Reeling Through The Fall

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/1248871.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: One Direction (Band)
Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, Niall
Horan/Barbara Palvin
Character: Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Niall Horan, Liam Payne,
Ben Winston, Nick Grimshaw, Gemma Styles
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bartenders,
Love/Hate, They're mixing cocktails to pay the rent, And neither of them
is over the past they had together, The opposite of love isn't hate, so
there's that, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, The side pairings are very very
minor, If you're here for the Ziam, You may want to hit the back button,
But Zayn is the best friend ever, And Niall is Yoda, Except people listen
to Yoda, And no one listens to Niall, i'll stop now, Sorry for the ramble
Language: English
Collections: smfw, i've already read this masterpieces, larr_bluefuzzy
Stats: Published: 2014-02-28 Completed: 2014-03-21 Words: 40,068
Chapters: 4/4

Reeling Through The Fall

by zarah5

Summary

AU. They hate each other. Except for when they don’t.

Notes

Warnings: petty boys who get somewhat physical in their apparent dislike for each other,
angry sex with a rough edge, references to underage shenanigans and shitty parental
behaviour.

So! This all goes back to a brainstorming session I had with fauvistfly a while ago. Another
special mention goes to ashavahishta and her tags, which inspired one of the scenes in a
later part. Another special mention goes to prettytruthsandlies and her amazing art, which
also served as an inspiration. RedOrchid was my trusted sounding board for this and helped
me so, so much, especially when it came to smoothing out the first rough patches. My
fabulous betas Michelle, Kate and green_feelings are their ever-fabulous selves, and I love
them to bits.

Disclaimer: This is fiction. Which means it's all lies.

 Oh, and? Don't steal my stuff. Don't put it up on other sites, don't search-and-replace the
names, just don't. Thank you.

An original version of this story is available as a Kindle eBook. If you're interested in that
kind of thing. Also, it's on GoodReads. :)

See the end of the work for more notes

 I.

Reeling Through The Fall

(Title inspired by Band of Horses - No One’s Gonna Love You)

Louis’ first thought is, Whoa.

Actually, no. That’s a lie. Mostly, he draws a blank, but why would he want to think when faced
with a lean torso and defined biceps and messy curls, with legs for days that are beautifully
showcased by black trousers, with tattoos peeking out from underneath a shirt that has the first four
buttons undone, collar popped out to expose sharp collarbones? Not Louis, that's who.

Except...

Except, fuck. Oh, holy fucking shit.

Because that? Is Harry Styles. And that is simply not on. No way, no way in hell, no. It's been
three years, three and a half, and now Harry has the audacity to show up out of the blue? No
warning, nothing, just walking back into Louis' life as though he wasn't the first and only boy to
break Louis' heart. Fate is a cruel bitch, and this bar is Louis' territory, so Harry better turn on his
heel and—

"You're staring, mate," Niall mutters, planting a sharp elbow in Louis' side. Which, ouch. Louis
startles out of his frozen state, and Harry is still talking to Ben, has yet to catch sight of Louis.
Harry is slouching a little, as though he is trying to make himself appear smaller.

God, he's so tall now. So tall, so fucking pretty. He's always been too fucking pretty. Ever since
Louis had started to actively notice that oh, okay, so his best friend had a little brother, and that
little brother tended to amble around the place half-naked, all doe eyes and ringlet curls, wide
smiles whenever Louis happened to glance at him.

Okay, stop. Get a grip, Tomlinson. Now.

"I'm not staring." Louis drags his gaze away and picks up a glass and a dishtowel, mostly for
something to do with his hands. His nerve endings are twitching with a restless buzz. Shit. Shit,
shit, fucking hell. This is not how he'd pictured the start of tonight's shift. "I just... I'm wondering
what he's doing here. The boy who's with Ben."

"Oh, Harry?" Niall makes it sound so casual. "Yeah, he's our new blood, like, the replacement for
Aiden. I kinda gave him the quick tour already, happened to be here when Ben had him sign the
paperwork yesterday." Right after that, Niall calls out a greeting, and Louis wants to hide behind
the counter.

He stands up straighter instead and raises his chin. This is his territory.

Harry glances over at the counter, a smile spreading in reaction to Niall's voice. Then his look
slides from Niall to Louis.

Louis reads the precise moment when Harry recognises him, sees it in the way Harry's eyes widen
briefly before they narrow, combined with a sudden frown that is obvious even in the red-tinted
light spilling out from behind the counter. Harry rolls his shoulders back and meets Louis' gaze for
a long, lurching heartbeat.

When Ben says something, Harry's attention snaps back to him. Nodding at some kind of
instruction, Harry's spine is a tense line, and his smile is strained, empty.

Good. So he remembers, too. Remembers soft, stolen kisses and gentle fingers skirting over warm
skin, remembers their final fight, Harry's voice, usually so deep and slow, cracking as though
plunged back into the vocal change he’d undergone a year before.

Louis turns away to place the glass in a row with several others, closing his eyes for a few seconds
to regain his balance. Alright, then. Alright. So Harry is here, Harry may be working tonight's shift
with them, but if Louis has anything to say about it, he won't stay beyond that. As someone who's
been working here for nearly three years, Louis has earned Ben's trust; a few well-placed words
might already be enough.

One night. Louis can get through one night, not a problem.

It's kind of odd, though, that Harry already signed the paperwork. All newbies get a trial run before
they are added to the roster, that's common practise. Since Ben prides himself on running one of
London’s most popular gay bars, he's particularly careful in his selection of employees. Maybe
Harry won him over with brilliant smiles and a blowjob in the back. Whatever.

"Boys," Ben says right into that thought, much closer now. "Niall, you've already met Harry.
Louis, though, let me quickly introduce you guys before I'm off."

Reluctantly, Louis pastes a bland grin on his face and spins around, coming out from behind the
counter. "Hi," he says, infusing the one word with so much cheerfulness it feels as though he’s
choking on it.

"Hi," Harry returns, equally cheerful. "Nice to meet you." His eyes are guarded, and when he offers
his hand, Louis raises his brows and barely manages not to scoff. So polite, so lovely. Always the
polite, cherubic angel, yeah. Got them all wrapped around his little finger, doesn't he?

Louis accepts the handshake and does his best to crush Harry's fingers between his own. Only,
Christ, that's a bit hard to do when Harry's hand just about engulfs Louis’, and that is not something
Louis wants to think about. That way lies madness.

"Pleasure." Louis widens his grin to the point of being obnoxious about it. Harry stares back for a
silent moment before he flashes a creepily fake smile that shows all his teeth. They let go at the
same time.

"Harry's a family friend," Ben inserts. "Louis, Niall, I'm counting on you to show him the ropes,
explain the basics. Watch his back, yeah? Just in case we get some patrons who think they can take
advantage of the fact that he's new, get a little too close."

A family friend. Well, that rather complicates matters.

"Sure thing," Niall says. He claps Harry on the shoulder, stepping back to rest comfortably against
Louis' side, and Harry's gaze drops to the point of contact, lingering there for a moment too long.
Ha. As if, what with how Niall is their token straight guy.

Just goes to show that Harry has no gaydar whatsoever and thus doesn't fit in with them. At all.
Louis will be more than happy to help Harry realise as much, and while he would prefer for Harry
to quit on the spot... Well. He’ll do his damn best to ensure it happens sooner rather than later.
Sooner, yes. At the end of tonight’s shift sound like a good time for Harry to throw in the towel.

--

The moment Niall's back is turned, off to make the rounds amongst an early trickle of guests, Louis
shoves into the space beside Harry. "Why are you still here?"

A satisfying flicker of uncertainty washes over Harry's features and is gone as soon as it appeared.
He turns to face Louis slowly, a hard set to his mouth. "I work here, in case you missed what Ben
said."

"The fuck you do." Louis hates, hateshateshates, that he has to tip his head back so as to look at
Harry. "I work here."

The derision in Harry's smile is another thing that's new; he used to be so open, so easy to please,
so happy to go about life. At least until—anyway. Time changes people, and Harry had proven
himself a judgmental idiot at sixteen, so that trait might have festered over time.

"What's next?" Harry’s tone is acid. "Are you going to piss on the floor to mark your territory? Pull
out a gun and tell me this town is too small for the both of us?"

London is definitely too small for the two of them. If Louis had never met Harry again, it would
have been too soon.

"No need." Louis shakes his head, and the tension at the bottom of his spine knots up his muscles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Niall's blond hair, on the way back to them.
Breathing hurts, and Harry still smells like warmth and summer kisses, like too many memories.
"It's not like you know how to handle a rough time, is it? Makes you irrational and likely to lash
out at anything that moves. So..." Louis plants an elbow in Harry's side, too hard for a friendly
shove. "Fasten up your seatbelt, babe. This is gonna be a bumpy ride."

Harry doesn't even flinch, just frowns. He's about to say something when Niall joins them again
and rattles off orders in quick succession, shouldering into their midst to grab a couple of beer
glasses.

Harry blinks. "Um," he says. "Can you repeat that? At, like, normal human speed?"

With a laugh, Niall complies, his speech exaggeratedly slow. "Don't get used to it, though," he
warns once he's done. "We'll go easy on you for the first couple of weeks, but after that, you better
have learned to keep up."

Go easy, right. Louis only just manages not to huff out a mocking laugh. He also manages not to
stare at the pink fullness of Harry's bottom lip. Mostly.

"Okay." Harry looks mildly worried as he nods, biting down on said bottom lip. The universe
sucks.

"You get used to it all pretty quickly. I mean, I did." On the way to the fridge, Niall hipchecks
Harry. They seem familiar already, clicking easily, and Louis feels a faint sense of betrayal even
though Niall can’t possibly know. No one knows.

Harry matches Niall's grin with one of his own before his gaze flickers past Niall to settle on Louis.
Raising a brow, Louis smirks. He hopes it conveys the general idea that he has no intention of
going easy on Harry.
--

Harry's white work shirt glows in the dim brightness that fills the room, making it easy to track his
progress. He's balancing a tray with cocktails, a bit of a stumble in his step as he weaves his way
around scattered patrons. Caught off-guard by a flailing arm, he only just avoids tripping over
someone’s foot.

Still not the most graceful human being, it appears. Hard to believe that Louis used to be endeared
by it, considered it charming that Harry's natural element always seemed to be water rather than
solid ground. In Louis’ defense, he’d been seventeen when it all started.

Cocking his hip against the counter, Louis watches as Harry nears his target, setting glasses down
on a table. The patrons welcome him with waves and raucous calls that coax Harry into a blinding
smile. He’s a manipulative little shit.

"Staring again," Niall comments from beside Louis. There's a singing quality to his voice. "And the
way you guys move around each other, Jesus, talk about sexual tension. Never seen you latch onto
someone this bloody fast, Tommo."

If by ‘move around each other’, Niall means secret elbow jabs and pinched skin disguised as casual
touching, then yes, he's certainly right. And if by ‘sexual tension’, he means plain, simple tension,
then yes, right again. Louis has enough of a filter not to say any of that. For all that Niall is one of
his closest friends, Louis' history with Harry is just... too raw, somehow. Even now, years after the
fact.

Nothing’s quite as good as the first time, probably. Nothing’s quite as painful either.

“Well, this is back to the future,” Louis mutters, not loud enough for Niall to catch. At the table,
Harry is about to straighten and walk off when one of the guys, a regular who comes in twice a
week, gets an actual look at his drink and calls Harry back.

Ha. Solve that with your stupid, dimpled smile, Styles.

By the time Harry returns to the counter, Louis is biting down on his smirk. He’s not doing a very
convincing job of it, but then, it had been a thing of beauty to watch Harry duck his head and
mumble apologies, all small and awkward. Now, though, Harry is glaring.

He waits until Niall has moved away before he hisses, “You twat. You told me to add the ice.”

“Oops. My bad.” Louis lets his grin show through. “No ice for a classic White Russian. Sorry,
darling, must have slipped my mind.”

“Like hell it did,” Harry begins. “You just—” He falls abruptly silent when a patron waves him
over. After sparing Louis another glare, Harry turns, pasting a wide smile on his face, and it’s a
little creepy how he goes from a grumpy frown to blinding smile within a second.

Tugging at the tight collar of his work shirt, Louis busies himself with whipping up a Basil Grande.
His face feels hot, the music and raised voices washing through his brain, and shit, alright. It’s
going to be a long night.

--

Unsurprisingly, Harry takes to looking up recipes on his phone or asking Niall.

Louis still manages to trip Harry up twice, and Harry retaliates by accidentally pouring a
Strawberry Daiquiri down Louis’ shirt, leaving the white fabric splashed with pink. There’s a smug
tilt to his mouth when he dabs at the stain, only serving to spread it further, and Louis catches his
wrist, clenches his fingers around it.

“Stop,” he orders. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Harry stills for a moment. His jaw is locked, his gaze fixed on Louis’ throat. Louis sucks in a
breath, holds it and feels unsteady on his feet.

Then Harry wrenches his arm free and takes a step back. “I could lick it off,” he says, a mocking
edge to the offer. Oh, that little twat knows perfectly well that the words throw Louis back to a time
when he himself had said the very same thing, voice cinched low, the two of them caught alone in
the kitchen with music from Gemma’s party pulsing in the living room—both a little tipsy, Harry’s
cheeks flushed and a few drops of fruit punch glistening on his neck, spilled when they’d run into
each other.

Gemma. God, Louis hasn’t spoken to Harry’s big sister in years, and she used to be his best friend.
But then, Louis also went years without speaking to Harry, and Harry used to be—Right. Yeah,
well. How times change.

“You wish I’d let you,” Louis says pleasantly.

“I wish?” Harry archs both brows, and Christ, Louis is still floored by how tall Harry is, by the
sharp line of his jaw, the definition to his arms and the slim cut of his hips. The way his slender
thighs seem to have been poured into those black trousers.

Fuck everything.

Louis settles for responding with a smile and a raised middle finger. Classy.

--

Louis isn't quite sure how it happened and in what world that would be even remotely okay, but
Niall ditches them halfway through the cleanup because his girlfriend needs an urgent favour. So,
like, sex.

After Louis tells Harry to wipe down the tables and put up the chairs, they spend the next ten
minutes in strained silence, broken only by music trickling from the speakers. The low volume is
disconcerting after several hours of pulsing noise, sparking a distant hum in Louis' bones that has
nothing, absolutely nothing to do with Harry's presence.

Yeah, Louis doesn't really believe that himself. He should see about taking some lessons, maybe,
something like Lying to Yourself for a Better, Healthier Life. With participant testimonials along
the lines of, 'Truly, I am so much happier now that I've learned to repress everything that’s
unpleasant in this world.'

Hey, ho, it would be like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

"You're such an arse," Harry says, without any interlude whatsoever. He's still ducked low to scrub
at a table top, face only visible in profile, and Louis swallows at how Harry’s shirt is rolled up to
display his biceps, the flexing muscles in his arms, fuck. Harry could probably hold Louis up now,
Louis' legs wrapped around Harry's middle, Louis' back pressed against a wall as they rub off
against each other.

Stop right there.

"My arse is one of my best attributes." Louis' tone comes out appropriately bored. He pauses to
retrieve a couple of clean, still-warm glasses from the dishwasher before he adds, "But I do take
offence at being reduced to it."

Harry looks over, frown prominent. He never was one for hiding his emotions, desire just as easy
to read as irritation and betrayal. "You're not funny."

"You used to think quite differently."

Straightening, Harry drops his rag on the table. "Fuck you," he mutters, and Louis tries not to
notice how the hot, humid air in the room has made Harry's wavy hair curl back into springy
ringlets, reminiscent of the teenage version. It's as though Louis' brain is stumbling back and forth
between past and present. Disconcerting, dizzying, nauseating.

There’s only one viable course of action; he pours himself a shot of vodka and downs it in one
quick go. The liquid burns in his throat, lighting a fire in his stomach.

"Are you allowed to do that?" Harry asks. He's drawn closer, shoulders rolled back, chin held high.
The dim glow emanating from behind the bar reflects on his face and outlines the curve of his
collarbones, where the partly unbuttoned shirt grants a generous view.

Nothing will ever be okay again. Louis snorts and pours himself a second shot.

Before he gets a chance to toss that back as well, Harry has pried it out of his fingers, is knocking
the alcohol back with a grimace, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Jesus. His gaze
never leaves Louis' face, and okay, what, is he trying to turn this into a competition? Is this an
attempt to prove he's no longer an overwhelmed little boy? Thanks, Louis got that part of the
message when he had to tip his head back to look at Harry’s face.

“Fuck you," Louis says slowly, quietly. “I don't even know why you're still here. Find yourself
another job, will you? Anywhere that's not here would be fine with me."

Anywhere that doesn't force me to see you, remember you.

Harry slams the shot glass down on the counter, the wood a barrier between them. "I like this one,
though. Perfect hours, won't interfere with uni, pays okay. Good stuff. You're the only downside, as
far as I can see."

Since Louis clearly isn't drunk enough for this conversation, couldn't possibly be drunk enough
unless he was teetering on the edge of a blackout, he fishes another shot glass out of the
dishwasher, warm against his fingertips. He fills it to the brim and sets the bottle down behind
himself, some liquid sloshing over as he raises the glass in a sarcastic toast.

Without a word, Harry rounds the counter and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. Whiskey,
ha! If he thinks he gets macho points for that, he's decidedly wrong.

"You're a stubborn little shit," Louis says. He leans back against the counter, wood digging harshly
into the small of his back, the shot pinched between his thumb and forefinger. When he licks
spilled vodka off the side of the glass, Harry's gaze seems to track the motion.

Got you.

Before Louis can comment, Harry has snagged his gaze away and hunches over the ice cube maker
to retrieve a couple of cubes. He lets them slide into a glass as he seems to linger in the cool draft
wafting up from the machine, blowing across his face and stirring the hair at his temple. His
cheeks are flushed, and Louis feels flushed as well, the back of his neck too hot. Turning away, he
downs his second shot—which, yeah, that’s his second shot in about three minutes.

Probably not a good idea.

Harry straightens, and Louis' eyes focus on the way Harry's slender fingers wrap around the neck of
the whiskey bottle, uprooting an old memory – Harry, younger and hands smaller, his grip tentative
around Louis' cock, gaze seeking approval. Wide, green eyes, lips parted and breaths coming
quickly, so overwhelmed just from being allowed to touch.

Louis is still not drunk enough, nope. Nowhere near drunk enough.

"This is Ben's bar," Harry says, voice low and deep, each syllable shaped carefully. "And Ben
happens to like me, so you better deal with it. Or you could quit."

Louis huffs out a sharp laugh that chases away the lingering burn of vodka. "Dream on. I don’t
give a shit about your presence."

With a measured motion, Harry closes the bottle and sets it back on the shelf. He reaches for his
glass and brings it up to his lips, holding himself very upright. When he shoots Louis a sudden
glance, Louis is too slow to look away.

Harry's mouth twists into a satisfied smile. "Oh, please. You've been watching me all fucking
night."

True. Enough so that Louis' diverted attention put a dent in the amount of tips he gets on average. It
doesn't mean he'll give Harry the satisfaction of admitting to his overly active imagination.

Louis shrugs. "Just enjoying all the ways you botched it up, really. Astonishing, that, seeing as it's
not exactly difficult to serve people drinks and follow some recipe instructions. I reckon a trained
monkey could do a better job than you did."

"You sabotaged me," Harry hisses, taking a quick sip. His lips curl in distaste, but he chases it
down with another sip. "Giving me the wrong recipe and all, 'cause you're a stupid prick. Like,
wow, you're so mature. Can't believe I ever looked up to you. Thank God there’s Niall, at least."

Louis bites down on his comment about how Harry better not get any ideas since Niall is straight.
That would sound as if Louis cared, when he doesn't give a shit about where Harry's interest falls.
Also, Harry most likely caught Niall mentioning Barbara as the reason he had to run, so...

Anyway. Anyway.

"Oh, like you're such a sweet angel." Louis rubs at his hip, where Harry pinched his skin and quite
possibly left a reddened mark. Sweet consolation, then, that there is a similar mark low on Harry's
left bicep, the hint of a bruise forming where Louis had dug his fingers in too hard, visible even in
the dim illumination that washes over them.

"The patrons liked me well enough," Harry says. His eyes hold a challenge.

"They're just cutting you slack because you're new." Shoving both hands into his pockets, Louis
continues before he can think better of it. "No competence, but a pretty face and a nice smile, I
guess."

Harry sets his glass down on the counter, a smug curve to his mouth. "So you're saying I have a
pretty face and a nice smile?"
Oh, as if he doesn't know. Louis is willing to bet that these days, Harry is quite capable of
capitalising on those attributes.

He meets Harry's gaze with a challenge of his own, hardening his voice. "What I'm saying is that it
will get you through the first week, maybe. Then our regulars will grow tired of you tripping over
your own two feet. That one hasn't changed, has it?"

"You're the one who tripped me up."

"Oh. Really?" Louis opens his eyes wide and contemplates just how idiotic it would be to throw
back another shot. The likely answer is 'very'—already, he can tell his vision is starting to blur just
slightly at the edges, resulting from the risky combination of drinking too quickly on a mostly
empty stomach. Another shot, and he wouldn’t trust himself behind the wheel anymore. "Sorry,
that wasn't intentional. My legs just happened to be in the way." He pauses, relishing the taste of
his next few words like one might savour dessert. "Maybe I'm naturally clumsy, you see?"

Harry's face darkens, his gaze flicking away, hiding the expression in his eyes. The subtle shift in
his stance is proof that he remembers, though; remembers the first time they'd kissed, Harry
missing a step just as they'd crossed each other on the threshold between the terrace and living
room of Harry’s home, Louis catching him on instinct, hand tight around Harry's elbow.

"You're just naturally clumsy, aren't you?" Louis had asked, and the fondness laced with his tone
must have made Harry lean in for a quick, dry brush of their mouths, very nearly an accident.
They'd both apologised afterwards, even though Louis hadn't been sorry at all. Later, Harry told
him that he hadn't been, either.

Too many memories between them. Too much everything between them.

"Fuck you," Harry mumbles, so quiet it barely translates over the music.

"No," Louis shoots back, significantly louder. "No, really, fuck you. How dare you just waltz in
here as if you own the place, as if you have any right—"

"You're the one who acts like he owns the place," Harry cuts in, drawing himself up to his full
height, his jaw set into a tense curve. He pushes into Louis' space, voice rising as one hand closes
around Louis' forearm. "You're the one who fucked me over, you are the one who—"

"I never fucked you over, you stupid little shit." The counter is solid against Louis' back, Harry a
warm, overwhelming pressure along his front. Louis twists against him, sucks in a sharp breath at
the delicious friction, Harry not giving so much as an inch. Holy hell.

"You fucked me, and then you fucked me over." Harry shoves in closer, the buttons of their work
shirts catching, the sharp cut of Harry's hipbone digging into Louis’ stomach. Louis flexes his arm
against Harry’s hold and clasps his free hand around Harry’s elbow, pushing his nails into the soft
skin on the inside.

"Never actually fucked you, did I?” Louis’ lungs ache with how deeply he inhales. It’s true, is the
thing; while Harry had been eager, always so very eager to try everything, that had been the one
time Louis said no. Yeah, because he’d been an idiot, wanted it to be special and unhurried and
perfect, was holding out and waiting for Harry to fall just as deeply.

He’d been a right sap about it, really. To this day, he still doesn’t know whether he wishes he had
said yes, been Harry’s first, had Harry be Louis’ first time with a boy in return. Whether it would
have hurt more, or less. A little bit of both, maybe.
Louis hadn’t explained, and Harry never asked again.

The past, it’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters except for how close
Harry is right now, how Louis feels shudderingly hot just from this, the solid press of Harry’s body
and the way Harry is staring at him, as though at least in this very moment, Louis is the sole centre
of his focus.

Words. They’re talking, what are they even talking about?

Louis sucks in another breath. “Also, don't blame me for this whole mess. Don’t blame me when
you fucked it up. Because you were so fucking immature, still are. You're nothing more than
stubborn brat, so fuck you."

"Still think I'm pretty, don't you?" Harry grinds his hips forward, and shit, shit, Louis wants to push
him away and pulls him in instead, parts his thighs for better access. This is such a bad idea, but
Harry feels amazing, God, smells like sweat and some cologne Louis can’t place. It’s really bloody
difficult to think through the hot shiver that grips Louis’ spine.

Harry’s laugh is raspy, his voice even deeper when he adds, “Still get you hard, don’t I?”

What the fuck, what the fuck.

“Like you have room to talk, seeing as...” Louis wedges a hand between their bodies to drag his
knuckles over the bulge in Harry’s trousers. The contact has Harry hunch forwards, his hips
stuttering into the touch.

Louis kisses him. Harry’s lips are already parted.

There’s no sweetness to it, just open mouths and tongues sliding together, the bitter taste of
whiskey and Louis squeezing his lids shut as Harry’s fingers clench around his wrist. The black
space in Louis’ head feels vast and empty, his balance shot to hell and gravity trying to pull him
down. He retaliates by winding his free hand into Harry’s hair, giving it a sharp tug as he bites
down on Harry’s bottom lip.

Harry tears his mouth away for a shaky intake of air that Louis feels all along his front. When he
slits his lids open, Harry is staring back at him with a fixed gaze, his lips wet and flushed. Mine,
Louis thinks, utterly nonsensical because no. No, Harry isn’t. He never even was.

Time hangs suspended for a moment, a rubber band about to snap in two.

Then Harry drops to his knees.

He drops to his knees, almost graceful as he sinks down, confident as fuck. His hands are steady as
they unbutton Louis’ trousers, a brief, questioning glance flicked up at Louis, and Louis can’t do
anything but nod.

Christ, this is... This Harry is so far from the sweet boy Louis could fluster with a few simple
words or a pointed look, is not at all like the fifteen-year-old whimpering into Louis’ mouth.
Different, so fucking different, and yet there are similarities in his slow, rough voice, in how
earlier, he’d laughed at one of Niall’s jokes, wild and happy, dimples pressing deep dents into his
cheeks.

When Harry shoves Louis’ trousers down along with his underwear, Louis shudders at the shock of
cool air to his cock. He sags back against the counter, both elbows on the wood to hold himself up,
and stares down at Harry’s messy curls, at Harry’s long fingers gripping Louis’ thighs. Harry
shoots him another glance that comes with a smug smile, and Louis wants to come all over his
face, oh dear sweet God.

Harry gets one hand around the base of Louis’ cock. “No need to hold back,” he says, the words as
dark as a secret, his breath fanning out against Louis’ inner thigh. No need to hold back, holy shit.
He’s just trying to prove he’s no longer that inexperienced boy, isn’t he? Trying to make a point,
showing Louis that he’s been with other people, that he—oh. Oh.

Showing that he knows just how to curl his tongue against the underside of Louis’ cock. Jesus
fucking Christ.

Louis watches as Harry drops a light kiss to the head, a disconcerting contrast to the tension
sizzling in Louis’ bones. Then Harry parts his lips and goes down. No preamble, no warning. Just
sinks down until he meets his own hand, fingers still wrapped around the base. Tight, perfect heat,
gentle suction, Harry’s cheeks hollowing with it. Fuck, Louis is going to die.

No need to hold back.

He circles his hips forwards, just a tiny nudge, and Harry’s lashes flutter. Then Harry swallows,
fucking swallows around the tip of Louis’ cock, and Louis hears the angels sing. Or Lady Gaga
crooning about a bad romance, whichever, because either way, the inside of Louis’ head is a
swirling mess of noise. He gives his hips another nudge, a little bolder, no need to hold back, stares
down at the top of Harry’s head and hears the unspoken, I can take it, I can take you, bring it on.

The soft lamplight bathes Harry in red, sparks in his hair, and Louis tangles one hand in Harry’s
curls, presses his fingertips against Harry’s scalp and his thumb against Harry’s temple, right next
to the corner of Harry’s eye.

Harry pulls back with a lazy, slurping sound. There’s the faintest hint of teeth, more a suggestion,
and Louis holds himself very still. Shit, it’s Harry on his knees, but Louis isn’t certain which one of
them is more vulnerable right now. Who’s in control.

“That the best you got?” he grits out, and the words feel like rough gravel that drops from his
tongue, ugly and mismatched.

Harry answers by letting go of Louis’ cock, sliding his hand around to cup Louis’ bum and press a
dry fingertip against Louis’ hole. Then he takes a calm breath ╴and leans in again, sucks Louis
down and doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, throat working around Louis’ cock, holy fucking shit,
what the hell, oh God. Louis twitches forwards, then withdraws a little, pushes back in. Again.
Each time he moves back, Harry’s dry fingertip nudges into him.

The air feels thick when Louis inhales, velvety smooth like the strands of hair still tangled around
his fingers. Louis tugs a little, and Harry pulls off halfway, tongue flicking out against the ridge of
Louis’ cock before flattening against the knot on the underside.

Louis doesn’t succeed in biting back a ragged groan.

It seems to be what Harry was waiting for, because he sinks down again, no hesitation, all smooth
certainty. Louis stares at the twin archs of Harry’s shoulder blades under the white shirt, painted
pink by the red-tinted illumination. If anyone were to come in right now, they would see nothing
but the back of Louis’ head—and yet they’d be able to tell just what is going on, would read it in
the bunch and flex of Louis’ muscles, in the way he twitches in restless, tiny motions, would hear
his harsh breathing even over the music. They might catch the wet sound when Harry pulls off
again. If they were to round the counter, they’d see Harry on his knees, on his knees for Louis.
The thought makes Louis squeeze his eyes shut, chin dropping to his chest.

“You’re such a fucking prat,” he mutters. It’s barely coherent, a counterpoint to how he’s working
himself into Harry’s mouth in grinding shifts of his hips. His stomach muscles roll with each
delicious drag. “Stubborn little shit.”

Harry nudges the tip of his finger in to the first knuckle, and Louis sucks in a hectic gasp, the
counter digging a line into his back, white heat curling at the bottom of his spine. Fuck, holy
fucking shit.

Different, he thinks, the word bouncing around his brain like a rubber ball. Different, different,
different, Harry.

Louis forces his lids open just enough to see how Harry’s lips are stretched around Louis’ cock, a
drizzle of spit at the corner of Harry’s mouth. Then Harry twists the finger inside Louis, a dry burn,
and still—God.

When Louis gives his hips another nudge, Harry’s throat relaxes around him, everything reduced to
perfect, wet heat and pressure, darkness pulling at the edge of Louis’ vision. Harry cups a hand
around the prominent bulge between his own legs, Louis only just catching the gesture, and that’s
it, game fucking over.

Louis tugs on Harry’s hair and jerks forwards, fucks Harry’s mouth in a couple of quick, erratic
thrusts as the black behind his lids condenses. He withdraws just enough to spill into Harry’s
mouth with a mumbled string of curses.

Vaguely, his hips still twitching, Louis is aware of Harry pulling back. The air is cool on Louis’
damp skin, and he tries to control his ragged gasps, counting out the beats of the music to structure
the mess of his thoughts. One two three, one two three. When he opens his eyes, he needs a second
to gain his bearings before he finds Harry watching him with a dark gaze, still on the floor with his
head tilted back, lips pressed together.

The moment Harry is certain of Louis’ attention, his mouth curves up into a tiny smirk. Quickly,
too quickly for Louis to react, Harry spits into his palm and wipes his hand off on Louis’ black
trousers.

What the fuck?

Somehow, Louis manages to relocate his ability for speech. His voice sounds as though someone
put it through a shredder. “I can’t fucking believe you just did that. You bloody wanker.”

“I’d swallow, but... Well, not for you.” If Louis’ voice has been put through a shredder, Harry’s
has been ground to fine particles. He lifts one shoulder and scrambles to his feet, catching his
balance with a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Have fun explaining that jizz stain to whoever, though.”

The way his erection is straining against the front of his trousers belies his nonchalant response.

“No need, I got the privacy of a car,” Louis replies, the words coming a little easier already, the
heat in his veins subsiding, the buzz in his brain quieting. And. Wait. Did Harry just imply Louis is
down with casual cheating? Did he? That little twat. “And,” Louis adds pointedly, “my flatmate’s
probably asleep. What about you, though?”

Harry raises a brow. “What about me?”

A moment later, his sharp inhalation proves that he did not expect Louis to grip him through the
trousers. Ha.

Louis takes great delight in the way Harry’s mask slips for a second, raw need flashing over his
face as he stutters his hips into Louis’ touch. So far gone already, just from sucking Louis off.
Yeah, Louis isn’t the only one who’s lost control, isn’t the only one who can’t resist, tripping over
the tangled thread of memories and the tension stretching between them.

“Gonna make you come just like this.” Louis rubs over what must be the head of Harry’s cock, the
fabric a little damp under his fingers. “Send you home with come drying in your pants, see how
you like the reminder on your clothes.”

Harry makes a hitched noise at the back of his throat. He doesn’t pull away, instead spreads his
legs wider and shivers, almost helplessly so, when Louis nudges his thumb against Harry’s balls.

“Fuck you,” Harry whispers, no heat behind it. His lips are swollen, his hair a mess.

Louis kisses him into silence, slides his tongue into Harry’s mouth to taste a trace of himself. The
realisation has him clutch Harry’s bicep with his free hand. He digs his fingers in just above the
elbow, the spot where he already left a bruise, and Harry shudders against him, head dropping onto
Louis’ shoulder.

It’s all the invitation Louis needs to unbutton Harry’s trousers just enough to slip his hand inside,
get a tight hold of Harry’s cock. The skin is silky and hot to the touch, precome gathered at the tip
that Louis smoothes down with his first stroke. With Harry’s soft sighs puffing out against his
neck, Louis doesn’t drag it out, moving his hand in quick, firm strokes that end with a twist, a
swipe of his thumb over the crown. Each time it happens, Harry tenses for a brief moment, then
sags against Louis.

Louis turns his head to drag his lips over Harry’s cheek. “Still know how to touch you just so,” he
says, and when it looks as though Harry might come up with a reply, Louis circles his fingers
around the ridge of Harry’s dick, gives it a few pumps that reduce Harry to muffled groans.

Shit, Louis wants to hear him. He wants to spend hours wringing a variety of sounds from Harry,
moans and sighs and Louis’ name, and—and that is not part of the plan. Fuck no.

He tightens his grip on Harry’s arm. “Come on, Styles,” he hisses, mouth brushing over Harry’s
skin. “Haven’t got all night, so get a fucking move on.”

Harry twitches, and his entire body goes taut, wound tight like a string. He spills into Louis’ fist a
moment later.

They stay motionless for what might amount to a minute, the faint music like a curtain of sound
that veils reality as they remain wrapped around each other, Harry resting some of his weight on
Louis, his cock softening against Louis’ palm. For just a second, or five, Louis closes his eyes and
listens to Harry’s breathing, slowing down gradually.

Harry.

Fucking Harry.

Louis removes his hand, wiping it on Harry’s trousers before Harry has a chance to stop him. At
the protesting noise Harry makes, Louis smirks. Payback is a bitch, isn’t it?

“I swear,” he begins. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret it.”
“Tell people?” Harry snorts out a humourless laugh and steps away, putting a clean gap of space
between them. His lips are swollen, the bruise on his bicep plain to see even in the dim glow, yet
his tone is dismissive. “Yeah, right, as if I’d want anyone to know that. Learned from the master,
didn’t I?”

What the hell, how bloody dare he?

There had been a million and one reasons why they’d kept it a secret back then. They’d agreed,
early on, and it had been Harry who’d suggested it, his eyes earnest and too damn green in the light
of an early morning, making it hard for Louis to focus on Harry’s explanation why it made sense
for them to hook up, why every single one of Louis’ points against it was moot. Seriously, Lou,
just listen, okay? Hear me out, c’mon. Gemma and the fact that they weren’t ready to come out,
Harry’s parents and the hunger for gossip in a small town—none of it mattered as long as they
didn’t tell anyone. There was no need to tell anyone.

Too bad, then, that Louis had found hiding increasingly difficult the longer this thing between them
had kept growing and settling in his bones, the more space Harry had been taking up in his head
and heart. Louis had been right, in the end: they’d always been heading for disaster. He’d known it
and still hadn’t managed to resist Harry, perched on a garden fence, smiling and hopeful and
bright. So very, very bright.

Really, then. How fucking dare Harry put this one on Louis?

Louis wants to punch him. Instead, he opts for turning away to pull up his trousers and button them
up, suddenly too aware of how ridiculous he must have looked with his soft dick hanging out, the
smear of white drying on his trousers.

When he glances over his shoulder, Harry has tucked himself back in as well, the wet patch at the
front of his trousers almost invisible in the dim light. Louis hopes Harry won’t think clearly enough
to wipe it off with a towel, hopes he’ll have to take a bus to wherever his home is, and that it will
be beautifully embarrassing. Would serve him right.

Jesus. How did this even happen?

Normalcy, right. Right. Averting his eyes, Louis washes his hands before he goes back to
unloading the dishwasher, his chest feeling strangely empty, his skin a little cold in spite of the
humid air that fills the room. He mostly manages to ignore the unsteady weight in his stomach as
they spend the rest of their shift in complete silence, a careful amount of distance between them.

Just as it should be. Just as Louis wants it to be.

--

Outside, they part without so much as a single word. Louis doesn’t watch Harry head for the bus
stop, doesn’t notice the narrow cut of Harry’s waist, the way he walks with a slight hunch,
appearing strangely fragile in the light of the streetlamps.

No, Louis doesn’t notice any of that. He absolutely, most definitely doesn’t.

===
 II.
Chapter Notes

Very behind on stuff. But, you know. Everything I said in the notes to the first part
still applies.

II.

So Harry is in London now.

Well, Louis doesn't care one bit. Honestly. What does the Great Wall care if a dog pisses on its
foundation? It doesn't; it's stoic and indifferent to the moves of the peasants far below, and right,
Louis must be going just a tad out of his mind if he's likening himself to the Great Wall.

After a quick glance at his surroundings, he shifts to sit cross-legged in the grass and picks at his
sandwich. Too late, he becomes aware of Zayn's watchful gaze resting on him, the two of them
having commandeered a sunny spot under one of the plane trees lining the Memorial Gardens.
Acting casual, yes, Louis is doing a brilliant job of it.

"Why are you so twitchy?" Zayn asks. "Looking for someone?"

Louis stills his bouncing knee and snags his gaze away from a group of students that just flocked
out of the library. "I am not twitchy," he says with dignity. He's not, nope. He isn't looking for
Harry either; there must be a dozen universities in London, so there's a good chance Harry isn't
even attending King's College, or at least not hanging around this very campus.

Also, Louis is not fucking looking for Harry. Their next shift together will come soon enough.

"If you say so." Zayn sounds unconvinced, but he's the kind of wonderful person who knows when
to let things go. One of the many reasons why they're best friends.

"I do say so," Louis tells him firmly. "I also say we should smoke up, haven't done that in ages."

Bunching up the wrapping of his sandwich, Zayn considers it for a moment. "No afternoon
lectures?" Sunlight slants over his cheekbones, brightens the deep brown of his eyes, and not for
the first time, Louis thinks it would have been bloody brilliant if they could have fallen in love
with each other.

Alas, no such luck. Seems they're both destined to drift from person to person until they happen to
stumble into the right one.

Unbidden, Louis remembers the second-hand taste of whiskey, the way Harry's fingers had pressed
into his skin last night. But no. No. Been there, done that, got the emotional scars to prove it.

"Got one tutorial." Louis shrugs. "I can ditch that, though, haven't missed a single one yet."

"One day," Zayn says, "you and I will have a chat about your habit of evading my questions by
suggesting we smoke up instead."
"One day," Louis agrees. "Not today, though."

Zayn angles himself so that their shoulders overlap, the contact warm and comfortable. "Fine. But
you do know I'm here."

"You're such a softie," Louis tells him. It comes out affectionate, and Zayn returns Louis' smile
easily, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Louis exhales and tips his face into the sun, closing his eyes. The backs of his lids are soaked in a
rich orange, the sweet smell of summer and fresh grass enveloping him. So what if a twist of fate
propelled Harry back into Louis' life? They're older now, more experienced, more mature.

Last night was a flare, nothing more.

--

It's five days until they have another shift together. Not that Louis is counting.

By then, the mark on Louis' hip has faded entirely, and the bruise on Harry's arm is no more than a
faint trace of yellow. Louis' gaze can't seem to stop seeking it out all the same.

They don't speak more than the barest necessities. If Stan, working alongside them, notices the
strain, he seems determined to ignore it.

Halfway through the first hour, Harry returns with a smug expression and a phone number written
on a paper napkin. "Bloody great tipper as well," he tells Louis, voice lowered just enough that
none of the patrons waiting to order at the counter will be able to hear.

"And you feel a need to share this... why?" Louis asks. Seriously, if Harry is trying to prove that he
has guys falling over him left, right and centre ╴well, no need for that. Louis is well aware, thanks.
And the thought of Harry with someone else leaves Louis perfectly indifferent.

Fuck, he really should see about that repression seminar.

"No particular reason." Harry pauses to draw two pints and slide them over the counter before he
returns to Louis' side. "Just felt like making idle conversation, is all."

"That's nice." Ice cubes clatter in the longdrink glass in Louis' hold. He keeps his gaze on his task
and doesn't bother to spare Harry so much as a glance.

"Nice, yeah." Harry slips the phone number into a nook behind the sink, under the countertop.
Louis may have to accidentally splash that napkin with water until the writing becomes
indecipherable. Oops.

Harry twists away to carry out another order. When he returns, it's to pick up the drink Louis just
finished, checking it with a critical expression to make sure it really is a Sex on the Beach. He's a
quick study.

"You know," Harry says aimlessly, "I really like this job. Lots of hot guys, and if they're here,
they're probably gay."

Louis nods and steps around Harry. With a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in
the other, not reminiscent of anything at all, Louis shoots Harry a toothy grin. "Also, they're drunk
enough to hand out their numbers to just about anyone."
Harry's jaw clenches, then he returns the grin ╴just as wide, just as fake. "Bet I can get more
numbers than you, though."

Ignoring the sick lurch of his stomach, Louis cocks an eyebrow. Slowly, he nods. "You're on."

--

Harry wins the first round. Louis wins the second. They speak only to exchange their stats.

On the third night of their competition ╴their fourth shift together, two weeks since Louis had his
tongue in Harry's mouth and his hand on Harry's cock ╴Louis lets himself into the bar through the
back, after an evening lecture that left him with enough time to be early, but too little to go home
before coming here. He stops in the corridor to exchange his normal outfit for his work clothes, is
just shrugging into the white button-up when he catches snippets of a conversation in Ben's office.
More specifically, Louis catches the rumble of Harry's voice, and he drifts closer without conscious
thought.

Moth to a flame, God.

"Want me to schedule you with Niall for next week?" Ben asks. "I'll give you your first Saturday,
if you think you can handle it."

"Niall would be great, yeah." Harry hesitates, and the fading daylight that spills from Ben's office
into the corridor casts Harry's silhouette onto the tiled floor, the lengthy shadow shifting when
Harry does. "Maybe also with Louis?"

Huh. Louis stills with his fingers on the third button, holding his breath.

"Louis," Ben repeats. There's an odd note to his voice.

"We work well together?" Harry turns the statement into a question, which... Well, yes. If keeping
the other on his toes, fully alert, can be considered good teamwork, then Harry and Louis certainly
do click beautifully.

"Yeah, so I've heard." Ben chuckles dryly, followed by the creak of a chair. "Listen, Haz, I heard
about that little game you two got going."

"We don't—what?" Harry coughs, and shit, smooth. He never was very good at lying; Louis still
remembers staying for dinner at the Styles household, chatting with Gemma, when Harry's dad
asked who had taken the twenty pound note out of his desk drawer. Harry had blushed a crimson
red.

Harry's dad, right. Harry's prick of a dad.

"Spare me the details," Ben says. "But I need you to stop it, before we get complaints from patrons
who feel like you played them."

Louis is waiting, really just waiting for Harry to assign the blame. To say it was Louis' idea, when
it actually wasn't ╴and oh, wow, he'd be in trouble for something that wasn't even his idea. That
must be a first.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. His shadow suggests that he is messing up his hair, head ducked. "We
were just having a bit of fun. Just, like, a little friendly competition. We got a lot of tips, so I don't
think people minded?"
"Competition," Ben repeats. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Shut up," Harry mutters, embarrassment shining through.

Louis finds himself grinning at the thought of Harry with his cheeks reddened, toes pointed
inwards. Shit, no. No, Louis can't allow himself to mix up past and present, can't let his guard
down around this Harry; older and sharper and much less innocent. He can't, not when the younger
version already succeeded in breaking his heart. Just... no.

Finishing up with his shirt, Louis moves away silently, picks up his backpack and continues on his
way into the bar.

--

It’s a quiet week night. Boring, in fact, and if it wasn’t for that conversation Louis happened to
overhear, he’d relish throwing himself into another round of trying to best Harry. It wouldn’t be
much fun when he’s the only one playing, though.

Since it’s just the two of them for this shift, Louis can’t even rely on someone else to entertain him.
They spend the first hour with a steady silence hanging between them, carefully moving around
each other as they take turns in queuing up songs for the sound system. Boring, boring, boring, and
if this continues any longer, Louis will have to take desperate measures. Such as using his allotted
fifteen-minute break to dye his hair a screaming shade of pink. Or dragging Harry into the back and
blowing him right there in the corridor, quick and dirty, in the hope that their handful of patrons
will overlook a brief absence.

Desperate measures, yes. Because life is too short to be bored.

Louis settles for starting an argument about music instead. His proverbial gauntlet is a disbelieving
snort when Metronomy comes on, coupled with shooting Harry a long look that Harry answers
with a frown. When Harry’s next choice turns out to be MGMT, Louis joins him at the computer
and shakes his head. “Just when did this bar turn into Hipster Central? Seriously, are you ticking
off a list? Is there a playlist in your head, something like ‘I am Hipster, Hear Me Roar’?”

At sixteen, Harry might have stamped off in a huff. Now, he digs his elbow into Louis’ side and
keeps his gaze on the screen, tone offhand. “I hope you know you sound like a judgemental prick.”

Louis chuckles under his breath. “Well. You would know about my prick, wouldn’t you?”

He’s watching closely, so he catches it when Harry’s lashes tremble, his hands freezing on the
keyboard. His hands, Jesus. His big, slender hands, the outline of his biceps under the white shirt,
the glimpse of a silver necklace beneath the collar. The generous curve of his mouth. He was
created to frustrate Louis, wasn’t he? This is punishment for crimes committed in a past life, it
must be. Louis hates everything, and above all, he hates the way he has to keep himself from
angling closer.

Oh, bugger it all. It’s quite possible that Harry entered them into another round of competitions,
quite possible ╴and the loser is whoever gives in first.

“I know enough about your prick to know it’s not remarkable,” Harry replies, but it comes with a
notable delay, and his gaze is a little too fixated on the music library that’s open on the screen.

“Really.” Louis lets the word hang between them for a long moment. He can’t help the way his
voice dips low, gaining a rough edge. “Funny, because I do remember how you whimpered into
my mouth. Like, that time in the pool, remember that? First time you had your hand on someone
else’s cock, and you were so worked up I didn’t even have to touch you. Good times.”

Harry holds himself very still, his body tightly coiled. When he turns his head, his pupils are wide
and black, reducing his irises to a slim ring, drained of all colour by the lack of light. He’s staring
at Louis with a breathless focus, and Louis’ lungs grow narrow with the need for air.

So Harry remembers as well.

Remembers Louis waiting outside as Harry had sneaked out of the house, a stolen kiss in the
doorway with the night air inky blue around them. Always sneaking, always careful, trying to stay
quiet as they’d splashed around the pool in Harry’s backyard. It had been a risk when no one was
supposed to see, to know, and God, at that point—Maybe Louis had already been hoping they’d get
caught, wanted it dragged out into the open, maybe.

Either way, the risk hadn’t stopped him from pushing Harry back against the tiles, snogging him
until they’d both been incoherent with it, an edge of desperation to the way Harry had held on to
Louis’ waist. Summer warm on their faces, chasing the taste of chlorine on Harry’s tongue. Harry’s
fingers just as tentative as his whispered, “Can I?”

Christ, yes, Louis remembers all of it. Even now, he sometimes finds his mind throwing him back
into that very moment, and he can never quite fight down the shudder of regret that feels like a cool
breeze rippling the water. He can’t count the number of times he’s come with Harry’s name on the
tip of his tongue.

Always, always. A shadow at the back of his mind.

Harry breaks their eye contact, shifting his stance as he looks away. “Yeah, well.” His voice is
deeper than usual. “As you said, it was my first time touching some guy’s dick. Not like my
standards were high.”

Louis ignores the hot twist of anger in his stomach, counteracts it with a dry smile. “And yet you
couldn’t wait to get on your knees for me just a couple of weeks ago.”

“Like you weren’t gagging for it,” Harry shoots back. His gaze flicks over to settle on Louis again,
a grumpy crease between his eyebrows that, perversely, Louis wants to smoothe out with his
thumb. He does no such thing, of course.

“Reckon that I am not the one who was gagging, actually.”

“Oh, sod off.” It comes out as a quiet hiss, too low for any of their patrons to catch. They’re
leaning in towards each other, nauseatingly close, and there’s a strange buzz in Louis’ ears. His
blood rushing down to his groin, maybe, and shit, no, he refuses to be affected this easily.

He takes a clean step back. “Very eloquent, Styles. Colour me highly impressed by your quick
wit.”

Harry seems about to reply when the door opens, letting a blast of fresh air into the room. It’s
precisely the kind of jolt Louis needs to regain his composure and avert his eyes from the
shadowed dip between Harry’s collarbones, to pull his thoughts away from gripping Harry’s chin
so he can suck a blatant mark into the skin of Harry’s throat.

There’s a good chance Harry would allow it. But Louis isn’t about to let him win this one, isn’t
going to be the first to cave. He has more dignity than that.

He takes another step back, turns to check on the new patrons and finds Zayn lifting his hand in a
lazy wave. He’s brought a small group of fellow English lit students along, and while most of them
are pretentious dicks, Louis is happy to accept this chance at a distraction.

“My table,” he tells Harry, already moving away. “Go make yourself useful, polish some glasses or
something. Put on a song that doesn’t make me want to kill myself. Or you. Or everyone on this
planet.”

With that, he turns his back on Harry. It doesn’t stop his nape from prickling with the warmth of an
imagined touch, the illusion of Harry’s gaze trailing after him like an anchor dragging through
sand.

Louis picks up a few menus on the way, and since there really isn’t much to be done right now, he
squeezes in next to Zayn on the sofa and waits for the group to place their orders. After a quiet
moment, he rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of leather that clings to him.
Zayn’s friends are debating whether or not it’s silly to order a certain cocktail solely because of its
name; Louis’ answer would be a resounding ‘no’. Hey, he still gets a kick out of people ordering a
Slippery Nipple or a Naked Waiter.

As Louis should have expected, the next song is yet another tune for the heavily bearded who wear
horn-rimmed glasses without a prescription. Honestly, Louis doesn’t understand why anyone
would willingly wear glasses as an accessory; he replaced his own with contact lenses as soon as
he’d talked his mum into paying.

Harry had always claimed to like Louis in glasses. But then, Harry had said a lot of things.

“Long day?” Zayn asks in an undertone, pulling Louis closer with a heavy arm resting around
Louis’ waist.

“Bored to death,” Louis replies. He deliberately avoids glancing anywhere near the counter. “Slow
night. Such a slow night. Snails on valium are like racehorses compared to tonight. Entertain me,
Zayn.”

“You’re such a Nirvana kid.” Zayn hums a few bars of a song, here we are now, entertain us, his
voice clashing with the melody pouring from the speakers. It makes Louis grin and hum along, I
feel stupid and contagious. Here we are now, entertain us.

When Louis glances over, just once and very quickly, he finds Harry watching him with a narrow-
eyed look of disapproval. Sitting up, Louis returns the stare. His stomach is squirming
uncomfortably, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Like having fun, ha.

“So,” Zayn says from beside Louis, and Louis yanks his gaze away from Harry. “Who’s the new
hottie behind the counter? Not keeping you proper entertained, is he? Because I could think of a
few ways—”

“The hottie,” Louis interrupts, his tongue twisting around the word, “is off limits.” Because no. No.
Zayn can’t—absolutely not, no. Just the idea makes bile rise in the back of Louis’ throat. “That’s
what he is, off limits. So don’t you even dare, or I will personally bitchslap you.”

Zayn has the audacity to laugh. “Possessive much, Lou? Funny, never seen this side of you.”

“That’s because Harry is—” Shit, and only now does Louis realise how tightly his jaw is clenched,
how his nails are cutting into his own palm. He sounds like he cares. He doesn’t. “Frustrating,” he
finishes slowly. “An irritating itch under my skin. Yes.”

By the time he’s done, Zayn is studying him with a quizzical expression. Yeah, so that whole part
where Louis tried to sound casual? Not a rousing success, it seems.

“An irritating itch under your skin,” Zayn repeats, savouring the words. Jesus, it sounds really bad
when it’s said like that, all low and suggestive. The crooked smirk doesn’t help. “Go on?”

“No, thank you,” Louis tells him. Sliding off the sofa, he props his hands on the table and raises
his voice, pasting a cheerful smile on his face. “Lads, are you ready to order?”

They are. Once the other three are done, Zayn takes great delight in ordering his What’s The Rush,
and Louis shoots him a warning glance. ‘Not a word,’ he mouths, and Zayn crosses his arms,
smirks and turns his head to look at the counter with a deliberate languidness to the gesture.

“Hey,” he says. “Maybe your fit sidekick can bring us the drinks, yeah?”

Louis hates him. He hopes the kick he aims at Zayn’s foot conveys the general idea.

Gathering up the menus, Louis makes a detour past another table to collect more orders before he
rejoins Harry. "Two Zombies for Number Four," he says. "And then you can help me with two
Martinis, one Slow Hand and a What's The Rush."

Harry gives him an unimpressed look and doesn't move.

"What?" Louis asks.

"Didn't know we were allowed a second break."

"Oh my God, what, you going to tell Ben? What are you, five?" Louis shoves in close to get at the
cocktail glasses, their hips knocking together, and is Harry for bloody real? Is he? "I think I'm
allowed to talk to my best mate for a couple of minutes when it's a night as dull as this one."

Something in Harry's features shifts, turns calculating. "Your best mate, huh." He follows it up
with a speculative glance at Zayn, assessing him, and Louis finds his gaze trailing along the cut of
Harry's profile, the curve of his nose and the curve of his mouth, red light glinting on the sharp line
of his jaw. Christ, Louis wants to leave his neck covered in love bites.

Also...

Also.

"Try roping Zayn into one of our fun little games, and I will cut off your dick." Straightening,
Louis digs his nails into the bend of Harry's elbow. "That's between us. You and me."

Harry is utterly motionless for a long, dragging moment, his half-lidded gaze on where Louis' hand
contrast with Harry's pale skin. Then he shifts back abruptly, wrenching out of Louis' grasp, and
Louis remembers to draw a breath against the tightness of his ribcage. Heat crackles down his
spine.

"Wow, okay." Harry steps away and doesn’t look at Louis. The rasp to his voice might be more
pronounced than usual. "Down, boy."

Louis feels tired all of a sudden, oddly weightless, like falling into a void. He scuffs a hand through
his hair and concentrates on mixing the drinks, on not looking at Harry at all. "Just stay away from
my friends," he mutters, and he doesn't know whether it was loud enough for Harry to catch.
Doesn't know whether Harry is even listening.
Probably not.

--

Before Louis bought the seventh-hand piece of shit that passes for his car, he'd relied on the same
bus schedule as Harry, so he’s aware that after eleven at night, there is only one bus per hour. It's
ten minutes to the next one when Louis catches Harry halt in his steps after turning away from the
one table that's still occupied, dropping his shoulders as he knuckles at his eyes.

He looks young all of a sudden. Tired and fragile.

On his way back to the counter, he trips for no particular reason, catches himself with a hand on
the back of a chair and immediately checks whether Louis caught it. Louis responds with a raise of
his brows. He’s not endeared, not endeared at all, and it’s also none of his concern if Harry is tired.
Or why Harry would be tired in the first place. Because Louis doesn’t care. Not at all, not even a
little, nope.

Fucking hell.

"Go home," he says once Harry is within hearing. "You're half asleep, don't have much use for you
like this."

Harry straightens, mouth pressing into a thin line. "Hey, I haven't slacked off."

That’s not what I meant, Louis is about to tell him. He swallows the words back down and shakes
his head instead. “Look. It’s Wednesday, it’s past midnight, and we have a table of three. It doesn’t
take both of us, so unless you desperately need the money for another hour of boredom... Frankly, I
can do without you rocking a fashionable frown around here. ”

“Was that,” Harry pauses, “a Ben Folds reference?”

“Go the fuck home,” Louis tells him, and there’s an instant where he finds his lips twitch into an
upwards curve, an even shorter instant where Harry seems on the precipice of an answering smile.

Then Harry shrugs his shoulders and nods, gaze sliding away from Louis’ face. “Okay,” he says
softly, glancing around once before he brushes past Louis without another word, heading for the
back.

Louis doesn’t watch him go.

--

Zayn and his friends had left the bar at around midnight, after an hour of Zayn keeping a close eye
on all of Louis' interactions with Harry, to the point where Louis had hissed at him to fucking drop
it already. When Louis stumbles into the flat a little after two in the morning, the door to Zayn's
room is open, light painting a bright stripe across the corridor. He stops to peer inside and finds
Zayn on the floor, down to a pair of boxers and sprawled on his stomach, a sketchpad in front of
him.

A late-night attack of inspiration, it seems. Fickle thing, inspiration; it's about the only topic that
prompts Zayn into lengthy, excited monologues.

About to move on, quietly so as not to break the spell, Louis is stopped in his tracks by Zayn
glancing up. "Just you?" Zayn asks, foregoing a greeting. He's smirking, and Louis is ninety
percent certain that the only reason Zayn is still awake is because he's been lying in wait. Like a
hyena, waiting to pounce on its prey, only hyenas don’t actually pounce on any prey because, right,
scavengers.

Louis’ brain is possibly not fully alert. He fights down a yawn. “What do you mean, just me?
There is nothing just about me.”

"Thought you might bring the hottie with you. Take care of some unresolved tension."

"His name," Louis says pointedly, "is Harry. Also, sod off."

Zayn sits up, crossing his legs. His smirk doesn't dim, gaze sharp on Louis' face, and the phrase
'eyes like a hawk' has never felt more appropriate. Louis fights not to shift under the close scrutiny.
Tiredness pulling at his muscles, he leans against the door frame and keeps his expression
impassive.

"So." Zayn's tone is expectant.

"So," Louis echoes.

Silence.

"So," Zayn repeats.

Louis tilts his head. "So?"

"Louis."

"Zayn."

"Louis Tomlinson." Zayn places heavy weight on each syllable. "I didn't stay up just 'cause I
wanted to see your ugly mug before going to sleep."

"Oh. You didn't?" Affecting a sad look, Louis wipes at his eyes. Heartbroken, that’s what he is.
Woe is him. He's also trying to delay the inevitable, of course, because once Zayn has made up his
mind, he's hard to deny.

And the thing is... The thing is, maybe Louis wants to talk about Harry. Get an outsider’s
perspective to bring some sense into the mess inside his head, disentangle the past from the
present.

Zayn must notice a change in Louis' stance, because he rolls to his feet, smiling a little as he
touches Louis' elbow. "Alright, then. I'll make us a cuppa while you change into your jammies,
yeah?"

"Proper slumber party with spin-the-bottle?" Louis asks. "Truth or Dare? King's Cup? I'm game if
you are."

"If that's what it takes to make you talk." Zayn lifts both shoulders, lean torso shifting with it.
There's an inherent lack of fairness in how he can live on junk food and remain scrawny and flat-
bellied, whereas the same diet would have Louis produce a food baby. Food babies are totally a
thing, no matter what Niall says.

With a nod, Louis goes to exchange his work clothes for something more comfortable before he
stretches out on his bed, clicking on the telly to a rerun of some crime series. Palm trees and
sunshine, must be set in Miami or some such. Mhmm, a beach holiday would be nice. Get a real
summer tan, make Harry itch with the need to touch, because Louis still remembers how much
Harry had loved that ╴the contrast between their skin tones, Louis' fingers honey-coloured on
Harry's pale thighs.

Shit. Not thinking about Harry, Louis is not thinking about Harry.

He turns the volume down when Zayn enters with two steaming cups, nudging Louis over to make
room on the bed. Louis accommodates him only after he's been handed his tea, and for a short
while, they both stare at the telly, watching the requisite tough girl kick some gangster arse.

"I want her moves," Louis says, taking an aimless sip of tea that burns on the way down his throat.
It counteracts some of the tired haze that has seeped into his brain.

"Already got the bum for it," Zayn tells him, blowing across his tea. Smart guy, Zayn. "So there's
that."

Louis wiggles to display his bum, then settles against Zayn's side. He exhales slowly, glancing at
Zayn's profile. Zayn's gaze is on the telly, blue light dancing across his face. If Louis didn't know
him so well, he'd believe that Zayn had forgotten all about Harry.

Harry. Unbidden, Louis remembers that almost-smile flickering around the corners of Harry's
mouth, newly built walls thinning for just an instant.

Zayn startles Louis out of his thoughts by tucking one foot under Louis' leg, his toes cold against
Louis' shin. Reaching over, Louis tugs at the duvet to cover them up to the waist and uses the
excuse to slide a little closer, Zayn reassuringly solid against his side, the ceramic cup warm under
his fingertips. He takes a slow, even breath.

"I know Harry from before. We grew up on the same road, little brother of my best mate at the
time. Gemma."

Zayn makes a considering noise. "Don't think you ever mentioned her."

"We lost touch a while ago. I moved away not too long after—" Louis cuts himself off. No, wait,
he's going about this the wrong way. Rewind, review, start again in chronological order. “Okay, so
Gemma and I were best friends, and then Harry and I... hooked up. Or something to that effect.
Dating, kind of, except no one knew." He huffs out a dry laugh. "Bit hard to keep a friendship
going strong when I kept something that big from her, right? Like, me screwing around with her
little brother.”

Even now, years after the fact, Louis’ stomach cramps with an echo of guilt. His best friend, she’d
been his best friend, and when he’d told her how he sometimes found himself looking at boys,
she’d hugged him until his locked muscles had relaxed, until he could breathe more easily. And
then she’d laughed and said, “Just stay away from my baby brother, though, because for fuck’s
sake, no.”

Stay away from my baby brother. Yeah, too late for that.

So he’d laughed right along with her, pretended he didn’t know what Harry tasted like, how Harry
liked to be kissed and the way his brows pulled together when he was close to the edge. She might
have suspected something. To this day, Louis doesn’t know; all he knows is that guilt hadn’t been
enough to keep him from Harry. Because he'd been young and stupid and so, so in love.

Zayn wiggles his toes against Louis’ shin, jolting Louis out of the memory. Eyes kind, Zayn is
smiling slightly. “So you’re in the habit of dating your best mate’s siblings, then? Better don’t
move in on one of my sisters, though. I know where you sleep.”

“Not that you don’t have a very attractive family...” Louis finds his mouth quirk into a faint grin.
“Good genes and all, you know. But I’m pretty sure my overwhelming gayness knows no
exceptions, not even for a Malik girl.”

With a satisfied nod, Zayn waves for Louis to continue. Shit, right. Continue. This is just like
ripping off a plaster, Louis tells himself; do it quickly, and the hurt will be gone within moments.

This is nothing like ripping off a plaster.

Blindly, he stares at the telly. “So, yeah. Gemma. I never told her I was fooling around with her
little brother. Which also means I couldn't cry on her shoulder about how said brother had broken
my little idiot heart."

"Broke your heart? Harry broke your heart?" Zayn shifts to get a better look at Louis' face. “You
never even told me you've been in love before.”

Louis meets his eyes for a moment before he shrugs and looks away. His chest feels a little tight.
"Yeah, well. Didn't matter much, did it?" He pauses to take another sip of tea, closing his eyes
against the citrus-scented steam that rises up when he exhales. "Not until now, anyway."

"What happened?"

"We, um." Shit, and this is why Louis didn’t tell Zayn earlier: because it drags up memories of
warmth and naked skin, of Harry's eyes bright and focused on Louis' face, Louis hovering above
him and holding out on a sweet, slow kiss. Louis has done his best to shove all those memories
away, cover them up and pretend they have lost all meaning. His success has been rather limited.
Fuck.

He stretches to set his tea down on the floor, then shuffles over to tuck his face against Zayn's
neck. Hiding from the world is a perfectly acceptable response to any sort of crisis, including
heartbreak and a zombie apocalypse.

"Talk to me," Zayn says, voice rumbling under Louis' ear.

"Talk dirty to me," Louis counters, smiling slightly when Zayn picks up on it right away, whistling
part of the melody before he breaks off to taste his tea, shoulders shifting as he ducks his head.

The movement prompts Louis to roll away with a half-hearted, "You're supposed to hold still."
Sprawling out on his back, he stares at the ceiling, then closes his eyes to wrestle down the sense
of vertigo. "It's expected of a makeshift pillow."

"I'll hold still once you stop stalling." Zayn's voice is low, easy.

Stop stalling. Right, Louis can do that. Possibly.

He draws a conscious breath, stomach rising with it. Through the open window, the typical sounds
of a city night intrude upon their quiet bubble ╴the neverending hum of traffic, a passing truck and
the distant wail of a police siren. It serves as a clear contrast to the past, lying in the peaceful
silence of Harry's bedroom with their legs tangled, the town asleep around them.

Louis draws another breath. "We—Harry and I, we fumbled around in the dark. Figuratively, mind.
Often literally, but not always. Like, we were each other’s dirty secret, pretty much, I guess you
could say. Neither of us was out, and our first kiss sort of just happened, and then stuff kept
happening.” Stuff, yeah. Such as sweet kisses, such as wandering hands, gentle touches and secret
smiles across the room. Louis forces himself to wade on. “I guess for him, it was convenient, a bit
of experimentation and all. Experience. For me, well.” Lack of air presses down on him.
“Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with him."

It's the first time he's said it out loud; in love, I fell in love with him. The words echo deep in the pit
of his stomach, like standing right next to a tolling bell.

“Ah, shit.” Zayn rests one hand on Louis’ stomach, palm warm through the cotton of Louis’ t-shirt.
“So he didn’t, like... feel the same?”

No. No, Harry hadn’t.

There had been moments when Louis had thought yes, had thought maybe ╴Harry looking at him
for just a beat too long, with just a hint too much brightness in his eyes. Only Harry had always and
without fail pulled back, shattering the illusion. More often than not, he'd jumped into discussing
how Louis would be off to university in the summer, as though he’d intended to make it a point
that no, they weren’t going to last.

Louis blinks at the ceiling and tries to keep his voice easy, steady. "Seems not, no. Never actually
got around to asking him, though, what with how he thought I'd betrayed him and told me to fuck
off." The room sways before it rights itself. Louis uses the grounding weight of Zayn's touch as a
focal point. "So," he clears his throat, "I did. Fuck off, that is. And then my whole family moved
away soon after, and that was that."

Moved away, yeah. Was driven away, really, because speculation in a small town is brutal. While
Harry's mum had never weighed into the debate, others had been less reluctant to place part of the
blame with Louis' family. Gateway. Questionable morals. Assistants to adultery, just as guilty as
the offending parties. But then, what do you expect from a single mother with five kids?

In Louis' opinion, the real fault lies with Harry's dad.

"Betrayed how?" Zayn asks gently, keeping Louis' thoughts from spiralling down that dark and
winding memory lane. "He thought you cheated on him?"

“It’s complicated.” Louis glances over to find Zayn watching him intently, his brows pulled
together.

“Try me.”

Try me.

Fuck.

Louis remembers when he’d been five and his first milk tooth had come loose. He'd probed at the
spot with his tongue, again and again, until the roots had given and the tooth had come free,
leaving behind a gap that didn’t hurt, but felt oddly tender and raw. This entire conversation feels
just like that, except for how it aches somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

“Harry’s dad left the family for an affair with another woman. Not my mum,” Louis adds quickly,
before Zayn can jump to wrong conclusions. “But her best friend, and they met through a big
dinner at our place. It had been going on for about half a year before Harry’s dad dropped the
bomb, and Harry—Well. He thought I’d known all along. Thought I’d kept it a secret from him.”

Louis shifts onto his stomach and rests his forehead on his crossed arms, exhaling into the duvet.
He still remembers finding Gemma in tears, hiding out in the school toilets. He’d hugged her for a
long time while she cried into his t-shirt, appearing smaller than she’d ever seemed before, and in
that moment, the growing distance between them had ceased to matter. She’d been clinging to him,
trusting, telling him the whole miserable story while he’d steered her out of the building. He’d
taken her home, bundled her up in bed with tea, and then he’d stolen into Harry’s room.

Of course he had. Because even with Gemma tear-stained and uncommonly quiet, the need to
check on Harry had been very nearly overwhelming.

Louis had found him stretched out on his bed, eyes brimming over with tears, so young and hurt, so
fragile that Louis had only just remembered to close the door before moving forwards, crawling
onto the bed beside him.

And then Harry had shied away from Louis. His words had been no louder than a whisper. “Please
tell me you didn’t know. Please, Louis.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Somehow, the memory is still too raw.

“But you didn’t know, did you?” Zayn asks, pulling Louis back into the present. Setting his tea
down with a gentle clink of ceramic, Zayn rests a hand between Louis’ shoulder blades. “So you
told him that, and he didn’t believe you?”

The duvet smells a bit musty, in desperate need of a washing. Louis inhales deeply. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?”

“Defend myself.” He burrows deeper into the bed. “I, um. I may have laughed.”

Spoken out loud, it sounds horrible. He’s never told this story, never had to hear himself admit to
this and find his mind thrown back into that moment − that eternity when Harry had stared at him
with an expression of such profound horror that Louis had been about to reach for him, sheer
instinct in spite of how his mind had run through a litany of how and why and please tell me you
don’t really think so little of me, please, fucking please.

Harry had beat him to it, though. Had skirted back, shaking his head and blinking rapidly, his voice
rough and quiet. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my room. Out of my fucking life.”

We're done. I'm done with you.

It had been like Louis’ worst nightmare, only in full colour and dolby surround. Somehow, he’d
still managed to move, rise to his feet and remain upright even with his body feeling like a foreign
entity, his heart seeping out between his ribs.

“You laughed at him?” Zayn asks into the mess that is supposed to be Louis’ brain. His voice is an
even mix of surprise and shock, and ha, Louis didn’t think he was still able to shock Zayn. Well
done, him. Mark this day in your calendar.

On the road below, a bus drives past with a crackle of wheels. Louis waits for the sound to fade
before he sighs and lifts his head, forcing himself to meet Zayn’s gaze. “It was a knee-jerk reaction.
Like, I was just—How could he even think that? How could he think I’d keep this from him, didn’t
he know me at all?”

Didn’t he know I was so in love with him I couldn’t see a way out? Louis swallows that part back
down, drops his head back onto his folded arms. The space behind his lids is swerving like a tidal
wave. “I thought—Like, if he jumped to that conclusion so easily, it obviously meant that he
didn’t...” Love me. The words refuse to come out, so Louis replaces them with, “You know. And
then he told me to fuck off, which is a bit of a dead giveaway that he gave shit-all about me.”

There’s more, of course. Louis telling Harry that right, yes, he’d be glad to get out, what with how
there clearly wasn’t anything worth sticking around for, just a bit of a teenage fumble to pass the
time. Harry turning his back to Louis, repeating that Louis should fuck off already, and that Louis
clearly didn’t care about anything or anyone, didn’t even care if he spent months lying to his best
friend in the whole fucking world just so he could enjoy a bit of uninterrupted sex.

Which, fuck. That one—it had been a real punch to the gut. Because being with Harry had come at
the price of a widening gap between Louis and Gemma, lies and secrets driving an invisible wedge
between them, and yet it had been a price Louis had been willing to pay. Right up until that
moment, it had seemed worth it.

“So it’s better to lie to your sister about the same bloody thing, then?” Louis had asked, and he
hadn’t waited for a response before turning on his heel and leaving the room, closing the door with
a quiet snick instead of slamming it shut.

Still keeping their secret.

“Louis.” Zayn’s voice is slow, considering. “Has it ever occurred to you that... Just think. What if
he did care? Like, maybe he was scared, you know?”

Maybe he—what?

When Louis peeks over through his lashes, Zayn’s expression has turned thoughtful, the glow of
the telly reflecting in his eyes. “What if he was just, like, young and dumb, yeah, and so hurt that
he couldn’t see straight? I mean, his dad leaving like that, it must have—Like, he probably didn’t
know much of anything at that point, wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Questioning everything,
everyone, every single relationship in his life, ‘cause what if they were all just lying as well?”

Louis’ chest feels split open. “It wasn't my fault. I had no fucking idea about his dad.”

It hadn’t been Louis’ fault. No way. Harry had been so unfair, so out of line to even suggest that
Louis might keep something like that from him. Not Louis’ fault, no.

Absently, he watches a car chase unfold on the screen. The volume is too low to make out more
than a quick succession of gunshots, and he counts them out in his head, makes it to nine, to ten,
before Zayn’s expectant silence prompts him to add, quietly, “Bloody hell, Zayn. I was in love with
him, and he thought I didn't even care enough to—he thought I'd be the kind of person to keep this
from him. And then he told me to get out, like it was just that easy.”

Zayn takes a moment to reply, his hand still warm on Louis’ back. “How old was he, though?
Sixteen?”

“Yeah. Fifteen when we started, sixteen when we stopped.”

“And you expected him to think rationally?”

Alright. So Zayn might have a point, yeah, but Harry had always been... mature, in a way. Not
about everything; he’d been a beautiful combination of eager and uncertain about sex, and on a few
occasions, Louis’ teasing had resulted in a typical teenager huff. But Harry had also been so open
and honest, a cheeky, utterly charming little bugger who’d known how to read Louis like few
people have ever managed.
Oh, bollocks.

“What if he did care?” Zayn repeats quietly. “What if he did, and then you laughed at him?
Imagine how he would have felt.”

“He’s not sixteen anymore, though.” Louis shakes his head, flicking a glance at Zayn’s profile.
“He’s not, and yet he still acts like I'm a dick with questionable morals."

Also... Also, the whole thing had cost Louis the last shreds of his friendship with Gemma. He isn't
entirely certain what Harry had told her after the breakup—no, no, there hadn't been anything that
would even qualify for a breakup. Either way, Louis isn’t sure what Harry had told her, but the
next time he’d run into her, just a day after his final fight with Harry, she'd spared him hardly a
glance. It had come as another punch to the stomach, at a point when Louis had already felt pretty
dead inside, the memory of Harry’s words ringing in his brain like a low-level tinnitus.

Maybe Harry had confessed to how they'd been sneaking around behind her back, or maybe he’d
convinced her that Louis had known about their dad. Given the growing distance between them,
Gemma must have felt that Louis had been hiding something from her, so it might not have been all
that difficult to make her believe it. But then, Louis had been hiding things from Harry as well.
Like the fact that he'd been in love, that he’d wanted so much more than a casual arrangement −
had wanted to wake up next to Harry, to hold his hand, kiss him hello and good night and anytime
in between.

Maybe Harry, too, had sensed that Louis wasn't entirely honest. Shit, bloody hell, that might also
explain why Harry had jumped to conclusions, why he’d thought... Yeah.

Louis thinks he might need to throw up. It takes conscious effort to will down the rising nausea.

“You could still tell him that you didn't know,” Zayn says into the bleak panic that wells up behind
Louis’ forehead. “Not too late, is it?” The suggestion is gentle and soft, no pressure behind it.
Precisely because of that, it makes Louis’ heart lurch and then skip a beat, his stomach clenching
with it.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it’s kind of obvious that you still...” Zayn trails off, the words followed by a few seconds
of silence. When he speaks again, his tone is careful. “Lou, I don't think I've seen anyone else get
under your skin like that. Like, he still means something, doesn’t he?”

On the telly, the bad guys’ car topples over, landing on its back with the wheels spinning uselessly.
Louis can empathise. “What do you expect me to say?” he asks. “Harry’s an old wound that's
festered for years, pretty much.”

Zayn studies him, waiting, waiting, and Louis is first to look away.

“We also may have—uh.” Okay, there’s no way this won’t sound horribly stupid, so Louis might
just as well not bother trying to sugarcoat it. “First night he showed up, he sucked me off. I gave
him a handjob and sent him home with jizz on his trousers. So there’s also that.”

Zayn takes a calm sip of his tea.

“It was a momentary lapse in judgement,” Louis adds, a little rushed. “The heat of the moment.
Hormones.” Fuck, he sounds like a poster child for every poor excuse in the catalogue. Narrowing
his eyes, he bumps his shoulder against Zayn’s. “Don't judge me.”
“It was a one-time thing, then,” Zayn says. The lack of inflection makes it difficult to tell whether
it’s a statement or a question.

Louis nods emphatically.

“So you don't want to get your hands on his dick again.” While Zayn’s tone is offhand, his gaze is
sharp and focused on Louis’ face. “You wouldn't give a shit if he went home with someone?”

Shit. Fuck, Harry spread out under some stranger, their hands all over him... The thought alone
turns Louis’ stomach.

He stays silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Zayn says. His smile is smug, and Louis shoves him, irrespective of the
tea in Zayn’s hand. A few drops spill onto the duvet before Zayn manages to set the cup down on
the floor.

“Shut your trap, Malik.”

Zayn’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “My point is made.”

Louis hates him. He really, really does. How dare Zayn probe at the painstakingly constructed wall
of denial Louis has erected around everything pertaining to Harry? How very dare he?

“I hate you,” Louis says softly. Belying his own words, he rolls into Zayn, tucking his nose against
Zayn’s neck. It takes less than a second for Zayn to pull him into a tight hug.

--

Harry’s friends are crowded around a big table right next to Louis’ friends. Together, the two
groups account for about a fourth of tonight’s patrons, a fact which should, by all rights, earn them
some kind of commission.

Unfortunately, Louis’ very serious discussion with Niall about the details of such a potential
commission system is somewhat hindered by how Louis keeps sneaking glances at where Harry is
bent over to talk to his friends. Hanging half off some short-haired guy with rather impressive
biceps, the position puts Harry’s delightfully little bum on perfect display. It’s... fuck, it’s all pert
and sweet and tiny. Louis wants to wreck him every single day of the week.

Also, Louis is not a fan of the quiffed, older bloke who keeps touching Harry. And making Harry
snort with laughter. And basically intruding on what belongs to Louis, sparking a litany of mine
mine mine that keeps spinning through Louis’ head.

Jesus, at this rate, he really will piss on the floor to mark his territory. Will piss on Harry to mark
his territory, and that’s kind of disgusting, kind of mental. A series of lovebites in plain view,
maybe ╴yeah, that would be better. Better. No, worse. Worse, yes, and fuck, Louis can’t even
claim to be drunk because he hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol all night. Fucking Harry.

Only Louis isn’t. He is not fucking Harry, has never actually fucked Harry. Not in the strict sense
of the word. They didn’t quite get around to that. Louis had thought—He’d wanted to save it,
wanted to do it properly, after telling Harry that he—It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. No sense in crying over spilt milk.

“So,” Niall says loudly. “I reckon I’ll move into a cave and swear off using actual words. Grunts
and moans should do the trick, yeah?”

Louis needs two seconds, three, then his focus snaps to Niall. “The fuck you’re on about, Nialler?”

“Just checking. Y’know, see whether anything was gonna get through your haze of Harry lust.”
Niall looks far too proud of himself, and seriously, he and Zayn should form a society. Damn
meddlers, both of them. Before Louis can complain, Niall adds, “Is this a gay mating dance thing,
then? Like, I thought I’d seen a lot of stuff, what with—” He gestures at their surroundings. “But I
don’t get why you two aren’t shagging like mad by now. Explain me a thing?”

Louis prides himself on being pretty damn quick on the trigger. Right now, he’s grappling for an
appropriate comeback that isn’t, Shut your bloody gob this very moment and let’s pretend this
conversation never happened.

“Two Caipirinhas,” Harry announces into the stunned silence, and Louis turns to find Harry
already at the fridge. “And a Mojito, a Screwdriver, one Bloody Mary, one Whiskey Sour, three
beers and one Long Island Ice Tea. C’mon, help me out here.”

A whole string of orders, no notepad. He’s become a lot better at remembering and mixing drinks,
actually earning his place in the team. There’s a good chance that Louis’ digs have made Harry all
the more determined to prove himself.

Well, tough luck. It’s not as if Louis would ever admit that Harry belongs, because he doesn’t. He
doesn’t.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Louis says lazily. In spite of that, he moves to work on the Long
Island Ice Tea, aware of Harry shooting him a quick look every now and then, still mistrustful after
that stunt Louis had pulled on their very first shift together, deliberately making Harry fuck up a
classic White Russian.

Okay, so that might have been kind of shitty on Louis’ part. But whatever.

They load everything onto two trays, and since Niall is summoned to another table, Louis makes a
show of frowning before he picks up the second tray and follows Harry. By the time they make it
over, it’s to find that their two groups of friends have somehow merged into one, tables pushed
together, Zayn flicking a smug glance at Louis before tuning back into his conversation with the
short-haired biceps wonder.

That meddling piece of shit. Seriously, Louis will clock Zayn in the face, and he will not be
deterred by the fact that Zayn’s cheekbones were carved by higher deities.

Louis sets the tray down rather forcefully, shoving in between Zayn and Mister Biceps as he starts
distributing the drinks. Rather uncomfortably aware of Muscle Boy studying his face, Louis makes
it a point not to look at him. He also makes it a point not to watch Harry clutch two bottles of beer
in one hand because holy fuck, no, that shit is not okay.

Just... Harry’s hands, and his stupidly plump mouth. The way his dimples pop when the quiffed
bloke says something to him, dimples, and whatever the bloke said, well, Louis is willing to bet it
wasn’t particularly clever. Louis, on the other hand, can be very clever, very clever indeed. Harry
used to love his jokes.

Used to. Past tense, right.

“You’re Louis, aren’t you?” the Boy With The Arms asks, and Louis focuses on him.
“That would be me,” Louis says slowly.

“I’m Liam.” Biceps Wonder offers his hand for a shake, and okay, what even is this? Louis is too
startled to do anything but accept the handshake and stare at Liam, absently noting deep brown
eyes and pouty lips, features that bear a distinct resemblance to David Beckham. Like, if David
Beckham were still in his early twenties.

“Liam here,” Zayn says from Louis’ other side, “is Harry’s best mate. Small world, isn’t it?”

Louis contemplates drowning himself in the Caipirinha he just set down in front of Liam. It would
be a dramatic statement.

Instead, he shoots Zayn a warning glare, directs a bland, “Nice to meet you, enjoy your drink,” at
Liam, and turns on his heels. He doesn’t wait to check whether Harry is following, or whether he’s
still chatting with that quiffed bloke who could just about be his father.

Except, of course, that Louis knows what Harry’s actual father looks like.

Well, maybe the whole mess has made Harry develop a daddy kink. Maybe he likes them a decade
older now, and tall and hipstery ╴three attributes that Louis doesn’t possess. Never particularly
cared for them, either.

Anyway, Harry is not even a minute behind Louis. Not that Louis notices. Not that Louis cares.

--

The bar fills up after ten, and it’s a bit of a madhouse for a while. Three hours in and Louis’ arms
are starting to burn. He catches Harry arch his back with a quiet groan, knuckles pressed against
the base of his spine. Niall is sporting red ears and a perpetual grin.

Given how they’re rushing about, only just managing to keep up with the crowd, neither Harry nor
Louis get a chance to chat with their friends. To Harry’s credit, he holds his own and doesn’t
complain.

It’s only at around two in the morning that the patrons filing out aren’t immediately replaced by
new ones. “We’ve made it,” Louis declares to no one in particular. “This is the turn of the tide.”
Next to him, Harry snorts, but doesn’t comment otherwise.

Louis kind of wants to goad him into an actual conversation. Maybe one that doesn’t end with them
glaring at each other. Maybe one ending in kisses.

Each time Louis glances at Harry, at the straight line of his shoulders and the curls swept off his
forehead, an echo of Zayn’s words flits through Louis’ brain; what if he was young and dumb and
so hurt that he couldn’t see straight, and, maybe he was scared.

It’s all water under the bridge, though. Having an alternate interpretation suddenly occupy space in
his head doesn’t change the way Louis looks at Harry, it can’t. It just can’t.

Because if Zayn is right, then Louis is the one who botched it up. Harry may have started it, yeah,
but Louis is the one who should have seen through the bullshit, should have spotted the lost little
boy behind the angry mask.

That repression seminar sounds more appealing by the minute.

--
Harry’s friends are the sort of people who stay until closing time, but scatter at the suggestion that
they could help with the clean-up. Well, Liam might have stayed if Zayn hadn’t dragged him off
with a laugh.

Right: Zayn. Who slotted in with Harry’s group rather than leaving with his own friends. Slotted in
with Liam, to be precise, and at this point, Louis can’t quite decide whether Zayn is an evil,
meddling mind, or whether he’s truly taken a shine to Harry’s best mate. It might be a combination
of both.

With Niall having buggered off an hour ago, once things had dwindled down, it’s just Harry and
Louis left, Harry and Louis and the wordless tension stretching between them. Talk about deja-vu.
Except, of course, there won’t be blowjobs tonight. Or at least Louis won’t be the one to instigate
them. Because of reasons. Reasons such as Harry’s lingering goodbye hug with that quiffed hipster
bloke, reasons such as the guy’s lips dragging over Harry’s cheek.

Louis is not thinking about that. He’s doing a banging job of not thinking about that. “So who’s the
guy with the quiff?” he asks into the roaring silence.

Yeah, so Louis’ mouth didn’t get the memo.

Harry freezes where he’s putting up a chair, his fingers clasped around the chair’s legs, and fuck,
Harry’s fingers. And the bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. And his arms. Right, okay.
Focus.

“Why do you care?” Harry’s mouth is twisted into a tight curve, his gaze sharp on Louis’ face.
“My friends are fucking off limits to you, okay?”

Off limits, huh? That sounds familiar, sounds very much like the imaginary line Louis has drawn
between Harry and everyone else. Somewhere in Louis’ brain, Zayn is laughing himself into a right
fit.

Also, Harry thinks Louis is interested in quiffed hipsters about twice his age? What the hell.

Louis shakes his head and leans back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle. He hopes
he looks cool and collected in spite of how his skin feels like it’s unravelling from the inside. “Just
trying to figure out whether you cheated on him with me. Whether you give fuck-all about who
you’re hurting with your actions.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Harry lets go of the chair, doesn’t even seem to notice the way it clatters to the ground when he
takes a big step towards Louis. His eyes are wide, and Louis’ chest tightens even though he sucks
in a quick breath. I didn’t mean it, he wants to say. And I didn’t know about your dad, back then. I
had no idea.

“For the record,” Harry’s tone is cutting, “I have never even kissed anyone while dating someone
else. Unlike others in this room.”

It’s a low blow, fuck. Technically, Louis had still been with a girl from his drama class when he
and Harry had somehow tripped into their first kiss. At that point, the girl had been a friend more
than anything else, the relationship having fizzled into comfortable companionship, but Louis had
still felt a crippling sense of guilt. Irrespective of how they’d never been in love, she deserved
better than a guy who went behind her back. He’d barely managed to look at her when he’d broken
it off the next day.
Harry knows that. And the fact that he would twist it around, turn into a weapon what Louis had
confided in the quiet space of a rare afternoon they’d stolen for themselves... Fuck him. Fuck him.

“Can’t blame me for checking.” Louis lifts one shoulder and affects a casual smile. “You know
how it goes, don’t you? Like father, like—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because there’s Harry, right up in his space, clutching Louis’
shoulders in grip that’s tight enough to hurt.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry gets out, and it sounds broken, as though the words themselves chafe
away at him. Louis wants to kiss him until he’s loose and pliant and soft-eyed, until Harry is
holding on rather than holding in place.

So Louis does. He shoves in until no distance is left, winds one hand in Harry’s hair to tug his head
down, and claims his mouth in a hard kiss.

For a second or a century, Harry doesn’t respond.

Then he bites down on Louis’ bottom lip, a sharp sting of pain as Harry’s fingers clench around
Louis’ shoulder. There’ll be marks tomorrow, fuck, yes, please. Louis twists impossibly closer,
opens his mouth and parts his legs, one of Harry’s thighs sliding in between. The counter is
pressing a horizontal stripe against Louis’ spine, the backs of his lids a shuddering black, and each
clumsy grind of their hips sparks heat all along the length of his body. Jesus, he shouldn’t, they
shouldn’t, but there’s no fucking way Louis will do anything to stop this downward spiral, no way
in hell, God no, not even when he needs to turn his head away just to breathe. There isn’t enough
air in the world to fill his lungs.

Harry mumbles something that might be Louis’ name or a curse, an almost drunken quality to his
voice. It’s what prompts Louis to push him away, using the counter as leverage to walk Harry back
against the closest table, only just catching Harry when he’s about to trip over the upturned chair.
In the dim light, Harry’s expression looks as though he’s been split open, and it takes Louis a
moment to realise just how tightly he’s clenching down on Harry’s left wrist.

Oh.

So Harry is still into that. Still loves it when Louis takes control, loves to be dominated, in spite of
how he’s half a head taller now and could easily turn this thing around if he wanted. It’s quite
possible that Louis’ vision whites out for just a moment, stomach clenching around a hollow
weight.

When Louis nudges Harry up onto the table, Harry complies easily. His breath is coming in small,
hitching bursts, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Louis has never wanted anyone else this much,
enough for his bones to ache with it, his centre of gravity having shifted from somewhere behind
his navel to a point that is closer to Harry, hopelessly tied to him.

“Harry,” Louis manages, “Hazza,” and then he’s out of words, out of thoughts.

They don’t kiss so much as collapse into each other. Harry tastes like orange juice and smells like
home.

--

It's been years since the last time Louis came in his pants, long enough to forget the uncomfortable
itch of damp fabric sticking to his skin. The last time had been with Harry as well, and Louis still
remembers Harry perched on his lap in the backseat, after Louis had picked him up in the middle
of the night with his mum's car, driving with the radio on low until they'd found a hidden spot
down a gravel road. Their breathing had seemed amplified in the small space, wet kisses and each
shift of Harry's hips followed by a moment of stillness. Low sighs, Louis holding on to Harry's hips
and wanting to hold on forever.

It might be the closest they'd come to a proper date, given how they couldn't hang out where
people might see, couldn't go to casually enjoy a milkshake together. They'd sought to avoid the
questions that would be an inevitable consequence of an eighteen-year-old A Level student
spending time with his best mate's little brother, a lowly Year Eleven, for no discernible reason.

A secret, yeah. They’d been each other’s dirty little secret, and nothing ever meant anything. Not to
Harry.

Harry. Who releases a sudden, quiet, "Shit," into the stillness of the bar.

The word breaks the silent limbo they've been caught in ever since Louis let go of Harry's wrists
and took a step back, both of them still breathing hard, Louis' gaze drawn to the wet patch at the
front of Harry's trousers. Even as they both returned to their respective tasks, Louis couldn’t help
but look, again and again. Couldn’t help but think, I did that to you. Even now, I can still do that to
you.

"What?" Louis asks before he can pretend that he hasn't been paying attention. Always listening,
watching, aware.

"Nothing," Harry says flatly. His back is turned to Louis as he puts up the last chair, and fine, okay,
forget Louis asked.

Only when Louis catches sight of the clock, he realises that it's later than usual. In between Harry's
friends lingering for a bit longer, in between arguing and Harry and Louis falling into each other
yet again, urgent and helpless, desperate—in between all of that, time has trickled away. It's half
past three now, and Harry’s bus must have left five minutes ago. The next one won't be for another
hour.

Well, shit. Yeah.

Louis stays silent through their last few minutes of work. Since superior experience puts him in
charge, he lets Harry out first before locking up behind them, watching Harry out of the corner of
his eye. Shrouded in darkness, Harry doesn't utter so much as a word, is hunched into himself,
weight shifted to the balls of his feet and hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, his gaze on
the ground. His pants must be just as uncomfortable, just as itchy as Louis'.

Louis takes one step, another. He doesn't look back over his shoulder when he says, "Get a move
on, will you?"

The words echo strangely in the empty car park. As soon as they're out there, Louis wants to retract
them, undo the offer and maintain his facade of indifference.

"To where?" Harry asks. For once, he doesn't sound stubborn or angry. Just tired. So very, very
tired.

Louis feels his stomach expand on a deep inhalation. Right, then. So he's doing this. "To my car,
obviously. You can sleep on the sofa."

“Wait, do you mean—”

“Come on,” Louis repeats sharply. Still not bothering to turn around, he waits for the sound of
footsteps behind him before he continues on his way. He pitches his tone to convey flat disinterest.
"Just don't think I'll let you borrow my clothes, or anything like that. Because I won't."

There's nothing for a short moment, only the whisper of their steps in the velvety night. Then, so
quiet Louis almost misses it: "Thank you."

Louis doesn't reply. In passing, he opens the passenger door for Harry before rounding the car and
sliding in behind the wheel, banning all memories of previous nighttime drives to the dark recess of
his mind.

Without further comment, Harry settles in his seat, curling up against the door as Louis flicks on
the stereo. The music doesn't suffice to bridge the bottomless abyss of silence spanning between
them.

--

Louis spends the entire ten-minute drive carefully focused on the road, on the grip of his fingers
around the steering wheel and the shift in gravity each time he takes the car around a bend. On not
reaching across the separation to touch Harry's shoulder, his face, his mouth.

It isn't until Louis parks and throttles the engine, music cutting off sharply, that he allows himself
to look over.

Harry has fallen asleep. He's tucked up against the window, curled into himself with his long limbs
bent awkwardly, quietly snuffling breaths escaping him. In the faint light of a streetlamp, his
features are reduced to a shadow relief, lashes like feathery charcoal smudges against his skin.

A week ago, Louis would have kicked him awake. A week ago, Louis wouldn't even have let him
into his car.

What if he did care? What if he was young and stupid and so hurt that he couldn’t see straight?

Yeah, what if? What if Zayn is right, what if Harry really had cared, back then? What if Louis had
meant more than just a convenient answer to lacking options? They'd been close in some ways, had
talked about their plans and their fears – about how Harry had hardly ever confessed to his dream
of becoming a musician because most people thought it silly, about Louis wanting the freedom of a
big city, of university life, yet struggling with a sense of obligation to help out his mum. About
how they’d been daunted by the thought of coming out, by the possibility of being rejected for
who they were.

Neither of them had touched upon what they meant to each other. Louis had thought about putting
it out there, though, of course he had. More than once, he’d grappled for words that would do
justice to the gnawing ache in his chest, to the golden hum in his bones at Harry's touch and smiles.
It was just... Damn, nothing had seemed to measure up when held against the risk of Harry
laughing at him. Only Harry wouldn't have; he had been carefree, yes, but never cruel. So instead,
he would have been confused and a little sad, might have suggested that they stop. And that—
Jesus, no.

They’d never talked about whether there was a future beyond those last few months, stolen time
before Louis would leave for university. Turned out to be even less than that, after all.

"Harry." Louis keeps his voice low and soft. "Hazza, we're here."

Hazza. The old nickname escapes without Louis' permission, no way to take it back, but there's no
need; Harry doesn't wake, didn't catch Louis' slip. Harry’s breathing doesn't change.

Slowly, Louis leans over the gap between their seats, inching closer to study Harry's features,
darkness washing them out. It's disconcerting how he's this combination of past and present, hard to
tell where one ends and the other begins. There probably isn't a clear-cut distinction, and trying to
draw the line would be a doomed attempt. Louis wants them both, wants all of Harry, still or again
– and yet he hardly even knows this young man now sleeping in the passenger seat of his car.

Except, he does. He knows what shaped Harry, knows the way he turns into a kiss and how
irritation knots up his shoulders. His smell, the taste of his skin. How his cheeks dimple when he
laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Louis knows that more than three years after they’d talked
about living in a big city, about all those bright possibilities, about university and shitty student
housing and scrounging for money at the end of each month, about how Harry's graduation was
still so far away...

Well. More than three years after that, they're both here. In London.

Louis drags his knuckles along the line of Harry's jaw, applying gentle pressure. "Harry," he
repeats quietly, the name melting into the darkness.

Harry's eyes flutter open as Louis' hand falls away. He seems disoriented for a moment, unmoving
as he blinks at Louis, then he sits up abruptly and shoves a hand through his messy hair. "Sorry."
His voice is rough with sleep. Rougher with sleep. "Didn't mean to fall asleep, sorry."

Louis nods, shakes his head. Withdrawing into his own seat, he crosses his arms and holds onto his
elbows. "What are you studying?" The silent gap that follows the question seems to roar like a
thunderclap. "Music? Did you end up—Is that what you're studying?"

It takes several seconds before Harry replies. "Yeah." His gaze is focused on Louis' face, and Louis
has no idea what Harry finds there, but whatever it is has Harry suck in a deep breath. "Looking to
become a teacher after, though, I think. Like, primary school.”

"You always did love kids," Louis says, and he doesn't know why he's still talking, why he's still
looking at Harry, why Harry is still looking back. "Loved teaching them, explaining something
until they got it."

It's true. It's true. Harry had earned some money supervising homework, and two of Louis' sisters
had been in his group. A couple of times, Louis had picked them up, and he'd spent a moment
lingering in the door to watch Harry point out something or another, his smile kind and his voice
slow, patient. The kids had loved him.

Louis had loved him too.

"Thank you," Harry says, so low it barely translates. He shifts in his seat, turned to face Louis, the
city night holding its breath where it looms outside the car. "What about you? Did you end up..."

"Studying drama and going to all those auditions I dreamed about?" Louis finishes for him. "Sort
of. Tried that for a year, and then I realised it wasn't getting me anywhere. I'm a respectable law
student now."

He expects Harry to laugh, but Harry doesn't; instead, he appears to roll the thought around his
head for a second, examining it, before he nods. "Makes sense, I guess. Knack for words and
winning people over to your side, right? And, like. Court could still use some dramatic
presentation, I guess."
The assessment startles Louis into a smile. "You've been watching too much Suits, mate. This is
London, not New York. 'fraid I'm not heading for a flat that's all glass and metal and amazing view
over the city."

"Not the only one who's been watching Suits, am I?" Harry's laugh seeps into the darkness, and for
a beat, they're simply grinning at each other, Louis' heart giving a painfully heavy twist in his
chest.

Fuck, how did they get here?

Closing his fingers around the car key, he forces himself to turn away. Briefly, he shuts his eyes
and lets the black space behind his lids fill his vision, before he pushes his door open and gets out.
The cool night air feels like a slap to his skin.

He hears Harry clamber out after him. When he glances over his shoulder, Harry yawns as he
stretches his back, t-shirt riding up to reveal a flat stomach, subtly ripped and offset by a sweet set
of love handles that would be perfect for Louis to hold on to, fingertips sinking into the soft flesh
so he can pull Harry back onto his cock, Harry's spine a lovely arch and his head dropped low,
shivering with each grind of Louis' hips, and—and Louis is getting way, way ahead of himself.

He averts his eyes and locks the car. The dried fabric of his pants is uncomfortable against his skin,
scratchy, and it must be the same for Harry. "Come on, then," Louis tells him, tone gentle, and on
the edge of his vision, he catches a smile flit over Harry's face.

It's brief, gone within a second, but it's enough to make Louis wait for Harry to catch up to him.
Only then does he start moving.

--

The sofa is lumpy, a fourth-hand affair they picked up from a bulky waste collection. While taking
up a good part of the kitchen that doubles as a living room, it’s still too small for comfortable sleep,
and Harry will have to fold into himself to fit. A glance at his expression tells Louis that Harry
knows it as well as Louis does, eyes downcast, chewing on his bottom lip. Louis waits for him to
say something, but he doesn't.

Now and then. Harry had hardly ever asked anything of Louis. Why? Was it because he couldn't be
bothered, or because he didn't dare, too nervous that Louis might tell him to shove it? Really, the
only time Louis had denied Harry anything was when Harry had asked to be fucked, and Louis had
given him a blank, simple ‘no’ because he hadn’t dared ask whether Harry had wanted it to be
Louis, or really just anyone.

Louis chances another glance at Harry's profile, at the curve of his nose, the way his hair curls
around the shell of his ear. It's hard to imagine a world in which Louis' blood is not bubbling with
this restless urge to reach for Harry, tuck him close and never let go.

"Is your back still giving you trouble?" Louis asks.

Harry lingers on the threshold to the room, a rare show of uncertainty from this older, more self-
assured version of the boy Louis knew so well. It ignites a spark of doubt about just how much of
that confidence is real – did Harry merely learn how to fake it more convincingly? Even at fifteen,
at sixteen, he'd been a beautiful mix of playful cheek and need for reassurance.

"You remember my back troubles?" That Harry even has to ask speaks for itself. Of course Louis
remembers. Of course.
"I remember a lot of things," Louis tells him, and he hadn't intended for his voice to sound quite
this sad.

For a long moment, Harry looks at him, just looks. When he smiles, sudden and hesitant, it seems
out of place in the harsh brightness of a naked light bulb suspended above the kitchen table. "It still
bugs me sometimes," he says, and Louis needs a second to remember the question. Harry's bad
back, right. "Only a little, though. Think it was mostly down to a growth spurt."

"Well, yeah. You certainly are too big for this sofa now. Big oaf, really." Louis shakes his head,
and is this—is he teasing Harry? "Not at all like the little boy I could fit into my pocket."

Harry breathes out a half-laugh and pushes a hand through his hair, his stance careful. "That sounds
wrong. Really wrong. Also, you're the one who's pocket-sized now."

Uneasy teasing. Okay, Louis can do this, can pretend that they're kind of, maybe, friends who get
each other off sometimes. He can pretend that Harry didn't break his heart into all these scattered
pieces which Louis is still trying to assemble.

"Too bad." Louis lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug and pushes past Harry to head for the bath,
passing the firmly closed door to Zayn's room. Thank God for that; Louis wouldn't know how to
handle Zayn's questioning looks right now, not when he barely even understands his own actions.

"What's too bad?" Harry asks. After a moment of noticeable hesitation, he trails Louis down the
corridor.

"Eh. I thought I'd be a proper good host and offer you my bed, sleep on the sofa myself." Louis
flicks on the light switch in the bathroom, catching sight of his own face in the mirror. There’s a
mildly frantic expression in his eyes, the corners of his mouth curled up into the semblance of a
smirk. "But not if you're making fun of my stature. Size does not matter, Styles."

When Harry comes up next to him, the narrow space forcing them into close contact, Louis
struggles not to react. He's not sure what Harry is doing, isn't sure what he himself is doing, except
that it might be a monumentally bad idea and that he doesn't want to stop.

"Or," Harry says slowly, as though he is feeling out the words, "we could share your bed? I mean.
It wouldn't be the first time."

Share. They could share?

There was only the faintest edge of teasing to Harry's voice, and when Louis' gaze flicks from
Harry's lips up to his eyes, their gazes tangle in the mirror. Harry's eyes are wide, a little startled.
Wouldn't be the first time, Louis' brain echoes, and no, it wouldn't be. Not as such. Not technically.
But it would be the first time without the lingering threat of being caught, the first time there is no
need for a silent getaway in the morning.

Louis takes a deep breath, and it feels as if the room expands along with his lungs. In the mirror,
Harry's lips quirk up into a wobbly smile, and Louis turns his head to look at him rather than at his
washed-out reflection.

"Well." Louis' voice comes out hushed, like a secret. "Sharing is caring, isn't it?"

They stare at each other for a long, quiet second. Then Harry's smile widens as he ducks his head,
glances away, and he's so fucking pretty, so easily within reach. Louis has to suffocate the impulse
to touch his chin and tilt his head back up just enough for a kiss.
This is a momentary respite, he tells himself. They're caught in that fragile space between night
and early dawn, softening all contours of the sharp-cut pieces of their past, moulding them into
distant possibilities.

It won't last; Louis shouldn't expect it to last. He can't allow himself to hope for anything from
Harry. He’s been down that road before, after all ╴made it through the car crash, bought the t-shirt
and is still trying to walk free.

Once is plenty.

--

Harry doesn’t wait for Louis’ permission to shrug off his shirt and shimmy out of his trousers. The
simple fact that Harry is in Louis’ bedroom, nearly naked, his stance casual and comfortable, as
though he could belong—well, fuck. The sight of his slender thighs constitutes exquisite torture.

Then Harry tugs at his soiled pants with the kind of contemplation that does not bode well for
Louis’ sanity. Louis snaps out of his stupor.

“You’re not sleeping naked in my bed,” he says firmly, before Harry can rehash his favourite
argument about how the prerequisite to wear clothes in public is a socially accepted form of
repression. Seriously, Harry has diagrams about it. Well, used to have them, at least.

"But," Harry begins, and Louis holds up a hand.

"No. Absolutely not."

With a sad frown, Harry looks down his own body. "But these pants are disgusting?"

Disgusting, right. Because Harry came in them. While grinding up against Louis, with Louis’
fingers tight around Harry’s wrists and each shift of their hips drawing a hitched intake of air, Jesus
fucking Christ and holy mother of God. Also, Harry’s pants are unfairly tight and clingy, leaving
very little to the imagination. Not that Louis has to imagine much, not really; experience supplies
him with a firm knowledge base.

Fuck. Just... fuck.

It’s quite possible that over the course of the night, Louis will spontaneously combust from sexual
tension. Combust from sexual tension, haha ╴Harry would so make a bad pun about that. You
mean, like, a spillover effect? A sudden release? Is that what you mean?

All things considered, it is an act of self-defence which has Louis toss Harry a pair of old, ratty
trackies that sit dangerously low on Harry’s waist. Self-defence, yes. Louis draws the line at
lending Harry his toothbrush, though, only that results in Harry coating his index finger in
toothpaste and sliding it into his mouth, cheeks hollowing around the digit, eyes bright. No one can
blame Louis for staring.

He needs several seconds to collect himself. A game, this must be just another game to Harry, see
how far they can push each other until the tension snaps again. Well, if that is the case, Louis
refuses to play. For him, the stakes are too high.

Pointedly, he turns away and drops his toothbrush into the sink. “Hurry up,” he mutters.

Behind him, Harry inhales as if he means to say something and then stays quiet. Glancing into the
mirror, Louis catches Harry duck over the sink to rinse out his mouth, then run a damp hand
through his hair, making the strands stick up.

Louis is not watching him anymore, is not. He is perfectly capable of looking away.

Walking around Harry, Louis leads the way into his bedroom. Harry follows on quiet feet, posture
a little less confident than earlier, and he lingers at the foot of the bed until Louis is burrowed
under his own duvet. It feels like he’s waiting for a cue from Louis, and that’s such an
uncomfortable throwback into their shared past that Louis rolls over to face the wall.

His voice sounds hollow. “There’s a blanket on the sofa. You can grab that, because there is no
way we will share my duvet.”

“Okay,” Harry says softly, and he sounds tired, so fucking tired. Louis is tired as well.

He listens to Harry’s footsteps, fading down the corridor before they return, then the quiet snick of
the door. When Harry crawls onto the bed, the mattress dips under the weight of his body, and
every single one of Louis’ molecules wants to get close, closer, until there is no distance left.

“Good night,” he tells the wall in front of his face. The wall doesn’t answer, but Harry does, just a
gently whispered echo of Louis’ words.

“Good night.” A short moment passes before Harry adds, equally quiet, “Thanks for letting me
stay.”

“It’s fine.” Blindly, Louis reaches over to slap off the light. The darkness is disconcerting for a
moment, shadows pressing in as Harry rustles around behind him. Another familiar fragment of the
past; Harry had always done that, shifting and turning while falling asleep, stilling only once he
was out for the count.

Louis knows too much about Harry. He doesn’t know nearly enough.

Rolling over onto his back, he finds that there is enough space between Harry and him for another
body, a marked difference to those other times they’d shared a bed, when they were wrapped
around each other and it had seemed as necessary as breathing. Through the open window, the
warm summer air carries city sounds into the room. Louis breathes in and thinks he can identify a
hint of Harry’s aftershave, fresh traces of citrus and vanilla.

“Thanks anyway.” Harry has pulled the blanket up to cover his naked shoulders, on his side with
his cheek smushed into Louis’ spare pillow. His lids are lowered, the whites of his irises
discernible in the shadows

They already said good night, and Louis doesn’t know why he can’t just close his eyes and go to
sleep. He’s bloody knackered, but he’s not used to sharing his bed with anyone. With Harry.

“Is the blanket warm enough?” Louis asks. He wants to punch his own stupid mouth the moment
it’s out. Fuck, he sounds like he cares.

“It’ll be fine.” The warmth of laughter colours Harry’s voice, twining with the roughness of
exhaustion. “You know me. I don’t get cold easily.”

You know me.

“Yeah,” Louis says tonelessly, not really a response, but it’s better than blurting out all those half-
formed thoughts and memories and questions, so many questions. He squeezes his lids shut. “Sleep
well, then.”
“You too,” Harry tells him.

They don’t speak again. Louis drifts off to sleep with his heart beating a heavy melody in his chest,
weighing him down. Beside him, Harry’s breathing is a steady rhythm. Comes and goes in waves.

===
 III.
Chapter Notes

I disclaim. And stuff.

Warm, oh. Sweet curl of golden pressure in his gut.

Louis inhales deeply, the tip of his nose pressed against sweaty skin. Mhmm, citrus. Harry. Harry,
Harry. Nice. Everything is nice, yes. Nice and hot and slow. Louis could stay like this indefinitely,
wrapped around Harry’s body, his crotch against Harry’s naked bum and oh, of course, yeah, Harry
hates sleeping in clothes, must have shuffled out of Louis’ trackies. ‘s nice. Nice, nice, Harry is
nice, this is nice.

Tiny twitch of Louis’ hips, clothed cock sliding against the crack of Harry’s bum. Again. One arm
around Harry’s stomach to pull him closer, alwayspleaseyes closer. Good, good, oh.

Harry’s stomach rises on a breath, and Louis’ eyes fly open.

Shit. Shit. Harry sleeping in his bed does not give Louis permission to hump him like an animal.
Oh God, shit, fucking fuck.

Harry is giving no indication that he’s awake. His breathing is steady, face turned into the pillow,
granting Louis easy access to his nape. Wispy hair tickles Louis’ nose. Slowly, keeping the rest of
his body absolutely still against Harry’s back, Louis inches his hand up over Harry’s ribcage, the
bump of a collarbone, following its line to the dip at the base of Harry’s neck.

Harry’s pulse is racing.

Jerking his hand back, Louis is about to jolt away, apology already on his lips, when Harry reaches
around to grip Louis’ thigh. “Please don’t stop. Lou. Don’t stop.” Harry’s consonants are blurred,
like an image seen through milky glass, and Louis exhales, relaxes back against the curve of
Harry’s spine.

“How long’ve you been awake?” He presses his palm against Harry’s chest to feel the heavy thud
of Harry’s heart. There’s an ache in Louis’ bones, a delicate tug behind his navel. He stutters his
hips forward, and Harry’s breath hitches on a sharp sigh.

“Couple of minutes,” Harry replies, notably delayed, his voice dragging. He’s naked, fuck, fully
naked in Louis’ arms, and Louis is still wearing boxers and a t-shirt, hopes that Harry feels the
rough drag of cotton against his skin. The duvet is tangled somewhere around their knees, trapping
Louis’ right ankle, but that doesn’t prevent him from throwing his left leg over Harry’s thighs.
Harry shifts into the contact immediately, pliant, panting into the sheets, and Louis wants to see his
face, wants to see him wrecked and open, all for Louis, everything for Louis, everything to Louis.

The thought settles like lead in Louis' chest. He skirts his palm up Harry’s chest to apply light
pressure to Harry’s neck. It’s not enough to choke him, only just enough to suggest the possibility,
and Harry shudders against Louis. Jesus.

“Like that?” Louis asks, and wow, is that really his voice? Raspy and low, affected. He grinds his
hips forward and increases the pressure on Harry’s neck by a fraction. “Like it when I take
control?”

“Please,” Harry whispers. He twists his upper body halfway around, shoulders shoved flat against
the mattress and arse still firmly pressed against Louis’ crotch. Sunlight paints a bright stripe
across his naked stomach, and all it takes is Louis rising up on one elbow to hover above him,
study his face. Harry’s mouth is parted, lips wet and flushed. He must have been biting them.
Keeping in the sounds.

Gently squeezing down on Harry’s neck, Louis dips in for a kiss. When he thrusts against Harry’s
bum, Harry groans into Louis’ mouth, and Louis wants to hear it again and again, never wants to
stop drawing these noises from Harry, never wants to stop.

He’s already in too deep. Might as well enjoy the fall.

--

So this makes two pairs of Louis’ boxer briefs that desperately need washing, all in the space of ten
hours. It’s like a throwback into puberty, and it’s Harry’s fault. Both then and now.

Louis isn’t freaking out, though. No. He is as cool as a cucumber, chilled like a hurricane, smooth
like a banana smoothie. He is also not pacing a hole into his floor, nope, and anyway, it’s an old
wood floor which already has plenty of holes and cracks, so you’d never be able to tell. And he is
not pacing in the first place. So.

When the shower shuts off, Louis halts his steps. Okay. This won’t be awkward. Like, why would
it be awkward now? Why now, when it hasn’t been awkward so far—not when they came down
wrapped around each other and Louis smoothed his palm from Harry’s neck down to his elbow, not
when they studied each other for a quiet minute, until Harry mumbled, “So, uh. Good morning,”
and for some reason, that had both of them grinning widely.

It will be fine. Just as long as Louis doesn’t blurt out anything stupid, of course. As long as they
avoid any reference to the past. Repression for the motherfucking win.

Dismissing the past seems a lot easier when Harry ambles in a minute later, towel slung loosely
around his waist, hair dripping water onto his shoulders. Whoa, hey, what even is coherent
thinking? Overrated, certainly. Even more so when Harry is making himself this comfortable in
Louis’ space, as though he intends—something, nothing, it doesn’t matter.

“Could I borrow your trackies?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs.

“Whatever, yeah.” Casual, right. Louis can do casual. He’s done nothing but casual ever since he
lost Harry. “You better not have scared Zayn with your disregard for clothes, though. He’s very
vulnerable, first thing in the morning.”

“It’s noon. And no, don’t worry. I don’t think he’s even home? So, you know, it’s all still very
much hush-hush, no need to tell your friends I stayed over.” Harry frowns, turning half-away as he
undoes the knot of the towel, letting it drop to the floor, and he just... Yeah, no. Forget thinking.

There might come a day when Louis will grow immune to the sight of Harry’s sweet little bum, to
his endless torso and slender legs. Today is not that day. In fact, that day might not come until
they’re both old and grey, too weak to get it up without the aid of a certain blue pill. And wait, hold
on a second—Louis is not entertaining the possibility of growing old with Harry, because that
would be the very opposite of casual.
Also, what did Harry just say about keeping this whole thing hush-hush?

With some difficulty, Louis drags his gaze up to Harry’s face, visible only in profile. It’s enough to
catch how Harry’s mouth is pressed into a firm line, head ducked.

“Zayn already knows,” Louis says slowly, testing the words. “Not about last night, I mean, but
generally, he... I told him, like, a few days ago. After he saw you at the bar.” After I told him to
stay the hell away from you. He does not add that part, instead finishes with, “So it’s not like this is
a secret or anything.”

Harry releases a sudden breath, head snapping up. There’s something in his eyes that Louis can’t
quite read, a strange brightness that wasn’t there before. Sheer instinct has Louis take a step
forwards—only to be stopped by Harry’s mobile, the ringtone a ridiculous rendition of Sisters Are
Doin’ It For Themselves.

“That’s Gems,” Harry says, and Louis’ breath freezes in his chest.

Gemma. Oh God.

Somehow, he coaxes his voice to work. “You don’t want to get it?”

“I’ll call her back.” Harry’s reply seems muted in Louis’ ears, as though everything is underwater,
and Harry is still naked and how is this even happening, how did any of this happen?

The song cuts off as Harry’s mobile switches to voice mail. Louis sits down on the bed, trying to
swallow around the rawness of his throat. It doesn’t work. Since looking at Harry doesn’t help,
Louis closes his eyes, buries his head in his hands and tries to focus on breathing, simple and easy.
Shit. Control, he needs to be in control, but there’s Harry and Gemma, Gemma and Harry Harry
Harry, the past crashing against the inside of Louis’ skull like water bursting through a dam.

The mattress dips next to Louis, and then there is a cautious touch to his shoulder. “Louis? Hey.”

“Sorry.” Louis gives a hollow laugh. He opens his eyes just enough to assess that yeah, Harry is
still naked, and Louis is down to his dirty pants, and sun is streaming in through the window
because outside, it’s a perfectly normal summer day in the city.

“Sorry,” Louis repeats. “I just—How is she? Gemma, how is she? Your mum, too, how are...”

“They’re good. Both of them.” Harry shifts a little closer, his knee knocking against Louis’. “Mum
is... She’s pretty great. Just got engaged, actually. To one of Ben’s best mates, that’s how I know
Ben, how I got the job at the bar. And Gemma has turned out to be a proper genius, brains of the
family and all. Not that this is news, I guess. She...” A short pause. “She’s in London as well, you
know.”

“Oh.” It’s the only response Louis can come up with, his brain wiped blank. Without his
permission, his body angles into Harry’s side, the contact of their bare arms oddly grounding. “Did
you ever...”

“Did I ever what?” Harry asks, when Louis can’t quite bring himself to continue.

“Tell her.” Louis shuts his eyes against the overwhelming brightness of the sun. “About us. Did
you ever tell her the truth? That we’d been going behind her back for months?”

They’re close enough that Louis feels it when Harry’s muscles tense up, Harry holding himself
stiff and upright for a moment before he deflates, tilting further into Louis. His voice is quiet, the
words halting. “Yeah, I did. Only a couple of years ago, though.”

Louis thinks he wants to know, thinks he doesn't. Thinks he wants to be anywhere but here, thinks
there is nowhere else he'd rather be, no one else he'd rather be with. No one but Harry. Somehow, it
always comes back to Harry.

As if to prove that point, Harry’s voice cuts through the haze in Louis’ head. “She beat me up with
a pillow, in case you were wondering. Then smothered me in a hug. Like, equal parts adorable and
terrifying.”

“A broadly accurate description of Gemma,” Louis puts in. It isn’t funny, not really, but he finds
himself smiling regardless, turns his head to tuck it against Harry’s shoulder and realises a second
too late what he’s doing.

Harry snorts. He also doesn’t push Louis away. “Probably, yeah. I mean, she did scare both of us
into sneaking around, right?”

“Yeah. I mean...” Lifting his head, Louis opens his eyes to look at Harry and is surprised to find
their faces disconcertingly close. Much closer than Louis thought. “Gemma was only one part of
why we did it, what with the whole small town gossip stuff and all, and we were still figuring
ourselves out, but... Either way, guess telling her the truth got more daunting with each day that we
didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes are focused on Louis’ face, his answer taking several moments to form. “She told me
—once she calmed down, she said she’d kind of suspected something. Not that you and I were
shagging, you know, just that you were hiding stuff from her.” He sounds as though he is
assembling building blocks, or pieces of a puzzle. “Like, it was why she believed me when I said
you’d known about my dad. And that you’d been lying to her about it. Because she could tell you’d
been lying about something.”

“Yeah, well.” It’s too much, right now. Looking at Harry is too fucking much, so Louis shifts his
gaze away and gets to his feet. “I lost Gemma even before I lost you, didn’t I? ‘Cause lying to your
best friend is a shitty thing, no matter the circumstances.”

“Lying about what?” Harry asks from behind Louis, and for once, his tone isn’t confrontational.
“Just about me? Or also about my dad?”

About you, always and only about you. About how I was in love with you, about how you broke my
heart and I couldn’t even tell her.

“Does it matter, at this point?” With a shake of his head, Louis grabs Harry’s damp towel off the
floor and heads for the door. The second-hand intimacy implied in drying off with the same towel
makes his stomach give a weak lurch. “Going to take a shower. Give me ten minutes, then we can
see about getting you home.”

Louis’ hand is already on the door when Harry mutters, “Okay. Can I, like. Make myself a cuppa,
maybe? I could make you one too?”

Waking up together, drinking tea in the morning. It’s definitely too much,
toomuchtoomuchtoomuch, an approximation of something they aren’t. Still Louis can’t help but
glance over his shoulder, meet Harry’s eyes. Harry is holding himself unnaturally upright, perched
on the edge of Louis’ bed with no regard for the fact that he’s naked, damn near irresistible.

“You can boil the water,” Louis says, after what feels like a century of unspoken words fanning out
between them. “I don’t trust anyone near my tea.”

The tiniest grin curls the corners of Harry’s mouth. “Still obsessed, are you?”

Louis points at him. “Shut it, Styles. I make the best tea, and you know it.”

With that, he slings the towel over his shoulder and executes what he considers a dignified exit.
Well, marginally dignified. God, he can’t help but remember movie nights at Gemma’s, stealing
into the kitchen under the pretense of going to fetch some tea, running into Harry and lingering for
a quick, dry brush of their mouths before Louis had to go back so as to avoid suspicion.

Gemma knows. Gemma knows, and Zayn knows, and Niall and Ben suspect something, and
there’s a good chance Harry’s best mate knows, too. It isn’t really much of a secret anymore, is it?

Maybe that changes things, or maybe it doesn’t. Right now, Louis can barely tell his own two feet
apart.

--

“Still take your tea with so much honey it rots your teeth?” Louis asks, setting a cup down in front
of Harry. He’s already reaching for the honey jar when Harry replies.

“Of course. Still on a crusade to make Yorkshire the only acceptable breakfast beverage?”

“It’s a lifelong calling,” Louis tells him. He slides the jar across the table before dropping into a
chair opposite Harry. “One of my defining characteristics, see? Just like how you talk like a black-
and-white movie.”

“I talk like a black-and-white movie?” Harry grins as he drips honey into his tea, and it shouldn’t
be this easy. It really, really shouldn’t be this easy for them to sink into a comfort zone—a comfort
zone where certain topics are off-limits, granted, but a comfort zone nonetheless.

“You do. Your voice is all grainy and shadowed, forces people to pay attention if they want to hear
you.” Louis takes a sip of his tea, still too hot, and decides not to add the part where it engages the
imagination. That might be just Louis’ personal opinion, and he doesn’t claim to be impartial when
it comes to Harry.

“Huh.” Harry seems to mull it over for a bit before his grin widens. “That sounds kind of nice,
actually.”

“Also,” Louis raises a brow and lets his own grin show, “the way you talk is not up to speed with
the YouTube generation. You’re like the hypnotical beginning of that Stanley Kubrick movie, the
one that starts with about three minutes of dark screen and scary music.”

It startles a laugh out of Harry, eyes such a lovely shade of green in the sun-flooded kitchen. “If
I’m the intro to 2001, you’re... I don’t know. Something fast-paced with a lot of action and
colours.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a dance scene from Grease,” Louis confesses. That gets another laugh
from Harry, and there’s a beat where they’re simply grinning at each other while the floor seems to
roll under Louis’ feet.

He gets back up to fetch two bowls and spoons, milk and cereal. By the time he sits down again,
Harry has helped himself to Zayn’s newspaper and is leafing through it to get to the puzzle section,
ridiculous boy that he is.
“Need a pen?” Louis asks mildly, and Harry flashes him a smile.

“Yes, please.”

“Well, since you did say please,” Louis tells him. Truth is, he’d have been helpless to deny Harry
either way. Never stood much of a chance, did he?

--

Between the two of them, they manage to solve nearly all clues given by The Times’ cryptic
crossword. It’s no mean feat, and Louis will most definitely brag about it to Zayn. Hopefully, it
will be a weapon against what is bound to be an in-depth analysis of Louis’ reasons for allowing
Harry to spend the night.

Holy shit. Harry spent the night, and then they had lazy morning sex, followed by breakfast while
bickering over crossword clues. Yeah, so Louis is doing a brilliant job with that whole casual thing.
He’s not in this alone, though; Harry is just as guilty. It takes two to tango, right? Right? This isn’t
just wishful thinking, not this time around. Maybe it never was because what if Harry had cared
even then?

It’s a bit staggering, to be honest.

“I should probably get home,” Harry says eventually, once he’s checked his phone to find three
text messages from Liam which inquire, respectively: whether Harry ever made it home last night;
why Harry isn’t replying, is he alright; whether he’s lying in a ditch somewhere and needs medical
attention, because Liam still remembers his first aid course. At least that’s Harry’s interpretation of
the content, and since he seems to have plenty of experience in making sense of Liam’s atrocious
spelling, Louis believes him.

If anything were to happen between Zayn and Liam, it should be an interesting struggle of English
Lit meeting Engineering. When Louis shares that thought, Harry bursts into laughter, and it’s so
bright and happy, so unrestrained, that Louis catches himself studying him for several seconds too
long.

There is no conscious thought process, no actual decision which precedes his declaration.

“I didn’t know.” The words come out in a rush, not fully formed, so Louis clears his throat and lifts
his chin, waits for Harry to look at him before he repeats, “I didn’t know, back then. About your
dad.”

“You...” After that, Harry falls silent. For the better part of a decade, he merely stares at Louis, all
traces of amusement wiped clean off his face. Time feels as brittle as gold leaf.

When he finally speaks, his voices shakes very slightly. “You didn’t?”

“I had no idea.” Louis slides to the edge of his chair, pressing his heels against the floor. He
doesn’t dare blink, doesn’t dare break eye contact. “She was my mum’s friend, Harry. I didn’t
really pay attention, so no, I didn’t know anything.” When he inhales, it’s like breathing around
broken glass. “You shouldn’t have accused me like that.”

Harry slumps forwards, both elbows on the table. “Why didn’t you defend yourself? Why did you
—you laughed at me.”

“I was hurt. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

“You laughed.” Harry’s voice rises with the word. His eyes are wild, a contrast to how his face has
lost all colour. “You laughed like I didn’t matter, like... Like I was young and stupid and ridiculous
for believing you owed me that much, that you owed me anything. ‘Cause I was just your dirty
little secret.”

“You were never just that,” Louis cuts in sharply, and he only just manages to swallow the rest
back down. You were everything.

Harry pushes himself to his feet, a frantic quality to the motion. “Then why?”

“Because it hurt, Haz.” The nickname resonates in Louis’ head, and it’s probably fitting that he
slips back into old habits for this conversation. Those broken shards of glass are still stuck in his
lungs, making it painful to draw an even breath. “How could you think so little of me? Frankly, it
implied that you didn’t think that what we had was worth much. So, really, it was a bit of a toss-up
between laughing and admitting just how much you hurt me, and then you told me to fuck off, and
—” An urgently needed intake of air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit proud.”

Harry is silent for several moments, just standing there with his posture uncommonly upright, his
expression impossible to read. Since it feels wrong to have Harry loom above him, Louis gets up as
well, rests one hand on the table to steady himself.

“Come on, say something.”

As though startled out of a trance, Harry blinks and rubs a hand over his eyes. His voice comes out
scratchy. “You could have fought. You didn’t need to just... leave.”

Several glass shards must have pierced through the lungs and found a way into Louis’ heart. Harry
seems so small suddenly, and Louis remembers finding him stretched out on his bed, already close
to tears. He probably did cry once Louis was gone, oh God, shit.

Louis takes a step forward and reaches out, but doesn’t quite dare touch. “I thought you didn't want
me anymore. So why would I fight? What for?”

“I cared,” Harry says, and then he’s the one who closes the distance, sinks against Louis. It’s
almost an afterthought that has Louis wrap both arms around him, pull him closer, hold on so
tightly he might be hurting Harry. It’s necessary, necessary.

I’m sorry, Louis thinks, sketches the apology with his lips pressed against Harry’s cheek. I’m
sorry, so sorry.

He isn’t sure how long they stay just like that, clinging to each other with sunlight parting around
their bodies, single sparks tangling in Harry’s hair. Each time Louis blinks, spots of bright orange
dance through the space behind his lids, then go on to swirl through his blood, restless and
soothing at once.

It’s Harry’s mobile buzzing with another message that jolts them out of it.

When Louis loosens his hold, Harry straightens a little, seeming vaguely dazed as he squints into
the brightness of the sun. Louis can’t, just can’t help reaching up to brush an errant curl off Harry’s
forehead, and the smile Harry gives him is small, but genuine.

“I should probably get home.”

“Right, yeah.” Louis swallows, and yes, of course. Tugging the black veil off their past does not
mean they share a future. “I can take you, if you want?”
Harry’s smile blooms into one of those real, brilliant ones that light up his eyes and crinkle their
corners, push deep dimples into his cheeks. It’s the first time it’s been directed at Louis since that
day Harry walked into Ben’s bar.

Louis hopes he won’t lose it again.

--

Since Harry wasn’t actually awake for most of last night’s drive, he has no clue where they are—
which naturally prompts Louis to crack a joke about this being the perfect chance for a kidnapping.
As it turns out, it’s a walk of no more than twenty minutes to the house Harry shares with a whole
bunch of people, including Liam.

“I didn’t feel like going into student housing,” Harry explains when they step out onto the road. He
keeps fiddling with the drawstring of Louis’ trackies, the soft-washed cotton clashing with the
white button-up that’s part of Harry’s work ensemble from last night. A small, unduly possessive
part of Louis regrets not lending him a t-shirt as well; seeing Harry fully decked out in his clothes
would have been another subtle way to stake a claim.

Not that Louis has such a claim. He might do well to remember that.

“So you moved into a hippie community house instead?” he asks. “With about a dozen people
sharing three bathrooms?”

“It’s fun. I think... I don’t think I’d like living on my own. Kind of boring, you know? Bit quiet.”
For all that Harry’s endless bambi legs would allow him to outpace Louis, he’s taking leisurely
strides, seems happy to tilt his face into the sun and soak up the day’s warmth. “Guess I lucked out,
kind of, because Nick and I hit it off. They usually wouldn’t have wanted an undergrad.”

“Who’s Nick?”

“Uh.” Harry glances over. “The guy with the quiff? That’s what you called him. From the bar.”

Nick, huh. Well, Nick better learn to keep his hands to himself if he and Louis are supposed to get
along. Provided Louis gets to make a space for himself in Harry’s life, of course, which... here’s
hoping. Even if they end up as no more than friends, it would be—fuck. No, it wouldn’t be enough,
would be nowhere near enough. But then, they clearly do have some leftover sexual chemistry,
about an ocean of it. Harry can’t deny that, can he?

It’s all just... confusing, really. The last few hours have rushed past so damn quickly that Louis’
brain is lagging several steps behind.

“Right,” he says, perfectly neutral. “I remember Nick.”

“So, yeah.” Harry nods. “Nick is our house leader, basically. And he made the call about me, but it
helped that, you know, I can do my own laundry. I can cook.” A mischievous tilt to his lips, Harry
nudges their shoulders together, probably in reference to how Louis had been a mess in the kitchen.

“I’ll have you know that I make a mean pasta, these days.” Louis could move away and doesn’t,
keeps walking so close that their arms brush with each step. “Had to learn a few things, once we
moved away and my mum took a different job. Means I had to feed the girls after school, and let
me tell you, there’s something inherently creepy about blonde twins looking at you with sad, sad
eyes when they learn there’s only cereal for lunch.”

“You and cooking?” Harry snorts. “Okay. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“It’s a date,” Louis declares, before his brain filter gets a chance to interfere. His heart freezes in
his chest, and fuck, play it cool, play it cool, just joking around.

Except he isn’t joking. Except he’s absolutely, one-hundred percent serious, because in spite of the
confusion clouding his head, he’s crystal clear in that he’d like a second chance, that he would
want to make it real, this time around. He has no idea where Harry stands.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Harry says. His guarded tone is offset by another smile, directed at the ground
rather than at Louis. Sunlight tangles in his hair, and he’s just so pretty, so very pretty and warm
and lovely, so approachable. Louis thinks about taking his hand and doesn’t.

They enter Geraldine Mary Harmsworth Park through one of the gates, all benches occupied by
sunbathers, picnic tables in high demand. Behind the canopy of trees, the dome of the Imperial War
Museum looms like an alien ship. Trimmed roses line the path, and if Louis was certain that this is
a date, he’d pluck one for Harry. It’s the kind of silly gesture Harry might appreciate.

I cared.

Past tense. No indication of the present, the future.

“So your mum,” Harry begins, after they’ve been walking for a minute in silence, surrounded by
other people’s conversations, by a group of teenagers playing music on an iPhone, the sound tinny
and weak, missing the bassline. “Your mum and your sisters, how are they?”

That he bothers to ask is... quite astonishing, all things considered. Louis selects his words
carefully. “She’s good, they’re all good. It took them a while to settle into the new place,
especially Lottie and Fizz, but now the baker even greets my mum by name. Didn’t even want to
sell her his pastries at first, because, and I quote: ‘These are not for newbies.’”

Harry’s soft laugh fades far too soon. He’s quiet for a moment, frowning at one of the park signs
detailing the rules of conduct. “Did you ever...”

“Did I ever what?” Louis asks.

“Ask her—your mum. Did you ever ask her how she could,” a brief second of hesitation before
Harry pushes on, “do that to another family? They were friends. My mum and yours, they were
friends.”

Louis stamps down on his urge to snap at Harry. Instead, he draws to a halt in the middle of the
path, reaching for Harry’s elbow to bring him to a stop as well. Over Harry’s shoulder, Louis
catches sight of the two huge cannons in front of the Museum, and no, that is not an omen for how
this conversation will go. Not at all. They’re older now, wiser, and this doesn’t have to end in
tragedy.

“First off...” Louis lowers his voice. Maybe this isn’t something they should discuss in public, but
they’re here, and this is now. If he wants any chance to reconnect with Harry, then it’s a
conversation that needs to happen.

Harry is watching him with a tiny crease between his eyebrows. It smoothes out when Louis’
thumb draws a circle into the fold of Harry’s elbow, Harry’s skin soft and warm.

“First off,” Louis repeats, “I maintain that the real blame lies with your dad. That said,” he tightens
his hold to stop Harry from interrupting, “enabling someone else’s cheating, especially when there
are kids, is not a great thing to do. True. But you’d do the same for your best friend, wouldn’t
you?”
There’s a beat when Harry doesn’t move, is simply looking at Louis. Then he gives the tiniest of
nods, and the cold band that is clamped around Louis’ ribs, the one he didn’t even notice until now,
loosens.

“It’s what best friends do,” he continues. “You may not approve of everything they do, you may
kick their arse in private, but you’d still—you’d help them hide the body. I’d do it for Zayn.”

“And I’d do it for Liam. Probably also for Nick.” Harry’s expression suggests that admitting as
much isn’t easy, so Louis keeps any trace of vindication out of his tone.

“See, my point exactly.” Dropping his hand, he starts walking again, and Harry falls into step a
moment later. He’s back to fiddling with the drawstring of Louis’ trackies, their hands no longer
brushing, and Louis is uncomfortably aware of how there is a hint more distance between their
bodies now. He’s not quite certain whether he’s won or lost something.

It’s what makes him say, “To be honest, though, it took me a while to get that. I was angry, you
know, and hurt, so it’s not like I was in the mood to rationalise. Even less so when the whole town
was suddenly blaming my family.”

Harry is quiet for the time it takes them to exit the park onto Lambeth Road. St George’s Cathedral
is up ahead, and Louis considers lightening the mood by remarking on the drab building, an
architectural compromise born because the original plans had been too expensive; Louis’ brain is a
treasure trove for useless knowledge.

Just then, Harry speaks up. “That was kind of shitty, you know. Like, the whole town getting
involved, just to stir up shit.” He waits for a tour bus to pass them by before he continues. “I mean,
yeah, I did blame you. But that was different, that was because I thought—because you mattered,
we mattered, and I thought...”

We mattered.

“You’re right,” Louis says. His chest constricts around a deep breath. “It was shitty, of course it
was. But that’s human nature, isn’t it? I could have handled the gossip grinder, personally, but the
girls got shunned on the playground, and that sucked major balls. And then the whole thing also
cost me my best friend and my—” Stop, stop. Don’t give away too much, don’t make this
awkward right as they’re about to regain their footing. “The boy I was kind of... Well, I did fancy
you quite a bit. Obviously.”

There. That’s acceptable. Not too heavy, but also honest enough that it doesn’t count as yet another
lie of omission.

When Harry turns his head to study Louis, he nearly trips over a small, yapping dog. Louis
prevents the fall with an arm around Harry’s waist, holding him back, and Harry stiffens for a blink
of an eye before he lets it happen and relaxes into Louis’ side. Drawing himself up to his full
height, Louis counters the dog owner’s glare at Harry with one of his own.

“Watch where you’re going,” the woman says sharply, directed at both of them.

“How about you watch where your dog is going?” Louis shoots back. “It’s a bit of a miniature
version, isn’t it? Carpet rats are so easy to overlook.”

“Lou,” Harry mutters. Louder, he adds, “Sorry about that. I was a little distracted, but no harm
done, right?”

With that, he tugs Louis along, and while Louis gives the woman another sidelong look, he
follows. In all honesty, his acquiescence is mostly due to Harry having covered Louis’ hand with
his own, Harry’s long fingers wrapping around Louis’, and how is Louis supposed to defend Harry
when he is being distracted like this? This is sabotage.

Harry still hasn’t let go when they cross the road, their hips bumping with each step, and is this a
date? Louis doesn’t dare ask; he might not like the answer.

It’s Harry who breaks the silence. His tone is offhand, passing for casual if it weren’t for how his
fingers clench around Louis’ hand. “I was in love with you, you know?”

“You were?” Something heavy settles in Louis’ stomach. Shit, Harry had been—and they’d
botched it up, missed out on something much bigger and brighter than what they’d already had.
Louis pulls them both to a halt, a strange, shivering sensation in his veins. “Why didn’t you tell
me?”

Come to think of it, that might be a hypocritical question.

Harry glances away, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. His words are hesitant. “I didn’t
think there was—Just, you were older, and I’d always looked up to you a bit, and you were about
to go to university.” He pauses, exhaling on a sigh. “You didn’t even want me, at first.”

What? What is Harry even talking about?

Louis shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“I pretty much talked you into it, remember?” A self-deprecating smile pulls at the corners of
Harry’s mouth and doesn’t reach his eyes. It echoes somewhere in Louis’ chest, winding a black
thread of sadness around his spine, and oh God, Harry had been in love with him. Maybe not right
away, maybe not when he’d been perched on that garden fence, gesturing as he’d listed all the
ways in which them getting with each other was a brilliant idea, but... later. Definitely later.

“Alright, you did talk me into it. Only because I thought, though...” Twisting around to stand in
front of Harry, Louis reaches for his shoulder. “You were so young. Neither of us had any
experience, and we were both still figuring out our sexualities, and you can’t deny that there were a
dozen reasons not to do it.” Louis draws a rough breath. “Also, I wanted you way, way too much,
and you were going on about casual and fun. As in, hey, there’s no one else around, so I guess
you’ll have to do.”

“‘Cause I thought it was what you wanted to hear,” Harry protests. His eyes are wide and green,
green, green. “I’d have taken anything from you.”

Fuck.

“Well.” Louis’ voice is weak, his intestines knotting themselves into a festive bow. To be honest,
he’s amazed he manages to form words. “For my part, I just didn’t want you to break my heart.
Look how that turned out.”

They’re left staring at each other, and vaguely, Louis is aware that they’re in the middle of a public
sidewalk, people pushing past them to get to wherever, to go somewhere, anywhere, always places
to be, things to see, never satisfied with where they are.

When Harry draws a deep breath, it’s as though Louis feels his own lungs expand with it. “You
broke my heart, too. And I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions, but it was just... My dad was
leaving, you know?”
In the pause that trails the words, Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulder, warmth seeping
through the fabric of the shirt.

Harry bends his head, his lashes hiding his eyes. “And I thought, you know. I thought, if he can
leave just like that, even though I loved him... Like, if he can leave, anyone can, right? And
sometimes, I just didn’t get you.” Confusion blurs the edges of his voice. “We were so close
sometimes, and then you were pulling away all of a sudden, like you were trying to keep me at
arm’s length.”

Louis is helpless to look away, can’t do anything but clench his hand around Harry’s shoulder and
hold on. “Or,” he says, forcing syllables out past the gaping void behind his forehead, “like I was
trying not to show that I was arse over tits for you. Harry.”

Harry’s gaze flicks up to settle on Louis’ face. Spots of colour bloom high on his cheeks, and he
looks about as floored as Louis feels. Jesus fucking Christ, they really botched it up, didn’t they?
Young and so in love, so stupid about it. The whiplash of remembered emotions leaves Louis
exhausted.

When he locates his voice, it comes out rough. “Okay, you know what? I think this might be
enough soul-searching for today. Fuck.”

Harry blinks rapidly before he inhales and nods, then shoves a hand through his hair, fingers
seeming a little unsteady. “Yeah. And I should probably really... Like, I got an exam on Monday,
so...”

“You should get home,” Louis agrees. Conscious effort has him succeed in taking a step back, his
hand falling away from Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah, okay. So let’s get you home, Curly.”

It takes several more seconds until they actually start moving again, side by side, closer than
before. Their hands keep knocking together, and for all that this whole day feels like it’s lasted a
week already, Louis doesn’t want them to arrive at Harry’s place either. Next to him, Harry is
quiet, his eyes thoughtful.

At some point, Louis laces their fingers. It’s not a statement, though. It isn’t. If Harry asks, Louis
will brush it off as paying homage to a past that didn’t allow for them to do anything like this, but
Harry doesn’t ask. Instead, he squeezes Louis’ hand and ducks his head, a smile playing around the
corners of his mouth.

--

There’s a fractured second, on the doorstep of Harry’s hippie community house, where Louis
thinks they might kiss. They don’t, though. Just keep looking at each other for several long beats
before Harry rocks onto his heels, hands laced behind his back.

“So,” he says. “There’ll be a party, right. Like, we’re going to have a house party, on Friday, and I
don’t think you’re working?”

The fact that Harry knows Louis’ schedule might mean something, or maybe it doesn’t; Louis
honestly can’t tell anymore. He’s pretty sure he’ll need about a bottle of wine and Zayn’s company
to work through the tangled spiderweb that’s taken over his brain, to realign his shattered
perception of the past, rid himself of an interpretation that he’s clung to for more than three years.

Friday. By Friday, he should see more clearly, although he’ll also see Harry before that, for their
joint shift on Wednesday.
So Louis knows Harry’s schedule as well.

“Is that a roundabout invitation?” he asks.

Harry’s lopsided smile features his left dimple. “Yeah, it is. You could bring Zayn?”

“If you promise not to hit on him,” Louis says, and this feels fine, feels safe.

The second dimple pops out, Harry’s voice dipping low. “Guess you’ll just have to come, don’t
you? To keep me in check.”

Louis notices his own mouth tug up into a grin. For all that the ground still appears to sway just
slightly, too many thoughts and questions chasing each other through his head, this is... a
beginning, maybe. Another beginning. Possibly, probably, also the end of a date. At this point,
Louis is eighty percent certain, which leaves him with a twenty percent risk that he’s misread
Harry entirely.

It might be a risk worth taking.

“Guess I will have to be there, yes. In the interest of keeping an eye on you.” Nodding, Louis raises
his chin and tilts his head, allowing his grin to widen into a smirk. “Maybe I can get some practice
in on Wednesday, yeah?”

“That a challenge?”

Definitely a challenge. “Definitely a challenge.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, and his smile grows, dimples deepening. “Well, you’re on.”

In imitation of a duelist, Louis takes three measured steps back before he sketches a bow, arms
crossed over his chest, and spins on his heels. Harry’s laughter follows him down the road.

--

Louis gets smashed that same night with Zayn. It takes half a bottle of red wine for Louis to start
talking, and relaying his conversation with Harry already clears up some of jumble of his thoughts,
like tugging at a knot and watching things start to unravel.

Another glass has him ranting about how very much he wants to throw Harry's legs over his
shoulders and fuck him silly, wants to reduce Harry to little gasps, wants him staring up at Louis
with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. Zayn, bless him, listens with quiet patience and complains
only once about the level of detail—namely too much of it.

They're almost done with the second bottle when Louis tips his head against the backrest of the
sofa and sighs. "I think," he admits, words kind of dislodged and tumbling around his head, "I also
want to wake up with him. Like, a lot. And breakfast, and dates. Proper dates."

Since Zayn's only reaction consists of raising a brow, Louis throws up his hands, almost knocking
over his glass.

"Cheesy stuff, Zayn. Hand-holding stuff." He sinks into himself, pulling his knees up to his chest.
"Help?"

Zayn slings an arm around Louis' shoulders, pulls him close and refills his glass. Which... yeah.
Okay, so that totally works. Cheers.
--

It's not that the guy is a creep, really. It's just that the guy is a creep.

Will used to be a regular, but after getting himself decidedly banned from the premises, he hasn't
been by in a while. Louis would have warned Harry, but he doesn't get a chance to do so until he
comes in through the back, two hours after Harry had opened up by himself, and is met with the
sight of Will hanging off a barstool.

Eyes like a shithouse rat, Will watches Harry mixing some drink, and the smug curl to Will's
mouth has Louis' fingers itch with the impulse to clock him. Even more so when the guy opens his
mouth to tell Harry, "Better get it right this time, baby."

Baby? What the fuck. Harry is no one's baby, except for how Louis maybe, maybe, wants to call
Harry just that, wants to take care of him, spoil him rotten and make him smile all the damn
time.Maybe. No one can prove anything.

Drawing to a halt a little off to the side, unnoticed as of yet, Louis studies the tight set of Harry's
shoulders. Harry's entire stance spells discomfort, unease laced with his words. "Sorry, again. But I
really did think that you'd ordered a Whiskey Sour."

Ah, so Will ordered a drink, then claimed it was the wrong one when he received it. A little ploy to
unsettle Harry, what a fuckwit. And Harry, of course, is too bloody polite to openly accuse a patron
of being wrong. Well, Louis has no such qualms. He shuffles closer just as Will has yet again the
audacity to open his stupid idiot mouth.

"Less talking, more looking pretty." And again, what the actual fuck? Louis starts forwards as Will
adds, suggestion dripping from his voice, "Unless you're looking to be, ah, taken down a notch."

"I think that's quite enough creepiness for now," Louis cuts in. "Stop harassing my boy."

At the sound of his voice, Harry's head jerks up, the smile nearly instant, and it makes something
warm and heavy unfurl in Louis' chest. He returns it without thought, touching Harry's hip in
passing, then props both hands on the counter to assess Will with a shrewd look. Yeah, tit-head,
let's reminisce about that time you almost got yourself arrested for sexual harassment, shall we?

Come to think of it, there is no good reason why Louis can’t say this aloud. “In fact...” He gives
each syllable a precise edge. “Shall we reminisce about that time you almost got yourself arrested
for sexual harassment? Oh, the fun we had.”

Will's eyes have narrowed, recognition written clearly in the ugly twist to his lips. "Thought you
weren't in today."

"And you also thought that a new bartender wouldn't know you got your arse banned from this
place, eh? Sorry to be a spoilsport." Louis affects a sad shake of his head and waves one hand.
"Now move it, pal. That’s the spirit."

Briefly, it looks as though Will might put up a fight. Then his eyes sweep across the room, over the
small collection of patrons; several of them are regulars who Louis trusts would back him up. Next
to him, Harry is quietly watchful, gaze flicking back and forth between Louis and Will. When
Louis hooks a finger in Harry's belt hoop and gives it a gentle tug, Harry slides into the space next
to him. It feels like forming a unit, a unit, and that's not a thought Louis should explore in depth.

With a huff of irritation, Will slides off the barstool and stomps for the exit. Louis doesn't bother
watching him leave, instead turns to look at Harry. "Hey, you good?"
"Fine." Harry quirks a half-smile. "You know I can take care of myself, though."

"I know you're not a pushover, yeah." Does Louis ever. Hey, he remembers all too well that Harry
can give just as good as he gets. "But your bullshit tolerance is higher than mine, babe, and—"
Babe. Oh, shit. Louis continues quickly. "And unlike you, I don't mind being mean. At all. Also,
you didn't know he was banned from the bar."

"Yeah. That's... yeah. Thank you." Harry's eyes are soft, and Louis feels sick. He needs a moment
to process Harry's next question. "So what did he do, anyway? To get himself banned, I mean."

"Groped my bum," Louis says. "Thoroughly, at that. Can't say I appreciated it."

A steep crease appears between Harry's eyebrows, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "That
fucker," he mumbles, heartfelt. Settling a broad hand on Louis' waist, fingers curled in against
Louis' hip, he shoots a belated glare at the door, but Will is already gone. Good riddance.

Louis nudges their shoulders together. "Hate to say it, but it's an occupational hazard. Comes with
being cute and serving drinks to guys in varying states of intoxication, you know?"

Harry nudges back. "Did you just refer to yourself as cute?"

"Was talking about you, actually." With a grin, Louis bops Harry's nose and ducks away when
Harry swats at him. "Aw, hey, grumpy kitten?"

"I am not cute," Harry states, all careful pronunciation and dignity. As he can't quite suppress the
upwards twitch of his lips, Louis merely widens his grin, and it takes no more than one, two, three,
four beats for Harry's own grin to break through. Ha, he so lost that round.

"You so lost that round," Louis tells him.

Harry laughs, and it's stupid, so very, incredibly stupid and embarrassing and ridiculous, but Louis
actually loses his breath for a moment, his cheeks heating. He retaliates by smacking Harry's bum
with a dishtowel snatched off the counter.

"Hey," Harry protests, the word drawn out and turned into a whole novel. "Sexual harassment, that.
I feel objectified."

"Big talk, little boy." Louis raises his chin. "Can you back it up?"

Just as Harry is about to lunge for him, a throat is being cleared, and they both whirl around to find
Ben watching them. He must have come in through the back, and for all that his face shows
exasperation, a hint of amusement lurks underneath.

Harry flushes and drops his arms, resembling a six-year-old expecting a scolding. "Sorry, Ben."

"Beg to differ," Louis puts in, "for I am not sorry. This is entertainment, isn't it? Much more fun to
go to a bar where the staff is having a laugh, come on."

"You mean a bar where the staff is engaging in what could be the opening sequence of a softcore
porno?" Ben asks, a definite glint in his eyes.

Shooting Harry a quick sideways look, Louis beams and spreads his arms. "I'm pretty sure you just
implied that we're both hot, especially when put together. Thanks, boss. I agree."

Harry snickers, then quickly raises a hand to cover his mouth. God, Louis is hopelessly, hopelessly
endeared. In fact, it is quite possible that Louis is simply hopeless about Harry. He might as well
capitulate now.

Ben's chuckle rings out a second later. "Back to work, you two."

Louis salutes him. If he also happens to pinch Harry's nipple a minute later, quick and playful...
Well. Harry reacts with a bright, sparkling glance, and it shall be their little secret. A good kind of
secret.

--

Dropping Harry off at home means a detour of all but three minutes. Really, it isn't even a
question.

On the way, they chat quietly, exhaustion slowing down their conversation about exams and
London, about living in a big city and whether it's all they had thought it would be when they were
younger. It drags up memories of lying wrapped around each other, whispering in the dark so that
no one would hear them, would come into Harry's room and catch them naked and tangled.

"We were—that thing between us. We were intense, weren't we?" Louis asks, no real context to the
question, but Harry seems to understand all the same.

"Yeah," he says softly, voice twining with the night outside. "We really were. And stupid about it."

Louis breathes out a laugh. "I was definitely stupid about you, no question about that."

Still am.

Before he can make up his mind about admitting that, Harry flashes him a smile, translated mostly
by the white gleam of teeth in the darkness. "Same."

Louis settles for smiling back, his hands steady on the wheel, the rumble of the engine humming in
his bones and vibrating in his stomach.

It's oddly quiet once he turns the car off, the road deserted before them. In Harry's house, several
windows are still lit, their rectangles bright like a promise of home. They sit looking at each other
for a moment, and this, this would be the perfect moment to lean in and kiss Harry, gentle and
warm, an easy kiss goodnight. Unhurried. Unconcerned with whoever might see.

It's Harry who moves first, touching Louis' jaw with light fingertips. The contact is fleeting, gone
before Louis can lean into it.

"See you on Friday." Harry unbuckles his seat belt, grinning from underneath the fringe that has
fallen into his eyes. "Wear something pretty for me."

Louis fakes an offended gasp and feels hot all over. "Are you implying that my fashion sense is
anything but flawless? That on occasion, I wear non-pretty things?"

"I like you in comfy stuff, too," Harry says, and that's not an actual answer, is it? Louis forgets to
complain when Harry adds, "Anyway, bring a change of clothes."

"Do you take me for a cheap date?" Louis protests, but he can't help how he's smiling, stupidly so,
probably looks like a proper tool. But why shouldn't he? This is flirting, teasing each other, and
Harry is having a party and clearly just implied that there is no one else he'd rather be with, no one
else he hopes will stay the night—implied that it’s Louis he wants to wake up with. So, yes. Louis
has every damn reason to smile like a sappy fool, thank you very much.

"See you on Friday," Harry repeats, and again, it isn't an answer. The way his grin widens, grows
impossibly brighter until his dimples are prominent even in the darkness... That is sort of an
answer, though.

"See you on Friday," Louis replies, confirms. He can't stop smiling.

Harry gets out without another word, door falling shut behind him. He raps gentle knuckles against
the window before he turns, practically swaggering up to the front door, and Louis tips his head
back against his seat and watches him go, a laugh simmering golden in his stomach.

Friday.

===
 IV.
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

VI.

Wear something pretty. Wear something pretty?

Harry is an arse, okay, because now Louis feels particularly obliged to make an effort. Not that he
would have shown up with trackies and unwashed hair before, but Harry's words mean that
anything less than a jaw-dropping effect must be considered a failure. Challenge motherfucking
accepted.

Louis dismisses his current outfit as too sailor-y. Really, he hasn't worn stripes and suspenders
since his first year of uni; he doesn't want to come in disguise.

When Zayn shoulders in next to him, Louis steps aside so Zayn can admire his hair in the full-
length mirror that dominates their small corridor. "Looking good," Louis comments absently.
Hmm, maybe he could keep the striped shirt, but exchange the red trousers and suspenders for
black skinnies. Stripes, though. Those haven't been in fashion since roughly the mid-nineties.
Right?

"Surprised you noticed,” Zayn says. “‘s not like you've looked at anything but your own reflection
in the last hour.”

Louis glances up. "You always look good, though. I hate you."

"Stop fretting and wear one of your simple white t-shirts," Zayn tells him. "Loose fit, scooping
neckline, thin fabric that's not really transparent, but hints at it. Be a tease. That always works for
you, doesn’t it?"

Maybe Louis doesn't hate him.

"Thank you." He sheds his clothes as he goes, keeping the red boxer briefs as the only thing he's
settled on so far. Hey, choice of underwear matters if the other person implied that they plan on
ravishing you. Or being ravished by you. Or on you mutually ravishing each other. Anyway.

Stopping in front of his closet, Louis calls, "So what's going on with you and Liam, then?"

Zayn appears in the doorway a moment later, all prettied up and ready to go. "Liam and I? Nothing
that's, you know, as dysfunctional as you and Harry."

"We're not dysfunctional," Louis protests. They're not. Well, not anymore. They may be a tad
competitive, but that's just part of their game; it works for them. It's fun, and oh, Louis loves being
the sole focus of Harry's attention, Jesus. "We’re really not dysfunctional. I mean... We're getting
there, I think. Like, on our way to something real and good? With a bit of mutual pigtail pulling?"

Zayn's teeth flash with one of his true, crinkly-eyed smiles. "Shit, Lou, sounds like a playground
love story. Let me know when you're ready to pick baby names."

If Zayn thinks he can shock Louis, he better think again. Calmly, Louis shakes out a pair of black
jeans and slides into them, sucking in his tummy as he buttons them up. "Got to admit that I am
somewhat partial to Sasha, if it's a girl. Not sure yet about boy names, would need to do some more
research first."

Zayn draws close to lean around Louis and grab a white t-shirt out of the closet, holding it out for
Louis to take. "Justin?"

"Not a Belieber," Louis says.

"True, better leave that one to Niall. He comin' to the party as well?"

"It's a party, Zayn. Of course he'll be there." Louis studies the t-shirt before he nods and pulls it
over his head. It falls loosely around his collar, and when he leans forward a little, it gapes open
just enough to bare his collarbones. Perfect.

So that's the simple, classy look taken care of—understatement for the win. Next up, hair.

Oh, and also, Harry told him to bring a change of clothes. That's... ah. Going through with that
might look a little too desperate, but maybe Louis could tuck fresh briefs into the pocket of his
jacket, hope no one will notice. That, and the case for his contact lenses. Just... in the altogether
likely event that he'll spend the night and morning in Harry's bed.

Fuck, or maybe Louis should just show up with a suitcase and a smug grin. That might work, too.

It isn't until they leave the house and set off for their walk through Geraldine Mary Harmsworth
Park that Louis realises Zayn cleverly managed to duck the question about Liam.

--

When Harry catches sight of Louis, he stops talking mid-sentence. It's most satisfying. Even more
satisfying is that it happens while Harry is chatting with Nick.

Note: one point to Louis.

Then Harry smiles, sunny and wide, and excuses himself before heading straight over to Louis and
Zayn. Make that two points. Or three, because Harry is smiling and lovely, lovely, lovely, and
Louis is the only one he's looking at.

In fact, make it a thousand points. Make it: Louis is winning at life.

--

"So you're older," Louis says, and maybe he is a little tipsy. Maaaaaaaaaybe. It's totally as much to
do with the... with the lots of beer and the, like, a little vodka shots he's been drinking, which—Ah,
yes, as much to do with that as with how Harry stayed right by Louis' side for most of the night.

No kissing, sadly. Very sadly. So, so sad. Louis just might cry. He likes kissing, okay? But every
time he tried to, like, hint at it—and he is not subtle, is not—Harry looked at him with careful eyes
and sidestepped it. Louis objects. He also objects to how Harry was roped into helping his
housemates get some more beer from the basement and has thus deserted Louis' side. Leaving
Louis on the sofa with Mr Quiff himself. Uh, Nick. Name’s Nick, yes.

It's been five minutes without Harry. Five minutes. At least.

Also, Nick is smirking, and wait, did Louis say something stupid? Like, he didn't say out loud the
part where he likes kissing, but he likes Harry even more. Did he?
"Yes," Nick tells him, taking a long pull of his beer. His tone is easy as fuck. "I am older. But that's
not really what you want to know, is it?"

Louis takes great delight in the fact that the humid air makes Nick's quiff wilt. And, uh... what? "Is
not? I mean, no? What do I want to know, then?"

"You," Nick draws the word out, "want to know whether Harry and I ever shagged. The answer is
no." He smirks around the rim of his beer bottle. "So you can stop glaring at me from across the
room now. There's a good lad."

Okay, okay. That’s good. That’s brilliant. That means Nick has no idea what Harry looks like when
he's about to fall over the edge, doesn't know about the way Harry’s cheeks flush and his breath
hitches. Awesome.

Not so awesome is that Louis is apparently very, very transparent. Oops. "Don't be condescin—
condescending," he tells Nick. He pauses for another sip of beer, the lights in the living room
swirling through his vision. Music for happy hipsters is blasting through the house, bubbling in
Louis' head and heart.

Nick is still watching him, a knowing quirk to his mouth that Louis doesn’t appreciate one bit. It's
what makes him ask, "Also, why not?"

Nick shrugs, all devil may care. "Gets a little old, is all."

What is he... Pulling gets old? What? Oh, he's talking about the glaring. Louis glaring at him gets
old, right.

"I didn't mean the glaring," Louis says.

"Oh, you mean Haz and I? Well. Not that either of us is above some casual fun, but..."
Infuriatingly, Nick pauses after that.

Casual fun, casual fun, what does that mean? Harry is not above some casual fun. Does that—How
many were there that weren't Louis, did any of them ever mean as much, did any of them ever...
Oh, hell. Did Harry fall in love with one of them? Did he?

God, Louis never should have let Harry go. He should have held on, should have fought when
Harry told him to get out. Because they’d loved each other, and they could have worked it out if
only they'd been honest about that. Maybe Louis still does, still loves Harry. Maybe Harry could
learn to love him again. But why won't Harry just kiss him?

When Nick continues, it takes Louis a moment to focus. "But," Nick says, "we have a rule, and it
says that there shall be no inter-house intercourse. Negotiable only for true love, and frankly, Harry
is too busy holding onto his past to fall for someone new."

"His past?" Louis snatches his gaze away from a couple that's grinding in a corner, the bloke's
hands creeping down the back of her skirt. Get a room, for fuck's sake. Also, Harry's past, Harry is
too busy holding onto his past. They spent more than three years apart, three and a half years
almost. That's three times twelve plus five, that's... thingy, that's a lot of months, anyway, and in
that time, Harry might have met someone. He might have met another Louis, like, a not-Louis
taking Louis’ place, and Harry might have fallen in love too deeply to see a way out. Oh God.
"What do you know—Was there someone—"

“That someone is you, dumbwit," Nick interrupts. Rudely, he rolls his eyes, and he's a bit of a shit,
really. "For fuck’s sake. Friendly piece of advice, lay off the drinks, mate. You do want to stay the
night, don't you?"

The question punches all irritation out of Louis' chest because fuck, yes. Yes, more than anything.
And Nick just said that it's been Louis all along, that Harry never really succeeded in letting go.
That maybe he's as hopelessly lost as Louis is.

"Yeah." Louis inhales and lets himself meet Nick's gaze. The room is swimming a bit in front of
his eyes, but the sofa is steady and comfortable, reliable. "Yeah, I really do. Want to stay the night.
And, like. Longer. Not move in here, that's not..." He shakes his head, and the movement does
nothing to clear the haze in front of his eyes. "But with Harry. Longer with Harry, a long fucking
time with Harry."

"Well, good." Nick leans back into the cushions, raising his bottle in a toast that somehow looks
sarcastic. Everything he does seems a little sarcastic. "Then here's another friendly piece of advice:
Don't break his heart again. Liam boxes, and I’m tougher than I look."

Threats, huh? Louis fights down the initial wave of irritation, because... Because if Harry's friends
are worried enough to threaten Louis, then, well. It must mean that Harry cares—cares so much
that Louis could do some serious damage. It must mean that if Louis wanted, he could claim the
ultimate victory over Harry.

He doesn't want that at all.

"Noted," he tells Nick.

Something in his tone must give Louis away, because for the first time since they started talking,
Nick's eyes lose their keen sharpness. "Good. Then I think we'll get along just fine, you and I."

"I'd like that," Louis says. He clinks the neck of his bottle against Nick's, then pauses with the beer
halfway to his mouth. Tipsy, he's definitely more than a little tipsy, and the night is long and Louis
doesn't want to waste it praying to a toilet bowl. Not when he could spend it wrapped around Harry
instead.

He sets the bottle down on the floor and gets up, saluting Nick. "If you'll excuse me. I need to
check on my..." Boyfriend. Hopefully, soon. "On Harry."

"You do that," Nick replies, and if his approving nod is any indication, he caught the part Louis
didn't say.

That's fine. Louis is at the point where he's willing to shout it from the rooftops, if that's what it
takes to win Harry over.

--

There is nothing that isn't wonderful about the way Harry is pressed up against Louis' side.

They're touching all along the length of their bodies, ankles thighs hips shoulders. The summer
night is dark and crisp around them, the air sweetened by the smell of a joint, smoke curling into a
grey ribbon where Niall exhales. Usually, Louis would jump on the chance to get high, but there's
Harry, Harry, and Louis is going a little hazy just from their closeness alone. He needs no chemical
aid to lose himself tonight. In fact, he’d rather be sober enough to soak it all in.

He tips his head onto Harry's chest, and Harry lets him, even shifts to accommodate it with an arm
around Louis' shoulders. With the way they've been openly affectionate with each other, standing
close, talking with their heads bent together and hands touching, public in a way they could never
afford to be before... Fuck, it's heady. Louis wants more, more, more.

When Harry shuffles back to lean against the balcony railing, it upsets Louis' balance just enough
to excuse him reaching for Harry's waist, steadying himself with his fingers curled against Harry's
naked skin, Harry's t-shirt rucked up. A glance around shows that no one is paying them much
attention, drinks and weed and music much more interesting than two boys wrapped around each
other. Christ, Louis would quite possibly get away with straddling Harry right here on the balcony
floor, grinding down against him, kissing until they're both coming into their pants.

But no. Not tonight. Tonight, that's not enough, not when Louis wants everything, everything.

Harry still hasn't kissed him. Not since that morning when they’d wokenup in Louis' bed, not since
they dragged their past out into the light. This isn't a game, is it? Harry isn't playing him, Louis
doesn't think so.

I was in love with you. I was.

Fuck, Louis hates this; he’s never been one for second-guessing himself, has always been fairly
confident in his ability to hold someone’s attention if he sets his mind to it. Harry is the one notable
exception.

Sitting up a little straighter, Louis glances around. They’re slightly removed from the group that’s
huddled around the joint, and Niall has procured a guitar from somewhere and is plucking along to
the song that trickles through the open balcony, the volume less deafening ever since the police
dropped by for a reprimand. For all that an official noise complaint is a bit cliché, it certainly adds
street cred to a successful party.

“Hey.” Louis narrows his eyes. “Where’s Zayn?”

It’s a good question, really. Usually, Zayn would be smack in the middle of any group which offers
both pot and music.

“Think Liam dragged him off a while ago. Something about Iron Man?” Harry sounds supremely
unimpressed. “I didn’t really listen ‘cause, like, there’s only static in my ears when Liam starts
talking about superheroes.”

Right. So there goes Louis’ delusion that they’re soulmates. Clearly, Harry needs to learn a thing or
two about the wonder that is the Marvel universe, and Louis might be willing to teach him. Harry
could pay him in kisses and blowjobs, throw in an occasional ‘I love you,’ while he’s at it.

Yeah.

“There is an Iron Man discussion happening? Without me?” Louis clambers to his feet, one hand
on the railing to steady himself. Shit, he’s been nursing the same beer for an hour, but being in the
vicinity of a joint has him swaying a little. Pavlovian response to the smell.

He’s about to push away from the railing when Harry snags his wrist. “Dance with me?”

That is... an acceptable alternative. Fuck, yes, definitely acceptable if Harry keeps looking up at
Louis with a quiet half-smile and his fingers warm, easily circling Louis’ wrist.

“Think you’re ready for this jelly?” Louis asks, smiling back. He doesn’t mean to mould it into a
challenge, but that’s the way it turns out.

“Oh, I am very ready,” Harry assures him, voice thick, and Louis isn’t sure they’re still talking
about dancing.

A quick look into the living room reveals that in spite of the late hour, the makeshift dance floor is
still in high demand, bodies crowded together, along with people draped over various pieces of
furniture, in mutual states of intoxication and exhaustion. Proper party, this. Added bonus is that if
Louis’ hands were to stray while dancing ╴say, reacquaint themselves with Harry’s bum—then no
one would even take notice.

This alternative is sounding better by the second.

“Well.” With a smirk, Louis tangles his free hand in Harry’s hair, rubbing his fingertips over
Harry’s scalp. “Come on, then. Let’s dance.”

“Yeah, let’s.” In contradiction to the words, Harry’s lids drift shut as he leans into the touch. When
Louis gives a light tug, Harry’s eyes fly back open, lips parting on a sharp intake of air. Hot damn,
Louis wants to wreck him. He also wants to scatter tiny butterfly kisses all over Harry’s face until
Harry is giggling and squirming under him, but that’s neither here nor there.

For now, dancing.

--

As it turns out, Harry’s dancing style is a mixture of enthusiasm and gratuitous flailing. Louis can
flail with the best, and he’s perfectly happy to do so for a couple of songs, knocking into Harry as
they both grin widely at each other. Harry’s hair is a mess, keeps falling into his eyes, and Louis
reaches up several times to shove it back, his fingers lingering on flushed skin.

The music wraps around them like a thick blanket. Someone must have switched the hipster songs
out for a slightly more mainstream selection, heavy bass and a dark voice. It’s a good beat, and
Louis feels it throbbing in his veins, in his stomach. When he turns his back to Harry, presses
against him, Harry’s hands come to rest on Louis’ hips, pulling him closer, back into Harry’s body.
Oh, oh, now that’s even better.

Covering Harry’s hands with his own, Louis tips his head against Harry’s shoulder and closes his
eyes, feels Harry hunch over a little so that they’re snugly aligned. Harry is half-hard already, fuck,
yes, no way to miss it when he grinds against Louis’ arse in slow, dirty circles. Too many clothes
between them, fucking hell.

God, Louis really just wants Harry to break. Wants him to lose it, in the middle of all these people,
and rut against Louis until he’s coming in his pants, wants to kiss him through it, take care of him.
Wants everyone to see how very much Harry belongs to Louis. That it’s Louis who can get that
sort of reaction.

Mine, mine, mine.

It’s what makes Louis push back against Harry’s dick, meet the grinding twitches of Harry’s hips.
Harry hunches further into him, panting wetly against Louis’ cheek, and Jesus fucking Christ,
wringing this kind of response from Harry makes Louis’ bones hum with heat. I did that, this is for
me.

“Louis,” Harry mumbles, frayed around the edges. His big hands are squeezing Louis’ hips,
clenching and unclenching with each shift of their bodies. “Lou.”

Louis wonders if people are staring at them. He doesn’t bother to check, though, keeps his eyes
closed as he presses back against Harry, tilting his head to the side so Harry can mouth at the
exposed skin. Fuck, Harry isn’t the only one who could come from this, just like this, in front of
everyone.

Someone jostles Louis. It must be an accident, but it jolts him out of his stupor.

Wrenching himself away, he blindly gropes for Harry’s arm and digs his fingers into the muscles,
giving a hard pull that makes Harry stumble after him, out of the thick press of bodies moving with
the beat. As soon as they’ve rounded the corner into the corridor, Louis comes to a sharp halt. Shit,
where—Up the stairs? He doesn’t even know where Harry’s room is. There are so, so many things
Louis doesn’t know about Harry.

He knows Harry, though. Or at least he thinks he does.

Doesn’t he?

When Louis turns, Harry is staring at him with glazed eyes. His cheeks are red, breath coming
quickly, and he seems in no state to deny Louis anything, anything at all. Except that when Louis
tangles his free hand in Harry’s hair and pulls him down for a kiss, Harry ducks his head away and
groans as though he’s in actual, physical pain. What the hell.

Louis’ chest hurts as he releases his hold and takes a step back, colliding with the wall. The music
is still loud enough to pulse behind his forehead, has him raise his voice. “Why the fuck won’t you
just kiss me? Is this a fucking game to you? Or, like, a Pretty Woman thing? Because your hands
are all over me, so talk about fucking mixed messages, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen, then he straightens, shoulders rising. “Did you just call me cheap? Like, a
whore, like sex is all you care—”

Louis cuts in before Harry can finish. “Don’t you dare. This isn’t on me, okay? I’m not the one
ducking kisses, and you fucking know you’re so much more than a booty call to me. You know
that.”

There’s a second in which they’re glaring at each other, the two steps which separate them as vast
and empty as a football pitch. Suddenly, Harry’s shoulders sag, and he drops his head. His voice is
quiet and uncertain. “I don't want to kiss you unless we're both on the same page.”

The same page?

The same page.

God, god, that ridiculous, sappy, wonderful boy. Louis is so in love that he needs a moment just to
breathe. He starts smiling before he even reaches for Harry, manages to catch Harry’s wrist and
press his thumb into the pulse point. “So, what book are we reading?”

Under Louis’ touch, Harry’s pulse stutters. In the shadowed corridor, he looks like something out
of a dream, features softened and colours muted. The blurred quality of his words fits the image.
“The one where we could be, like...”

He trails off when someone squeezes past them to get to the kitchen, but Louis doesn’t care.
Honestly, he doesn’t give a shit about who might overhear. “The one where we are for real,” he
tells Harry. “Proper romance novel stuff, make all our friends roll their eyes with how bloody
embarrassing we are. That book?”

The smile that explodes across Harry’s face is so wide that it looks as though it might hurt.
“Yeah.” Harry sways closer, his gaze fixed on Louis’ face. “Yeah, that book. That book.”
I’m right at the beginning, Louis thinks, and what comes out is, “I’m proper in love with you, for
the record. Now fucking kiss me already, you twat.”

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, soft and heartfelt. Then he pushes into Louis’ space, slides his thumb over
the line of Louis’ jaw and fits their mouths together. It’s dark heat and closeclosecloser, Louis
lifting up onto his toes to meet it, chasing the bitter taste of beer on Harry’s tongue. More, always
more, everything and now, bright thoughts skipping through Louis’ head like stones skimming the
surface of a lake. It all comes back to Harry.

Harry, who is gasping into Louis’ mouth; Harry, who needs them to be on the same page. There
must be a leftover trace of teenage uncertainty if he can’t see just how deeply, how hopelessly
Louis has fallen.

Well, actions over words.

Louis turns his head away, Harry chasing Louis’ mouth blindly, a tiny noise ripped from his throat.
He looks dazed, eyes so very dark when they flutter open, and Louis has never wanted anyone else
quite like this, the need humming in his chest and sizzling in his stomach.

“Your room,” Louis orders. “Now. Need to be in you now.”

Harry exhales and holds the position, seems to require several moments to get his bearings. “Up.”
He swallows. “Stairs, up the stairs, come on. Love you too.”

He’s moving before Louis can react, can even really process the words. Love you too. Since Louis’
fingers are still wrapped around Harry’s wrist, he’s pulled along, happy to follow right behind and
hook his free hand in Harry’s waistband. On their way up the stairs, they run into a couple of party
guests who give them knowing looks. Louis beams back because Harry fucking loves him.

They stop abruptly in front of Harry’s room, and Louis is about to grasp the handle when Harry
says, “No, I locked it. Didn’t want strangers to—Need to unlock it.”

Yes, that is clever and smart, very much so. Clever boy, and he’s Louis’ boy, which makes it even
better. Louis tucks himself up against Harry’s side. “Well, then where’s the key?”

“Right, um. Key.” The concept seems to take Harry by surprise. He fumbles through the pockets of
his stupidly tight jeans while Louis laughs into his shoulder and slides a hand down to pat Harry’s
bum. It’s a precious bum, very firm and bubbly. No one can blame Louis for copping a feel when
the chance presents itself.

Harry forces the key into the lock with rather more force than strictly necessary, and Jesus, this is
beautiful, how affected he is. Such a striking difference to the tightly controlled version who had
sucked Louis off on their first night upon meeting each other again. It's as though all of Harry’s
experience has been wiped away, and Louis himself feels slightly unhinged as well, shivering with
the incessant urge to touch, stroke, hold, as overwhelming as it had been when they'd only just
started out, young and fumbling for release.

Over four years ago. The first time they fell into each other was more than four years ago, and to
this day, no one compares to Harry.

The moment the door is open, Louis crowds Harry into the room and kicks the door shut behind
them. Through the barrier of wood, the music has lost all contours, a shapeless blur that pounds in
Louis’ blood and makes him trap Harry against the wall, giving Harry no room to move as Louis
sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck. Harry angles his hips away from the wall, slouching so that their
cocks rub against each other through layers of fabric, too many layers. At the contact, an
undignified noise escapes Louis. That’s okay, though, what with the way Harry is releasing these
small, needy gasps each time Louis grinds against him. He’s pliant, watching Louis through
hooded eyes that seem nearly black in the darkened room.

“You good?” Louis asks. He means for it to come out easy, a little amused, but it ends up sounding
breathless instead, his own control slipping.

“I’m—”

Harry falls sharply silent when Louis surges forwards, fisting a handful of Harry’s hair in one hand
as he licks a path from the hollow between Harry’s collarbones up his throat, up, tastes salt and
something a little sweeter, distant and hazy. Harry’s head thuds back against the wall, baring the
column of his throat.

Louis could make him come just like this. God, it would be fitting, reminiscent of their past, but—
but also, Louis wants to bury himself in Harry, fill him up until Harry can’t even remember his own
name, can’t remember anything but how very fucking good Louis is for him, to him, with him.

After a sharp nip to Harry’s Adam’s apple, Louis lifts his head and uses his grip on Harry’s hair to
drag him into a slow, deep kiss. It feels like a century passes just like that, bodies pressed together,
Harry’s mouth open and inviting. Louis’ mind runs through a litany of promises, of pleas; I want
you so much and you, it’s always been you and love you, love you.

Somehow, Louis manages to stop kissing Harry long enough to get out, “Want to fuck you, yeah?
Be deep inside of you, just stay there, just—”

“Please,” Harry interrupts. “Please, yes, please.”

A still, oddly frozen moment hangs between them, all movement ceasing as they stare at each other
from up close, barely an inch of space separating their mouths. Louis feels the air shift when Harry
inhales.

Harry’s voice blends into the hush that surrounds them. “I really wanted you to be my first, you
know.”

Oh God. He can’t just—Fuck, he can’t just do this to Louis, spring this on him out of the blue and
expect Louis to keep breathing, to function. Louis falls into him, clutching Harry’s waist, and shit,
Harry had wanted him to be his first and Louis had said no, no, because he’d thought Harry didn’t
care enough.

“I wanted to be your first so badly. Wanted you to be my first boy, too.” The words feel heavy and
misshapen on Louis’ tongue. “I just didn’t want—I thought you wanted casual, and I couldn’t deal
with it. Was proper scared you’d see right through me.”

“Fuck, Louis.” Harry sounds broken, and Louis can’t handle that right now, so he jerks Harry into
another kiss while tugging at his t-shirt, walking backwards. Louis hopes the bed is somewhere
behind him, hasn’t really even taken a look at the room, too caught up in Harry.

“Bed?” he manages to ask. “Also naked? You should get naked.”

“We should get naked,” Harry corrects. He wedges a hand between them to undo the button of
Louis’ trousers, slide the zip down, and wastes no time in cupping Louis through the boxer briefs.
Louis stutters into the warm touch, sheer instinct, before he unwinds himself and takes a hurried
step to the side.
“Naked, now. Get on the bed, Haz. I want to see you spread out for me.”

For a beat, he thinks he might have taken it too far, shouldn’t have ordered Harry around like this.
Then Harry exhales in a rush, a frantic quality to the way he rids himself of his clothes, his shirt
going first before he shoves at his skinny jeans without even pausing to unbutton them. No
underwear, holy shit. Louis reaches out to help, his own pulse stumbling in his ears when Harry
sinks back onto the bed, letting Louis peel the denim down his thighs, down his endless legs, oh,
and Louis wants them wrapped around his waist as he fucks Harry, slow and steady.

Soon.

Tossing the socks aside, Louis crawls on top of Harry. It’s quite possible that Louis looks silly, the
collar of his t-shirt gaping open, rucked up at the back, and his trousers undone, but if Harry’s
choked sigh is any indication, he doesn’t mind too much.

Louis stretches out on top of him, Harry’s thighs parting so Louis can settle in between, the weight
of Louis’ body pressing Harry into the sheets. The nightly breeze that spills in through the open
window stirs Harry’s hair and carries distant snatches of music and conversations, a counterpoint
to the silence that surrounds them. When Louis sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving it a
gentle nip with his teeth, Harry’s panting breaths seem amplified. All Louis wants is to take him
apart inch by inch, relearn his body by touch, find all the spots that make Harry hiss and arch off
the mattress. It seems like a valid life goal.

Sliding one hand down Louis’ back, Harry palms at Louis’ arse, pulling him down further. The
rough friction, Louis’ open trousers scraping against Harry’s skin, can’t be entirely comfortable,
but Harry twists into it, seeming desperate for any kind of contact.

Louis catches both of Harry’s wrists and holds them down, uses his grip as leverage to hover above
Harry. “Hey,” he murmurs, and wow, Harry isn’t the only one who sounds pretty out of it. “Hey,
you got stuff?”

“Bedside table,” Harry says. “Drawer.”

When Louis lets go of one wrist to fumble for the knob, Harry uses the chance to bring a hand
between them, fingertips scrabbling over Louis’ cock. Louis slaps his arm away, his voice rasping
in his own ears. “Stop, don’t want this to be over before I’m even inside of you.”

“No, wouldn’t want that. In me, want you to fill me up.” Harry shakes his head, hair whispering
over the pillow, and there’s a happy little smile curving his mouth, eyes gleaming in the shadows
that wrap around the bed. “Want you to come in me.”

Jesus fuck, he’s too damn much. He should come with flashing lights and a warning sign, because
danger to mental health.

Louis breathes out through his teeth. “Can’t. Like, we should both do—Get tested, right? Not that I
—But to be on the safe side.”

“Doctor’s appointment first thing Monday,” Harry demands, and Louis ducks his head to brush a
kiss against his cheek.

“Done.”

This should probably be awkward, yet it isn’t; instead, they both pause to grin at each other,
darkness washing away all details. This is it, okay? They’re exclusive, a proper relationship, and
it’s not as though Louis has been with anyone since Harry showed up again, doesn’t think that
Harry has been with anyone else either, but... This is it.

Harry ends the suspended moment. “So you’re mine now, right? Like, I get to glare at every patron
who checks out your bum?”

I am so in love with you, Louis thinks. He drops his head, hides a smile against Harry’s chest and
feels the steady beating of Harry’s heart. “Might be bad for business.”

“Don’t care even one bit,” Harry says, rather cheerful. “We can make up for it if we give people a
show, yeah?” He shifts under Louis, wrapping one leg around Louis’ thighs to draw him closer,
their dicks sliding together with only the flimsy material of Louis’ underwear between.

“Sold.” For emphasis, Louis flicks his tongue over a nipple, Harry stilling under him. Louis lifts
his head and right, shit, he meant to get lube and condoms. Stretching to reach the drawer, he feels
around what seems to be a leatherbound book, some kind of diary, before his fingers encounter a
little tube and some tin foil wrappers. Got it.

He sheds his clothes before he opens Harry up carefully, taking his sweet time until Harry is
shaking with the strain of holding himself still, keeps repeating that he’s ready, come on, Lou, want
you now, want you in me, now, now, now.

Louis makes it a point to slow it down even further, grinning as he sucks dark marks into the
sensitive inside of Harry’s thighs, close enough that he smells the musky scent of Harry’s arousal.
By the time Louis is up to three fingers, Harry has thrown an arm over his eyes, gulping loudly
each time Louis twists his wrist. He seems too far gone to even rush it. When Louis takes just the
very tip of Harry’s cock into his mouth, lapping up the slick precome that has gathered at the slit,
Harry tries to get more, hips twitching up, and Louis presses him back down into the sheets with a
palm flat on Harry’s stomach. Each time Louis swirls his tongue over Harry’s cock, he feels the
way Harry’s muscles tense under his touch.

At Louis pulling back, Harry releases a sound that comes close to a dry sob. The dim brightness of
approaching dawn reveals the sweat that has gathered on his forehead, and Louis slithers up his
body, naked skin sliding together. He tangles both hands in Harry’s hair, fingers sticky with lube.
Like leaving another trace of himself on Harry’s body.

“Hey,” he whispers, and Harry’s lids drag open. “Baby, hey. You ready for me?”

“Is that,” Harry swallows, “a rhetorical question? I was ready hours ago, fuck. Want you in me.”

“Yeah, want to be in you.” With that, Louis moves in for a long kiss, mouths sliding wetly over
each other, drawing it out as their cocks press together with an infuriating lack of precision. It’s just
enough to chase sparks of heat down Louis’ spine. Fuck, he needs to be inside of Harry, needs him
now, needs him forever.

He rolls off Harry with a certain amount of difficulty, can’t quite manage to stop touching him as
he says, “On your stomach, babe.”

Harry complies without hesitation, turning over to sprawl on the white sheets. He’s so beautiful, so
beautiful, and Louis trails a hand down the curve of his spine, helplessly fascinated by the shadows
pooling between Harry’s shoulder blades, by the dip of his back before it reaches the swell of his
bum. Cheek resting on his crossed arms, Harry watches Louis through hazy eyes, calm and
complacent, so painfully open that Louis molds himself against Harry’s side for another kiss.

Blindly, Louis wipes his fingers off on the sheets before he tears open one of the condom
wrappers, rolling it down his own cock. It’s only now that he touches himself that he realises how
close he already is, just from this, from pulling these strong reactions from Harry.

Fingers tight around the base, he drapes himself over Harry’s back and slides in slowly, steadily,
planting a fist at the small of Harry’s back to hold him down when Harry tries to push off the bed
and speed things up.

No. Not tonight.

There’ll be other times when it will have to be fast and frantic, riling each other up in a club,
maybe, or taking their break together at the bar. Study dates at the library. There will be plenty of
opportunities, but tonight, Louis wants to take his time.

Once he’s fully inside, he covers Harry’s body with his own, fitting himself along the line of
Harry’s back. He has to stretch so he can press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of Harry’s
neck before burying his nose in Harry’s hair. God, this is—fuck. Tight and perfect, everything is
heat and shadows and bright spots behind Louis’ lids.

“Love you,” he forces out, barely coherent, but Harry twists his head around so they can kiss again.
The angle is awkward, their lips dragging over each other more than anything else. Louis doesn’t
think he will ever tire of this.

When he starts to move, it’s in tiny, incremental shifts of his hips, pulling out by no more than an
inch before he sinks back inside, as deep as he can possibly get. Harry is arching off the bed to
meet Louis’ movements, but flat on his stomach, with Louis’ weight pressing him down against the
mattress, he doesn’t get much leverage. His breaths come in short, hiccuping gasps.

Sweet, sweet friction. Without warning, Louis pulls out most of the way and sinks back inside,
Harry’s body gripping him, surrounding him. Harry’s exhalation ends on a quiet moan. He’s
rubbing off against the sheets, no real rhythm to it, and Louis stills to ride out the shocks of heat,
each small hitch of Harry’s hips sending a flash of electricity through Louis’ veins. Louis moves in
counterpoint, grinding circles, slow and slow and slow, golden heat humming in his bones.

Louis presses his mouth against Harry’s shoulder. “You close?” he asks, the question blurred by
the way it’s shaped against Harry’s skin.

In lieu of an answer, Harry frees one of his hands to tangle his fingers with Louis’, holding on so
tightly it borders on painful. Louis releases Harry’s other wrist in favour of gripping the muscle
that joins Harry’s neck and shoulder, thumb digging into Harry’s nape.

Harry comes with a shaky sigh.

He melts into the mattress right away, and Louis doesn’t think it would take more than a couple of
hard, fast thrusts for him to follow suit. Already, his vision is condensing, a telltale tug behind his
navel as his stomach muscles bunch up. He just wants... everything, everything, he wants to mark
and claim and cherish, wants everyone to know that Harry belongs to him. That he belongs to
Harry, too. Jesus, how did this happen again so quickly?

It’s Harry, though. It’s Harry, and no one else has ever held this sort of control over Louis.

Louis pulls out on a ragged inhalation, discards the condom as he straddles Harry’s thighs. A few
harsh strokes is all it takes before the pressure behind his navel spreads, brightens, his abdomen
tightening while Harry watches him through hooded eyes, lazy and content, head twisted around.
“C’mon,” he mutters. “C’mon, love you.”
The black space in Louis’ head expands. He spills over his own fist and Harry’s back, shaking with
it as his muscles loosen, gravity pulling him down. Through lowered lids, chest heaving, he studies
the mess that he’s made. The faint light that seeps in through the window is enough to illuminate
the streaks of pearly liquid, and oh God, maybe Louis shouldn’t find it this hot, it might not be
normal that his dick gives a feeble twitch just at the sight, but... Fuck that, fuck should and maybe
and normal. Harry is his.

“Did you just come all over me?” Harry sounds sleepy and pretty damn wrecked, a delicious
roughness to his voice.

“I sure did,” Louis manages. “Looks good on you.”

Harry snorts out a faint laugh, and somehow, Louis regains enough control over his limbs to ease
off Harry, tucking himself against Harry’s side. They watch each other from up close, smiling, eyes
flicking back and forth while the new day brightens the eastern edge of the sky. It’s quiet around
them, as though the world is holding its breath, and when did the music stop? Louis can’t
remember.

“We should probably shower,” Harry says eventually, reluctance clear in his tone.

Louis traces a line down Harry’s back, running his fingers through the sticky mess on Harry’s skin.
Damn, he feels pretty good about that. “Sleep first, leisurely shower together tomorrow? You’ll
have to wash the sheets anyway, not like it makes a difference.”

Harry’s grin crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“Awesome. I love getting my way.” Lifting himself up just enough to tug the duvet out from
underneath their bodies, Louis prompts Harry shift over. “If you take the wet spot, I’ll blow you in
the shower tomorrow.”

“Or,” Harry says, “we just cuddle really, really close, so no one has to take that part of the duvet.
And you still blow me in the shower tomorrow.”

Huh, a compromise. Well, compromises are very important in a relationship, or so Louis has heard.
A relationship.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, and ah, right, Louis must be grinning like an idiot because
relationship, Harry is his boyfriend.

“Nothing,” Louis says. A moment later, he contradicts himself by snuggling closer, lowering his
voice to a secretive whisper. “Hey, now that you’re officially my boyfriend and all? Fair warning: I
plan to be incredibly public about this. Snog you in front of everyone, hold your hand whenever I
feel like it, take you on dates.”

Harry’s smile is brilliant. “Fair warning: I’ll hold you to that.”

--

They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs and wake up just like that, sticky and sweaty and thoroughly
disgusting. Who cares, though, when they can simply wash the grime off in the shower, wandering
hands and wet kisses, water pouring down around them, until one of Harry’s housemates pounds on
the door. They skip back to Harry’s room with flushed cheeks and wet hair, Louis getting to pick
some clothes to borrow from Harry. Half-dressed, they fall back into Harry’s bed for another round
of sex.
By the time they make it out into the kitchen, the house appears quiet and deserted. In blatant
disregard of the fact that it’s afternoon, Harry prepares breakfast for both of them, bare-chested
with a pair of shorts sitting low on his waist. It’s rather distracting, and Louis makes more than one
comment about appropriate kitchen attire and the threat of sizzlingly hot oil.

To Louis’ disgruntlement, Harry keeps returning for gentle, happy kisses while Louis tries to have
a very serious discussion about all the things they could do on their dates. Seriously, Styles, could
you focus on the matter at hand? I’m not doing all the work here. This is a brainstorming session,
and you are not helping. Get out a pen, takes some notes, we need a list of pros and cons.

They’re still munching on eggs and bacon when Liam ambles into the kitchen, Zayn three steps
behind him. There is a very prominent lovebite on Liam’s neck.

“You little minx,” Louis declares, pointing an accusing finger at Zayn.

Zayn lifts a lazy brow and flicks a glance at Harry. Which, alright, there are a fair few marks
scattered down Harry’s chest. Point. But. “Harry is my boyfriend, though. I am merely fulfilling
my marital duties.” Louis waves a careless hand while Harry is grinning at him, eyes warm. “Or
something to that effect.”

“And who says Liam isn’t my boyfriend?” Zayn asks.

Liam, crouched in front of the fridge, cranes his head around. “Am I, now? Thought it took drama
and hate sex and miscommunication to build a relationship?”

“We can hear you, you know,” Louis states loudly. Under the table, he knocks his knee against
Harry’s.

“‘S a matter of taste,” Zayn tells Liam. “Like, not everyone’s into drama and that stuff. Yeah?”

Liam’s casual shrug contrasts with the brightness of his eyes. “Maybe. If you admit that Batman is
better than Green Lantern.”

Whoa, Liam plays a tough game; Louis is reluctantly impressed. Then Harry leans into Louis’ field
of vision to coax him into a kiss ╴not that it takes much to convince Louis—and it’s enough of a
distraction that Louis misses Zayn’s answer. It might be a bit embarrassing, perhaps, that
something as simple as a kiss can override Louis’ interest in superheroes, but...

But it’s Harry, and Louis refuses to be embarrassed about a damn thing when it comes to him.
Since Zayn and Liam are sharing a glass of orange juice when Louis thinks to cast them another
look, he supposes that they worked out some form of a compromise.

“I’m rather partial to Catwoman,” Harry says in an undertone, meant only for Louis, and—what,
Catwoman. Catwoman?

Slowly, very slowly, Louis turns his head. He keeps his face straight, his tone low and even. “I’m
divorcing you.”

Harry’s laugh rings clear and true.

--

For reasons known only to him, Harry manages to trip over his own two feet on perfectly even
ground. Louis laughs and calls him a doe-eyed baby giraffe, then helps him mop up the spilt
drinks. Their hands knock together more than once.
After the third time, Louis pulls him into a kiss, right there in the middle of the bar, with everyone
watching.

--

The first time Louis sees Gemma again, she punches him in the stomach, which doesn't hurt. She
also refuses to speak to him, refuses to even look at him for a full ten minutes, which hurts rather a
lot. By the end of her visit, she flicks his ear.

The second time he sees her, she pulls him into a hug, then threatens to cut off his dick if he hurts
her baby brother. There’s more, some gory details about what she’ll do with the spliced-up pieces,
but really, Louis figures they're alright.

Harry's mum is another matter. Especially—especially—as Harry did not deem it necessary to
inform her about just who his plus one to the wedding will be.

Louis learns about this on the road to Holmes Chapel, a mere fifteen minutes from their
destination. He reacts as any sane person would: He slams the breaks and drives the car onto the
grassy patch beside the road.

"It'll be fine," Harry assures him, wide-eyed in the passenger seat, and fine? This will be fine?

Hell no. This will be a disaster. Louis had thought—When Harry had told him his mum was
looking forward to meeting him, was really so very glad that Harry had found someone he actually
liked enough to have them meet the family, to bring to the wedding... Honestly, Louis had assumed
Anne was fully aware that this someone was Louis. Fuck.

He scrambles out and leans against the side of the car. Everything looks familiar, smells familiar,
sounds familiar. When he closes his eyes, the distant hum of a tractor buzzes behind his forehead.

At the shuffle of Harry's naked feet on the grass, Louis groans. "Harry," he manages, plaintive.
"What if it's a disaster? What if your mum thinks—"

"She won't," Harry interrupts, quiet and confident. "It will be fine, honestly. My mum never
blamed you, okay? She really mostly blamed my dad. It'll be fine."

Louis draws a breath, inhales the crisp air of a late autumn, about to tip into winter. It’s cold
outside the car. "There'll be town folk who did blame my family."

"Well, fuck them." Harry wraps himself around Louis and places a wet, lingering kiss on Louis'
cheekbone. "Seriously. You got Gemma on your side, you know. And you got me, of course."

Because he's just that ridiculous, he starts humming the tune; They say we're young and we don't
know, we won't find out until we grow. I got you, babe. Louis starts smiling against his will, and by
the time Harry pulls him into a kiss, Louis' muscles have loosened. He opens his mouth easily, lets
Harry kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

As it turns out, Harry is right: Anne takes a long look at Louis, then shoots a glance at Harry,
standing beside him on the doorstep, beaming with his fingers fitted between Louis' own. When
she returns her attention to Louis, she's smiling. "It's lovely to see you again, Louis," she tells him.
"I did quite miss your voice at the dinner table, you know. Trying to convince everyone that carrots
were a superior form of vegetable."

"Well." Louis has to swallow and clear his throat before he succeeds in returning her smile. "I'm a
law student now, so in the future, you won't stand a chance against my compelling line of
argumentation."

Unexpectedly, Anne draws him into a tight hug. It’s a Styles special, that. "Welcome back to the
family," she whispers into his ear.

Louis doesn't cry into Harry's t-shirt about it later on. He doesn't.

It's kind of just like how Harry remains totally unaffected when they call Louis' family that
afternoon, and Louis puts Harry on speaker without any prior warning. Ah, the sweet taste of
revenge. Harry fumbles for a bit, stuttering his way through Jay's questions, and when she tells him
to say hello to Anne, asks him to convey her well-wishes, it's a stroke of genius which has Louis
snatch up the phone and order his mum to man up already, to do it in person like a motherfucking
adult.

Anne accepts the call with a deep breath, and then it's an hour before Louis sees his phone again.
Jay shows up just in time for the wedding.

--

It's a beautiful ceremony, it really is; low-key and relaxed, fancy decorations bypassed in favour of
great food, drinks and a live band.

Since Harry is so nervous before his speech that he just might throw up, Louis drags him into a
toilet stall and brings him off with one hand on his dick and the other clasped over his mouth. It's a
sacrifice, of course, but Louis is willing to take one for the team. Boy, is he ever.

It certainly helps with the nerves, and if Harry happens to give his speech with glazed eyes and red
spots blooming high on his cheeks—then hey, everyone is too drunk on champagne to notice, and
Gemma can just shove her smirk where the sun don't shine.

"I want one of these," Harry tells Louis at some undefined time before midnight. His voice is a soft
murmur that barely translates over the band launching into an Abba medley, the music a little
muted where the two of them are huddled under a table, passing a bottle of sparkling wine back
and forth. Harry is beautiful, so so beautiful, features dimly lit by the lamplight seeping through the
tablecloth, and Louis wants to keep him forever. And then some more. Yes, please and with a
cherry on top.

"D’you want to get married right now?" Louis asks. "’Cause I could probably fashion a ring from a
pull tab. If there are beer cans around?"

"Maybe not right now." Harry grins, then tilts sideways to rest his cheek on Louis' shoulder. His
warm exhalation tickles Louis' skin. "Just, you know. At some point. I mean, we're still young."

"But even as young as we are..." Louis drapes an arm around Harry's waist and leans back against
the table leg, burying his nose in Harry’s hair. It smells good, is the thing, and also, they’re under a
table, kind of like a grown-up pillow fort, so really, no one will notice. "Like, yeah. We’re young,
but not too young to know we're in this for the long run, right?"

"Just old enough," Harry replies. "I mean, I've been loving you for a while, you know. If you add it
all up. Then and now. Or, like. Maybe I never even stopped."

"Maybe," Louis echoes. Thinks, probably.

Harry leans further into Louis' side, sleepy and pliant. They don't talk much after that, just stay
close and quietly happy in their little hideout as they work their way through the rest of the bottle.
 Harry seems lost in his own thoughts, smiling to himself and dropping a kiss onto Louis’ shoulder
now and then, an absent quality to the gesture.

It’s just as well; Louis has some planning to do. Now that he knows Harry will say yes, he can pour
his whole energy into coming up with the perfect proposal. A skydive, for example. Yeah, that’d
be so awesome. Or. Or! Whisking Harry away for a romantic weekend in Paris, ah, l’amour, le
baguette, la... thing, whatever. Possibly, possibly Louis could even do something as outrageous as
attempt to cook a full meal.

So many options, really—how is he supposed to pick just one? But then, he's not in a rush to
decide. There's plenty of time to make up his mind.

"Last sip," he announces, then empties the bottle and tightens his arm around Harry's waist, pulls
him into his lap. He teases Harry's lips apart to share the taste between them. Sharing is caring,
after all.

So, yeah. Yes. The ceremony is beautiful, and Louis feels pretty optimistic about the wedding
night as well, even though technically, he's not the one who got married. Really, with Harry warm
and happy in his arms, Louis feels pretty good about everything—the rest of his year, definitely,
and the rest of his life, too.

He may have had just a tad bit too much sparkling wine. That's okay, though, because you're
supposed to get drunk at a wedding, irrespective of whether it’s your own or that of someone else.

Louis considers it practice.

===

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading!

I don’t have much left to say, except: my betas are the best. #confirmed They’re
brilliant and lovely and wonderful and all good things, basically. (I can’t wait to meet
three out of four of you in summer. Shame we can’t fly Kate in to join us, though.)

End Notes

[Tumblr Masterpost] - [Soundtrack ]

An original version of this story is available as a Kindle eBook. Also, it's on GoodReads.
:)

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