promised
house music by The Craic on the invitations. He comes at both Harry
and Louis with a flying tackle as soon as he‟s through the door,
shouting in their ears, and Louis thinks that if anybody in the world is
happier about him getting back together with Harry than he is, it‟s
Niall. Once he‟s given them each a huge sloppy kiss he‟s off to work
setting up his equipment, the bottoms of his high-tops flashing different
colours with every step.

Zayn and Liam show up next, Zayn with his arms covered in glowstick
bracelets and Liam sporting a blinking jumper that plays “Frosty the
Snowman” tinnily if you press a button. They‟ve been over a few times

620
recently, usually bringing Bo over to try to get her socialised. Duchess
has gotten great amusement from lurking in high spots and then leaping
down on Bo from above, and thankfully, so far Bo has just decided that
Duchess is her new favorite playmate, following her all over the flat.
This time, though, Zayn and Liam show up without their furry
dependent.

Zayn immediately goes over to badger Niall about music selections as

Niall slaps his hands away from the turntable, and Liam starts quizzing
Louis about if they have enough cups and does he need any help and is
he sure having this many lights plugged into one outlet isn‟t going to
blow a circuit breaker.

“As if that could stop us,” Louis says, and flicks the light switch to
plunge the flat into darkness before plugging in the lights. Suddenly the
room is blinking and flashing and glittering like the world's most
festive nightclub, lights of every colour playing over their faces.

“Sick,” Niall says, and then pulls on his earphones.

Once the clock strikes eight, the revelers start pouring in through the
front door, bottles of alcohol and cases of beer and a thousand blinking
lights in tow. Everyone has a hug and a congratulatory shout for him as
soon as they arrive, and many of them greet Harry the same way, bless
them. Stan‟s got on a top hat and matching jacket lined with lights
when he arrives, and he hugs Louis so hard Louis thinks me might have
a couple of bruised ribs.

Most of the cast and even some of the crew from his community theatre
turn up, as well as a large portion of the faculty from school and the
Doncaster crowd, plus some new additions—a few of Liam‟s mates
from the firehouse, a random assortment of artsy types Harry
befriended at uni, Zayn's editor. Louis loses track at some point after
his third drink, but he‟s sure he can‟t have possibly sent this many
invitations.

621
Before long people are overflowing onto the balcony and out the front
door, all the way down the stairs. Niall has to turn up his music—
”electrochristmaspophouse,” he calls it—even louder for everyone to
be able to hear it, which the neighbours probably won‟t find
particularly pleasing. Thankfully, Liam, the patron saint of affability
and crisis management, has friends on the police force, so they‟ve got
noise complaint insurance. Louis suspects that Liam would personally
go door to door to placate each and every one of his neighbours with
Christmas cookies and polite conversation if it came down to it.

He‟s not worried. He‟s tipsy and Harry‟s warm against his side and
everyone he loves except for five beautiful girls back home are right
here in one place, all for him. He‟s not worried about anything at all.

Of course there‟s a cake, since Harry had a hand in the planning of the
party, and of course it‟s ridiculous. It‟s not baked by Harry this time,
but it is red velvet and delicious, with his name written on top.
Everyone sings him happy birthday, but he can‟t think of a single thing
to wish for when he blows out the candles, and he‟d blame the alcohol
if he didn‟t know better. Instead, he just thinks thank you, and
extinguishes them all in one breath. Twenty-seven. He‟s okay with that.

After that things get a little blurry and a lot sloppy, as things are wont
to do when you put a large group of the kind of people who fall into
Louis‟ usual orbit in one space with alcohol and a lot of sentimentality.
The later it gets and the more the booze flows, the more the sense of
holiday giddiness devolves into something else, something louder and
looser and a lot less inhibited. Suffice it to say, the mistletoe has done
its job. Perhaps a little too well. There‟s snogging, and screaming, and
one of the lads from theatre is performing a striptease on his kitchen
table. Louis just holds his drink up in the air and lets the crowd carry
him along, accepting kisses on his cheeks and slaps on his bum.
Harry‟s in and out of his arms all night, letting him enjoy the attention,
and Louis loves him for that like he loves him for everything else.

The karaoke machine from last year is back, and Louis watches on
happily when Harry takes his turn, starting in on “All I Want for
Christmas is You.” His happiness turns to a pleased sort of panic,
though, when Harry abandons the microphone and grabs him, pulling

622
him in front of the cheering crowd. They duet their way through the
rest of it, laughing too much to reach half of the notes, but it‟s a hit
anyway. They‟ve probably embarrassed themselves, but people are
applauding, so Louis finds he doesn‟t care much. The way Harry looks
at him afterwards isn‟t half bad either, all hot eyes and fingers curling
into the back of his shirt.

The party rages on, a blur of noise and colour and lights and people
making extremely merry, and Louis hopes that somewhere amidst the
mess Harry is getting some quality photographs of this. Stan is
wandering around the dance floor, shouting, “Ho, ho, ho, Happy
Christmas!” and pouring vodka into people‟s mouths while Niall
splices together Ke$ha‟s latest single with “Little Drummer Boy,” and
Louis can feel the bassline in his brain. One of Liam‟s fireman mates
has taken off his shirt and is allowing anyone who wants to take shots
off of his abs, and from the sounds of it one of the theater girls is trying
to persuade him to try out for Rocky the next time they put on Rocky
Horror. At one point he walks in on Zayn and Liam going at it in the
bathroom, Liam pushed up against the sink with one leg hooked around
Zayn‟s and Zayn‟s hands under his shirt.

“Get a room,” Louis slurs, before thinking things through. “A different

room. But not our room. No. Don‟t get a room.” He closes the door
behind him and wanders back to find Niall in a dance-off with the stage
manager for A Christmas Carol. She‟s very pretty. Louis files this away
for future reference before he‟s swallowed up by a group of girls he
knew back in uni and loses track of what he was doing.

Maybe it‟s midnight or maybe it‟s three in the morning when he

stumbles out of a gap in the crowd, wobbling on his feet and dodging a
spilled drink from that nice girl from something or other. He hasn‟t
seen Harry for a bit, and he blinks around him now, willing himself to
see straight as he scans the edges of the room.

He finds Harry finally, leaning against a wall with a beer in his hand
and his bowtie blinking in time to the music. He‟s got one arm slung
over Stan‟s shoulders and his camera around his neck, and the lights
turn his hair green and blue and red in turn. He looks right at home. He

623
is home, and when he meets Louis‟ eyes across the room, he smiles and
raises his beer to him in a silent toast.

Louis lifts his own cup in return, and there‟s a moment, a moment he
couldn‟t explain even if he were sober, when there‟s nobody in the
room but the two of them, and Louis can‟t help himself.

“I love you!” he shouts, trying to be heard above the music, but Harry
just furrows his brow.

“What?” he shouts back, and Louis can barely hear him.

He digs up all his theatre experience, every time he‟s ever been told by
a director to project. He steels his diaphragm, cups his hand around his
mouth, and when he yells, “I love you!” half the party turns to look at
him. He knows Harry hears because of the way he smiles, broad and
reckless. A dozen people are still watching them. It doesn‟t matter a bit.
He hopes everyone heard.

“I love you, too!” Harry yells back.

“I know!” Louis shouts. He does.

That‟s all he needs, really. Christmas and his birthday and the party,
they‟re all wonderful, and he wouldn‟t trade all this for anything, but
this is it. He‟s loved, and he knows it, and he knows he deserves it, and
that‟s everything. That's more than he could have imagined.

The party doesn‟t go on much longer after that, everyone too burnt out
to make it last all night. People leave in ones and twos, and then in
groups, piling into cars and taxis and leaving liquor-sticky kisses on
Louis‟ cheeks before they go. His flat empties out, feeling somehow
smaller with fewer and fewer people inside, until finally it‟s just the
five of them left.

624
Niall cuts the music, shaking the sweat out of his hair, and he flops
down on the carpet next to a mysterious brown stain that Louis does
not look forward to trying to shampoo out. He fits right in with the rest
of the flat, which is covered in bottles and cups and plates and debris,
all the wreckage of a great night. The lights still twinkle merrily,
illuminating their faces in a way that seems less intense and more
intimate now that it‟s just them left. Louis hasn‟t the faintest clue what
time it is, but he doesn‟t much care to find out.

“Another one for the books, I‟d say,” Harry says, wrapping his arms
around Louis from behind. Louis sags back into him, letting Harry
support his weight, and tries not to let them slip on the floor where the
slush from dozens of pairs of boots has melted as they drift back into
the living room.

“I think some of those people must have been some kind of transient
party nomads who just wander into people‟s homes to eat their food,”
Louis says. “There‟s no way we know that many people.”

“You were right to let them in,” Liam says through a yawn, poking
around Niall‟s equipment. “S‟what Jesus would do. Christmas. Room
at the inn.” Zayn snorts from where he‟s sprawled out nearby, back
propped up against the wall.

“S‟pose you‟re right,” Louis agrees sleepily. He leans into Harry‟s

shoulder, looking down fondly at where their knees touch. “Nah, I‟m
glad everyone came. It was a good night.”

Niall rolls onto his stomach and puts his chin on his arms, smiling a
tired little smile at him. “Happy birthday, Lou.”

“Happy birthday,” Zayn echoes, and Liam and Harry do the same.

“Happy Christmas,” he says back, and Liam gives him a crinkled smile
from where he‟s sat down behind Niall‟s keyboard. He plinks a little at
the keys before finding a melody, and starts humming something idly.

625
“Sing it properly,” Louis says, because it‟s his birthday and he‟s
allowed to ask for things. Liam rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, but puts
his fingers back to the keys more seriously and starts to sing.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light,” he

sings out softly, and then Zayn joins him, their voices curling around
each other. “From now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

Niall joins in from the floor, his clear, bell-like tone arching over the
others‟. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yuletide
gay,” and Niall snickers at that last bit before Louis kicks out and
catches him in the shin. “From now on our troubles will be miles
away.” Harry is swaying them back and forth slowly, and Louis lets
himself sink into his arms and the song.

He feels Harry‟s chest expand a little against him, and when he joins in
for the next bit, Louis can feel that low rasp of his buzzing through his
own chest. “Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.”

Zayn pokes Louis in the leg with the toe of his boot, and when Louis
glances over, Zayn‟s got his lighter out and is goofily waving it along
as they sing, “Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once
more.”

Louis takes a deep breath and joins in on the last verse. “Someday
soon, we all will be together, if the Fates allow.” He‟d been enjoying
just listening to them, but actually? It sounds better with him in the mix
too. “Until then we‟ll have to muddle through somehow,” and he tips
his head back to lean against Harry‟s shoulder. “So have yourself a
merry little Christmas now.”

The last notes linger in the air, and Louis looks down at his friends. His
best friends.

“I love you all,” he says, and they smile back at him. “Now get out of
my flat.”

626
Liam responds by playing a deliberately off-key rendition of the first
four notes of Beethoven‟s Fifth.

Louis expects it to be harder to get rid of them considering how tired

they all are, but Liam insists that they need to get home to take Bo out,
so Zayn has no choice but to let himself be hauled up off of the floor.
Out of the three of them, Liam is the only one who‟s in a state to drive,
so he and Zayn agree to drop Niall off at his flat on their way home,
and Louis tells Niall he can just come back for his equipment after
Christmas. They all hug Harry and Louis goodnight in turn, muttering
one last round of “happy birthday” and “happy Christmas,” and then
Louis shuts the door behind them and locks the deadbolt.

Harry walks over to the outlet and starts pulling out plugs until all the
blinking lights have gone off, and the two of them are alone in the dark.
“D‟you want the normal light on?” he asks, picking his way back
through the wreckage to Louis.

“God, no,” Louis says. “I don‟t want to know what it is we‟re going to
have to clean up.”

“Should we—” Harry starts, but Louis just tugs him toward the
bedroom.

“Absolutely not. Bed,” he says, and maybe he‟ll regret it tomorrow, but
right now the only thing he wants is to fall asleep with his boy.

When they wake up, Louis will make them both peppermint tea, and
they‟ll sit down in front of their lopsided tree in the middle of the mess
and spend Christmas morning just the two of them, opening the
presents they got for each other before they have to drive to Doncaster
for dinner. He imagines at some point he‟ll pop into the kitchen and
come back to find Harry sitting cross-legged in a heap of wrapping
paper, probably with a bow stuck to his head and Duchess in his lap,
and he‟ll go back into their bedroom and steal Harry‟s camera to take a
picture. They‟ll put it up on the wall in the living room, the one that

627
shares his bedroom door, the one that‟s just for pictures of the two of
them.

But before that, they're going to sleep. They clamber over the sofa
that‟s still pushed into their bedroom doorway and dodge end tables in
the dark to finally get inside. Silently, they leave their clothes on the
floor and slide into bed, curling into each another. Harry kisses Louis
lightly and then rests his head on his chest. “Your mum‟s tomorrow,”
he says, voice already thick with sleep and the promise of a hangover.

“And your parents‟ the day after that,” Louis reminds him. They‟ll be
driving to Holmes Chapel for Boxing Day, since Harry wants to see his
family too. Louis hasn‟t met them yet, but his hopes are high. He has
secret plans for a joint Christmas dinner next year, assuming he can get
his mum on board.

“You nervous?” Harry asks, his lips moving against Louis‟ chest.

“Nah,” Louis says, carding his hand through Harry‟s hair. “They‟re
gonna love me.”

Harry hums happily. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too,” Louis replies.

Harry glances up at him with a grin before his eyes flutter closed. “I
know,” he says.

Louis smiles. He does.

628