Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sat in his usual chair, eyes closed, head tilted back, Harry patiently waits while Zayn applies his makeup. It’s not as much fun getting his face done for the daily tapings of Late Night Talking as it seemed back when he was an extroverted, attention grabbing kid; or even when he was a cast member on SNL.

There’s no sparkle, no glitter, no playing with colour, no fun eyelash extensions. Zayn just evens out his skin tone, hiding blemishes and dark circles, highlighting his cheekbones and jawline, and adding a tiny bit of blush to make him look… less made up. 

It makes zero sense to Harry, but he trusts Zayn, so he stays still until Zayn taps his nose with a soft brush and says, “All done, babes.”

“Thanks, Zaynie,” Harry says as he blinks, eyes adjusting to the light. He leans towards the mirror, turning his head side to side. The massive pimple beside his mouth—from his anxious habit of touching his lips and chin—is virtually impossible to see. He lifts his hand to his face and Zayn smacks it away. 

“Ouch!”

“Don’t touch it,” Zayn snaps. 

“Sorry,” Harry says with a wince. 

“I know you’re nervous, but he’s just another guest,” Zayn reminds him, repeating the same words he’s said at least once a day since they confirmed the schedule for this week. “Yes, he’s pretty. Yes, he’s gay. Yes, he’s exactly your type. And yes, according to People,” Zayn says, picking up the magazine from the stack on the counter and waving it in Harry's face, “you’re his celebrity crush, but the article also says he’s got a boyfriend.”

“I know,” Harry says, getting to his feet. “I know. I wish he hadn’t said that. I was nervous enough about this interview without that information.”

“Well…” Zayn sighs and tosses the magazine into Harry's vacant chair. “Chances are, he didn't actually say it. It’s just promo for his new album and his appearance tonight. Newly out musician on the only late night show with an out host? His manager probably sent them an email with a few quotes to use.”

“Do you think he remembers?” Harry asks, lifting his hand again but catching himself before he touches his face. 

“You’re not an easy person to forget, H,” Zayn tells him, and though that’s not actually a response to his question, Harry lets it go when Niall’s voice booms over the speakers, calling him to set. 

“Love you,” Harry says as he backs towards the door.

“Love you, too,” Zayn says, blowing him a kiss.

Harry hustles down the hall, smoothing his hands over the lapels of his jacket. Today’s suit is purple with floral embroidery, and he loves the way the trousers fit his thighs and flare out below the knee. He knows he looks good, but his heart’s still pounding. Just offstage, Harry stops and takes a deep breath in through his nose, holding it, and exhaling slowly through his mouth. 

The crowd warmer, Nick, is going through the end of his routine of amping the crowd up, controlling their claps and whoops like the stage manager will do during the show, and then they get the all clear to start, and Harry steps out onto the stage.

Waving as greets the audience, Harry gives them his cheesiest smile, dimples deep in both cheeks. He stops on his mark, pressing his hands together in front of his chest, and bows, then waves again, both hands high in the air. 

“Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to Late Night Talking! I’m your host, Harry Styles, and I love you all!” He waits a beat and introduces the band, and waits again for the crowd to quieten down to announce, “We have a great show for you tonight! Paul Rudd is here! Long awaited and much anticipated, Louis Tomlinson is here—that’s right! All the way from England to sing his brand new song for us and…” Doing his best Adele impersonation, Harry sings, “Rumour has it!” and waits for the laughter and applause to die down before he adds, “Louis’s going to join us on the couch for a little… tête-à-tête first.” The audience cheers louder for that, and Harry grins. His French just gets better and better. 

With a wink, Harry pops his hip and shoots finger guns at the camera, then he spins around and heads for his seat, ready to start the show. 

Normally, Harry considers himself a big Paul Rudd fan, but he’s distracted through the sketches, though the interview goes well enough. The questions are rote by now, and the game they play helps. Before he knows it, Louis is up next. They cut for an ad break, and Harry takes a grateful gulp of water from his purple Late Night Talking mug. It matches his suit. 

Zayn comes out to re-powder his face, and offers a quiet, “Remember to breathe.” 

“Love you,” Harry whispers, and Zayn silently mouths the same. 

A moment later, Niall announces that they're back, counting down while the audience applauds and Zayn retreats.  Harry taps his notecards on his desk, straightening them and shuffling them. The music cue fades, the audience quiets down, and Harry looks at the camera, smiling as he says, “Please help me welcome to the show, award-winning singer and songwriter, and one of my favourite Brits, Louis Tomlinson!”

Harry claps along with the audience, probably more vigorously than he needs to, but it’s Louis, and he appears at the edge of the curtain off stage in a black t-shirt and black jeans, rubbing his hands together, looking somehow even more gorgeous in person than he ever does on screen. 

Louis lifts a hand high, waving at the screaming audience, eyes crinkling with his smile, then he walks straight over to Harry who’s suffering from a momentary lapse of brain function, just standing there, grinning and clapping long after he should’ve stopped. Belatedly, he extends a hand towards Louis, and Louis does a sort of half shake of his head, eyebrows drawing together as he has to turn around with his back to the audience to reach across the desk to clasp Harry's hand. 

It’s firm, but short as far as handshakes go, then Louis takes a seat in the chair closest to Harry's desk, thighs spread wide enough to make Harry wonder what exactly he’s making room for between his legs. 

He’s still thinking about that when the music completely stops, and once again he’s two steps behind. Rather than welcome Louis to the show the way he always does after a guest sits down, Harry's mouth is hanging open, but no words are coming out, and Louis tilts his head, frowning slightly, then he turns to say hello to Paul Rudd.

“Welcome!” Harry clears his throat unnecessarily. Maybe someone will assume he’s got a cold or something instead of a dry mouth due to daydreaming about Louis Tomlinson’s thighs. Louis leans back in his seat, looking across the desk at Harry, and Harry says, “Welcome to the show, Louis.”

“Thanks,” Louis says with a slow nod, “Thank you. It’s good to be here.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is your first visit here on Late Night Talking,” Harry says, and Louis smiles, adjusting his fringe.

Turning a little more towards Harry, Louis says, “It is, it is.” 

“It is!” Harry huffs a little laugh, leaning forward to rest an elbow on his desk, and says, “I don’t know if you remember this, but we… we’ve met before.”

“Oh, I remember,” Louis says slowly and a little snidely, but with a quiet chuckle, which throws Harry even further off his game. 

“Do you remember?” Harry needlessly asks again, fighting the heat building beneath the collar of his shirt, and then, because Louis already has him flustered, he adds, “Because this was really embarrassing for me.”

“Yes,” Louis says, stifling a laugh.

“It was?” Harry asks as his blush breaks free of confinement and begins to climb his neck.

“Yes!” Louis points at him, finger bobbing in the air. “I haven't seen you since then, mate.”

He should steer the conversation towards Louis’ new album, but he can’t stop himself from saying, “Do you want me to tell—”

“It’s been years,” Louis says, cringing a little as he turns to face the audience, who respond immediately to Louis’ expressive grimace with peels of laughter.

“Do you want me to tell my version of the story?” Harry asks, finally able to form a complete sentence.

“Yeah,” Louis says, giggling and rubbing his hands over his thighs, “You tell your version.”

Louis’ laugh is like an instant mood elevator, and Harry smiles through his embarrassment, and says, “I was walking down the street in New York City, and my friend Liam called me and said, ‘Dude, what are you doing?’ and I go, ‘I’m just walking down the street’ and he goes, ‘I have Louis Tomlinson with me and he wants to meet you to maybe talk to you about SNL or something like that’ and I said, ‘What?’ and he said, ‘We can be at your place in like ten minutes’ and I’m like ‘You’re going to bring Louis Tomlinson over to my flat? What do I do?’ and he says, ‘I don’t know, maybe put out cheese and crackers or something’ and I’m like, freaking out because I don’t have people over. I don’t have dinner parties. I have clothes and I have Scrabble and I have Xbox.”

“That’s right!” Louis laughs again, both hands out in front of him in a full body shrug. 

“So I go into the deli near my flat, and I buy all the cheese and crackers I can, and I practically run back to my place, dump it all out on a plate, and…” Harry trails off. He doesn’t actually remember much after that. It’d been a long week, and he’d been exhausted.

“I just remember, I had such a crush on you when you were on SNL,” Louis says. There are a few whoops from the audience, and Louis turns towards them. “Calm yourselves. I’m not interested now. I’ve got a boyfriend.” Harry's heart, stomach, and possibly his lungs, all drop into his arse, and he can feel the blood drain from his face even as the back of his neck flames, and Louis continues, “And Liam was like, ‘Oh, you can come meet Harry’ and—” 

“Wait. What?” Harry asks, though he can hardly hear himself over the audience.

“So, Liam, our mutual friend,” Louis says, raising his voice a little, “He says, ‘Harry wants to meet you and you can go over to his flat’ and so on, and I’m single, and I’m like, okay, yeah, cool.”

“Wait! What?” Harry repeats, louder and more shrill this time. He pushes his chair back away from his desk, flailing a bit, his dramatic nature taking over, and Louis cackles, hiding his face in his hand. “What are you saying?”

“Yes!” Louis laughs again, and says, “So, I go over to your flat, and you’re there in like, a backwards snapback and, like, joggers, and you didn't talk! You didn't say anything. You were like, ‘Hey’ and that’s it.”

“I was clearly nervous,” Harry protests, rolling his chair back up to this desk. “I bought cheese! I didn't know this was a thing! I didn't— Liam was there! Was it a date?”

Ignoring Harry's question, Louis continues, “And I was like, okay, and then you pulled out your Scrabble board, and—”

“Shh…” Harry reaches across the desk, trying to shush Louis, face on fire under his makeup, but Louis just laughs, and Harry gives up, sliding out of his chair onto the floor and out of sight of the cameras.

“It was bad, mate,” Louis says, leaning over top of the desk and looking down at him. “Look at you. You’re blushing.”

“So are you,” Harry says, clambering back into his chair, covering his face with both hands as soon as he’s sitting again. 

“Anyway,” Louis says as he drops back into his chair, tugging the hem of his t-shirt. “After about an hour or so of getting my arse kicked at Scrabble, I thought, ‘Well, he has no interest in me, this is so embarrassing.’” Harry's hands aren’t doing the job, so he folds his arms on top of his desk and buries his face in them, breathing deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. 

“I had no clue!” Harry insists, though it’s fruitless. The audience is going wild, even Paul Rudd is laughing, Niall’s over there off camera giggling, and somewhere in the building, Zayn’s probably crying into his makeup. 

Louis shakes his head, and says, “We left, and we’re walking away from your flat, and I turn to Liam, and I’m like, ‘Okay, there’s no chemistry there’ and then I was like, ‘Are you sure he’s gay?’”

“I am!” Harry practically shouts, slapping his hands on his desk. It’s too much. He’s sweaty and shaky and completely out of his depth. All he can do is keep going, though, so he grabs for his mug of water, gulping it down, then gets to his feet and announces, “Okay! I’m out of here!” 

Like the big baby that he is, Harry shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stomps off to the side of the stage, but when he turns back to return to his seat, Louis is sitting there, thighs spread, spinning back and forth in Harry's chair. 

There’s no way Harry can sit across from him now, so he heads for the other side of the stage, and lays down on the floor on his back, facing away, giving up control of the show to Louis. 

Might as well, at this point. Maybe the floor will swallow him up.

From his perch in Harry's chair, Louis asks, “How ya feeling, Harry?”

“Terrible,” Harry answers honestly, but everyone takes it as a joke, like he knew they would. He sits up, then stands, straightening his jacket, and Louis stands as well, and as if choreographed, they walk past each other without touching, back to their original seats. 

Heaving a sigh, Louis says, “We weren’t meant to be, I guess.”

Thinking back ten years to his SNL days when he spent more time drunk or high than sober, and more nights sleeping on a couch in the writer’s room than in his own bed, Harry can’t help but think Louis dodged a bullet. He laughs, and says, “Wow, did you make a good decision.”

“You didn't,” Louis says with a wink, and all of Harry's wit leaves him.  

“I… I… I’m in shock,” Harry says, trying to breathe and calm himself down. 

“Do you still talk to Liam?” Louis asks, and Harry nods.

“I just saw him last week,” Harry says, making a mental note to kick Liam’s arse in the near future.

“So…” Louis rocks side to side in his chair, and Harry glances at Niall who’s giving him the signal to wrap it up. 

“We’ve just completely forgotten about the interview portion of the show,” Harry says, gathering his notecards again. He turns to the camera, smiling his double dimple smile. “After the break, Louis Tomlinson!”

The band plays them out, and Louis leans across the desk. “Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to embarrass you.”

Harry scoffs, and says, “Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, I did,” Louis says, standing and extending a hand towards Harry. “I’ve got to go get set with the band. No hard feelings?”

“None at all,” Harry says, hurrying to stand, though it’s not like he can really follow Louis now. He watches as Louis disappears backstage, hoping he’ll have a chance to talk to him after they finish taping. 

It’s only a moment later that Niall signals for the band to play them in, the cameras roll, and Harry walks around his desk and downstage in front of the audience. 

“If you’ve heard Louis Tomlinson’s new tune, you know it’s no sit-in-your-seat-and-bop-along song. It’s a banger, and I expect this crowd to act like it! Now, come on down to the edge of the stage.” Niall’s already explained everything to the audience, and they do as they're told, moving down and standing packed around the raised platform, some of them whooping and whistling at the closed curtains as the lights dim. Harry waits for his cue, and when the spotlight shines on him, he announces, “All the way from Doncaster, performing ‘Out of My System’ from the brand new album Faith in the Future, let’s hear it for Louis Tomlinson!”

The spotlight on Harry cuts out, and on stage the curtains part, red and purple lights flash, and Harry fleetingly thinks about his suit matching Louis’ lighting scheme just as Louis Tomlinson appears behind the mic stand and begins to sing, and all thoughts leave Harry's head. 

The way Louis plays to the crowd, straddling his mic stand and leaning down to let them touch him has Harry ready to push his way to the stage. It’s his television show, after all, if anyone’s going to grab Louis’ shirt or touch his neck, it should be Harry, not some random audience member.  

Louis smirks as his security guard seems to come from nowhere and pull him away from the crowd. His shirt’s twisted, the collar loosened from people tugging on it, and when he turns to walk to the other side of the small stage, the hem settles a few inches above the waist of his jeans, revealing the red band of his pants and a sliver of skin at the small of his back. Harry groans at the sight, instantly clamping his jaw shut, eyes going wide as he searches for Niall beyond the crowd. Niall gives him a thumbs up, sticks out his tongue, and that’s all Harry needs to know that his reflexive, appreciative sound was heard, but only by Niall. 

And the sound guys. 

And anyone else who might be looped into the audio feed from his mic. 

Harry tries to keep focused after that, and when Louis finishes singing the last line, Harry makes his way on stage, shouting over the din of the crowd as Louis takes a bow, “Amazing! Amazing! Give it up for Louis Tomlinson! And a massive thank you to Paul Rudd! We’ll see you next time on Late Night Talking! I love you all!”

Before Harry can stop him, Louis is gone, heading backstage with his band, so Harry rushes over to Niall, who lays a hand flat over Harry's mic to keep it from picking up his voice, and says, “Thought you might die out there, H.”

“Are we sure I didn't?” Harry asks, reaching back for his mic pack and flipping the switch off. “Niall, I love you. And I need you to handle things here. I’ve got to catch Louis before he leaves.”

“Want to humiliate yourself more?” Niall asks, but all Harry can do is flip him off over his shoulder as he hurries backstage. 

Bypassing his own dressing room, Harry heads for the green room, but no one’s there, so he keeps on, jogging down the hall towards the exit. He shoves the door open, squinting into the afternoon sunlight, shading his eyes with his hand, just in time to see Louis climbing into the backseat of a black Range Rover.

“Louis!” Harry yells, and Louis whips around towards his voice. “Wait!”

Harry picks up the pace, and Louis waves his security guard away. “He’s not about to hurt me, JD. Are you, Harold?”

“No,” Harry says, stopping a few feet away, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He might run a few miles every day, but rarely does he full out sprint, and never in loafers. “I need to talk to you. To explain. Do you have a minute?”

“I’ve got a minute, but I’ve heard you talk, mate,” Louis says, sliding across the backseat. “And I’ve got a plane to catch, but you can ride with me to the airport if you want.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says, climbing into Louis’ Range Rover. JD shuts the door, gets in the driver’s seat, and a guy with ginger hair climbs silently into the passenger seat, turning to lift a hand in greeting before settling into his seat with headphones over his ears. As soon as they pull away from the studio, Harry realises he has no phone, no wallet, and no idea if Louis meant La Guardia or JFK or even Newark. “Where are we going?”

“JFK,” JD answers from the front.

Turning slightly in his seat, Louis asks, “What’d you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh…” Harry sighs, settling back into his seat, and says, “That day? That date that wasn’t a date? I wanted to explain.”

“No need, Harold,” Louis says with a chuckle. “We were both there.”

“No, but… I wasn’t… I didn't know.” Harry rakes his fingers through his hair, and says, “I just wanted to tell you that if I’d known why you wanted to meet me, I would’ve… I don’t know, been better?”

Louis snorts quietly, and says, “Wouldn't take much.”

“See! This is what I mean.” As he reaches up to touch the spot on his chin, Harry notices what he’s doing, and stops, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “That day… I’d been home visiting my mum for a week, and I’d just got back when Liam called me. I was literally walking from the subway to my flat, hauling my suitcase down the street, and I was jetlagged and fucking exhausted and I swear, I think I fell asleep while you were at mine, and I thought you wanted to talk to me about SNL which always made me feel… icky because I didn't have any sway over musical guests and—”

“You thought I wanted to meet you to see about getting booked as a musical guest on SNL?” Louis asks with a sneer that makes Harry want to cry, and the ginger guy up front scoffs without looking around.

“I didn't mean to think that! I didn't think you were like that, and then I was disappointed when Liam said you wanted to talk to me about SNL, and then you didn't talk about SNL, so I thought you wanted me to bring it up, and like I said, I was tired and I’d just got off a plane, and hadn’t even showered, and I bought cheese?” Harry bends practically in half and hides his face against his knees, unable to say anything more.

“You’re quite a mess, aren’t you?” Louis asks, laying a hand on Harry's back. Even through the layers of fabric, his palm feels cool on Harry's overheated skin. 

Sitting up again means Louis takes his hand away, but that’s the price Harry has to pay to look him in the eye. “I’m not, is the thing. I used to be. I definitely was back then, but I’m not anymore. I’m actually a nice person. And I have a nice flat. And I do have dinner parties sometimes. I just… It was a misunderstanding. And I didn't want you to think that I would ever, ever, ever have not wanted to date you.”

Louis grins, reaching over to give Harry's shoulder a nudge. “Too late now.”

“I know!” Harry holds both hands up in surrender, and says, “I know. I didn't mean…”

“Just fucking with you, Harold,” Louis says, then his thighs flex and he lifts his hips up off the seat, a move that shouldn’t change the direction of Harry's bloodflow, and pulls his phone from his back pocket. “Put your number in. I’ll see about getting you tickets next time I’m in New York.”

“I…” Harry takes the phone, but fuck if he can remember his own phone number. He searches his mind, and comes up with ten digits that seem familiar, and enters them into a new contact under ‘My Name Is Not Harold’, then he says, “Do you have a pen?”

“Not on me, but there’s probably one in the glovebox,” Louis says, leaning forward to tap the ginger guy on the shoulder. “Check if there’s a pen in there, will you?”

He passes a black Sharpie back over the seat, and Harry takes it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

“You want an autograph or something?” Louis asks a little warily, and Harry shakes his head.

“This probably sounds stupid, but I’m not sure if I put the right number in ’cause it’s kind of new, and I might’ve given you Niall’s number or someone else’s, and I don’t have my phone on me,” Harry says, stopping to take a breath. Talking for a living is one thing, but talking to his one celebrity crush is another, and instead of his usual slow and thoughtful process, he’s tripping over words and speaking faster than he thought possible. He nods once, licking his lips, then asks, “Can you give me your number?”

“Got a piece of paper?” Louis asks, taking the Sharpie and uncapping it. 

Harry shakes his head, and holds his hand out towards Louis, making a fist to tighten the skin. “Just write it on there. That way I won’t lose it.”

“Promise not to get it tattooed on?” Louis asks as he takes Harry's hand, steadying it on his glorious thigh, and carefully writes his number. 

“Promise,” Harry croaks out, hand shaking as he draws it back, studying the ink. “Thanks.”

“No dick pics, Harold,” Louis warns, and Harry gasps, affronted, but then Louis giggles, and Harry relaxes a little.

“No unsolicited dick pics,” Harry promises as the car comes to a stop in traffic. If he gets out now, he can walk back to the studio, and while he’d actually love to spend the next hour stuck in traffic with Louis, he doesn’t want to have to ask to borrow money to get from JFK to Rockefeller Center. “Thanks for letting me talk.”

“No problem, Harold,” Louis says, snapping the cap back onto the marker and dropping it onto the seat between them.

Harry forces his eyes away from Louis’s hand, then his thigh. “I should, um…” Harry fumbles for the door handle, and says, “I’m going to go. Have a safe flight.”

Normally, Harry would add an ‘I love you’ like he does when he talks to literally everyone else, but the words get stuck in his throat. He opens the door and climbs out before Louis can respond, but as he closes the door, he hears, “Cheers, Harold! See—”

Whatever else Louis said is lost to the noise of the street and slam of the door, but Harry waves as the Range Rover pulls off, and though it’s only a few feet ahead in traffic, Harry turns and starts back towards the studio, unwilling to stand there on the pavement and stare into the tinted windows of Louis’ car, no matter how much he might want to. 

As soon as he gets back, he goes straight for his phone and adds Louis’ number, but he doesn’t text, figuring it’s up to Louis to go first.

Louis doesn’t text. 

Harry waits a whole week and two days to send him a short message on WhatsApp.

WhatsApp chat end.

His message is marked with two checks, but they're not blue, and Louis doesn’t respond. And Harry knows he’s probably busy, probably in a different time zone, possibly sleeping or maybe performing right then, but he still pouts a little when his phone screen fades to black without any typing on Louis’ end. 

Harry distracts himself by cleaning out his fridge, which doesn’t take very long because he’s fairly conscientious about wiping up spills when they happen, and he only winds up tossing out an expired bottle of fish sauce and a tiny cucumber that fell out of the bag and hid itself in the back of the crisper drawer. 

When his phone vibrates, he jumps and fumbles to pick it up off the kitchen counter, grinning like a loon when there’s a WhatsApp message from Louis. He opens it, and gasps, quickly responding. 

Harry's a mess. He hasn’t showered since the previous morning. His face is shiny with sweat and oil and he’s wearing a pair of grey briefs with the ratty black t-shirt he wears when he does housework. It’s faded and too small and there’s a hole in the seam where the neck meets the shoulder, one in either armpit, and two low down in front amongst the bleach splatter that makes him look like he wanked and left the mess for later. His shaggy, curly hair’s the kind of dirty where it’s been standing up and back off his forehead since he combed his fingers through it over an hour ago, and he’s got a spot on his chin, a mirror to the one he had when Louis was on the show, this one highlighted with blue goo instead of camouflaged into nothing thanks to Zayn. 

There’s a recent picture he took while sitting on his couch at Late Night Talking. He’s dressed in sweats, but he’s clean and spot-free, and he looks cute, but not too cute, so he sends it to Louis.

Louis immediately responds.

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry's in the middle of typing “I promise it’s Harry” when his phone vibrates in his hand, screen going black and then barely resolving into the picture of Louis that Harry saved with his contact information—an outtake from a photo shoot full of brooding, handsome, rugged, hot as hell pictures; the only one where he’s smiling, and he’s not just smiling, he’s laughing so the corners of his eyes crinkle—before Harry declines the FaceTime call. He expects Louis to text him, to taunt him, to question him, to call again, but none of that happens. His phone locks itself, and Harry hurries to unlock it. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Except, a picture comes through of Louis looking decidedly not gross. 

He’s flushed and sweaty, hair damp and dark with it and clinging to his forehead, beard fuller than the scruff he had the last time they saw each other, eyes a clear blue with flecks of green and surrounded by unfairly long lashes. It looks like he’s in a bathroom somewhere, probably not his own, and not on the bus he professes to love so much; a hotel.

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry taps Louis’ name at the top of his phone screen, taps FaceTime, and before the first ring trails off, Louis answers. It’s worse seeing him like that, mouth moving around the words as they leave his lips. 

“Harold! It is you.”

“It’s me,” Harry says, and when he smiles, the blue goo on his chin pulls tight like it’s about to crack. He taps the spot and rolls his eyes. “I’ve been doing housework.”

“You said,” Louis says with a grin, leaning in towards the phone. There’s a clunk, and he disappears in a flash of red, muttering, “Sorry,” and appearing again a second later, shirtless, and clearly looking down on the phone. He must’ve laid it on the bathroom counter. “I don’t know why I FaceTimed you. I’m in my hotel, about to shower, supposed to meet everybody for drinks. What’s that on your face?”

“Some gooey mask that’s meant to make this spot go away faster,” Harry says, wishing he’d smeared the mess all over his face so he wouldn’t have to worry about the blush heating his cheeks. “I should shower, too. Maybe I’ll clean the tile while I’m in there.”

“Kinky, Harold,” Louis says, and Harry sputters a laugh. 

Louis picks the phone up again, and when the camera settles, Harry sees a shower curtain in the background, then Louis turns, and keeping the camera focused on his face, he leans into the shower to turn on the water, stands back up, and behind him in the mirror is his naked backside. 

“I can see, um…” Harry starts, but Louis seems to notice the reflection of his bare arse because he spins around, face flushing pink. 

“Oops,” Louis says, and he shrugs like it’s no big deal that Harry just saw his butt. “At least it wasn’t full frontal.”

That thought throws Harry off and delays his response. When he finally speaks, he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis repeats, fiddling with his fringe. 

“I’ll let you get showered,” Harry says, and then because he does want tickets to see Louis, he asks, “When are you in New York again?”

Louis hums, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “Can you keep a secret?”

“No,” Harry responds with a snort that sends Louis into a fit of giggles.

When he finally stops laughing and catches his breath, Louis says, “At least you’re honest.”

“I really can keep a secret,” Harry says. “I just don’t like secrets in general. They tend to lead to lies, and I try to be an honest person.”

“Alright, Harold, how about this?” Louis shifts sideways and for a split second, Harry thinks he’s about to see Louis’ arse reflected in the bathroom mirror again, but Louis moves back the other way, and Harry forces himself to keep eye contact, nodding in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. “New album comes out soon. Maybe there’s a secret show that hasn’t been announced yet.”

“In New York?” Harry asks with a gasp.

“Maybe,” Louis says, but his smirk gives him away. “And maybe, if there is, I might know someone who can get you tickets.”

“Nosebleeds?” Harry jokes, wanting to hear Louis say the word backstage.

“Don’t think the venue’s quite the right size for that, but, um, no,” Louis says, sounding a little unsure. “I’ll put you on the guest list. Backstage and all that. Unless you want seats out front?”

Harry shakes his head and smiles. “When?”

“When’s the album release date?” Louis asks as if he expects Harry to know, but when he doesn’t answer, Louis says, “Whenever that is. Sometime in November. It’s a Friday, I know that.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry says, and Louis grins.

“I’ll sort it out, and I can, um, put Niall down as your plus one?” Louis offers, and Harry's torn. Niall would love to see Louis from backstage, but so would Zayn. Zayn’s less likely to embarrass Harry in front of Louis, but he also might not want to come. Sometimes he’s antisocial like that, and it’s hard to predict. 

“Could I, um… get a plus two?” Harry asks, scrunching his nose which pulls at the dried blue goo on his face and reminds him that he’s mostly naked, that Louis is completely naked, and that he saw Louis’ naked bum. 

“Cheeky,” Louis says with a shake of his head. He lifts his chin, an unflattering angle for any average human using FaceTime, but somehow it only draws attention to Louis’ sharp jaw and cheekbones, making it seem like he’s looking down on Harry from up high. “I’ll put Harry Styles and entourage, how about that?”

“Perfect,” Harry says and Louis laughs, his bright, loud giggle bouncing off the tile walls of his hotel bathroom. “I’ll, um… let you get to your shower. And I’ll see you soon… ish?”

“See you soon, Harold,” Louis says, and with a wink and a smile, he spins around, giving Harry one last glimpse of his arse in the mirror before he taps the screen and hangs up, Harry's phone going dark then flickering back to his home screen, a picture he took from his mum’s garden of a cloud shaped like penis. 

Harry opens his WhatsApp chat with Niall and Zayn, and sends them a message in all caps. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Then he leaves his phone on the kitchen counter and heads for his bathroom. He’ll scrub the tile and when it’s clean: he’s gonna wank to thoughts of Louis in the shower. 

After their FaceTime conversation, and the ensuing explanation to Zayn and Niall, Harry doesn’t hear from Louis again for more than a week. When he does, it’s a text. But not an actual text. Louis sends him a link to a post from his Instagram account. Harry dutifully clicks through, and despite knowing a little about what to expect, he’s still surprised. And then he follows Louis’ Instagram. 

He composes himself before composing a reply, trying to keep in mind that Louis might not respond immediately, or at all. 

Harry sends him an ice skate emoji and leaves it at that. It’s better to let their text conversation trail off than to end it with the same ‘Love you!’ that he sends to everyone else. 

Faith in the Future comes out at midnight, but Harry's already asleep. When he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is say, “Alexa, play Faith in the Future by Louis Tomlinson.” 

Instead of repeating, “Faith in the Future by Louis Tomlinson” and then playing the album, the speaker says, “Sure.” Before Harry can think too much about it, Louis’ voice comes through his sound system.

“Hi, I’m Louis Tomlinson, and you’re listening to my new album Faith in the Future. Enjoy.”

“Oh my god,” Harry says to himself as the music starts, fumbling for his phone on his nightstand and opening his text conversation with Louis. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Louis doesn’t immediately respond, probably still sleeping or rehearsing, so Harry throws back the covers and dances his way to the bathroom where the acoustics are better. He bounces to “The Greatest,” and shimmies to “Written All Over Your Face,” showering while Louis’ new album serenades him. When “Bigger Than Me” comes on, Harry sings along, voice echoing off the bathroom tile and bouncing around the room. Maybe he’s undercaffeinated, or maybe he’s overconfident, but their voices blend together beautifully. 

Harry listens to Faith in the Future all day. Louis’s playing at Irving Plaza tonight, and he wants to memorise as many lyrics as he can before the show. It’s all well and good until Zayn and Niall show up at his flat during “That’s The Way Love Goes” and the album starts all over. They let him get away with it for a few songs until Harry's sat in a chair, eyes closed and face tipped up while Zayn covers yet another spot on his chin. 

“Are you seriously listening to this album on repeat?” Niall asks, watching as Zayn meticulously applies concealer. 

Attempting to speak without moving his mouth, Harry mumbles, “I want to be able to sing along at the show.”

“You’re like a fangirl on Twitter,” Niall says with a scoff that Zayn echoes.

“H is more of a Tumblr fangirl, I think,” Zayn says, blending the concealer seamlessly. 

“What’s the difference?” Harry asks, sputtering when he winds up with a mouthful of makeup brush. 

“A Tumblr fangirl doesn’t tag the celeb in their thirst posts,” Zayn says with a knowing nod. “Louis doesn’t know you have a crush on him.”

“I don’t have a crush on Louis!” Harry insists, but they both roll their eyes at him. “I don’t. Not really.”

“Okay,” Niall says flatly, walking over to the fridge and pulling out one of the bottles of Guinness Harry keeps around for him. 

“He has a boyfriend,” Harry says, though he knows it’s pointless and he’s probably digging himself a deeper hole. 

Zayn hums as he packs up his makeup case. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing special,” Harry answers, getting to his feet and heading for his bedroom. He laid his clothes out on the bed earlier, so he only has to get dressed, and he chose carefully: Yellow corduroy flares and a blue ringer tee with cherries printed on the front. He ties his blue checkered Vans, and walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth again, and then they're off. 

Normally, Harry's able to fly under the radar in the city. He rides the subway to work, walks almost everywhere, and if he gets recognised, he says hello and moves on. Tonight, he hired a car even though the venue is literally a five minute walk from his Gramercy Park flat. 

“Is this your way of showing off?” Niall asks as they climb into the back of a black Land Rover, the three of them side by side, hidden by the tinted windows. “Being driven six blocks?”

“No,” Harry says, fighting a sigh. “Louis’ fans have been waiting outside the venue since yesterday, and I didn't want to have to figure a way around them. Or through them.”

“Since yesterday?” Niall whacks Harry's arm, and says, “His fans must be crazy.”

“Don’t say that where Louis can hear you,” Zayn says, reaching across Harry and patting Niall’s knee. “He’s very protective of his fans.”

Niall leans back in his seat, shaking his head. “I’m glad we’re on the guest list, then.”

“Here we are,” Harry says as the car pulls to a stop in front of the red awning. They're blocking traffic, so they all hurry out, and flanked by Niall and Zayn, Harry ducks his head, and makes his way through the crowds to the door.  

Standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, the bouncer looks down at Harry, but smiles in recognition. “Harry Styles. Big fan, man.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, though he’s never sure what the appropriate response is to that sort of comment. He offers his hand, and shakes the guy’s massive bear paw. “What’s your name?”

“Folks call me Rocko,” Rocko says with a nod towards the door. “Saw your name on the list. These fellas with you?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, turning towards his friends. “Zayn, Niall, this is Rocko.”

Rocko doesn’t shake their hands, speaking into a walkie talkie, then waving them closer. “Guy named Oli’s on his way to meet you, but if you want to step inside.”

They're early, but not too early. Fans have already crowded close to the stage, and as Rocko lets them in, they all head that way, so Harry and Zayn and Niall are fine where they are, standing off to the side near the entrance, waiting. 

Oli appears as if from nowhere, his ginger hair the first thing Harry sees. He lifts a hand in greeting, and says, “Harry? I’m Oli.”

“We didn't officially meet before, and I’m sorry about that,” Harry says, shaking his hand. He was so nervous that day in the car that he doesn’t recall speaking to Oli at all, which isn’t like him. “These are my friends, Zayn and Niall.” 

While Zayn and Niall and Oli all shake hands and say hello, Harry takes in the venue. He’s been there before, but it’s been a while. Live music is always something he enjoys, but smaller places like this are almost impossible for him because even at his weird level of fame, he tends to draw a crowd. And the more intoxicated the people, the more likely they are to loudly proclaim that they're massive fans of his or that they don’t like him at all. He tends to favour larger venues with private box seats for security more than anything, but he misses places like this. The atmosphere can’t be beat. 

“This way,” Oli says, handing them matching lanyards and leading them alongside the bar and to a heavy red velvet curtain which he holds aside while they pass. They go through a door, up a short flight of stairs, through another door, and they're backstage in a room with black painted walls, dark curtains, comfy looking sofas, and Louis’ band. 

“Harold!” Louis shouts over the din, crossing the room. “Harry Styles and his entourage! Niall Horan: producer, announcer, and best mate. And you must be Zayn.”

“I am,” Zayn says, shaking Louis’ hand. “And you are?”

Louis’ mouth drops open, and Zayn smirks, but Louis says, “Louis Tomlinson. Harry here once bought me cheese and crackers. We go way back.”

Zayn nods and smiles, and says, “Harry’s been playing your album all day. Think he’s got it memorised.”

“All day, Harold?” Louis turns to him and winks. “I’m flattered.”

“Not all day,” Harry says, tone a little defensive. “I wanted to be able to sing along tonight.”

“Not a bad idea,” Louis says, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder and turning him to face the rest of the room. “You met the band, but I’ll introduce you again.”

One by one, Louis introduces them to his band, and when they make it across the room, he introduces them to his manager, his stylist, his photographer, his videographer, and Harry jokes, “And you said I had an entourage.”

“Yeah, well, takes a lot of people to make me look good,” Louis says, but before Harry can tell him he’s ridiculous or that he doesn’t need a team of people for that, a tall, gorgeous man appears behind Louis and wraps his arms around Louis’ waist. Louis cranes his neck, smiling up at him, and says, “This is Everett. Everett, this is Harry, Niall, and Zayn.”

“Harry Styles,” Everett says, reaching around Louis to offer his hand. “Big fan, man. Loved you on SNL. Nobody falls down for laughs anymore.”

Harry takes it and shakes it, and says, “I learned from the best, but I’m too old for that now. Last time I did a pratfall, I fractured a tiny bone in my foot.”

“Ouch,” Louis says with a wince, but Harry just shrugs.

“It was years ago.” Harry steps aside to make room for Zayn and Niall, and while they chat with Louis and Everett, he takes the opportunity to study them together. Everett’s not what Harry expected. He’s taller than Louis by quite a bit, and long-limbed with short blond hair and blue eyes, not bright and piercing like Louis’, but darker. His red Adidas trackies are too short and Harry wonders if they belong to Louis, but his thoughts are interrupted when Niall elbows him in the ribs.

“Wake up, H,” Niall says with a short laugh. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, fighting a blush. He smiles at Everett, then meets Louis’ eyes. “What’d you say?”

“I asked if you lot want to go out with us after the show,” Louis says with a wave that seems to encompass the entire room.

“Yeah,” Harry says, glad he brought Zayn and Niall tonight. “Should be fun.”

“Tommo!” Oli shouts, and Louis untangles himself from Everett’s arms, kisses him on the cheek, and joins the band near the door. 

“Harold!” Louis waves unnecessarily, and says, “Oli and Everett will show you where to watch from, alright?”

“Alright!” Harry gives him a cheesy grin and a thumbs up, and says, “Break a leg!”

“I’m actually going to watch from the balcony,” Everett says, pointing at Oli coming towards them with a backpack on his back. “Oli can show you where to go.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and as Everett backs away, he adds, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too, mate,” Everett says, nodding once before turning and heading for the door. 

“This way,” Oli says, pulling aside yet another heavy curtain and ushering them through. It leads to a corridor, and they follow Oli to a set of stairs that leads down to the far side of the stage. There, they join Louis’ manager and some other friends to watch the show. 

From just off-stage, Harry can see the crowd, and they're packed close. The lights dim, and the murmur turns to a roar that grows louder and louder until Louis steps on stage and it’s like someone flips a switch. Thunderous applause and screams seem to come from everywhere at once sending adrenaline surging in Harry's veins. He turns to look at Niall and Zayn, hands in fists in front of his chest, and Niall laughs at him while Zayn pats his back. 

The music starts, and Harry recognises “The Greatest” right away, singing along, lifting his fists in the air, proud of the way Louis owns the song and the stage and the crowd. He’s meant for this, and Harry’s just happy to be there to witness it. 

Louis keeps the energy high with “Kill My Mind” as the second song, and Harry's favourite off of Faith In The Future after that. The way he sings ‘Hey, babe’ in “Written All Over Your Face” is incredibly sexy, but doubly so live, and it’s a few songs after that before Harry's fully recovered from hearing Louis practically moaning on stage. 

The entire show is amazing, and so high energy that Harry can feel it coming off of Louis in waves. When he goes up to the crowd, Harry wishes he was down there, wanting to pull on Louis’ shirt like the rest of the fans. Louis finishes up with “Saturdays” and after that, Harry lets Oli herd them up the stairs to the backstage area.

Harry hears Louis before he sees him, his whoops and loud laugh bringing a smile to his face, and then it’s like a hurricane of pure joy enters the room. Louis bumps fists and high-fives and pulls the people closest to him into backbreaking hugs. Harry just happens to be near enough to receive one, followed by a sweaty kiss on the cheek, and then Louis’s gone, hugging Zayn and Niall and jumping up and down. 

Oli cracks open a bottle of vodka, pouring shots for everyone and passing them out, then they all raise their little red plastic cups to Louis and drink. They do a second shot together, then Louis mixes himself a vodka and Redbull, which makes Harry's stomach turn. They stick around the venue for a while, drinking and talking. 

Louis’ celebratory mood is contagious, and it’s not long before Harry finds himself moving with the group as they make their way out through a fire door where he’s pulled into the backseat of a van with Louis and Oli in front of him, and Niall and Zayn behind him.

Looking around, some of the other members of Louis’ band are in the van with them, Everett’s up front in the passenger seat, and behind the wheel is JD, the same security guard who drove Louis to the airport. There seems to be another van behind them, probably with the rest of Louis’ friends, and they make their way through the streets. After leaving SNL and working on Late Night Talking for so long, Harry's become more of a morning person than a night owl. He doesn’t go out to clubs the way he did in his early twenties. But it’s fun tonight, riding the wave of Louis’ energy. 

With Zayn and Niall at his side, Harry finds himself with a drink in hand, music thumping, dancing with his best friends. It’s fun until his eyes catch on Louis and Everett together at a table beside the dance floor, and jealousy surges inside him. Harry lays a hand over his heart, and turns away, pulling Zayn closer and losing himself in the music. It’s silly to have a crush on Louis when he’s got a boyfriend, and they hardly know each other, but it’s not like he can help it. 

Eventually, Zayn goes off to find them drinks, and Niall dances his way to the loo, leaving Harry to jump and flail and dance his heart out alone. 

“Harold!” 

Harry spins around, wiping the sweat from his brow, and finds Louis standing behind him. “Lewis!”

“Having fun?” Louis shouts over the music, stepping closer as he shimmies his shoulders to the beat. 

It’s a fast song, so Harry complies, lifting his hands in the air and doing a little kick that makes Louis giggle. They dance together, but not touching for a couple of songs, then the beat drops, and the DJ plays a slower tune, one with heavy synth and pounding bass. 

When Louis reaches for his waist, Harry looks around and asks, “Where’s Everett?”

“Left already!” Louis yells, pointing towards the exit. “He’s got an early flight to LA!”

“LA?” Harry asks, though he’s sure he heard right. 

“Yeah!” Louis shouts, then he grabs Harry's waist and pulls him in. 

“Should we be doing this?” Harry asks, thinking of sneaky phone pictures and romance rumours and gossip sites. And Everett.

Lips pressed together, Louis nods once quickly, lifting his drink as he takes a half-step back, dancing close enough for Harry to watch the beads of sweat drip down his neck, but not touching. He slowly spins until his back is to Harry, and all Harry can do is sip his drink and sway to the music. It’s hot and humid and dark and Louis is so sexy it pains Harry to look directly at him. He lasts one song like that, and then he backs away, leaving Louis and hurrying away to find Zayn and Niall. 

His friends know him too well. They're ready to go, Zayn with a bottle of water for Harry, Niall with his phone out, prepared to arrange an Uber if they can’t catch a cab outside. Luckily, there are taxis lined up, and they slide into the backseat of one, heading to Harry's flat in Gramercy Park. 

“Alright, mate?” Niall asks while Harry stares at his phone, trying to decide if he should text Louis. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says, resting his head on Niall’s shoulder. “Just tired.”

“I’m staying at yours,” Zayn says, patting Harry's knee. “And you’re making me breakfast in the morning.”

“Whatever you want, Z.” Harry smiles, laying his hand on top of Zayn’s. With his free hand, he unlocks his phone and sends Louis a quick text.

WhatsApp chat end.

Louis doesn’t respond, too busy dancing and having a blast, and Harry lets his phone lock before slipping it into his pocket. 

After breakfast with Zayn and Niall, Harry sends them on their way, then he takes a bath, soaking in hot, fragrant water, letting his body relax. He’s getting ready to head to the gym that afternoon when he gets the notification that Louis tweeted, so he opens Twitter, ready to drool over professional pictures of Louis making out with his microphone, and instead, is met with the news that Louis broke his arm. Badly. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Harry zooms in on the image of the X-ray, shocked at how severely it seems to be broken. 

WhatsApp chat end.

He doesn’t expect a response to his text. After all, Louis never responded to the one he sent last night, and with his right arm broken so terribly, he’s probably doped up on some excellent pain medicine. So he’s surprised when his phone vibrates with an incoming FaceTime call from Louis. 

Thankfully, Harry's clean and dressed. He answers the call, and as soon as he sees Louis on screen, he gasps. 

“Harold!” Louis grins, eyes reduced to slits. “You missed the party last night.”

“Apparently so,” Harry says. He catches sight of himself on screen, chewing his lip, and stops. “What happened?”

“Fell off the fucking pavement, didn't I?” Louis laughs, fumbling with his phone and aiming it at his immobilised arm. “Have to have surgery and pins and shit.”

“How did you fall off the pavement?” Harry asks, and Louis attempts a shrug and winces, making Harry's heart hurt. “Where are you?”

“Um… Presbytarian,” Louis says, raising his voice to add, “Food sucks. Want to bring me McDonald’s?”

“I’ll get you a fucking Big Mac,” someone says off camera, and Louis winks.

“Oli’s going to get me a Big Mac,” Louis says, settling back into his pillows. 

“Can’t believe I left before you broke your arm,” Harry says, shaking his head, and trying not to think about whether he might’ve been able to prevent disaster if he’d stuck around last night. “I hope Everett’s taking good care of you.”

“He’s not,” Louis says with a frown that involves his entire face. “Told you he’s in LA.”

“Right.” Harry nods, surprised at his own forgetfulness, and says, “But Oli’s there to take care of you.”

“Oli can’t even make my tea correctly, Harold,” Louis says, pursing his lips and closing his eyes. “This is a disaster.”

“How do you take your tea?” Harry asks, figuring Louis needs a distraction.

“Splash of milk, no sugar,” Louis says simply, and Harry pouts.

“That sounds like an easy order.”

“It should be, but he’s always screwing it up.”

“Mister Tomlinson?” a woman says off camera.

“It’s the nurse, Harold,” Louis says in a stage whisper. “I have to go.”

“Take care of yourself, Louis,” Harry says, but Louis hangs up before he can finish saying goodbye. 

Louis spends the next week or so in New York, but Harry only knows that because Zayn tells him. He doesn’t text or call Harry, and November fades into December. 

Late Night Talking goes on hiatus for the holidays, and Harry leaves for London. He flies into Heathrow in mid-December, aiming to spend his downtime first with friends in the city, then with his mum in Holmes Chapel. 

“H, I’ve got a charger, for fuck’s sake,” Gemma says, watching over his shoulder as he digs through his leather duffle.

“Sorry,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes. “Tired. Jetlag.”

“You’ve been here for a week,” Gemma says with a sigh, climbing into the passenger seat of her car. Harry walks around to the other side and slides behind the wheel, thankful that his sister knows he prefers to drive. 

“Yeah, but it’s been a busy week,” Harry says, checking for traffic before reversing out of Gemma’s parking space. He follows the signs in the parking garage, and onto the street, relaxing back in his seat once they're moving with the traffic. 

“Give me your phone and I’ll plug it in,” Gemma says, waving the charger cord at him. He digs in his hoodie pocket and finds it, handing it over while keeping his eyes on the road. “You’ve missed a message from Louis Tomlinson. I didn't know you were friends.”

“We’re not,” Harry says, bobbing his head side to side. “Well, sort of. We’ve texted some. He invited me to his show when he was in New York.”

Gemma only has to look at him for him to cave. 

After stopping to get coffee because he refuses to embarrass himself without proper caffeine in his system, Harry explains their first meeting a decade ago, their second on Late Night Talking, the fateful FaceTime call during which Harry saw Louis’ arse (including the odd smudge that he dismissed as image interference at the time, but later learned is a tattoo of a penguin wearing headphones), the concert, the club afterwards, and Louis’ broken arm. He manages to avoid telling her about chasing after Louis, and asking Louis to write his number on his hand in Sharpie. 

“You’ve got such a crush on him,” Gemma says, giggling into her latte. 

“I don’t,” Harry insists with all the force he can muster, which isn’t much.  

“You do,” Gemma says, interrupting herself to giggle again before adding, “and it’s adorable.”

She reaches over with his phone in her hand, and before he can stop her, she’s unlocked it with his stupid face. “Hey,” he says, dragging out the word, but he doesn’t try to stop her. 

“Does he know your name’s not Harold?” Gemma asks, scrolling back through their text conversation.

“Yeah, it’s alright though, it’s like a nickname or something,” Harry says, fighting the fond smile that threatens to make itself known. 

“He says, ‘Harold, my arm’s in a cast and I’m bored as fuck. Can’t even wank properly’ and he follows that up with a picture of his…” Gemma trails off, leaning away from Harry so he can’t see the screen when he glances over. She laughs, and says, “Arm in a cast. You really thought he sent you a dick pic?”

“No!” Harry tries to snatch his phone back, but she’s too quick.

“Yet he complains about not being able to wank,” Gemma says, tutting and shaking her head. “Boys.”

“You’re the one who opened the text,” Harry says. 

“I responded ‘Use your left’ and he’s typing something,” Gemma says, turning the phone so he can see. A text slides into view, and she flips the phone back around before he can read it. “He says, ‘Tried that. Thinking of getting a fleshlight.’ Gross. Now he says, ‘Think Oli would buy me one?’ Who’s Oli?”

“His best mate,” Harry says, keeping his focus on the road while trying to grab the phone again. 

“Wouldn’t he still have to hold the fleshlight with his left hand?” Gemma asks, and Harry screws up his face.

“Why are we talking about this?” Harry shakes his head, lips twisted into a grimace. 

“He’s your friend.”

“And that’s my phone.”

“I’m responding with ‘If you can’t buy your own fleshlight, you shouldn’t be using a fleshlight’ because this Oli person shouldn’t have to buy him a masturbation sleeve,” Gemma says, tapping the screen. “There. Sent.”

“You’re not wrong,” Harry says, flexing his fingers and changing his grip on the steering wheel. “Plus, he has a boyfriend. He shouldn’t need a fleshlight.”

“Oh, H, sorry,” Gemma says, and she actually sounds like she means it.

He looks over, surprised by her frown. “What’s with the apology?”

“I just know you like him, and I didn't know he was seeing someone,” Gemma says with a little shrug. 

“I don’t like him like him, it’s a silly crush,” Harry says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“Blinking dots. He’s typing something.” Gemma gives him a quick peek at the screen, but he can’t see anything, then she says, “‘Saw you’re in London. I’m in Donny for the hols. We should meet up.’ Should I tell him you’ll be in Holmes Chapel?”

“You shouldn’t tell him anything because it’s my phone and I can answer my own texts,” Harry says with a saccharine sweet smile. “But since you’re already interfering, you can tell him I’ll be home. And then tell him I’m driving and you’ve been texting him instead of me.”

“You’re no fun,” Gemma says, but she sends the text, then she stretches her arm far out in front of her, leans over into his space, and snaps a picture, sending that as well. “He said he’s going to have to start asking for time stamped selfies whenever he texts you because he never knows who he’s talking to. Who else did he text thinking it was you?”

“No one,” Harry says, and then takes the next ten minutes explaining how he wound up with Louis’ number in the first place.

Christmas in Holmes Chapel is the best way for Harry to remind himself who he really is. He loves coming home to England, spending time with his mum and sister, visiting the pub with his old friends from school, and generally doing nothing much but lazing around the house in joggers. 

In Holmes Chapel, he’s not famous, he’s just Harry, the same boy who used to get his bum pinched by the ladies at the bakery when he worked the till. Of course, now the bakery does have a cardboard standup of him inside—an old photo of him holding a loaf of bread and smiling wide—but he can’t fault them. People do go in there asking about him sometimes, and he hopes it brings them business. 

He’s not meant to fly back to the states until a few days before the end of the year, just in time to ring in the new year with Zayn and Niall, so he spends Boxing Day watching films with his mum and Gemma, eating too much, and helping his mum with little things around the house that he swears she only asks him to do to make him feel useful. That night, Louis texts him while he’s lying on the sofa, rubbing his food baby. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry doesn’t know what else to say, though he’d gladly continue to text with Louis all night. He lets his phone dim and lock, and looks up to find his mum and Gemma watching him curiously.

“What?” Harry asks, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Louis and Harry sitting in a tree…” Gemma trails off and purses her lips, making smooching noises.

“Are you seeing someone?” Anne asks, and Harry cringes, then scowls at Gemma.

“No, mum, just talking to a friend,” Harry says, sticking his tongue out at Gemma. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Gemma says with a knowing smile.

Anne gasps, turning to Gemma, then back to Harry. “I saw him on your show. Tell me that story was fabricated for the telly.”

“It wasn’t,” Gemma answers before Harry can. “Your darling son was a complete idiot ten years ago, and now he’s being an idiot again.”

“Gemma!” Harry grabs a pillow off the couch and throws it at her, but she dodges it easily. “I’m not being an idiot, mum. He’s in Doncaster with his family, and he asked me to come hang out tomorrow. That’s all.”

“Will his boyfriend be there?” Gemma asks, and Harry rolls his eyes. 

“We’re just friends, Gems,” Harry says, trying again to hit her with a pillow and almost hitting his mum instead. He cringes and his mum tosses the pillow back without a word. “But no, Everett—Louis’ boyfriend who I’ve met and who’s very nice—is in LA.”

“Harry isn’t the cheating type, Gemma,” Anne says, swatting Gemma’s arm. “He says they're friends, then they're friends.”

“Thanks, mum,” Harry says, sticking his tongue out again. “You could come to Doncaster with me tomorrow if you want, Gemma.”

“Mum and I have a mani-pedi date,” Gemma says, shaking her head. “But I guess you can borrow my car.”

“Thank you,” Harry says with a toothy grin. He gets up off the sofa, and stretches his arms overhead. “I’m going to shower and head to bed.”

“Night, H,” his mum says, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Don’t catch feelings for this Louis, okay?”

“I won’t, mum,” Harry promises, though it’s far too late for that. 

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Anne says, rubbing his arm. “You know it breaks my heart when yours gets broken.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, pulling her into a hug and holding on until she lets go. “Love you.”

Harry leaves at ten in the morning, hoping that he won’t hit traffic and that the hundred or so miles from Holmes Chapel to Doncaster won’t take more than two hours. It’s not a bad drive, and while he’s more accustomed to longer distances living in the states, he still doesn’t usually travel far by car on a regular basis. He listens to Faith In The Future, then Walls, then he switches to Christmas music for the last stretch of road, sipping his peppermint mocha latte and humming along while Mariah Carey tells him that he’s all she wants for Christmas. 

He’s walking towards the entrance to The Dome when he hears a familiar voice shout, “Oi! Oi! Harold!”

Harry turns to see Louis walking his way flanked by two kids, both with ginger hair, and trailing behind them are two identical teenage girls. His right arm is in a sling, his upper arm presumably in a cast hidden by the coat draped over his shoulder. 

“Harold, meet my entourage,” Louis says, stopping in front of him. “My brother Ernie, and my sisters Doris, Phoebe, and Daisy.”

“You’re Harry Styles,” Phoebe or Daisy says, turning to Louis. “You didn't say he was Harry Styles.”

“He’s Harry Styles,” Louis says with a fond eye roll and a crooked smile. 

“Who’s Harry Styles?” Ernie asks, and Harry snorts. 

Scrunching his nose, Louis says, “Harry here’s going to entertain me while you lot skate.”

“You mean you’re not skating?” Harry asks, pointing at Louis’ arm. “I thought you do whatever you want.”

“I do,” Louis says with a wink. “And I got you here, didn't I?”

Harry shrugs and says, “Suppose so.”

“Come on,” Daisy or Phoebe says, grabbing Doris by the hand and starting for the doors. “It’s cold.”

“It’s an ice skating rink,” Phoebe or Daisy retorts, elbowing her twin, but following along with Ernie’s hand in hers. 

“What can I do to entertain you?” Harry asks as they walk up the pavement to the entrance to The Dome. 

“I don’t know. I realised on the way here that I might’ve been a bit high on my pain pills when I invited you,” Louis says, ducking his head. “You can skate if you want. There’s a pool, too, with water slides. You don’t have to entertain me.”

“I didn't drive two hours to Doncaster to swim in an indoor pool alone, Lewis,” Harry says, standing back to let Louis go through the doors first. He hurries to catch up to him, walking on Louis’ right, focusing on everyone around them, trying to guard Louis’ broken arm with his body, though no one seems to recognise them, and no one tries to approach. 

Harry pulls out his wallet, ready to pay, but Louis scoffs and says, “The girls paid your way in, Harold.”

“I’ll have to pay them back,” Harry says, looking around for Louis’ siblings. 

“I gave them money to cover it,” Louis says, waving Harry's offer away with his left hand. “We all have memberships. And you drove two hours, like you said.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry says, giving in. “I get to buy lunch.”

“We’ll see.” Louis grins, reaching across his chest to rub his broken arm. “Going to go out on the ice?”

“I might,” Harry says. Though he’s not exactly graceful, he isn’t terrible on skates. At least, he wasn’t the last time he wore a pair a decade or so ago. 

“Suppose I’ll sit and watch from up top,” Louis says, starting for the stairs leading to the second floor of the rink. 

“I’ll join you. I’m not exactly confident in my ability to not fall on my arse,” Harry admits, following close behind Louis. His bum in grey joggers is unreal, and Harry has a hard time keeping his eyes on anything else, but he tries as he jogs past Louis to block his arm from people coming down the stairs. 

“Acting like Joni,” Louis mutters, and Harry glances back. “Security. He walked through the airport like that. Guarding my arm.”

“It’s broken, Lou,” Harry says with a sigh, stopping at the top of the stairs to walk beside Louis over to the seating area. “I saw the X-rays. Everyone saw the X-rays. And you had surgery. I’m honestly surprised your security didn't insist on accompanying you today.”

“They’re all on holiday,” Louis says, finding a pair of empty chairs near the front. He drops down into the one on the right and Harry takes the other seat. “Besides, I can look out for myself.”

Harry hums, the only response he can think of, and leans forward, scanning the ice below for Louis’ siblings. They're not hard to spot, two sets of twins, and the younger ones with ginger hair stand out from the crowd. All four are good on ice skates, none of them seem to be having any trouble balancing or gliding around, though they stick together in pairs, an older twin with a younger twin. From high up, Harry can’t even tell Doris and Ernie apart. There’s no hope for distinguishing Phoebe and Daisy. 

“They look after themselves, don’t they?” Harry says, taking off his beanie and running his fingers through his hair, hoping his curls aren’t too unruly from being tucked under his hat. 

“Yeah, they do,” Louis says softly, reaching out to poke Harry's shoulder. 

Ducking his head to tug the beanie back on, Harry notices Louis’ right hand, fingers curled in his lap, his wrist barely visible thanks to the heavy duty sling that holds his arm. It annoys him, and he has to take a second to let that thought settle because he’s not cross with Louis. “Did you and Everett spend Christmas together?”

“Yeah, yeah, he was here,” Louis says with a nod. “He left Christmas Day. Thought I told you.”

“You said he was in LA,” Harry says, trying not to frown. “Does he have work there or…”

“His family’s there.” Louis looks over, tilting his head, jawline sharp through his scruffy beard. He shrugs and says, “Everett’s one of those people who wants sunny weather all the time. Doesn’t like rain. Or cold. Not that I like the cold. But I like variety, you know?”

“I like winter,” Harry says, tamping down his irritation at Everett’s absence. Whether or not he likes the cold, he should be there to look after Louis. “I get just enough cold to make me appreciate spring when it comes.”

“Hate being cold myself, but I love a good fire,” Louis says, kicking his feet up on the barricade at the edge of the viewing area. “So many houses in LA have fireplaces, and like, mate, what for?”

“When I renovated my flat, I had fireplaces put in almost every room,” Harry says, stretching his legs out, too, but keeping his feet on the floor. 

“Not the loo?” Louis asks with a smile that shouldn’t send a spark up Harry's spine. 

“Not the loo,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. Louis’ fingers twitch in his lap, and Harry pouts a little, asking, “Does it hurt? Your arm, I mean.”

“Not really,” Louis says, gently touching his broken arm. “I had pain pills at first, but they made me weirdly hyper, and I couldn’t have beer with them. When the script ran out, I didn't refill it.”

“How do you sleep?” Harry asks, flinching a little at what might be too personal a question. 

“A mess of pillows, mate,” Louis says with a laugh. “I set them up on either side of me, prop my arm up, and hope for the best. Think my body’s working hard at healing ’cause I’m sleeping solid through the night. Like a baby.”

“I don’t think babies actually sleep like that,” Harry says, huffing a laugh through his nose. “But I’m glad you’re well rested. Is Oli around to take care of you?”

“Oli’s with his family,” Louis says, shaking his head. “You worried about me, Harold? I told you, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to,” Harry says. He clicks his tongue and smiles and leaves it at that, changing the subject. “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Louis says, dropping his feet down off the barricade and standing before Harry can get up and offer his assistance. 

There’s a glint in Louis’ eye, and Harry says, “You’re incredibly stubborn.”

“I am, Harold. I definitely am that,” Louis says, weaving his way back through the seating area ahead of Harry. At least it gives Harry a good view of Louis’ arse in his grey joggers, and when Harry falls into step beside him, Louis gives him a knowing look that makes his head spin. Maybe he’s being too obvious, thirsting over an unavailable man. “They’ve got loads of options, but I prefer a burger. Normally I’d have a beer, but I drove, and I can’t even have one or Doris and Ernie’ll give me hell about it.”

“Do they want food, you think?” Harry asks, looking back towards the rink, though nothing visible from where they are. 

“They might,” Louis says, stopping just outside Icebreakers Pub & Kitchen. He nods towards the entrance, and says, “We can go ask them, then come back.”

“Why don’t you get us a table, and I’ll go round them up?” Harry offers, and Louis smiles and nods, seeming relieved. Harry opens the door to the pub for him, and watches him gingerly make his way inside, then leaves him there, heading back downstairs. 

He feels a bit like someone’s parent when he joins the crowd of actual parents by the ice skating rink, but unlike an actual parent, he doesn’t have the magical ability to instantly spot his charges. It takes a moment before he sees them, and a few more before they see him, and still more before they finally skate their way over to where he’s standing opposite the wall. 

“Yes?” Phoebe or Daisy says haughtily, eyebrows raised. 

“Louis’s getting us a table in the pub for lunch,” Harry says with a vague gesture in that direction. “We thought you’d be hungry.”

“We haven't been here an hour,” Daisy or Phoebe says, but Ernie’s already making his way off the ice with Doris right behind him.

“I want chips,” Ernie says, and Doris elbows him.

“You can’t just have chips,” Doris says.

“Louis doesn’t care,” Ernie says, lowering his voice to whisper, “All I have to do is say Achoo and he’ll give me anything.”

“Is that how it works?” Harry asks, chuckling into his fist. “You sneeze and Louis lets you have whatever you want?”

“Uh…” Ernie glances over at Harry, shaking his head as he walks over to a bench to take off his skates.

“You just tattled on yourself to Louis’ new boyfriend,” Doris calls after him, laughing and grabbing Harry's arm.

“I’m not Louis’ boyfriend,” Harry says, though she doesn’t seem to hear him over her giggles. 

“When we were little, we called him Achoo, like a nickname,” Doris explains, hooking her hand around Harry's elbow and dragging him over to the bench. 

“And now Ernie uses that to manipulate your big brother into… letting him eat chips for lunch?” Harry asks, and Doris’ giggles start back up again. “I won’t tell.”

Doris huffs like she’d rather he did tattle on Ernie, then looks up at Harry and asks, “If you’re not Louis’ boyfriend, why are you here?”

“Well… I’m Louis’ friend, and I was already here,” Harry says, fudging the truth. If anyone asks, here means England. Not Doncaster. “And he asked me to come today, and I thought it’d be fun.”

“But you didn't skate with us,” Phoebe or Daisy says from Harry's other side. He looks over at her, and she meets his gaze. “Phoebe. Daisy has highlights in her hair.” She points at her sister. “See?”

Daisy does indeed have blonde highlights in her long brown hair. Harry nods, and says, “I was going to skate, but I didn't want to leave Louis alone. What if someone bumped into his arm?”

“You sound like a worried mum,” Daisy says, flipping her long hair over her shoulder as she stands and leads them all to the pub. 

Louis’s easy to find, standing beside a long booth and waving them over. Harry lets Louis’ siblings go first, figuring he’ll sit wherever. The girls all slide in on the right side of the booth and Ernie takes the left, leaving Harry and Louis with no other option than to sit together. 

“Go on, Harold,” Louis says, with a sweeping ‘after you’ gesture. 

“I don’t think so.” Harry very carefully touches Louis’ right shoulder and says, “You can’t sit on the outside with your arm. Someone could knock into you passing by. The waiter could touch it accidentally. Nope.”

“Let him look after you, Achoo,” Doris says, and when Harry looks over at her, she throws him a quick wink. 

“Fine, fine, fine,” Louis mutters, sitting down and scooting over so Harry can take the last spot beside him. As soon as Harry does, Louis leans in and whispers, “They only call me that when they want something.”

Laughter bubbles up out of Harry, and he belatedly slaps a hand over his mouth just as the waiter appears at his elbow. They order drinks and before the waiter can leave to get them, Harry says, “May we have a couple of orders of chips?”

“And nachos?” Louis adds, settling against the back of the booth. 

Their drinks arrive a few moments later, and Harry intervenes when Louis tries to ‘help’ pass glasses around with his left hand, almost knocking Harry's over into his lap. They order their food, and not long after that, two large baskets of chips and a plate of pulled pork nachos are lined up down the centre of the table. 

“Let me help, Lou,” Harry says when Louis tries for some nachos and winds up with a cheesy mess in his lap. 

“My left hand is absolutely useless, I told you,” Louis complains, pushing his plate a little closer to the nachos while Harry piles them on. 

Remembering how that conversation went, Harry closes his eyes, and says, “You did tell me.”

“Don’t you live in New York?” Daisy asks, nibbling on a chip. 

“I do,” Harry says with a nod. “But I always come home for Christmas with my mum.”

“In Donny?” Phoebe asks, frowning at him, clearly skeptical. 

“Holmes Chapel,” Louis says, smirking as he picks at his nachos. “And I thought you were a fan.”

“Of me?” Harry asks, voice going a little squeaky. Over a decade into his career, and he still gets shy when it comes to things like that. 

“Phoebe’s a massive fan,” Louis says, tossing a chip across the table at his sister when she glares at him. “Loved you on SNL. Your Mick Jagger impression’s the reason she started listening to The Rolling Stones.”

“Really?” Harry asks, scrunching his nose to stop himself from smiling too widely. 

“You’re funny,” Phoebe says quietly before popping a few chips into her mouth. 

“Your interview with Louis was hilarious,” Daisy says, nudging Phoebe with her elbow. “Cheese and crackers? Laying on the floor? I laughed until my stomach hurt.”

“That was pretty funny, wasn’t it?” Louis reaches across himself with his left hand and pokes Harry's side. 

“It was embarrassing is what it was,” Harry says, taking a long sip of water to cool off the heat rising in his cheeks. 

Turning slightly towards Harry, Louis winks, and says, “Ahh, Harold, don’t be embarrassed. We wouldn’t be here now if you’d caught on that I had a crush on you back then.”

The waiter arrives with their food, and Harry lets it go, thankful for the interruption. His order of fish and chips isn’t bad, and Louis only pouts a little when Harry cuts his burger in half to make it easier to hold with his left hand. The kids carry the conversation, chatting about their Christmas gifts and their plans for the rest of the year, and when they finish up, Harry manages to move fast enough to pay before Louis can get his wallet out. 

“Not fair, Harold,” Louis says after they make their way back out of the pub, and they're alone again.

Harry sticks his tongue out at Louis, then shrugs and says, “Nothing to be done about it now.”

“Yeah, well—” Louis cuts himself off when Harry catches his toe on the leg of a chair at the edge of the seating area and goes down, spinning in midair and landing hard on his arse. “Shit!” 

“Ouch,” Harry whines, untangling himself from the empty chair and getting to his feet, rubbing his sore bum.

“Harold, what the fuck?” Louis grabs the chair and rights it, pushing it away. He weaves his way through the seating area with Harry hurrying after him, and when he finds two empty chairs near the edge, he says, “We can’t both be injured. You’re supposed to look after me, and now I have to look after you!”

All Harry can think to do is frown in response. His arse doesn’t hurt that badly. Probably isn’t even bruised. He takes a seat beside Louis and says, “You don’t have to look after me, Lou.”

“Sure I do,” Louis says, running his tongue over his teeth. “Someone’s got to inspect your arse for injury.”

“Someone?” Harry rubs his bum again, twisting at the waist to try and look at it, as if he can see anything through his trousers. “My arse is fine. Yours, on the other hand…”

“What’s wrong with my arse?” Louis asks, mimicking Harry's pose and smacking himself on the bum. 

“I’ve heard rumours that you marred what would be a perfect specimen with a tattoo of a penguin wearing headphones,” Harry says, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow. 

“Did you Google my arse tattoo?” Louis asks with a short, sharp laugh. 

“No,” Harry denies too quickly, and overcorrects by slowly repeating, “No.”

“You did!” Louis throws his head back and laughs, a ha ha ha ha ha that pulls giggles from Harry unbidden. 

“Fine. I did. But only because I told Niall and Zayn that I saw your arse over FaceTime, and Zayn said he wanted me to describe the tattoo in detail as proof,” Harry admits, cheeks flushing hot. 

“There aren’t any pictures of my ass tattoo out there on the, uh, Google, are there?” Louis asks, eyes going a little wide.

“On the Google?” Harry snorts, shaking his head. “I guess that’s better than you saying ‘on the world wide web’ or ‘on the net’ or something.”

“Shut up, Harold,” Louis says with a scowl.

“Rude.” Harry tips his head to the side, and says, “I didn't find any pictures. And I finally told Z that I didn't see the tattoo. The image was all blurry and moving and I was trying not to look.”

With a relieved sigh, Louis says, “It’s the only tattoo I regret. Had too much to drink and lost a bet.” 

“You know you can get tattoos removed,” Harry says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Or covered up.”

“I’ve considered it,” Louis admits with a left shoulder shrug. “I have to tell people about it before they see me naked for the first time. Makes for awkward sex if they don’t know.”

Harry rubs at the lines between his eyebrows, tamping down his irritation at the thought of anyone seeing Louis’ bare arse. “Good thing you’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t need to have that conversation.”

“Everett’s not the biggest fan of tattoos in general,” Louis says, and Harry frowns, wondering about Everett's opinion of his boyfriend’s ink. 

“Does he pretend your body just spontaneously grew like that?” Harry asks, forcing a smile. 

“I don’t know, actually,” Louis says, scooting forward to look out over the ice. “I’ll ask him next time we talk and let you know.”

Harry hums, moving his chair closer to the edge so he can watch the ice skaters below. They sit there in silence for a while, Harry chastising himself for coming all this way to hang out with Louis, knowing he would only deepen his crush, fully aware of the existence of Louis’ boyfriend. 

When the kids come off the ice this time, they're ready to go. The older twins have friends in town and things to do, and the younger twins are tired and want to go home and eat pudding and take inventory of their Christmas gifts. 

Once they're outside of The Dome, Louis’ siblings take turns hugging Harry and telling him goodbye, with Daisy last and whispering in his ear, “We like you more than Everett.”

“Thanks,” Harry says because he doesn’t know how else to respond. 

“Bye, Harold,” Louis says, going in for a one-armed hug that Harry accepts and returns, gingerly giving Louis a squeeze. 

“Bye, Lou,” Harry says as he backs away. He starts to say his usual ‘I love you’ but stops himself. “Happy Christmas.”

The two hours back to Holmes Chapel goes by much more slowly than the trip to Donny that morning, and Harry's exhausted when he gets to his mum’s house. Gemma tries to annoy him into talking about his day, but gives up when he doesn’t respond to her efforts. He packs his bags and takes a shower and goes to bed, more ready to leave England than he’s felt in a long time. Perhaps some distance will help get Louis off his mind. 

On New Year’s Eve, Harry and Zayn get ready at Harry's flat, then walk over to Niall’s party together. He went with a black and white theme because he likes following trends a decade after they peak. Harry and Zayn both dressed head to toe in white, with Harry's suit shimmering and reflecting any light that hits the fabric, and the silk of Zayn’s suit flowing over his body like milk. 

“Happy new year,” Harry says flatly when Niall opens the door and greets them with a loud buzzing noise maker and a handful of glitter. 

“You’ll never guess who showed up,” Niall says, yanking them both over the threshold. 

For a split second, Harry thinks it’s Louis, but he texted Louis earlier to wish him a happy new year, and Louis texted him back, including a picture of him ringing in 2023 in Doncaster with Doris and Ernie. 

“Harry Styles!” 

Harry spins on his two-inch heel and comes face to face with Liam Payne, handsome as ever in a black tuxedo and looking like James Bond. 

“Liam!” Harry throws his arms around Liam, kissing his cheek, then he puts a little space between them, resting his hands on Liam’s shoulders. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“I’ve been told,” Liam says, cradling Harry's jaw in both hands. “Look at you growing a moustache. That’s real?”

“I would never wear a fake moustache,” Harry says, though it’s a complete lie. He’s worn fake moustaches, fake beards, fake eyebrows, mutton chops, and even a chest rug once upon a time. Liam lifts an eyebrow, and Harry insists, “It’s real. That’s why it’s patchy.”

“Looks good, mate,” Liam says, leaning slightly to the left and smiling over Harry's shoulder. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

“Are you in character?” Zayn asks, and Harry snorts. 

“Liam, this is Zayn Malik,” Harry says, eyes darting back and forth between them. “Zayn, this is Liam Payne, also known as the most recent incarnation of 007, and the man who failed to get me a date with Louis Tomlinson.” 

“Ahh… The man who suggested cheese and crackers,” Zayn says, extending his hand towards Liam. 

“I’m almost certain it was Harry who suggested cheese and crackers,” Liam says, narrowing his eyes and lifting his chin. “If I’d suggested anything, it would’ve been those prawn cocktail crisps he likes so much and beer.”

“Stella Artois,” Harry says without thinking, and all three of his friends turn to look at him. “I mean, he posts pictures on his Instagram with Stella bottles, so I assume he—”

“Always so obvious,” Liam interrupts, grinning and tousling Harry's carefully coiffed curls. He winks at Zayn, and says, “Let me get you a drink.”

As Liam leads Zayn away, Harry says, “I did not see that coming.”

“Really?” Niall links his arm with Harry's and guides him towards the bar. “Too busy studying Louis’ Instagram to notice Liam liking every single one of Zayn’s recent posts?”

“Shut up,” Harry says, watching Zayn and Liam clink their champagne flutes together. “I don’t study Louis’ Instagram.”

“No need when he sends you pictures directly, hmm?” Niall bumps his hip into Harry's, reaching past Liam to grab a glass of champagne. He hands it to Harry, and says, “To new friends.”

“And old ones,” Harry adds, raising his champagne flute and clinking it against his friends’ glasses. “I love you all!”

With the new year Harry makes new promises to himself. He works hard, works out harder, and attempts to play hard, but winds up starting a plant collection instead. 

His favourite neighbour—an elderly lady he’s pretty sure was a Kennedy mistress in the sixties—starts him off by gifting him a split-leaf philodendron, and it turns out to be rather rewarding, taking care of something, being depended on by another living thing. Next step would be a pet, but considering Harry almost kills all of his plants by over-watering them, he figures he should wait on adopting an animal. 

Meanwhile, texts with Louis dwindle to nothing. It’s Harry's fault. One of his New Year’s promises to himself was to stop chasing after unavailable men, and while texting back and forth with Louis isn’t exactly chasing, every flirtatious message from Louis gets his hopes up, so it’s best if he keeps his distance. He mutes Louis on every form of social media and hopes the feature works as advertised because he doesn’t want Louis to think anything’s amiss. 

Winter melts into spring, and Harry switches out his heavy coat for a light jacket, his wool beanie for the newsboy cap Niall gave him for his birthday, and he considers dating for the first time in forever. Of course, he doesn’t go on any actual dates. That would require getting another person involved. He just thinks about it. 

And lives vicariously. 

Liam and Zayn starting up a relationship is like watching a rom com in real life, which is why Harry doesn’t even question it when Liam texts him on a Wednesday in April and asks if he can stop by. It’s not the first time Liam’s wanted Harry's in-person advice on his budding romance with Zayn. 

Filming for that day’s Late Night Talking episode wrapped at three o’clock, and Harry's been home long enough to go for a run, do a little yoga, and repot some of his plants before Liam texts. The last time Liam stopped by like this he wanted Harry's opinion on which jumper to wear on a casual date. He’s hoping today’s quandary will be a little more exciting, but just in case Liam’s got his hands full, carrying dozens of pairs of trousers or something equally ridiculous, Harry calls down to Theo the doorman, props his door open and gets on with his to-do list. 

He's bent over, pouring distilled water into the humidifier he bought for his plants when he hears footsteps in his foyer, then an all too familiar voice says, “Oi, Harold! I can see your balls, mate.”

“Louis!” Harry stands up and spins around so fast he spills water in a semicircle from his swiss cheese plant to his sofa. “Shit.”

Harry starts for the kitchen, bare feet slipping on the wet floor, and he lands spread eagle on his back, looking up at Liam and Louis.

“Are you going to fall on your arse every time I see you?” Louis asks, offering him a hand. His right hand. 

Pushing himself up to sit without assistance, Harry says, “Your arm’s not… You got the cast off.”

“Yeah, in February,” Louis says, standing up straight and flexing his biceps, though his oversized hoodie hides them well. “I sent you a picture. My whole arm was all spindly and weird looking.”

“I didn't get it,” Harry lies, carefully getting to his feet and tiptoeing around the mess. The picture is certain to be there on his phone with all of the other texts Louis’s sent that he’s ignored. He focuses on Liam because his blush will only intensify if he makes eye contact with Louis. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Came for some cheese and crackers,” Louis says with a crooked grin, but Harry can’t help but frown. 

“Louis and I are on SNL this week, mate,” Liam says, not so gently punching Harry in the arm. “Zayn said he told you.”

Harry shakes his head, turning to start for the kitchen. Zayn’s under strict orders not to mention Louis at all, so of course he didn't tell him, though a warning system for when they're going to be in the same zip code might’ve been a good idea. There’s probably a text from Louis telling him about it, too, but Louis doesn’t say anything. 

“Must’ve forgot to mention it,” Harry says. “Congrats, mate. To both of you.”

“Will you come Saturday night?” Louis asks, sounding so hopeful that Harry can’t stop himself from nodding.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says. He grabs a few kitchen towels and kneels down on the floor to clean up his mess, huffing quietly when Louis squats down beside him. “How’s your arm?”

“Almost normal,” Louis says, shaking out his right arm. “Physio’s a bitch, but can’t deny it’s working.”

“As if you’re not enjoying getting a rub down from some hot guy twice a day,” Liam says, and Harry stops mopping up the wet floor. 

“He’s not some hot guy,” Louis says, meeting Harry's gaze. “He’s straight, first off. I think. And anyway, he’s married. He’s just my physio while I’m in New York.”

“And Louis has a boyfriend,” Harry says, though now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure if that’s true anymore. 

“Exactly,” Louis says, drying up the last of the water on the floor and straightening up out of his squat. He reaches for Harry's hand, and this time Harry lets Louis help him stand. “Not that Everett’s a masseuse. He’s quite terrible at rubbing anything above the waist.”

“Eww,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose. “Is that all your physio does? Massages you?”

“Nope,” Louis says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his grey joggers, accidentally or on purpose joggling his cock and drawing Harry's attention to it. Louis clears his throat, and Harry looks up, cheeks heating. “He makes me do all sorts of stretches and strengthening exercises. And then I have to do them all with my left arm, too, for balance, he says.”

“Don’t bitch about it,” Liam says, reaching over and flicking Louis in the forehead. “You said yourself you’ve never been more fit.”

“Yeah, well, tour starts next month, and I’ve got to be fit to be on stage,” Louis says. 

The reminder about Louis’ tour makes Harry wince. He long ago promised to come to Louis’ New York performances, and might’ve hinted that he’d try to show up for any shows that lined up with Late Night Talking’s summer hiatus. 

“So you’ll come Saturday?” Louis asks again.

“I said I would,” Harry says, wiping his damp hands on his t-shirt. He bundles the wet towels up, and carries them through his flat to the laundry, tossing them into the washing machine. When he turns around, he finds Louis right behind him while Liam’s still standing over by his plants. 

Louis leans against the door jamb, crossing his arms. “Did I do something to upset you?” 

“No,” Harry instantly responds, shaking his head. “I know I’ve been shit at keeping in touch. I’ve just… I’ve been really busy.”

“But you’re not mad at me?” Louis asks, catching the corner of his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Not at all,” Harry says with a careful smile. “Promise. And I promise I’ll be there Saturday, too.”

“Good,” Louis says. He grins, stepping out of the way, and Harry follows, heading back for the living room and Liam. 

“Will your family be there?” Harry asks, figuring it’s a roundabout way to learn if he should expect to see Everett. 

“No, the only one’s who’d want to come are Phoebe and Daisy, and they can’t make it,” Louis says, and Harry glances at Liam, searching his face for clues. “Oli’ll be there. And Everett. But that’s it.”

“I’ll be in the audience,” Harry says, giving Louis’ arm an easy nudge. “What songs are you performing?”

“Been rehearsing ‘Bigger Than Me’, ‘Out Of My System’, ‘Written All Over Your Face’, ‘Silver Tongues’, and ‘Chicago’.” Louis sticks his hands back in the pockets of his joggers, but this time Harry looks away quick enough that he only sees his dick bounce in his peripheral vision. He shuffles his feet, and says, “Not sure yet which two I’ll do.”

Harry bites down on the suggestions that instantly spring to mind, nodding instead, and hoping Louis picks his favourite songs. 

“I said he should do ‘Bigger Than Me’ because it shows the strength of his vocals, and ‘Out Of My System' because it’s such a banger,” Liam says with a slow nod. “People don’t expect it to go so hard.”

“I can see why you’d choose those,” Harry says, though they aren’t what he’d suggest. 

“What about you, Harold?” Louis says, reaching out and gently touching Harry's wrist with his knuckle. “You think I should do those two?”

Shaking his head, Harry says, “Not really.”

“Well, come on, mate.” Louis laughs, and says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I… I… Those are great songs, don’t get me wrong, but they're singles that came out last year,” Harry says with a slight wince in Liam’s direction. 

“Harold, pick two songs,” Louis says, bumping Harry's shin with the toe of his sneaker. “Or are you saying you don’t know the other songs? Haven't listened to my album?”

Harry scoffs, propping his hands on his hips, and like the secret superfan he is, he says, “‘Chicago’ because the story it tells is compelling, and it shows off your songwriting and your voice, plus it’s slower, so… variety. And ‘Written All Over Your Face’ because it’s a banger, it’s unique, and, um… it’s sexy as fuck.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up at that last bit, and Harry opens his mouth to apologise or make some excuse, but he can’t think of anything. Thankfully, Liam steps in and says, “Harry’s not wrong. I love the ‘hey, babe.’” Liam sings it, putting his own spin on the lyric, and Harry giggles into his hand. 

“Anyway,” Harry says, picking at his chapped lips. “Those are the songs I’d choose. But you should do what you want. Whatever you’re comfortable singing. It’s live, after all.”

“Thanks, Harold,” Louis says with a quick wink that might just be something in his eye. “Next time I text you, text back, yeah? So I don’t have to get Liam to bring me to your door.”

“Okay,” Harry says, glancing at Liam, then squeezing his eyes shut because Liam’s looking at him like he’s about to call Zayn and spend half an hour talking about Harry's crush on Louis.

“Good,” Liam says, grabbing Louis’ elbow. “Now, we actually have to get back.”

“We sort of took off without warning anybody,” Louis explains as Liam drags him towards the door. “See you Saturday!”

“See you then!” Harry calls after them as they step into the corridor, stopping himself from shouting his usual ‘I love you’ after them. He watches from the doorway until they reach the lift, then closes the door and leans back against it. 

So much for getting rid of his crush because it’s back with a vengeance. 

“Why didn't you tell me he was in town?” Harry asks Zayn yet again, wondering if he’ll get a legitimate answer this time. 

“You told me not to talk about him, so I haven't talked about him,” Zayn says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He roughly grips Harry's chin, and stares down at him. “Hold still.”

“Fine,” Harry mutters, and Zayn relaxes his hold, finishing up Harry's makeup a few seconds later. “Did you cover it?”

“Yes, I covered it,” Zayn says with a sigh. “I think you have stress reactions to Louis Tomlinson. You never break out like this unless he’s going to be around.”

“I’m probably allergic to him or something,” Harry says, leaning forward to look in the mirror. “I love you. Thank you for making me presentable.”

“You’re always presentable, babes,” Zayn says as he packs away his brushes. “You’re one of the very few who roll out of bed looking better than most people do with a full face on.”

“Tell me you love me,” Harry says, ignoring the compliment. 

“I love you.” Zayn pinches Harry's nipple through his shirt, and says, “Now go get your shoes on. I want to kiss Liam.”

Harry makes a retching sound, and Zayn swipes at him, but Harry jumps out of the way, running for his bedroom, and shouting back over his shoulder, “Kidding!” 

He’s not dressing up to sit in the audience at SNL, but he wants to look decent, so he’s wearing a pair of camel colored corduroy trousers and a black t-shirt with bunnies on it. It’s cute, but not overly so, and he drapes the matching jacket over his arm just in case he needs it. His beat up Vans on his feet, Harry hurries to catch Zayn, who’s already waiting in the hall for the lift.

“Cannot believe you were going to leave me,” Harry says, panting as if he just finished a sprint. 

“Don’t breathe at me like that,” Zayn says with a wave in Harry's direction. 

“Is my breath bad?” Harry asks, cupping his hand over his mouth, exhaling, and sniffing. Minty fresh. There’s a ding, and the elevator doors slide open. As they step inside, Harry says, “Don’t be mean to me, Zayn. I can’t handle it right now.”

“You’ve got to get a hold of yourself, H.” Zayn reaches for the lobby button and presses it with a manicured finger. “He’s got a boyfriend. You should have a boyfriend. You should go out with that director I told you about.”

Shaking his head, Harry says, “I don’t want to date him. He’s got weird hair.”

“That’s his thing,” Zayn says, lifting a hand and wiggling his fingers at Harry's curls. “Like your curls are your thing.”

“He looks like Kramer,” Harry says, eyes going wide. “Lyle Lovett! That’s who he looks like.”

“Julia Roberts married Lyle Lovett.” 

“One: No matter what everyone seems to think, I am not Julia Roberts. Two: They were hardly married,” Harry says, ticking off his points on his fingers. “And three: He might look like Lyle Lovett, but he can’t sing.”

“Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett were married for two years,” Zayn says, leaning back against the lift wall. 

“How the hell do you know that?” Harry asks, linking arms with Zayn when the lift doors slide open. 

“I know things,” Zayn says, lifting his chin slightly. “And you’re right. That man can’t sing. Once upon a time, long before he directed a thing, he tried out for Cats.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’d never joke about that.” They step out onto the street, and Zayn says, “No car tonight?”

“We need the exercise,” Harry says.

“Speak for yourself,” Zayn says with a scoff. “But it’s fine. It’ll give you a chance to calm down. And I assume we can sneak in the back.”

“Of course we can sneak in the back,” Harry says, pulling his phone from his pocket and sending a quick message to the group chat of SNL cast members he still keeps in touch with. One of them will send someone to open the door. 

Kenan Thompson meets them at the door. He remains Harry's favourite friend from his SNL days, and Harry makes a mental note to send Kenan something big for his birthday next month when he lets them in and says, “Harry, tell me you’ve seen Louis Tomlinson in grey sweatpants.” 

“I have,” Harry says, pulling Kenan into a hug and asking about his family. He doesn’t bring Louis up again.

The dress rehearsal ended an hour ago, and Harry thinks about trying to find out which songs Louis performed, he doesn’t. The live show starts in less than an hour, and he can wait. 

“Take me to Liam,” Zayn whispers, grabbing Harry's hand. 

“Sure, Z,” Harry says, lacing their fingers together and starting down the hall. “Guest host’s dressing room’s this way.”

On the short walk to the dressing rooms, Harry has to stop and chat with everyone he sees. He can’t help it. It would be rude otherwise. But Zayn’s clearly frustrated, not even trying to cover his annoyance, and when they get there, he’s flustered and a little shaky. It lifts some of the anxiety off of Harry, his mum friend tendencies taking over. 

“Relax,” Harry says, squeezing Zayn’s hand. He knocks on the door to Liam’s dressing room, and as soon as he hears what he hopes is Liam’s muffled voice inviting them in, he opens the door. “Special delivery!”

Zayn walks right over to where Liam’s sprawled on the couch with a pillow over his face, tosses the pillow aside, and leans down to plant a kiss right on his lips. 

“I’ll, um… give you some privacy,” Harry says, backing out of the room as Zayn waves him away. 

The musical guest’s dressing room is just down the hall, but Harry passes the door without knocking, glancing at the sign that reads ‘Louis Tomlinson’ and smiling. He makes his way to the side of the stage, chatting with the cameramen, shaking hands the way he likes to do, sending his love to everyone’s families, and covering a yawn now and then. 

It’ll be midnight before Louis does his first song, and Harry needs caffeine if he wants to make it. Gone are the days when he could stay up all night. Or rather, gone are the days when he wanted to stay up all night. He could quite easily, and he knows just where to go to find a bump to get him through, but he settles for coffee, and finds a seat where no one can see him. The last thing he wants is to be recognised. Tonight’s not about him.

The cold open is only alright, but Liam’s monologue goes well. It’s obvious he's nervous, hands a little shaky even from where Harry's sitting, but he does a great job, getting laughs in all the right places. And when he says, “We’ve got a fantastic show tonight! Louis Tomlinson is here!” Harry almost can’t hear the “We’ll be right back!” at the end because he’s clapping and whistling so loudly. 

He’s sat where even Louis wouldn’t be able to see him, which is what he wants. From his spot, he can watch the audience—Everett’s there and so is Zayn, though they're not sitting together—and he can easily enjoy the entire show. 

When Liam takes his mark just before midnight, Harry's entire body tenses. He’s more nervous than he ever was as a cast member, and he’s not even performing. Before they dim the lights, Louis and his band take the stage, and Louis rubs his hands together over and over as the lights go down, the spot shines on Liam, and they're back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Louis Tomlinson,” Liam announces, leading the room in a round of applause that fades as the sound of a strumming guitar hits Harry's ears. He recognises ‘Chicago’ right away, gasping quietly and holding a hand to his heart. Louis sounds amazing live, but the audience isn’t what he’s used to. Sure, there are fans out there, but they're not singing along the way they do at his concerts because they’ve been warned not to. 

Louis still puts on a show, looking gorgeous in what looks like a red Fred Perry tracksuit that’s either custom made or vintage. The fit’s perfect, and Harry zones out, staring at Louis’ arse when he goes up on his toes to sing the last ‘know your number’ and missing the last bit of the song. Louis frowns, twisting his lips, looking unhappy with his performance even as he smiles and waves and walks off stage. 

Without thinking, Harry weaves his way around the people gathered around the side of the stage, only waving as he pushes past people he knows. He’s out of breath when he reaches Louis’ dressing room and almost forgets to knock, but remembers before he turns the knob.

“Oli, would you?” Louis says, voice carrying through the door. 

Instead of waiting, Harry opens the door and steps inside, trying to control his smile, but probably failing because his face already hurts. “Hey, Lou!”

“Harry, hey,” Oli says, closing the door after Harry. 

“Harold, you just get here?” Louis asks without looking up from the backpack he’s digging through.

“No, I’ve been here,” Harry says, nodding when Louis triumphantly holds up a pack of cigarettes. “It’s weird sitting in the audience, so I was watching from just off stage. You sounded so good.” 

“Cheers, mate,” Louis says, finally sending a smile his way. “You got a lighter? Matches?”

Oli takes the backpack from Louis and reaches into the front pocket where he’s probably got at least two lighters stashed, but Harry says, “No, but I know where to find one. Come with me.”

Harry almost reaches for Louis’ hand, but settles for pinching the fabric of his jacket and tugging on that. He lets go, and says, “Where’s your security?”

“Don’t need ’em, do I?” Louis chuckles into his fist, and says, “Kidding. I know there’s a bunch of fans outside. Joni was in the loo. Probably still is.”

“Did you do something to his food or…”

“No! Not this time,” Louis says, shaking his head. “I’m just giving him a hard time. He’s probably not happy with Oli for letting me sneak off with you.”

“Promise not to feed you to the sharks,” Harry says, attempting a wink as he walks towards the props room. 

Louis tsks, and says, “Hey, hey, hey, don’t chat shit about my fans.”

“Not chatting shit, I promise,” Harry says, turning and backing into the door to open it. He reaches up over the door frame and feels around, bypassing what feels like half a cigarette, an unlit joint, and what barely counts as a roach until he finds a pack of matches. 

Rocking back onto his heels, Harry flips open the worn pack of matches, heart thumping a little harder when Louis puts a cigarette between his lips and leans in for Harry to light it. Hands trembling, Harry almost can’t strike the match, but he does it, and singes his fingertips lighting Louis’ cigarette. 

“Can I bum one?”

“You smoke?” Louis asks, tapping the pack in his hands until one slides out. 

“Sometimes,” Harry says, though his most recent one was on the walk home after Niall’s New Year’s Eve party. 

He starts to strike another match, but Louis moves in closer, inhaling so the tip flares bright red, and Harry takes the hint, meeting him halfway and lighting his cigarette off Louis’ cherry. The triangle of freckles on his cheek are prominent, but the lights shine down on Louis’ beard, and somehow he looks sexy under the fluorescents. 

Harry backs away, cigarette between his lips, and mutters, “Thanks.”

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Louis says, tipping his head back and exhaling a cloud of smoke upwards. “Was a bit disappointing not seeing you out there.”

“I said I’d be here.” Harry leans back against the wall, mimicking Louis’ position, head tilted up towards the ceiling. “Thought about dropping in to say hello before the show started, but didn't want to interrupt or anything.”

“Nothing to interrupt,” Louis says, lolling his head to the side. 

“You never know,” Harry says with a quiet laugh. “Zayn and Liam were snogging in his dressing room right up until the last second.”

“Everett’s out in the audience,” Louis says. He pushes off the wall, flicking the ash from his cigarette, and turns to face Harry. “He says I make him anxious with how, um, hyped I get before I go on, so he avoids backstage most times.”

“He was backstage for your show in November, wasn’t he?” Harry asks even though he knows Everett was there. 

“Not really anyplace else he could be,” Louis says with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I was just saying, we’re not snogging in my dressing room.”

“I’ll know for next time,” Harry says, taking a drag off his cigarette. He shifts his weight, moving around to lean his shoulder against the wall, and taps the ash onto the floor. “When are you playing in New York again?”

“No clue, mate.” Louis laughs, eye crinkling with how big his smile is, and he says, “All I know’s I’m kicking tour off in Connecticut. After that, you’ll have to check my website.”

“I’ll do that,” Harry says, scrunching his nose to keep his smile under control. He pulls out his phone for the distraction, unlocking it and typing in Louis’ name. “Connecticut’s not far. I might be able to come to that one. It’s a Friday, too. Oh, but it’s sold out.” 

“Harold,” Louis whispers, reaching over and tugging on the sleeve of Harry's t-shirt. “I might know someone who can get you in. Backstage, even, if you want.” 

Harry widens his eyes as far as he can, and says, “My hero!”

“Ha!” Louis’ put on laugh devolves into giggles, and when they fade, he puts his cigarette out in the bucket of cat litter by the door, and says, “Harold, I’m glad you came tonight. You going out with us after?”

Shaking his head, Harry bends down to put his cigarette out, too. When he stands, he finds Louis watching him with a frown on his face, so Harry explains, “I can’t. I’ve got an early appointment. But, um… don’t break any bones tonight, okay?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Louis says, opening the door and ushering Harry through. “But for you, I’ll try.”

They walk back to Louis’ dressing room together, but Harry doesn’t go inside. He says his goodbyes there, and heads back to his spot just off stage. Louis surprises him by participating in a sketch about biscuits and doing an American accent that has Harry stifling his laughter for fear one of the boom mics will pick it up. 

And then comes his second song. 

Harry isn’t one for praying, but he crosses all of his fingers until he hears the familiar bass guitar of ‘Written All Over Your Face’ and then he sort of loses it. He sings along and pulls a stagehand over to dance with him and squeals when the audience does every single time Louis sings, “Hey, babe.” 

It’s too fucking hot being stood in the same room as Louis and hearing him say that. 

The short song is over far too soon, and when he sees Zayn heading backstage after the last sketch and the group goodbye, Harry leaves. There’s no early appointment tomorrow, but another night out watching Louis dance with his boyfriend doesn’t sound fun. The last thing he wants to do is wind up dancing with Louis again. Talk about confusing. So, he goes home. Alone. 

The next afternoon, he gets a text from Louis, and Harry decides not to ignore it. 

Harry unmutes Louis on Instagram just in time to see him post shots from rehearsal in which he’s wearing grey FILA joggers that leave nothing to the imagination. He considers sending a package of Calvin Klein briefs to LA, but he doesn’t have an address for Louis there, and he’s probably staying with Everett anyway. The thought of explaining to Louis’ boyfriend that shipping Louis pants is a joke and not a bizarre way of chatting him up stops him. Harry likes the post and leaves it at that. 

For opening night of Louis’ tour, Harry books a suite in one of the hotels, figuring he can handle the drive to Connecticut that Friday once they wrap filming Late Night Talking, but not wanting to have to drive three hours back. Louis might want him to hang out after, and since it’s the first show of his tour, Harry doesn’t want to say no, even if it means spending time with Everett. 

He drives his new red Ferrari, enjoying being behind the wheel. It’s been months since he bought it, and he’s hardly driven it. He pulls up to the hotel and leaves it with the valet, checking into his room a few hours before doors open for Louis’ concert. It’s a nice suite with a king bed in the bedroom that Harry will absolutely not enjoy to the fullest extent. 

As soon as he showers, he orders room service, needing something in his stomach before he has any alcohol, and he eats while wrapped up in a fluffy dressing gown, wishing he’d made Zayn come with him for moral support and makeup capabilities. No matter how many times Zayn shows him or tells him what to do, Harry's never going to be as talented at covering his spots, and Zayn’s not wrong about them showing up due to Louis-related anxiety. 

Today there’s one smack dab in the middle of his forehead. 

Dressed in his favourite flared jeans and a red ringer tee covered in black polka dots, Harry ties his Adidas, and checks his concealer once more before heading down to the show. Louis isn’t supposed to go onstage until nine, but if Harry's little bit of experience has told him anything, Louis will watch the opening act from backstage, and Harry kind of wants to do the same. 

It takes him a bit to get his bearings inside the casino, but once he does, he’s on his way amongst a group of Louis fans dressed in rainbows and Faith In The Future merch. No one seems to recognise him, which is surprising until he realises that, for some reason, they're all way too focused on looking for Oli. 

Harry feels like he fits right in, using his few extra inches of height to search for Oli’s ginger hair. He sees Oli first, and as the group of girls around him seem to notice that he’s not just some guy, Oli rushes him past security and inside the venue. 

“Mate, how about I give you my number?” Oli says as Harry falls into step beside him. “Should make it easier to find you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, pulling out his wallet and handing Oli one of his cards. He hardly uses them anymore, but keeps a few tucked behind his licence just in case. 

Oli leads Harry through an exit door, from the dim light of the venue to the bright fluorescents of a hidden corridor, and Harry's phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a text from an unfamiliar number and immediately saves it under ‘Louis – Oli’. 

“Louis’s in his dressing room,” Oli says, stopping in front of a heavy door. There’s a laminated sign on it that reads ‘LOUIS TOMLINSON’ with a big gold star under his name, and Harry can’t help but smile. Oli leans in close to the door and bangs on it with his fist, shouting, “Oi! Got Harry out here, mate!”

A moment later, the door swings open to reveal Louis wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans. His flies aren’t even fastened, his pants are showing, and his feet are bare. Harry would like to pretend Louis’ nipples aren’t hard, but… He tries not to stare and looks around instead at the heavy, dark curtains hanging over the walls, the leather sofa, and the low table covered with candles and ashtrays. 

“Harold!” Louis grabs Harry's arm and pulls him inside, and Oli snatches a multi-coloured backpack off the floor by the door, and ducks back out, shutting the door. “Spilled my drink on my shirt. Let me just…” Trailing off, Louis picks up a black and red polo from where it’s draped over the back of a sofa, and yanks it over his head, covering up and allowing Harry to breathe again. He tugs on the hem, then busies himself adjusting his fringe. “You want a beer or something?”

“What are you having?” Harry asks, already thanking past-Harry for having the forethought to eat a decent meal.

“Vodka Red Bull,” Louis says, picking up a red Solo cup and raising it higher when Harry wrinkles his nose. “It’s like rocket fuel, mate. Gets me hyped up to go on.”

“Do you have any tequila?” Harry asks as he wanders over to the table where there are bottles of water and packets of crisps. 

“Hold on,” Louis says, phone in hand, tapping at the screen. “Oli’s getting some. Should be right here with it. You want to mix it with anything?”

Harry shakes his head, and says, “Just ice.”

“Well, well,” Louis says as he slips his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll do a shot of tequila with you, Harold.”

“Alright,” Harry says, cracking open a bottle of water and draining half of it. “Where’s everyone else?”

Louis drops onto the sofa, pulling socks on, then extending his legs and wiggling his toes before reaching for his trainers. “Think they’ve already gone up to watch the support.”

There’s a loud knock on the door, and a shout of, “Tequila!” that has Harry giggling as he walks over to let Oli in, but instead of coming into the dressing room, Oli pulls a bottle of tequila out of his multi-coloured backpack, hands it to Harry, slings the bag over his shoulder, winks, and walks away. 

“Cheers,” Harry says, more to himself than to Oli because he’s already gone. He twists off the top and pours some tequila into two cups, just to the first line, not wanting to drink too much right away. Louis sidles up beside him and takes one, turning to face Harry, grinning crookedly. 

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Louis says, raising his cup. 

“To you,” Harry says, tapping his plastic cup against Louis’ and smiling. “To a fantastic show and the start of what I know will be an amazing tour.”

“Cheers, Harold,” Louis says, cheeks flushing as he tips back the cup and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing and distracting Harry from his blush. 

Harry takes the shot, hoping the burn of it will shock some sense into him, but it doesn’t. He just pours more into his cup, scoops some ice from the bucket, and says, “Glad I got a room. Would hate to have to find my way out of here tonight.”

“Didn’t have to get a room,” Louis says as he pops the top on a can of Red Bull. He pours it into his cup and adds a little more vodka. “Could stay on the bus with me, Harold.”

“Oh…” Harry sucks air through his teeth, then says, “While that sounds fun…”

“Only joking,” Louis says, nudging Harry's hip. He steps around and pulls open the door, waiting for Harry to step out into the hallway first. 

“I’ve never been on a tour bus, actually,” Harry says. He’s been on a Greyhound, and a school bus, and he used to ride the bus all the time when he first came to the city, but tour buses are supposed to be nice. 

“Alright, Harold,” Louis says, cupping Harry's elbow and guiding him down the corridor. “I'll show you my bus after the show.”

Louis moves ahead of Harry, pushing open a heavy door, and when Harry walks through, for a fleeting moment, Louis rests his hand on Harry's lower back. Warmth spreads outwards from Louis’ palm, but then the touch is gone, and Louis is shouting and jumping into the middle of some sort of game involving wadded up pieces of paper, a rubbish bin, a bottle of vodka, and a lighter. It reminds Harry of an episode of Friends that he watched years ago.

Standing out of the way, Harry sips his tequila and watches as Louis and his friends attempt to throw balls of flame across the room before they can burn themselves. He finishes his drink, finds another bottle of tequila on the table with the many opened bottles of vodka, pours another, and joins the game. 

Competition is Harry's life blood. He thrives on it, and more often than not, he wins. 

One time he went to an axe throwing place with his friend Nick, and though he’d never even tried before, he was able to throw two axes—double handed!—and hit the target on his first go. 

“Harold’s on my team,” Louis says, pulling Harry over to stand with him. 

“What if I don’t want to be on your team, Lewis?” Harry asks, backing away and glancing around as the lads all laugh. 

“Is that right?” Louis licks his lower lip and bites down on the tip of his tongue, then he shakes his head and moves aside, waving Harry forward. “Your turn.”

Joni and JD stand over in opposite corners with fire extinguishers while Oli and Louis’ band shout Harry's name over and over again. Harry picks up a piece of paper from the ripped open package of printer stock, and crumbles it into a ball, making sure to leave a corner a bit loose. He dunks it into the cup of vodka, holding it away from his body, arm almost fully extended, then Oli hands him the lighter, Harry flicks it and sets the wad of alcohol soaked paper ablaze.

“One, two, three,” Harry slowly counts as the vodka flames and the paper begins to burn, then he winds up and throws, and the fiery ball soars through the air and lands in the metal bin with a wet thump. “Yes!”

The game makes zero sense, and it doesn’t seem like anyone’s keeping score, but it’s fun and stupid and Harry's reminded of the good times he had when he was on SNL between the insane hours and balls to the wall mentality that everyone had back then. 

Louis cheers as loud as anyone when he wins, and is as gracious a loser as Harry, which means not at all. He blames the rubbish bin for being in the wrong spot, though it hasn’t moved, and Harry's right there jeering and booing and drowning out his complaints along with everyone else. 

When Louis wants to go watch the opening act, Harry goes with them, Louis’ arm around his shoulders, leading all of them where they need to go. Oli stops Harry before he winds up actually on stage, and shows him to the side where they’ve set up some seats behind the curtain, just out of view of the audience. 

Harry doesn’t sit. He stays on his feet, standing next to Louis, sipping his drink and wishing he knew any of the songs so he could sing along. It’s too loud for conversation, so instead of asking, Harry looks around, searching the audience for Everett, wondering if he’s already out there watching or if he’s in some VIP area that Harry can’t see. 

The opening band wraps up, thanking the audience and hyping them up for Louis, and then Harry's moving out of the way so the band can go by and head backstage, slapping Louis’ hand and bumping his fist as they pass. Louis slips away then, possibly sneaking off for a cigarette, maybe going to the loo, but Harry doesn’t see him again until he’s right beside him, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck, leaning his head side to side. 

Right before he goes on stage, he turns to Harry, smiles and says, “Showtime.”

“Don’t break a leg,” Harry says, and Louis’s still laughing when he gets to his mic at centre stage. 

According to Oli, Louis’s been rehearsing for weeks and weeks leading up to this show and it’s evident. He plays to the audience like an instrument, posing for fans to take pictures, pointing at signs and calling for people to sing along, grinning maniacally when he goes down to the barricade during ‘Out Of My System’ and the crowd almost swallows him whole. JD and Joni are there to pull him back, and Louis shakes his hair out of his face, jumping into the audience again and coming close to crowd surfing if not for the watchful eyes and strong arms of his security. 

Louis comes off stage dripping sweat and so happy it lights him up from the inside. It’s contagious, and Harry can’t stop smiling. Of course, neither can Louis’ band, or Oli, though JD and Joni have mastered the art of the RBF no matter the occasion. One person is missing from the after show celebration backstage, and Harry wants to ask so badly, but he lets it be, assuming Everett’s not there. 

Maybe he has something going on in LA. 

“To the bus!” Louis shouts, and Harry finds himself being corralled with everyone else, heading down yet another corridor to an exit that leads outside where a massive bus is waiting, engine running. 

“Wait, where…” Harry stops and someone bumps into his back, but then they walk around, and everyone continues on towards the bus. From where he stands, he can see Oli climb on board first, multi-coloured backpack on his back, then Louis with a cigarette in hand, followed by the rest of the band, so Harry hurries after them, body relaxing a little when it’s warm and inviting inside. Louis is sitting on a sofa by a window, and Harry yells, “Louis! Are you leaving?”

“Harold!” Louis hops up and pushes past Oli, and meets Harry by the door. “Show tomorrow night in, um…” Looking back over his shoulder, Louis shouts, “Oi! Where are we tomorrow?”

Someone responds, “New Hampshire!” 

“So… Are you heading there now?” Harry asks, trying not to pout. 

“I don’t know,” Louis says, reaching up and tapping right between Harry's eyebrows. For a split second, Harry thinks he’s touching the spot he worked so hard to conceal, but he’s not. It’s the line that no amount of botox will eliminate. He’s tried. “Don’t frown, Harold. Let me talk to JD.”

Louis opens the bus door and leans out, talking to JD and Joni, then he pushes the door closed again, and says, “They want to go ahead and leave ’cause there’s another artist coming in to perform here tomorrow night. Sorry. I thought we could hang out.”

“It’s alright, Lou,” Harry says, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you next time you’re in New York.”

“Yeah, okay,” Louis says, pressing his lips together. Then he opens the door again, and calls JD over. “Will you see Harold through that maze? He’s got a room in one of the hotels.”

JD nods, and Harry starts to climb down the stairs, but Louis stops him, pulling him into a hug and rocking him side to side. Harry grins against Louis’ neck, and says, “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”

“Thanks for coming, mate,” Louis says, putting some space between them and giving Harry's upper arms a quick squeeze before moving out of the way and letting Harry go. “Bye, Harold! Everybody say goodbye to Harold!”

A chorus of “Goodbye, Harold!” follows Harry out of the bus, and JD kindly, but quietly leads him back through the venue and out, even going so far as to walk him to his hotel. 

Harry spends the night alone, wandering down to the casino when he can’t sleep, playing slots because he doesn’t feel like talking to anyone, and finally going up to his room around four in the morning to pass out in his clothes. He wakes up the next morning an hour after checkout, and calls down to book the room for another night just so he can take his time getting home.

“You and Louis haven't been FaceTiming,” Zayn says as he brushes Harry's eyebrows into place. 

It doesn’t sound like a question, but Harry answers anyway, “No. Sometimes we send voice messages, but it’s usually text over WhatsApp. Why?”

“Because you haven't had any spots lately,” Zayn says, pursing his lips and managing to make Harry blush under his makeup with a single look. 

“Well, I’ve been very careful not to touch my face,” Harry says with a smug smile, sitting up in his chair. “And I think I’ve got over the nervousness around Louis. I was totally fine last time I saw him.”

Zayn cocks his head to the side, slightly widening his eyes, and says, “You said you had Mount Vesuvius on your forehead.”

“That was before I saw him,” Harry explains, leaning forward to check that his face is indeed clear. “But when we were hanging out, I was fine. And it’s been weeks and weeks. I think I’m past it. Over it.”

“Over it?” Zayn squints one eye, and asks, “You’re over your crush?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry says with a quick nod. He doesn’t get anxious when Louis texts anymore, and sometimes it feels like they text every day. For a while, Louis messaged him each day after he woke up to tell Harry he hadn’t broken any bones. He agreed to stop doing that when Harry told him he’d assume Louis had broken a bone if he didn't get a message. 

“Then let me tell you what I heard through the gossip grapevine,” Zayn says with a waggle of his eyebrows. When Harry turns away from the mirror to look at him face on, Zayn grins. “Louis and Everett broke up.”

“What? When?” Harry asks, voice an octave higher than it should be. 

“According to my source, just before Louis’ first show.” 

“Who is your source?” Harry asks, not for the first time. “How do you know these things?”

“I can’t reveal my secrets, H,” Zayn says with a put-upon sigh, then he winks and asks, “What would I be worth to you then?”

“Everything,” Harry says, pausing when Niall’s voice comes over the speakers. He waits until Niall’s finished, and adds, “As always.”

“Ehh… I like the mystery,” Zayn says, shrugging and pushing Harry towards the door. “It’s fun.”

“Love you,” Harry says as he walks into the corridor.

“Love you, too, babes,” Zayn calls after him, his voice and the news about Louis’ breakup carrying Harry down the hall.

Harry's mind is a little clouded during the taping that day, but he makes it through, relying on his instincts and experience to guide him as he plays games with his guests and interviews them and tells the audience he loves them before they leave. As soon as he’s done, he heads home, choosing to walk the short distance to his building to clear his mind. 

Unfortunately, it’s overcast and hot with heavy humidity, and he doesn’t enjoy being outside as much as he thought he would. He showers first thing when he gets home, washing away the day, then he pulls on a comfy pair of grey joggers and lounges on his couch until he works up the courage to send Louis a message. He considers texting, but settles on a voice message because Louis usually sends him one back, and he likes listening to Louis talk.

He records and deletes a million times before he’s satisfied.

“Hey, Lou, it’s me— Of course it’s me. It’s our chat. Idiot.”

Delete.

“Hey, Lou, I heard a rumour today— Nope.”

Delete.

“Louis Tomlinson, are you single? Ha. Ha. Ha. No.”

Delete.

“I was in the makeup chair before today’s taping and Zayn mentioned you. Anything you want to tell me? Ugh. No, Harry. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

Delete.

“Hey, mate, heard you and Everett broke up. Wanted to check if you needed anything because what am I going to do? Fly out to wherever his next concert is and hand deliver a fucking cup of coffee or a cigarette?”

Delete.

“Hey, Lou, heard you and Everett broke up. Wanted to check if it was true ’cause, you know, rumours… Delete, delete, dele—”

Delete.

Harry goes to Louis’ website instead to check his tour dates and it turns out Louis is in Los Angeles today, playing The Hollywood Bowl of all places. For one heady moment, Harry considers flying out to LA right then just to ask Louis in person, but the idea that Zayn’s source could be wrong and that Everett might actually be at the show stops him. 

Finally, he opens WhatsApp again, clears his throat, slides the little microphone up, and records, “Hey, Lou, don’t break any bones at The Hollywood Bowl tonight! Hope you have a great show. And, um… give me an update on any and all fractures tomorrow, yeah?”

He sends it before he can think too much about it. 

Chances are Louis just woke up in California. The last week or so, he’s been on the west coast, and Harry's in bed by the time Louis goes on stage, and at work by the time Louis goes to bed. When he checks his phone after dinner, the little microphone by his message is blue, but there’s no response from Louis. He thinks about going to bed, but it’s Friday, and there’s no reason to be awake early tomorrow, so Harry stays up and finds a livestream of Louis’ show, watching from his bed along with his other fans on a tiny, moving feed, barely hearing Louis over the screams of the audience. It’s wonderful. 

After Louis leaves the stage and the stream cuts out, Harry plugs his phone in, and goes to sleep. The Do Not Disturb setting means he’s not alerted to Louis’ message when it comes in, but it’s the first thing he sees in the morning. 

“No broken bones tonight, Harold. But what a fucking show, mate. The fucking Hollywood Bowl! And Vegas tomorrow, so we’re on the bus and on the way already.” Louis yawns, and the message cuts out. 

Harry doesn’t send another voice message right away. He waits until that evening, when he’s almost certain Louis is awake. “Glad all your bones are intact. Thought about flying out to Vegas for the show, but it’s sold out! Congrats on that, mate.”

A few minutes later, his phone vibrates, and when he picks it up, it’s a FaceTime call from Louis. Harry quickly combs his fingers through his hair, smooths his hands over his face, and answers. Louis comes into view and it’s immediately evident that he’s shirtless and laying down in bed. 

“Harold, you do realise I can get you into the show, right?” Louis asks, the tips of his fingers just visible as he scratches them through his chest hair. 

“I was mostly joking,” Harry says, trying to focus on Louis’ tired eyes, and then, as if he didn't send that message with the hope that it would lead to this very conversation, he adds, “I’m glad you called, though, ’cause I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away,” Louis says, rubbing the tip of his nose with his finger, and looking far too cute for a man who’s clearly barely awake and still in bed. 

“Well… Okay, so this is kind of dumb, but you know how rumours can be, and I wasn’t going to say anything at all, but then I thought, you know, I’d want you to ask me if you heard something about me.”

“Gossip sites reporting I broke my arm again?” Louis asks with a giggle that makes Harry smile. 

He tries to rein it in, scrunching his nose, and swallowing. “Did you and Everett break up?”

Louis’ eyes go comically wide and his mouth drops open. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“Zayn,” Harry admits a little sheepishly. 

“How did he find out?” Louis asks, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I don’t know, but, um… So, it’s true?”

“Yeah, mate, we ended things in May. Tour’s just…” Louis sighs and says, “It’s not the easiest thing to deal with when you’re in a relationship, and it’s better if I’m single.”

Harry's stomach twists at that, but he puts on a brave face, managing a smirk as he says, “Better meaning you can hook up with your groupies like a proper rock star?”

Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Better meaning easier. If I don’t have anyone expecting phone calls or texts or whatever, I don’t let anyone down when I don’t make those calls or send those texts.”

“Oh.”

“Besides,” Louis says with a grin. “It’s almost all girls at my shows. Wouldn’t know what to do with one of them.”

“Imagine if they complained,” Harry says, “and made a TikTok about how terrible you are, and they set it to one of your songs, and the song took off, but the trend was, like, people talking shit about their sex partners to you singing ‘The Greatest’ or something.”

Louis covers his eyes with his hand, and Harry studies the 28 on his fingers. “Thank god for NDAs.”

Harry snorts and a laugh bursts through and he winds up braying like a donkey. When he brings himself under control, he wipes his tears, and says, “Seriously, though, I’m glad you’re not—”

“Sleeping with groupies?” Louis interrupts.

“I’m glad you’re not all brokenhearted,” Harry finishes, then he sticks his tongue out at Louis and blows a raspberry. “Though, I suppose that would be good for the songwriting.”

“Might be, but…” Louis yawns, belatedly covering his mouth, then says, “I’ve been trying to write from, like, other people’s perspectives, too. Other people’s experiences.”

“I love— I love that about your songs,” Harry says. He pinches his thigh, annoyed with himself. He tells everyone he knows and a lot of people he doesn’t that he loves them. It shouldn’t be weird to say it to Louis. “I mean, I love how they sound personal even when they're not.”

“Thanks, mate,” Louis says with a crooked smile.

“I’m not just saying that,” Harry reassures him, clearing his throat before barrelling on. “I think you’re incredibly talented. Your voice is… it's just special. And your lyrics are so creative and real and—”

“Harold, stop, you’re making me blush.” 

“Fine,” Harry says, extending his arm a little so Louis isn’t the only one bare chested on screen. “Are you on the bus?”

“In my bunk.” Louis slowly turns his phone around, showing his tiny cubby, then aims it at his face again. 

“You sleep in a bunk?” Harry asks incredulously. He assumed Louis’ bus had a big bed in the back and that the rest of the band slept in bunks. 

“Yeah, mate,” Louis says, and the screen blurs as Louis moves, apparently lying on his side. Behind him is a heavy curtain. “It’s cosy. And I’d feel like a proper dick if I had some massive bed in a private room while my bandmates slept in bunks.”

“Man of the people,” Harry says, giggling when Louis yawns and hides his face in his pillow. “I’ll let you wake up, Lou. But, um… talk soon?”

Louis nods, and Harry hangs up before he can slip and say, “Love you, Lou.”

During Late Night Talking’s hiatus, Harry usually goes to his house in the Hamptons. He’s become one of those people, but he doesn’t feel like spending this summer there. Depending on what his mum and Gemma have going on, he sometimes flies home to visit them, but they're both busy, and he doesn’t feel much like hanging around Holmes Chapel. Occasionally, he’ll go someplace like Jamaica or Fiji or Hawaii, but he doesn’t feel like doing that either. 

What he really wants to do is go visit Louis on tour. Instead, he annoys Zayn and Niall until they agree to go with him to Canada. There’s no better way to avoid thinking about his all-consuming crush on Louis Tomlinson than to visit Niagara Falls from the Canada side.

“Are you having fun?” Zayn asks, jaw tight, nostrils flaring, water misting his face and hands, the only parts of him exposed with his poncho on. 

“I am!” Harry says, clapping his wet hands together and posing beside Niall for yet another touristy photo. 

“I’m glad, babes,” Zayn says, not trying to hide his sigh. “But we’ve been here for three days, and I’m ready to leave.”

Harry frowns and pouts and does his best to look sad and disappointed to no avail. Zayn shakes his head, and Harry says, “Alright. You can go. Niall’ll stay in keep me company.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you, H,” Zayn says. “But it’s my hiatus, too. And I’d like to see my boyfriend.”

“You could’ve brought Liam!” Harry shouts as the falls seem to echo around them. 

“He’s in London!” Zayn shouts back, eyes wide. 

“Oh.”

Leaning in close to Harry, Niall says, “If Zayn leaves, are we going to have the friends to lovers holiday rom coms want us to have?”

“No,” Harry says flatly. “We’re going to have a not at all romantic rest of the week, staying in separate rooms, sitting on opposite sides of the table at meals, and never ever kissing.”

Niall lays a smacking a kiss on Harry's cheek, and says, “Too late.”

After they step off the boat, they go back to their hotel, and Zayn packs his things while Harry and Niall watch. They lay on the bed and eat room service and drink champagne because Niall says it’s not romantic, then they walk Zayn down to wait with him. A car pulls up to take him to the airport, and he blows kisses out the back window as he’s driven away. 

“Don’t be upset with Z,” Niall says, linking his arm with Harry's and leading him back into the hotel lobby. 

“I’m not,” Harry says quietly. “I know you guys didn't want to come. I shouldn’t have guilted you into it. Especially Zayn. Liam travels all the time and it was unfair of me to expect Z to spend his holiday with me.”

“Zayn might not have wanted to come, but I did,” Niall says with a harsh bump against Harry's hip that almost sends him flying. “I love you, man. You’re one of my best mates. And my hiatus plans were a big nothing. I was just going to lay on my couch.”

“The whole hiatus?” Harry asks, elbowing Niall’s ribs. 

“I’d get up to shower at least once a week.”

“Disgusting.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” Niall says with a toothy grin.

“I do love you,” Harry says, taking a deep breath and whistling as he exhales. “Can we go for sushi?”

“Anything you want, lover,” Niall purrs, and Harry shivers, shaking his head. 

After sushi with Niall—which ends early when Niall decides to try sea urchin—they head up to their respective rooms for an early night. While the telly plays in the background, Harry switches between Twitter and Instagram and Tumblr (his favourite of the three apps because he’s completely anonymous there, and if he reblogs a gifset of Louis’ thighs, it’s between him and the Tumblr gods). 

Harry's busy staring at a gif set that highlights Louis’ cheekbones when his phone vibrates in his hand with an Instagram notification from Louis’ account. Before he can open that, his phone vibrates again with a Twitter notification from Louis’ account, and Harry figures it’s a new IGTV from his most recent shows; they always tweet a link to those. 

He clicks through, and smiles, laughing quietly at the short clip of Louis jumping around backstage, then racing his bandmates in a parking lot, but his delight disappears a second later. Louis walks towards the camera, wincing and shaking his right hand, and the video ends with a shot of an ambulance driving away. 

The IGTV just went up, which means whatever happened probably happened the previous night, and Harry quickly opens his WhatsApp conversation with Louis.

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry checks Louis’ tour schedule to be sure, and he’s in the southwest, an hour or two behind Harry depending on where he is. He doesn’t have a show tonight, which means he’s probably awake, and hopefully on the bus. While Harry's looking at the list of Louis’ upcoming concerts, his phone vibrates again. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry's phone goes dark for a split second, then vibrates, Louis’ picture appearing on screen, and Harry mutes the telly as he answers Louis’ FaceTime call.

“Harold,” Louis says, voice coming through before Harry can see him. 

“Lewis,” Harry says, but then Louis’ face is right there, eyes tired, hair hidden under a beanie. “Aren’t you in Texas?”

“I think so.” Louis grins, then he narrows his eyes, and asks, “Why?”

“Because you’ve got a beanie on, and a jumper it looks like, and it’s July,” Harry says, pausing for emphasis before adding, “In Texas.”

“Aircon on the bus is quite good,” Louis explains, tugging on his beanie. “And I run cold.”

“And you’ve broken a bone.”

“Fractured,” Louis corrects.

“Fractured is just a posh word for broken, you know.”

“Okay, but it’s a small fracture,” Louis says, aiming his phone at his right arm. It’s in a black sling, no cast, no visible swelling or bruising, but in the few seconds that the camera isn’t pointed at his face, Harry can see that Louis is sitting on the sofa, and it seems like the rest of his band aren’t around. 

“Are you alone?” Harry asks when the camera settles back on Louis’ face.

Louis raises an eyebrow and says, “About to ask what I’m wearing, Harold?”

“No,” Harry says with a scoff that’s probably a bit too loud. “I’m about to ask if Oli’s there to take care of you.”

“He’s out with the lads,” Louis says, an undercurrent of sadness in his tone. “Told him to go. I’m the idiot who broke my arm. He shouldn’t have to be stuck on the bus… be punished for my stupidity.”

“He’s your PA,” Harry says. 

“He’s my PA and my best mate.” Louis sighs, slumping back against the sofa cushion. “And he told me to stop racing and I didn't listen, so…”

“So now you’re sad and dejected and alone on your bus with no one to take care of you?” Harry asks, and Louis smirks.

“Offering, Harold?” Louis winks, and the sake Harry drank with dinner takes control.

“If no one’s looking after you!” Harry huffs, trying not to scowl. “I mean, I’m on hiatus and I was thinking of coming to one of your shows anyway.”

“You don’t need to look after me,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “But if you want to come to a show, you know you’re on the guest list.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” Harry says, glad Louis gave him an out. His desire to see Louis and make sure he’s okay threatens to override his good sense, and he hurries to come up with an excuse to end the call. “I’ve got to go, though. Niall’s waiting for me.”

“Alright, Harold,” Louis says, and Harry wonders if he’s imagining the disappointment in his tone.

“Bye, Lou,” Harry says, tapping the button to hang up, his unspoken ‘love you’ echoing in his mind. 

He lasts less than a day before he books a flight.

It’s Louis’ fault. If he didn't want Harry to drop everything and come to Texas, he shouldn’t’ve looked so pitiful on stage, and he shouldn’t’ve sent Harry any messages complaining about how no one can make his tea properly. Instead, he sends four back to back before Harry can unlock his phone.

WhatsApp chat end.

Two blue check marks appear beside his message immediately, but Louis doesn’t respond at first. There’s no ‘Louis is typing’ at the top of their chat, and for a few minutes Harry thinks he’s crossed a line, but he refuses to apologise. He nods once when Louis finally does reply.

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry closes WhatsApp before he can send Louis a ‘love you!’ 

A few minutes later, he gets a text from Oli.

WhatsApp chat end.

Since he’s not actually at the airport and doesn’t have a ticket to Austin, and is in fact still in Canada, Harry ignores Oli’s text, and calls Niall while shoving all of his clothes into his suitcase. Niall is, fortunately, the best kind of best friend, and he comes straight to Harry's room. 

While Harry paces and worries, Niall books a flight for Harry to Austin, Texas, rents a car to drive him from Canada to the airport in Buffalo, New York, and has his own suitcase packed and ready to go before Harry can second guess his decision. 

“It’s fine, H,” Niall says with a fond roll of his eyes. “I’ll drive home. I don’t mind. Maybe I’ll stop at a farmer’s market! Maybe I’ll meet a cute farmer.”

“God, I hope you do,” Harry says, fanning himself, and mentally cataloguing everything in his suitcase. It’s much warmer in Texas, in fact the word warmer doesn’t even sound right in his head, but he has shorts and t-shirts and he can always stop somewhere and buy clothes if he needs them.

It’s a long flight with a stop in Atlanta on the way that barely gives him enough time to get from one gate to the other, but he makes it just in time. Seven hours after making the decision to go to Texas, Harry's on the ground in Austin, bags in hand, thankful his suitcase is small enough to carry on the plane. He climbs into the next available taxi, and as they pull away, he opens his text conversation with Oli.

He lets Oli know he's in Austin, then checks his WhatsApp chat with Louis to find he’s sent directions on how to get to the back entrance to the amphitheatre where the bus actually is parked behind a concrete wall. 

Twenty minutes later, Harry's standing on the pavement behind the amphitheatre in the afternoon heat, suddenly quite tired, his anxiety and adrenaline and everything else catching up to him. Wishing he’d got a room and gone there instead, he’s about to start walking, figuring he’ll get a Lyft to the nearest five-star hotel, when Joni appears at the side of a massive gate.

“Harry?” Joni waves at him, and Harry heaves a sigh, shuffling over to where he stands.

“Hi, Joni,” Harry says, trying not to let his mood show, though Joni’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes seem to see it anyway. “How’s Louis?”

“He’s alright,” Joni says, handing Harry a lanyard with an all-access pass on it, featuring a photo of him from one of the promo shoots for Late Night Talking. He takes Harry's bags and leads him through the gate. “We’re all glad you’re here, mate. Bound to put Louis in a better mood.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, following Joni as the gigantic gate slides closed behind them, hoping Louis isn’t too grumpy. 

There are two buses, plus a tractor-trailer as Harry's learned to call them since moving to New York. That’s probably full of equipment and who knows what else, and Harry thinks maybe the second bus belongs to the support act or perhaps another band scheduled for tomorrow night. 

“He’s in this one,” Joni says, answering Harry's silent question. He knocks on the door of the second bus, then opens it, and climbs the steps with Harry's bags in his hands. 

It’s set up similarly to the bus Harry spent all of two minutes on, but slightly different in that it’s messier. There are two sofas facing each other, but one is covered with blankets and pillows.

“Louis!” Joni shouts.

“Oi! Oi!” Louis calls from the back of the bus. 

“Someone to see you!” Joni sets Harry's bags on the cleaner of the two sofas, gives Harry a wink, and moves rather quickly to the exit. 

“Harry?” Louis’ soft voice carries through the bus before Harry sees him, then he steps out of the little corridor that leads to the bunks, and Harry's heart bursts and breaks simultaneously at Louis’ quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Harry says, pressing his lips together and swallowing hard, taking in Louis’ messy hair tucked under a faded Vans snapback, his grey joggers and wrinkled t-shirt, his unzipped hoodie hanging open over his sling. “You look like shit, mate.”

“Fuck off, Harold,” Louis says, but he grins, and Harry's entire body relaxes. 

“You want me to go to Starbucks?” Harry asks, reaching up to pinch his lower lip.

Louis laughs, and says, “No. You want to see the venue? There’s a golf cart. I can drive you around.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you driving,” Harry says, dropping onto the sofa beside his bags. “I’d kill for a shower.”

“No need to murder me, Harold,” Louis says, shrugging off his hoodie and leaving it where it lands on the floor. “There’s a shower on the bus, but the one backstage is better. Come on.”

“Really?” Harry gets to his feet with a sigh, and grabs both of his bags, following Louis off the bus and back into the oppressive Texas heat. 

Louis heads for the back of the building. It’s all in shadow, the angle of the sun casting a perfect rectangle of shade. The second Harry steps out of the sunlight, he’s cooler, and he rolls his shoulders back, taking a deep breath that feels like inhaling hot, damp mist. 

“It’s fucking hot,” Harry says, and Louis giggles quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Harry.

“I’ve been here a day, and I’ve already been told that,” Louis pauses, reaching for the door handle, and then, somehow managing to do the worst and best imitation of a Texas accent, he says, “Everything’s bigger in Texas. Including the heat.”

One of Harry's loud, honking laughs bursts out of him, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. The sound echoes down the corridor inside the building, and Harry's face grows impossibly hotter. 

“Like that?” Louis asks as the door slams shut behind them. 

Harry pulls himself together and says, “I’ll have to check something in the shower.”

Tilting his head, Louis frowns. “Hmm?” 

“I’ll let you know if everything’s bigger in Texas,” Harry says with a wink that seems to put them on even ground. Louis’ cheeks flush and he looks away, shaking his head, but smiling. 

“Here we are, Harold,” Louis says, pushing open a door with his name on it in all caps. It’s his dressing room, not a shower, and just like his dressing room backstage at the show in Connecticut, the same heavy, black curtains hang from the walls, and the same leather sofa and square coffee table sit off to the side. Louis waves him through to another door, and opens it, but this time he stands aside. “There’s a couple of clean towels, and, um, my shampoo and stuff’s in there if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Lou, I… Thanks,” Harry says, hauling his bags inside as Louis moves out of the way. The door closes on its own, leaving Harry alone in the tiled room. His unspoken ‘I love you’ echoes inside his head.

His tendency to overpack means he has clean clothes for a couple of days, but they're clean clothes meant for Niagara Falls weather, not Big Texas Heat. If he puts on a pair of jeans, he might actually die, so he pulls out a threadbare white t-shirt and a pair of bright blue basketball shorts—his travelling compromise to lounging about in less, the way he does at home—and fishes a pair of clean pants from the bottom of his suitcase. While he’s there, Harry quickly unpacks and repacks his things, shoving all of his dirty laundry into his weekender bag, and fitting all of his clean clothes and his toiletry bag inside his suitcase. 

After a flight, Harry usually likes a long, hot shower, but even with the aircon keeping the temperature down, standing in water warmer than his body temperature sounds like torture. Harry scrubs himself quickly, glad his peppermint soap leaves him feeling cooler, and when he’s finished washing, he turns the water to cold and stands there letting it rain down over him for a few minutes. Clean and refreshed, Harry dries off and dresses, making sure to apply deodorant every place he might need it. 

Louis’s sitting on the sofa, messing around on his phone, half-smoked cigarette in his right hand, but he puts his cigarette out and tucks his phone away when Harry sits down beside him. 

“Are you supposed to use your right hand?” Harry asks, running his fingers through his damp hair as an excuse to turn and look directly at Louis, and hoping the Big Texas Humidity won’t give him Big Texas Hair. 

Ignoring Harry's question, Louis asks, “Is everything bigger in Texas?”

“Afraid not,” Harry says with a shrug, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. “So… What’s with the second bus?”

“Oli insisted,” Louis says, clicking his tongue. “It’s ’cause the doctor says I need to sleep a certain way with my arm and the bunks aren’t wide enough, so now I’ve got a second bus to myself with a king size bed like a proper knob.”

“Can I see it?” Harry asks before he can think to stop himself. His and Louis’ eyes widen at the same time, and Harry blinks as he looks away. “I mean, I’ve never really been on a tour bus before. I’m curious.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, yeah,” Louis says, getting to his feet, and grabbing the handle of Harry's suitcase with his left hand before Harry can pick it up, ignoring Harry's protests. He leads Harry back out of the building into the searing summer heat, and crosses the lot to the bus, oversized t-shirt spinning away from his body when he turns around to smile at Harry, walking backwards for a few steps.

Louis carries Harry's suitcase onto the bus and lays it on the nearest sofa, then heads for the short hallway that leads to the back. Harry drops his bag and follows. On either side are curtains hiding what Harry assumes are bunks or storage, then there are sliding doors facing each other, and through another, wider, mostly open sliding door is a bed with about a foot of space on either side. There’s not much else to the room. 

Flanking the bed are what look like wheel wells turned into bedside tables, and over top of the head of the bed are cabinets. Compared to the space, the mattress is massive. And messy. The bed’s unmade and Louis’ phone is plugged in, half hidden under two pillows stacked perpendicular to another stack of two pillows. 

“Maybe everything is bigger in Texas,” Harry says.

Louis sputters a short laugh, and says, “You want to come to soundcheck?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and with a nod, Louis unfastens his sling and lets his arm swing freely. Barely tamping down the reediness that creeps into his voice, he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Changing ’cause I spilled coffee on my shirt and it’s too fucking hot for joggers on stage,” Louis says, tossing his snapback on the bed and pulling off his shirt before Harry can explain that he was talking about his broken arm. Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight, and Louis laughs. “I’ve got pants on, Harold.”

Harry opens his eyes and Louis is standing there, naked from the waist up, bent over and digging through a hidden compartment in the wheel well which is apparently where he keeps his clothes. 

“So where’s the loo on the tour bus?” Harry asks, impressed with his ability to think in the face of difficulty, i.e. the prospect of seeing Louis’ arse again, this time encased in black Calvin Kleins, the top two inches of which are visible with his untied, too big joggers. 

He reaches for the nearest door-like thing and finds a shower that might have room for him to turn around in, but across from that is a larger room, if you could call it that, with a tiny tub he could sit in if he hugged his knees to his chest, a sink small enough to wash one hand at a time, and a toilet that seems to be normal sized, but with two push buttons labelled with a number one and two. 

Harry snorts, and closes the door, and Louis is wearing a yellow t-shirt and a pair of light grey cut-off joggers, snapback on backwards this time, and it’s somehow worse than before. 

Louis picks up the sling to put it back on, and Harry finds his voice. “Does it hurt? Your arm?”

“Not really,” Louis admits with a shrug, fumbling with the sling. 

Stepping into the room again, Harry shuffles sideways around the bed to Louis. “Let me help.”

“Alright, Harold,” Louis says, holding his right arm out bent at the elbow, and lifting his chin slightly as he hands over the sling. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards even as he presses his lips together. 

Harry carefully cradles the back of Louis’ bicep, running his hand down to cup his elbow, then he gently grips Louis’ forearm. Frowning at the sling, Harry admits, “I’ve no clue what I’m doing.”

“Me either most days,” Louis says, and Harry glances up at him with a grin. 

“With this sling,” Harry says, and it’s Louis’ turn to blush. 

Stammers smoothing out the more he speaks, Louis says, “Sorry. Yeah. It’s— Hook it on my thumb.” He wiggles his thumb, and Harry smiles, finding the slot and sliding it over, unable to hold eye contact with Louis when he winks, keeping his eyes on Louis’ arm instead. “Now get me tucked in,” Louis continues, flapping his elbow a bit like a bird. 

“Stop moving,” Harry says, and Louis stills.

“It’s hard not to use it when it doesn’t hurt,” Louis says, shrugging with both shoulders and both arms, hands held up and out to the sides.

“Louis!” Harry swats Louis’ left arm, and Louis gasps, clutching at it with his right hand, ‘broken’ right arm moving just fine. “I thought your arm was broken.”

“It is, but it’s like, a hairline fracture, and the doctor said I don’t have to wear the sling as long as I get proper rest and don’t do any, like, exercising with my right arm, or picking up heavy shit.” Louis wiggles his elbow into the sling, and says, “Put the strap over my head.”

“I was worried about you when you said you went to Starbucks,” Harry admits, and Louis’ already pink cheeks flush darker. But he stays silent, ducking under the strap when Harry holds it up, standing still while Harry adjusts it over his shoulder, fingertips brushing Louis’ neck and the soft hair at his nape. 

“JD was with me at Starbucks,” Louis says, stepping away from Harry and reaching up and back to adjust the padding on the strap so it lays smoothly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I was just complaining. I didn't mean to scare you or make you think I was worse off than I am. So, um, sorry I made you fly all the way down here.”

“I wanted to come,” Harry says, surprised at his candour. He wills himself to continue, “I’m glad you’re not hurt. But I’m glad you’re being careful with it. And I’m glad you’ve got a bus to yourself. I… I… I like your friends, but I like hanging out with just you, too. I’m better with big crowds. Small groups make me nervous.” 

“Where are you staying?” Louis asks, and Harry twists his lips, squinting until his eyes are almost shut, though he can still see Louis bend over directly in front of him, and pick up his phone.

“I don’t know,” Harry says slowly, dragging out each word. “I didn't book a hotel. Is there… Do you know if there’s one close by?”

“How long are you here?” Louis clicks his tongue, and asks, “When do you fly out?”

“I, uh… don't have answers to either of those questions,” Harry says, and Louis’ expression morphs from thoughtful to thunderstruck, then he slips past Harry, sling brushing against Harry's stomach. 

Louis pushes one of the curtains in the corridor aside, revealing a single bunk above unused storage space. “You can stay on the bus with me. There’s two bunks here and the couches fold out, too.”

Harry’s back aches just thinking about it, but he nods, and says, “Sounds fun. And I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“I’m fine, Harold, I swear,” Louis says, flipping Harry off with his right hand. “See? It works perfectly.”

“Then I’ll sleep in the Big Texas Bed and you sleep in the bunk,” Harry says, jutting his chin out, and biting down on his smile. 

Eyes closed, Louis shakes his head, and says, “Brutal.”

“I’m joking,” Harry says. He’s willing to suffer with a little back pain to spend more time with Louis, but he’s not about to admit it.

“You can have the bed, though,” Louis says earnestly, ducking his chin, eyelashes casting shadows on his face but not completely concealing the blue of his eyes when he looks up at Harry. “I did sort of trick you into coming here.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Harry suggests, holding out his fist. 

Harry plays scissors. 

Louis throws paper. 

Harry suspects cheating.

“When’s soundcheck?” Harry asks, changing the subject. 

Louis pulls out his phone, and says, “Expecting Oli in three minutes.”

“Should we go?” Harry asks, looking past Louis at the door. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, turning that way, then stopping to open the full sized refrigerator. He grabs two big bottles of water, and passes one to Harry. “There’s Gatorade, too, if you want one.”

“This is good. Cheers,” Harry says, opening his bottle and taking a swig before he can tell Louis, “I love you.” 

Louis licks his lips as they stretch into a smile, and says, “Come on. We’ll be early.”

They're not early. 

Oli’s coming towards them when Louis opens the door, on his way out to the bus to meet them. They walk together through the concrete corridors, Harry on Louis’ right, Oli on his left, but a step ahead, and when they get to the door labelled ‘stage,’ Oli opens it and stands aside while Harry follows Louis through. There’s a set of stairs leading up to the stage, and Harry stops at the bottom.

“Where do I sit?” Harry asks, trying to keep his voice down and accidentally making it deeper.

“You can sit anywhere, Harold. Oli’ll stay with you,” Louis says, nudging Oli with his left elbow, and nodding towards the steps, waiting for Oli to climb the first few steps before he starts up behind him. “You can stay backstage if you want. Or you can check out the seats. Or Oli can grab you a chair to sit on stage. Or he can walk you around.”

“He doesn’t have to—” Harry cuts himself off, the back of his neck heating. “Oli, you don’t have to stay with me. Wait…” Rolling his lips in together, Harry says, “Does he?”

“Don’t want you to get lost, Harold,” Louis says when he gets to the top step. He props his hands on his hips, and looks around, reaching up to brush his fringe aside. 

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated, Oli,” Harry says as sincerely as he can, waving at Louis’ band members. They're already on stage, tuning instruments, waiting for Louis.

“I’d rather walk you around the venue if that’s alright,” Oli says, shifting sideways away from Louis. “He’ll be stroppy if I don’t.”

“I won’t,” Louis insists, gaze darting from Harry to Oli. He frowns and says, “Don’t be a dickhead.”

“Oli, will you show me around the amphitheatre?” Harry asks, stifling a laugh when Oli nods rapidly and gestures for Harry to follow as he walks away. Hanging back, Harry watches Louis for a few seconds, then says, “Try not to break any bones.”

“I’ll try,” Louis says, mouth curving into a smile. “But I make no promises.”

Harry follows after Oli, down the stone steps at the side of the stage, and around the barrier at the bottom. Oli’s waiting for him by the first row.

“You really don’t have to hang out with me or show me around if you don’t want to,” Harry says. 

“It’s not a chore, Harry,” Oli says. He jerks his thumb towards the stage, glancing back at Louis. “Makes him happy. When he’s happy, I’m happy. Besides, I go to every soundcheck and every show. Gets a bit repetitive.”

Harry gasps dramatically, but when Oli looks over at him, Harry says, “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Not a secret,” Oli says with a chuckle that pulls a quiet snort from Harry. “I tell him he’s boring all the time, or I tell him he needs to write new songs. Gotta keep him from getting a big head.”

“He’s lucky to have you around,” Harry says, hoping his sincerity is obvious. 

Oli doesn’t respond, just turns to walk up the wide ramp between the sections of chairs. Speakers hiss and crackle, and Steve pounds out a familiar rhythm on the drums while Louis hums and clears his throat. 

“You want to sit?” Oli asks, stopping at the end of the back row.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, switching his bottle of water to his other hand and wiping the condensation off on his t-shirt. He follows Oli and takes a seat, leaving one folding chair between them and setting his drink on it. On stage, Louis grips his mic stand with his right hand, then lets go, grabbing the mic with his left hand instead, taking it off the stand. “Can I ask you about Louis’ arm?”

“What about it?”

“Is it really okay for him to use it?” Harry asks, and Oli turns to face him, narrowing his eyes and looking him up and down. “Not like— I don’t— I mean on stage.”

Oli snickers, turning to hide his laugh in his shoulder, then he says, “Doctor said it’s fine as long as he rests. So, like, no partying, nothing strenuous, and he’s supposed to sleep with his arm propped up on a stack of pillows.”

Harry hums and leans back in his seat. “Can’t believe he ran into a wall.”

“Did he tell you how he broke his arm last time?” Oli asks, stretching his arm out across the back of the empty seat between them.

“He said he fell off the kerb,” Harry says, remembering that at the time, he thought there had to be more to it, but he’d let it go, not wanting to bother Louis.

“He did,” Oli says with a wicked grin. “He was fucking around, shoving Mikey, and he took off running, turned and started going backwards. Stepped right off the pavement like it wasn’t even there. Joni wasn’t quick enough to catch him. Landed hard on the edge of the kerb.”

“Ouch,” Harry says, hissing through his teeth.

“Passed out and scared the shit out of me,” Oli says with a nod towards the stage. “Thought it was his head or something, but it was because of the pain.”

“Oh, wow…” Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to clear the image of Louis’ X-ray from his mind. “I’m glad you made him get a second bus.”

“Yeah, I’ve been sleeping on one of the sofas,” Oli says, glancing at Harry. “I’m going to stay on the other bus while you’re here.”

“Wha— How did you—”

“Louis texted me while we were walking up here and said you’re staying on the bus with him,” Oli says with a smirk. 

“I’m sleeping on one of the bunks,” Harry says. 

Oli winks and gives Harry a thumbs up. “That’s what Louis said.”

Harry sighs and sits back in his chair, focusing on Louis who’s finally stopped messing around with the band, and is back at the mic stand, waving in their direction. Harry waves back and Oli flips his middle fingers up.

They stay there through the entire soundcheck until Louis stops and walks over to the backpack Oli’s always carrying around, squatting down beside it. Oli stands and stretches and says, “Smoke break.”

Harry gets to his feet, too. It’s too hot to smoke. The idea of holding something that’s technically on fire is unappealing at the moment. He follows Oli down the grass and around the barrier, back up to the stage. Though he tries to keep focused on the path in front of him, Harry finds himself watching Louis as often as he’s watching where he’s going, but thankfully he doesn’t trip and fall. Louis hops up out of his squat and heads towards the side of the stage where he sits, legs dangling over the edge. 

“You smoke, Harold?” Louis asks just as Harry recognises the joint between Louis’ lips for what it is. Harry nods and Louis sparks his lighter to life, lips pursing as he pulls air through the joint, flame flaring and fading as the fire burns on its own. The earthy, musky scent hits his nose, smelling stronger the nearer he gets to the stage. He tips his face further back the closer he is to Louis, and Louis smiles, smoke seeping slowly from his mouth. 

“You look like a demon,” Harry says, squinting in the afternoon sun. He lifts his hand to shade his face, and Louis beckons him closer, leaning down and holding the joint out for him to take. “Don’t fall off the stage.”

“I won’t,” Louis says, jerking the joint out of Harry's grasp. He leans back on his left hand, holding the joint between his right thumb and forefinger, inches from his yellow t-shirt.

“You’re wasting that,” Oli snaps, stepping up and snatching the joint. He takes a hit and passes it to Harry, holding the smoke in as he says, “I’ll grab a couple bottles of water.”

Oli heaves himself up on stage and Harry steps closer to Louis, holding the joint to his lips, sucking slowly because he’s more of an edibles person, and he always coughs when he smokes weed. He hands it back to Louis, turning his head to exhale through pursed lips. 

“What else are you soundchecking?” Harry asks, eyes drawn to Louis’ swinging legs, the spread of his thighs, the space he’s made between them that seems the perfect size for Harry to fit. Half a hit and he’s already feeling horny and cuddly. Harry sighs, and takes the joint when Louis offers it. 

Louis sits up straight again, shaking out his left wrist, and says, “‘Only the Brave’ and ‘Written All Over Your Face.’”

“Two of my favourites,” Harry says, and he has to stop himself from applauding then and there. 

“You have favourites?” Louis says, scrunching his nose and pressing his lips together. 

“I like all your music.” Harry frowns, and says, “I’m a fan. Very much. A lot.” 

“Big fan?” Louis smirks, reaching back to tug on the bill of his snapback, adjusting it as Harry takes a hit off the joint, pulling too hard and almost instantly falling into a coughing fit. He holds the joint out towards Louis, eyes closed as he coughs, covering his mouth with his other hand. There’s a scuffling sound, then the heat of Louis’ body close beside him, he’s relieved of the joint as Louis begins rubbing Harry's back. “Alright, babe?”

Harry coughs harder. Babe. ‘Written All Over Your Face’ is going to be tough to get through in his basketball shorts. Catching his breath, Harry opens his water, tips his head back, and drains the bottle. 

“Two more songs, and we can get some food or something,” Louis says, taking a pull off the joint. He hands it over, and turns, heading for the stage, then he stops, looking back at Harry. “Don’t know if I can get up there with one hand.”

“You want a boost?” 

“You’re not picking me up, Harold,” Louis says, already walking towards the steps at the side of the stage. Oli appears just in time to toss Louis a bottle of water as he passes, then he jogs down the stairs and back over to hand Harry a bottle, too.

“You have any special diet restrictions?” Oli asks, and Harry tilts his head to the side.

“What? Why?” Harry asks with a frown. 

“Louis’s going to send me to pick up food for you,” Oli says with a shrug. “Thought I’d go ahead and ask. Is there anything you want to eat?”

“I, um… I skipped lunch today, so I am hungry,” Harry says, holding a hand to his stomach. “And I’ll have the munchies soon enough, so… What does Louis usually eat?”

“Before a show: Pasta. After a show: McDonald’s, Dominos, Nandos when we’re in London,” Oli says, studying Harry's face as he speaks. “And whatever his meal service makes him when he’s home.”

Harry huffs a laugh through his nose. “I was about to ask how he’s so fit if all he eats is fast food.”

“Were you?” Oli asks. 

“Does he…” Harry lets his question trail off when Louis clears his throat, embarrassed at his unspoken do this often? He’d know if Louis was seeing someone. 

Harry's two favourite songs of Louis’ are also two of the shortest, but the second Michael starts to play his guitar, Harry's heart thumps to the beat, and when Louis looks at him and smiles, Harry would swear he feels it in his cock as he sings, “Hey, babe.” 

Harry instantly regrets smoking with Louis. He knew this would happen. Linking his fingers together to hide anything his dick might do without his permission, Harry moves to the music, body pulsing each time Louis sings those two words. 

When the song ends, Harry claps and Louis laughs, waving away his applause. At the first guitar strum of ‘Only the Brave’, Harry sighs, swaying back and forth, eyes half-closed. As always, when it ends, he finds himself wishing the song was longer. Harry inches closer to the stage while Louis chats with the band.

“Is there something specific you’d like to eat tonight?” Oli asks, and Harry shakes his head.

“No, but, um… If Louis is having pasta, I’ll have that. No meat, though, if you can,” Harry says, planting both hands on the stage and hauling himself up like he’s getting out of a pool. Louis meets him halfway, eyes crinkling with his smile, and Harry waits until he’s only a step away to ask, “Do you have, uh… visitors on tour often?”

Louis shakes his head, smile dropping. “Sometimes my family comes to shows, but like, at home, not here. Why?”

“Oli’s just a really competent PA, I think,” Harry says, embarrassed at his suspicion. It hasn’t even been that long since Everett. Of course Oli’s accustomed to taking care of Louis’ guests. 

“Did he do something?” Louis asks, reaching out to trail his knuckles down Harry's upper arm. 

“No, not at all, I mean, he’s been cool to hang out with during soundcheck,” Harry says, leaning in slightly. “He wanted to know if I had any allergies, and what I wanted to eat, but I told him I’d have pasta if that’s what you’re having.”

“Whatever you want, Harold,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose. “If you want sushi or something.”

“I don’t want sushi, but… I, um, I do kind of want some Jammie Dodgers,” Harry says, twisting open his water bottle and taking a sip. 

“I could eat some Jammie Dodgers,” Louis says. He steps sideways and waves at Oli, shouting, “Oi! Find some Jammie Dodgers.”

“Yeah, mate,” Oli says, already typing and swiping at his phone screen, and muttering, “Jammie Dodgers in Texas.”

“What do you normally do after soundcheck?” Harry asks when Louis starts towards the side of the stage, walking slowly until Harry falls into step beside him. 

“Play Mario Kart,” Louis says, then he practically jumps down the stairs at the side of the stage. Harry hurries after him, laughing when he catches up in the concrete corridor, and Louis says, “I gotta piss, Harold.”

“Me, too,” Harry says, shaking his second bottle of water. It’s already almost empty. “I hope the fans have been hydrating all day.” Louis looks over at him, biting his lower lip, and Harry rushes out, “Zayn told me. People were passing out at some of your shows because they weren’t taking care of themselves. You’re paying for all the water they give away, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says like it’s nothing. 

Harry keeps quiet, walking beside him, watching his profile in his peripheral vision. “You’re a great person, Lou.”

“Stop it, Harold,” Louis says, though his tone is fond. 

“For now,” Harry says, pushing open the door before Louis can do it, and ushering him through. 

Harry has the sense to choose a urinal that isn’t directly beside Louis, and he manages to keep his eyes to himself, though he can’t say if the same goes for Louis, and there’s no way to know for sure. 

They wash their hands side by side, and Harry forgets about decorum, and asks, “When you piss, do you normally use your right hand or your left?”

Louis cackles and it echoes around the tiled room. He pulls another paper towel from the dispenser and dabs his shining eyes, and says, “Right. Had to use my left for two months and spent the whole time feeling like a stranger was holding my dick.”

“That was my next question,” Harry says as he opens the door. Another question occurs to him, but he answers it before he can ask it. Two months of wanking with his left hand. Of course, Everett was around then. 

Laughing again, Louis leads a too high, jealous Harry into the hall and to the exit where JD’s waiting to open the door. He walks them onto the bus, and checks it out, leaving them alone a moment later. 

“What was he looking for?” Harry asks quietly. “Fans hiding under the bed?” 

“Probably,” Louis says with a shrug. He grabs Harry's suitcase and Harry snatches it back.

“I’m not taking your bed, Lou,” Harry says, putting his bags on the floor in front of the other couch. “I know you need the rest. Your arm has to heal. I’ll sleep in a bunk or out here, but I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“We can talk about it later,” Louis says with a dismissive wave, taking his snapback off and combing his hair back with his right hand, his sling more of a fashion choice at this point. He turns the hat around and tugs the bill down his forehead, dropping to sit on the clean couch.

Harry frowns, sitting beside him. “I want to be Princess Peach.”

“Alright,” Louis says as he kicks off his Vans and tucks his feet under his arse, body leaning to the left, towards Harry, right arm resting against his ribs. He reaches for the controllers on the table and hands one to Harry. “Fair warning: I’m going to win.”

“Ha!” Harry presses the button, turning on the game before Louis can, and it’s on. Competitive nature taking over, Harry gets tunnel vision and remains focused on beating Louis as soundly as possible until Oli shows up with food more than an hour later. 

Louis wins, but barely. Out of thirteen races, he loses six. 

There’s garlic bread with the pasta, and Harry immediately reaches for it, using it like a physical barrier against his feelings for Louis. It’s like carb loading before a run, and Harry makes Louis walk him around the amphitheatre after they eat, unwilling to lose another game to a man with his dominant arm in a sling.

“What’s the rest of your pre-concert routine?” Harry asks as they walk up the grassy lawn, and Louis huffs quietly. 

“After I eat, I fuck around on my phone or play whatever game, then I shower if I haven't already, and sometimes if I have,” Louis says, lifting the hem of his yellow t-shirt to wipe the sweat beading on his face. “Then I get dressed, Krystle does my hair, and you’ve seen the rest, Harold.”

“Krystle does your hair?” Harry asks, fishing a clip from his pocket and using it to hold his curls back off his face.

“You haven't met Krystle?” Louis frowns, spinning around, and hooking his left arm around Harry's right. He pulls Harry with him, back down the lawn. “Come on. I thought you met her.”

“Oh, wait. Yeah, I did. She’s your stylist,” Harry says, hip bumping against Louis’ over and over as they walk. “Anyone I haven't met?”

“You know all the lads, yeah?” Louis asks, and then he lists off every single person Harry's already been introduced to. “Alright, alright. I reckon I’ll get showered first.”

They go back through the venue, but instead of heading for the bus, Harry waits on Louis’ dressing room sofa while he showers. He’s still high, but it’s mellow after eating all that pasta, so when he rests his head on the back of the sofa, he drifts off. 

“Harold,” Louis sings, and Harry's eyes fly wide open to find Louis above him, upside down, wet, and shirtless. 

Harry sits bolt upright, twisting in his seat. Behind him, Louis is wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a pair of Adidas slides on his feet. Droplets of water gather at the ends of his hair and drip onto his shoulders where they line up before running down over his chest. 

“You were snoring,” Louis says, and Harry sputters, getting to his feet, somehow feeling sober and spaced out simultaneously. 

Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Harry slides his hands down his face to cover a yawn, wishing for a cup of coffee. Louis walks over to the clothes rack pushed against the black curtain on the far wall, and begins to rifle through the hangers. 

“Loo,” Harry says, hurrying out of the room. He should’ve gone elsewhere because the bathroom smells of Louis’ soap and shampoo and deodorant, and it’s like being misted with eau de Louis while he forces himself to pee and scrub his hands, praying Louis will be dressed when he opens the door. 

He’s wearing black jeans, the same Adidas slides, and nothing else.

“Decided to give the louies what they want and show them your tits?” Harry asks, and Louis flips him off, giggling and opening the door to the hall. 

“I can’t find the shirt I want to wear,” Louis says, darting down the hall and walking through a propped open door with Harry on his heels. “Krystle?”

Harry shakes Krystle’s hand like he’s meeting her for the first time, and while she dries and styles Louis’ hair, he eats his Jammie Dodgers, and flips his middle finger up at Louis whenever he looks his way, pulling faces, and generally acting like a child. 

Hair dry, clothes on, Louis laces up a pair of white trainers, and hops up out of his seat. “Got to get my sling on.”

“I thought you might forget it,” Harry says, getting to his feet to follow Louis, waving goodbye to Krystle. 

“We’ll see how it goes,” Louis says, ducking back into his dressing room to grab the sling. This time, he puts it on himself, taking half the time it took Harry to put it on him earlier, and they head towards the backstage area where the band is hanging out. “Vodka Red Bull, Harold?”

“I’ll try it,” Harry says with a shrug. “The Louis Tomlinson pre-concert special.”

Louis pours their drinks, not even pretending his right arm’s out of commission. He does use his left to lift the vodka bottle and pour, but he carries Harry's cup over in his right hand, winking as Harry takes it.

It’s pretty gross. Harry's doesn’t much care for citrus flavoured drinks. Or energy drinks in general. But it goes down easy with Louis smiling at him the whole time, tapping their plastic cups together and making everyone toast to Harry's presence among them. 

“To Harold!” Louis shouts, cup high in the air, cigarette dangling from his right hand, and every person with a drink raises it, shouting Louis’ words back at him.

“To Louis!” Harry yells, using every octave to his advantage. He taps his cup against Louis’ sling, and while everyone drinks to Louis, Harry meets his eyes and says, “To keeping the rest of your bones intact.”

“Where are you going to be while I’m on stage?” Louis asks, tipping his cup back and taking a long sip. 

“Where do you want me?” Harry replies flippantly, hiding his face in his cup when he realises he’s unabashedly flirting. “I mean, I’m flexible?” That’s not better. “Tell me what to do.” That’s actually much worse. “Should I stick with Oli?” 

Louis blinks at him, slowly lowering his cup. “Come watch the support with me. You can decide if you want to stay there or go somewhere else when I’m on.”

Joni comes, too, and Oli, and a few minutes later, Krystle appears at Oli’s side, and the five of them watch the opening band from the wings, using an old, four-legged wooden stool as a table for their drinks and Louis’ ashtray, though after he puts his cigarette out, he doesn’t light another. 

There aren’t any slow songs, but Harry finds he’s thankful for the lack, the caffeine from the can of Red Bull buzzing in his veins alongside the vodka and the lingering high from the earlier joint. Harry happily hangs on a cloud a few inches off the ground, bumping Louis’ arm now and then, keeping his eyes forward, vision blurring a little as he feels the music flow. 

Applause wakes him from his trance, and he turns to Louis, mirroring his grin. Louis tips his cup back and finishes it, sets it on the stool, and says, “I need the loo.”

Harry has just enough time to wonder if it’s a pre-show ritual, then the band is filing past, and Louis is back, smacking Harry's arse as he walks by him to get to the stage. A tequila on the rocks washes away the taste of Red Bull, and Harry sips his drink between songs, singing along and dancing, swaying to the music, riding the peaks and valleys of Louis’ voice. He shouts along with the fans whenever Louis holds the mic out for them to sing, and he ignores Oli beside him laughing and calling him a louie and a stan. 

When Louis walks off stage before the encore, Oli hands him a bottle of water, and he drinks some, then peers into Harry's cup. “Tequila, Harold?”

“Tequila, Lewis,” Harry says, clutching his cup with both hands to keep from tucking a sweaty strand of Louis’ hair behind his ear. 

Some tequila splashes onto his shirt while he’s jumping and screaming along to ‘Out Of My System’, but he’s past the point of caring, his hair is a complete mess and falling out of the clip he put it back with earlier, and he probably smells like sweat and garlic. 

Louis strides off the stage, dropping the mic, and Harry would swoon if he hadn’t been making sure to stay hydrated all day. 

They're like a gaggle of geese following Louis through the venue and out to the bus. Oli snatches up his backpack from Louis’ dressing room, and they pile into the big bus, cramming onto chairs and couches, all of them flying on post-show adrenaline. Louis takes the two seater couch, sitting on the right and resting his elbow on the sofa’s arm, patting the space beside him until Harry sits.

“Post show routine?” Harry asks, and Louis laughs, letting his head fall back and loll to the side, smiling at him.

“Drink, talk shit, eat something, and don’t be the first to go to bed,” Louis says, and Harry hopes he can stay awake long enough to make Louis happy. 

Harry's among the first to go to bed, but it’s Louis’ fault, so he gets away with it. It’s hours later and they're all pretty fucked up, and the buses are parked at a rest stop on the interstate. Louis leads him back to his bus when it’s time to go, and Oli follows, climbing on, and falling onto his couch face down on the blankets, still in his shoes. 

“Come on, Harold,” Louis says, pushing Harry down the short hall of his private bus and through the bedroom door. 

Crossing the few inches of space from the door in a split second, Harry finds himself on his stomach on Louis’ bed. Warm all over, but skin cool from the hardworking aircon on Louis’ bus, Harry stretches out, arm hitting a pile of pillows. 

“Lou!” Harry lifts his upper body off the bed. It’s all he can do, and he can manage it for barely a moment before dropping back down onto the mattress and slurring, “It’s your bed.” Only it comes out like issyorbed, all one unintelligible word.

“This is my dance space,” Louis says, and Harry learns that he can turn his head to the side. He grins, but then he stops because when he smiles, his cheeks hurt and his eyes shut and then he can’t see Louis, so he makes himself not smile, which is harder than it sounds. 

Louis tilts his head and lines appear between his eyebrows, but they're too far away for Harry to poke, so he just raises his arm and points while Louis outlines his pillow walls. 

“This is my dance space,” Louis repeats, then he points back at Harry, touching the tips of their fingers together. “This is your dance space.”

Harry lets his arm fall and it bounces on Louis’ pillows. He crawls up the bed and over a bit, sprawling on his stomach, and when he catches Louis’ gaze, he says, “Spaghetti arms.”

Louis laughs, a sudden sound so bright Harry can’t contain his smile, so he doesn’t see when Louis flops onto the bed, but he feels it, bouncing and giggling. Louis says, “Haven’t seen that in years.”

“Dirty Dancing,” Harry says, remembering the one time he rode in a lift with Jennifer Grey and didn't realise it was her until he saw her on an episode of Friends. “A classic. ‘I carried a watermelon.’”

“We can watch it tomorrow,” Louis mutters from the other side of his stack of pillows. 

Harry can’t see his face, but his right arm is laying on top of the pillows between them, so Harry can perfectly picture Louis laying on his left side, cuddling his pillows, knees bent, body curled up, face relaxed, eyes closed. Drifting off happens without Harry noticing, and he sleeps the whole night like that, on his stomach in Louis’ bed.

The hangover isn’t terrible. Harry wakes up before Louis to find neither of them have moved at all in the night, unless they changed position and changed back. He climbs backwards off of Louis’ bed, finding it easier than rolling over or navigating the small space at the perimeter of the room without hitting his shin or his head or his ankle on something. Harry backs down the hall, and turns around, stumbling over his own shoes. There’s cold water in the fridge, so he grabs one, and sits across from Oli, drinking half the bottle before he realises he needs to pee.

“Oli!” Harry half-whispers, half-shouts. “Oli, mate, wake up.”

“What?” Oli asks from under his blanket. 

“Can I use the toilet?” Harry asks. Face flaming at the thought of needing to shit on Louis’ tour bus, Harry adds, “To piss?”

“Yeah, mate,” Oli says, pillow falling to the floor as he sits up, ginger hair standing flattened to his head. “Don’t forget to flush.”

“‘Kay,” Harry says as he stands, finding it easier to stay on his feet. He’s barely closed the door behind him when it opens again, and Louis steps into the tiny room beside him.

“I’ve got to piss, mate, share,” Louis says, and then he’s peeing, dick out, and Harry has to look because now that Louis is peeing, he absolutely has to pee, which means he has to see what he’s doing, so he winds up aiming with one eye closed, trying not to watch Louis’ hand on his cock, but failing miserably. 

At least he manages to finish peeing before Louis, and he tucks himself away as he backs out of the room. Oli’s sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, studying what appears to be the Starbucks app.

“You want a latte or something, Harry?” Oli asks, and Harry nods. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, looking up when Louis crosses the room. He sits next to Harry, leaning against him, pressing into Harry's side until Harry has no other option than to lift his arm and fit Louis underneath it. 

“Oli,” Louis says around a loud yawn. “Harold and I want to watch Dirty Dancing.”

“Get your own porn,” Oli says, still staring at his phone. 

“It’s not porn,” Louis says, leaning down to pick up Oli’s pillow from the floor and throwing it at him. “It’s a film about actual dancing.”

“It’s a romance,” Harry says, voice rough from sleep.

Oli waves a hand through the air between them, then he stands and starts for the front of the bus, and says, “Let me place the Starbucks order and I’ll find Dirty Dancing.”

“Where are we?” Harry asks quietly, and Louis shrugs, fitting himself back under Harry's arm. “Are you cold? How’s your arm?”

“I’m fine, Harold,” Louis says, closing his eyes and resting his head on Harry's shoulder. “Oli’s probably having coffee delivered. Otherwise we have to take the whole bus to Starbucks.”

They do have to take the whole bus to Starbucks, but Louis and Harry don’t move, sitting on the couch and swaying with the movement of the bus as it travels down the highway. Oli runs inside to pick up their order, and is back a moment later with their coffee, but then he leaves again, and the bus moves on without him.

“He’s on the other bus,” Louis says, checking his phone. “He found Dirty Dancing. Just sent me the link. You want to watch?”

Harry nods, and Louis turns on the telly, and they spend the next two hours on the couch, eating bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch when they finish their coffee, and going to check out the venue when the film ends. He counts twenty-eight instances of Louis doing something (walking on Harry's right and touching his lower back or hip from time to time) or saying something (“You reckon you could lift me like that?”) that makes Harry want to say ‘I love you’ and it’s not that way. It’s not. It’s not romantic; it’s too much like the love he feels for Zayn and Niall. Most of the time. 

“Where are we?” Harry asks as they walk up the stretch of lawn in front of the stage. 

“No idea, mate,” Louis says, pulling out his phone. He goes to his own website and scrolls until he finds that day’s tour venue. “Woodlands, Texas.”

Harry frowns and slips his phone from his pocket, fumbling as he unlocks it and searches for flights. “Oh, Houston. It’s like, just north of the city. Thirty minutes from the airport.”

“Are you leaving?” Louis asks, stopping halfway up the grassy slope and turning his entire body towards Harry. 

“I… Your next concert’s in three days, and it’s a long drive, and I don’t want to bother you or be in the way, and it’s Saturday,” Harry says, though that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t go back to work for another week. 

“Is it Saturday today?” Louis asks, eyes going wide with excitement. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, making another tick mark in his mind. On the romance side of the board. 

“You’re not in my way,” Louis says, reaching over to gently pinch Harry's hip. “And you’re not bothering me.”

Harry sighs, and says, “Thanks, but I… I didn't really think it through when I flew down here, and now I’m realising that, like, if you leave after the show tonight, we’ll be in Florida tomorrow.”

“I don’t have another show until Wednesday?” Louis asks, lip curling as he steps in closer to Harry, their upper arms brushing. He looks over at Harry's phone and the map showing the route to his next venue. “You want to go to New Orleans with me, Harold? Play tourist for the day?”

It’s probably a terrible idea, but that’s never stopped Harry before. 

“I love– that idea,” Harry says, and the way Louis’ entire face lights up, it’s possible his pause wasn’t noticeable. 

Louis pulls out his phone and cradles it, typing with both thumbs, then he slips it back in his pocket, and says, “Asked Oli to set up something for the lads, too. Hotel nights are a nice break.”

“I want to pay for mine if you’re getting rooms,” Harry says, thinking of a private shower, maybe even a bath. 

“Don’t worry about it, Harold, we rent out a floor when we can,” Louis says, waving away Harry's offer. “And I’ll still sleep on the bus.”

Wrinkling his nose, Harry says, “Why?”

“I’m not the biggest fan of hotels,” Louis says with a shrug. “They smell like air freshener. And the sheets never feel right. I’ll get a room and I’ll use it to shower and change, but the bus is like home when I’m on tour.”

“Understandable,” Harry says softly. 

They don’t stay outside long; it’s much too hot. And the day goes almost exactly like the previous one, except this time when Louis is on stage during soundcheck, Harry and Oli don’t walk around. Oli spends the entire time on his phone, and when Louis finishes singing ‘Only the Brave’ and Harry climbs up there to meet him, Oli disappears. 

Pre-show meal is tacos instead of pasta, and Harry eats so many fish tacos that he kind of wants to nap afterwards, but he watches the supporting band with Louis—skipping the vodka and Red Bull this time—and as he watches Louis’ show, his energy builds until he’s bouncing with it when Louis comes off stage. 

Everyone piles onto the bus, and Harry winds up with vodka in his cup, but at least there’s no Red Bull in the mix. A round of shots turns into a game of Odds when Louis points a bottle at Matt and says, “Odds you’ll do a shot of vodka with hot sauce?”

Matt stands there, cup in hand and paused in midair a few inches from his mouth. “One in thirty.”

Louis nods and with a wicked smile, begins to count down, “Three, two, one— Twenty eight!”

“Four!” Matt shouts at the same time, laughing loudly and turning to Michael. “Same dare, same odds?”

“One in twenty,” Michael says with a smug set to his jaw. Everyone whoops and oohs and he and Matt count back from three together, “Three, two, one—”

“Thirteen!” Michael and Matt yell at the same time, and Michael groans, but a moment later he takes the shot—equal parts vodka and hot sauce—and the game continues. 

Every single time Louis is given odds over twenty-seven, he chooses twenty-eight, and it’s blatantly obvious that no one wants to dare him to do anything other than the occasional shot of vodka until Harry takes his turn.

“Odds! Odds, you!” Harry spins around, arm extended, finger already pointing as he turns to face Louis. Lowering his voice, Harry leans in, and says, “Odds you’ll eat avocado toast?”

“Disgusting, mate,” Louis says, twisting his lips. “One in a hundred.”

“Three…” Harry starts, but Louis immediately joins in, and they finish together, “two, one— Twenty-eight!”

Louis’ mouth drops open on a gasp, and he stares at Harry, the room going silent for a moment. Breaking the silence by clicking his tongue, Louis says, “I’ll need a big cup of coffee to wash that down, Harold. You buying?”

“Rules are rules,” Harry says, as if he needs rules to this stupid game to agree to buy Louis breakfast. 

“Odds is odds!” Louis shouts and the rest of the bus calls it back to him so loudly that Harry covers his ears. 

At some point, Louis and Harry wind up on the couch again, Louis laying sideways, his injured arm resting on his stomach, the back of the sofa supporting it, his sock feet in Harry's lap. Around them, the game goes on, and eventually it’s Louis’ turn again. This time he dares the entire busload of people to get tattoos, but he nudges Harry, and says, “You count it, but everybody has to get a tattoo if you lose.”

“Okay,” Harry says, swirling what’s left of his tequila in his cup. “One in fifty. Ready?”

“Three,” Louis says, grinning when Harry counts along with him, “Two, one— Twenty-eight!”

“You’re not even trying, Lou,” Harry says when Louis acts surprised that they said the same number. “Everyone on this bus would probably get your face tattooed on their arse if you asked them to.”

“Even you?” Louis asks with a giggle, poking Harry's ribs with his toes. 

“Your face on a penguin’s body,” Harry says, and Louis pokes him harder, sending Harry into a fit of giggles that he fights by grabbing hold of Louis’ ankles. He squeezes, and Louis stills, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Sorry.”

“S’alright, Harold,” Louis whispers, pulling his feet away and sitting up cross legged. “What d’you reckon the tattoo ought to be?”

“You should give them a choice,” Harry says, leaning closer, Louis’ tired blue eyes reeling him in. “Like, three options to pick from.”

“‘Kay,” Louis says, eyes drifting closed. They fly open a second later, and Louis gets to his feet. “I need the loo. Let’s stop.”

The next thing Harry knows, they're at a truck stop and he’s taking his turn in the toilets, then he’s being herded onto Louis’ private bus alone. He’s just checked that he truly is the only one on the bus other than the driver when the door opens and Louis climbs on board, two big bottles of water cradled to his chest with his injured arm. He hands one to Harry, lays down on the nearest couch, and within seconds, he’s snoring. 

“Louis,” Harry says, bending down and tapping the centre of Louis’ chest. “Louis, wake up and get in your bed.”

The bus lurches to a start, and Harry almost topples over, but Louis grabs his shirt, and pulls Harry down to sit on the edge of the sofa.

“Thought you were asleep,” Harry says when Louis looks up at him through heavy lidded eyes. 

“I am.”

“You’re talking to me,” Harry tells him with another, slightly less gentle tap to his chest. 

“Talking in my sleep,” Louis says, lips barely moving.

“I’m taking your bed, then,” Harry says, yawning as he looks around at the other couch, Oli’s stuff still on it, pillows and blankets a mess. “Last chance.”

Louis doesn’t respond and his eyes appear to be fully closed, but Harry still hesitates, studying Louis’ unfairly long eyelashes and the slope of his nose, and when he realises how long he’s been staring, he gets up and goes towards the bedroom, hoping Louis truly is asleep. The bed looks exactly like it did that morning, so Harry takes off his shoes, crawls onto the mattress, and stretches out, leaving Louis’ stacks of pillows in place. He’s asleep in an instant.

There’s a warmth on Harry's back like a sunbeam shining on a spot from his shoulder blade, across his spine. The ray of sunlight moves, a thumb rubs back and forth over the edge of his scapula and Harry groans, pushing into the pressure, then pulling away when he finishes waking up. Louis is… massaging his back. 

“Lou,” Harry says, voice cracking on the single short syllable. 

Louis jerks his hand back, his apology comes out rough with sleep, “Sorry.”

There are two pillows between them and absolutely nothing inappropriate has happened, yet Harry's face flames at Louis’ confusion. He pushes himself up and sits back on his heels, looking down at Louis who rolls onto his back, still dressed in the clothes he wore on stage, right arm resting half on his stomach, half on the bed.

“It’s fine, Louis,” Harry says, reaching his arms overhead. “If anything, you made me want to get a massage at this ho— Hey, aren’t you supposed to be doing physio for your arm?”

“Stretches and stuff like that,” Louis says, moving his arm a little and tugging on the sleeve of his baggy t-shirt. “Promise I do them.”

“You want coffee?” Harry asks, looking over his shoulder as he crawls backwards off the bed. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, effortlessly sitting up. “Bus isn’t moving.”

“Does that mean we’re in the hotel car park?” Harry rubs his stomach under his t-shirt, and when Louis nods, Harry says, “Odds they have coffee inside?”

Harry grabs his suitcase, and Louis fishes clean clothes out of the same bedside compartment, grabs a black backpack from one of the cabinets, and a bag of toiletries from under the bed. The whole thing is hinged and he lifts it by the bottom corner, evidently enjoying Harry's reaction. 

“You like hidden cupboards?” Louis asks, stuffing his things into his backpack. Harry nods, waiting while Louis slips his Adidas slides on, and they carry their bags off the bus into the car park, but instead of a hotel, they're at yet another truck stop, and just outside the bus door are Oli, Joni, and JD. They all turn towards Louis, and Louis says, “Oi, what’s going on?”

“Hired a tour bus to take us around while we’re here,” Oli says, waving at the black Mercedes minibus parked nearby. “And there’s plenty of room, but JD wants something less ‘obtrusive.’”

“You don’t have to do the air quotes, mate,” JD says, looking at Louis. “I thought one of us could drive you in something more inconspicuous.”

“Like a Land Rover or something?” Louis asks with a laugh, giving JD a playful punch in the shoulder. “Let’s get to the hotel first.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” Oli says, pointing his phone at JD and Joni. “Itinerary’s in the email with directions and shit. Brunch at half-two.”

“Brunch?” Louis repeats, grinning at Harry, squinting against the sunlight, and when Harry's stomach swoops, he presses a palm to it.

“Oli’s a good PA,” Harry says, giving Oli a thumbs up. He returns the gesture, then flips Harry the bird, and Harry laughs. 

“Fuck off, mate,” Louis calls after him, though there’s no bite to it. He waits for Harry to climb on board the minibus first, then he follows, with Oli and JD behind them. 

Harry's used to having money. It’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about the cost of things. But being around Louis is very different. Things seem to be provided before he can want them, and it’s nice when that extends to Harry as well. The black Mercedes minibus is brand new and Harry falls asleep on the drive to their hotel, and when he wakes up, they're getting out at The Ritz-Carlton, and being ushered inside like secret agents. It’s fun, and even better, when Harry's herded to Louis’ room, there’s coffee waiting, three lattes from Starbucks and a freshly brewed pot on a room service cart. 

“You think my room comes with coffee?” Harry asks, and there’s a knock at the door. 

JD checks the peephole, and opens the door for Oli who comes in waving keycards. “One for each of you. Harry, you're next door. JD, other side. Brunch in an hour. Everyone’s meeting in my room; 812 across the hall.”

“Did you get the whole floor?” Louis asks, plucking the green stick from one of the Starbucks cups and taking a sip. 

“Yeah, and they asked two rooms to move to other floors for us,” Oli says, and Louis sucks on his teeth, then clicks his tongue.

“Can we get their tabs?” Louis asks, and Oli nods, turning and leaving the room again.

“Need anything?” JD asks, stopping the door before it can close behind Oli. Louis passes him one of the lattes, and JD nods his thanks, smiling as he steps into the hallway. “I’m going down to grab my bag, then I’ll be in my room.” 

Harry takes the last latte from the cardboard tray, kicks his toe against his suitcase, and says, “Suppose I’ll go check out my room. See you in an hour?”

“Yeah, Harold,” Louis says, walking over to the door and opening it. He leans against it, eyes following Harry as he picks up his suitcase and carries it through, standing in the corridor and looking both ways. His keycard reads 813, and a few seconds later, he’s alone in his room where his bags are waiting on the luggage rack.

Harry showers, and calls down to ask about having his laundry done. He’s on his last pair of clean pants, and the shorts he’s got on are the ones he figured he’d wear if he went hiking when he was in Canada. 

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry calls the doorman at his building to ask him to let Niall in so he can water his plants, then he packs all of his dirty laundry into the hotel’s laundry bag and hands it to the bellhop who knocks on his door. If he’s stuck wearing running shorts to brunch, at least he’ll have something clean to wear later if he needs to change before they go out for dinner. 

“Harold?” Louis' voice carries through the hotel room door, then he knocks, and Harry grins, getting up to let him in. 

He swings the door wide, and Louis steps inside. His hair's still damp from the shower, but his clothes are clean, olive green corduroy shorts with a white polo that’ll probably wind up wet with sweat the second they step out into the muggy New Orleans heat. He’s not wearing the sling.

“I told Oli to forget the extra car,” Louis says, twisting his lips and wrinkling his nose. “Figured it’s easier if we stick together since JD doesn’t know his way around.”

“That’s fine with me, Lou,” Harry says, holding his arms out to the sides and looking down at his clothes. “This is all I’ve got to wear. I sent my laundry out.”

When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry frowns, glancing up to find Louis openly ogling his legs. Eyes darting upwards, Louis rushes out, “It’s good. Fine. Whatever you’re wearing. It’s just brunch, isn’t it? Doesn’t have to be fancy.” 

“Thanks, Lou,” Harry says, linking his hands behind his back, and rolling up onto the balls of his feet. Louis nods, holding Harry's gaze while he reaches for the door. 

“Say it again, mate,” Louis says with a quick wink before lifting his coffee cup to his lips and taking a sip.

Harry clears his throat, and repeats, “Beignets.”

The entire table says it like a call and answer, and Harry's face feels like it’s going up in flames. He kicks Louis under the table, and Louis says, “Ouch, Harold. It’s very sexy, that French accent.”

“It’s a terrible accent,” Harry says, slapping a hand over his mouth, then dropping it to his lap. “I meant my accent, not the French accent in general.”

They order their meals and beignets for the table, and Harry drinks his coffee and doesn’t order a Morning Margarita or a Lavender Paloma no matter how delicious they sound. He holds off until their food comes, then he gives in, enjoying every sip. With bags of beignets to take with them, they leave the restaurant and head out for a tour of the cemeteries. 

“It’s weird to be a tourist in a graveyard,” Harry whispers, leaning in closer to Louis’ ear. 

“It is a bit weird,” Louis agrees, cupping Harry's elbow and steering him around one of the above ground tombs. 

“What’s next on Oli’s grand tour?” Harry asks, keeping his voice down so he doesn’t interrupt the tour guide.

“Back to the hotel, then tattoos,” Louis says, swiping his thumb over the back of Harry's arm, then letting go. 

“You never said what you’re getting,” Harry says, though he’s still unsure if he’ll get ‘Odds’ in Louis’ handwriting the way most of the lads are, or if he’ll follow Krystal or JD’s lead and get one of Louis’ x-eye smiley faces. He’s partial to the drippy looking one, but he’s also had enough of Zayn and Niall calling him a fangirl. Harry knocks Louis with his elbow, and asks, “Odds?”

“I’m getting that, yeah,” Louis says, tracing an empty space on his right forearm. “But I want something else, too. You might think it’s, I don’t know, stupid or morbid or something.”

Tuning out the tour guide completely, Harry turns towards Louis, ducking down until Louis meets his eyes. “Tell me?”

“Okay, I’ll have to show you, but I left my phone back at the room, so I’ll—”

“I have my phone,” Harry says, pulling it from his pocket and offering it to Louis.

“No, it’s a picture I’ve saved,” Louis explains with a shake of his head. “I’ll show you. Promise.”

They're all overheated and sweaty when they get back to the hotel, and thankfully, Harry's laundry is waiting for him. He showers again, and since they're going to dinner and then out in the French Quarter after they visit the tattoo parlour, he wears his favourite jeans with the rips in the knees and a fitted white t-shirt covered in yellow hearts. When he’s finished tying his shoes, he goes next door to Louis’ room. 

Of course, Louis is shirtless. Shockingly, he’s found a pair of black jeans, and a black polo, too, but it’s been tossed on the bed and forgotten while Louis scrolls through the photos on his phone. 

“Sorry, just…” Louis beckons Harry inside without looking up from his phone. “Found it. Okay, so…” Laying his phone face down on the bed, Louis says, “So, the tattoo. When they did my surgery, the doctor marked my arm, like, with a Sharpie or something. It’s what they do to make sure they're doing the correct arm or leg or whatever; use a marker to write their initials. The mark was still there after I woke up from the surgery, and I had Oli take a photo, and I want to have the initials tattooed just like the doctor wrote them.”

“Oh… I don’t think that’s morbid or stupid,” Harry says, sitting down beside him on the bed. “I can see why you’d want to, um… commemorate it? I get it. Can I see the picture?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s kind of…” Louis trails off, picking up his phone again and scowling at it. “It’s rough looking. It’s right after surgery so it’s swollen and bruised and there’s some blood. Sure you want to see it?”

“Show it to me, Lewis,” Harry says, and when Louis flips his phone around, Harry gasps. “Oh my god, Lou… What the fuck?” Tears spring to Harry's eyes, and he grabs Louis’ arm—he hasn’t bothered to wear the sling all day—and lifts it to look at the underside of his bicep, sucking in a sharp breath when he sees the scar. “Louis, it’s… it’s healed so well.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that,” Louis says, huffing a laugh. He lets Harry hold his arm up and he lets him trace the line of his scar, but he jerks away when Harry gets to the end near his armpit. “Still kind of numb around the scar, so that really tickled.”

“It just looks so bad in the picture, and so…” Harry runs the pads of his fingers over the scar again, and says, “It doesn’t itch? Do you put lotion on it?”

“It’s fine, babe,” Louis says, tucking one of Harry's unruly curls behind his ear. “You decide what you’re getting?”

“Yeah, um… ‘Odds’ like the rest of the lads,” Harry says, touching the spot on his own arm where Louis’ scar is. “In your handwriting. And, um, here, I think. Same place.”

“Good call, Harold,” Louis says, picking up his shirt and yanking it over his head. “You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Oli’s booked the entire tattoo parlour for a couple of hours, but it still takes a while for everyone to decide on placement and then, for everyone to sit and get inked. Louis goes last, walking around and chatting to everyone as they're tattooed, and when it’s his turn, he has to lay on his back, arm stretched overhead. Harry sits beside him, and offers to hold his hand. 

“If it’ll make you feel better,” Louis says, but his fingers slide between Harry's easily, and he rubs his thumb over Harry's nonstop until the tattoo is finished. The surgeon’s initials aren’t any more legible on his skin than they were in the picture, but the lines are clear and bold and Louis smiles as they clean it up and bandage it. 

“Happy?” Harry asks when they climb back into the minibus to go to dinner. 

“I am,” Louis says, reaching over to touch Harry's bandaged tattoo. “Are you?”

“This is, um… the most fun I’ve had in a while,” Harry says, lacing his fingers together in his lap and studying his hands. “Back to the real world tomorrow.”

“This is the real world, Harold,” Louis says, “But I’ll miss you when you go.”

Dinner is po’boys and beer and after that, they head for the French Quarter, popping in and out of clubs, listening to the music from the street, but mostly just walking around. The crowd is older than Harry expected, maybe Mardi Gras is when the college kids come to town, and they wander into a club with real musicians and more people with silver hair on the dance floor than without. Something about the place makes them all comfortable, and soon Joni is dancing with Oli, then all the boys find their way to the floor, Louis and Harry included.

It’s not really dancing, mostly just swaying a bit with Harry doing a few twirls for the applause, but then whatever song the band’s playing fades, and they start up a new one that Harry instantly recognises. It’s ‘Love Man’ and in Dirty Dancing, it’s the song that’s playing the first time Baby dances with Johnny, after she carries a watermelon to the party. 

“Louis!” Harry throws his arms in the air, then he brings them down and makes a big hair-circle in front of himself. “This is my dance space, this is your dance space. Dance with me!”

“I don’t really dance, Harold,” Louis says, shaking his half-empty cup in Harry's direction. “You’ve seen me.”

“Come on, Johnny Castle!” Harry yells, grabbing Louis’ hand and pulling him closer. He puts Louis’ hands on his shoulders, and they both say, “Spaghetti arms!”

“Alright, Harold, I’ll dance with you,” Louis says, slotting his leg between Harry's and sliding his hands down to Harry's waist. 

It’s at that point Harry realises he’s made a mistake. 

Louis' thigh is right there, and his hands are right there, and his mouth is right there, and Harry's overwhelmed by all the places where they're touching and all the places they're not. Inches are all that are keeping them from kissing. His fingers are under Louis’ shirt, but resting on top of the shorts covering his hips. Layers of fabric, nothing but air… 

Someone bumps into Harry's side, and they stumble into Louis, and instinct carries Harry forward. He wraps his arms around Louis, twisting so that he’s protecting Louis with his body. Joni appears, then JD, and Oli, and in what feels like seconds, they're out of the bar and on the pavement. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, trying to keep from frowning at Louis. 

Louis lifts his arm up and says, “Totally fine, Superman. Able to protect me from a drunk old bird having too much fun.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around. JD and Joni have them pretty much cornered against the building, and with Oli and the rest of the lads gathered round, they're probably not even visible to people on the street. “I thought you might break your arm again.”

“I’m fine, Harold, I promise,” Louis says, taking Harry's hand and placing it on his arm. “Feel.”

Harry cradles Louis’ bicep, trailing his fingertips under his sleeve to touch the edge of his scar and the bandage covering his new tattoo. He sighs, and says, “I’m tired.”

“Well, good thing Oli rented this minibus,” Louis says, pointing past JD and Joni to the street where the massive Mercedes is pulling up to the kerb. 

“Are you sleeping on the bus?” Harry asks when they're seated and riding back towards the hotel in the dark. 

“Nah,” Louis says quietly. “That’s too much trouble for everyone else, carting me around town. I can stay in the hotel tonight.”

It’s not a long ride back to the hotel, and when they're all off the minibus, they start upstairs, laughing and talking, but tired. It’s been a long day, and everyone’s been talking about looking forward to sleeping in a real bed. Harry says his goodbyes in the lift, hugging each person in the hallway after they get off on the eighth floor together. He heads for his room while Louis is still talking to Steve, and once he’s in there with the door shut, the silence is deafening. 

A few days and he’s in deep. It’s past time for him to get back to New York. 

Sitting in his pants in his hotel bed, Harry books a flight home. He’ll be on the plane before Louis wakes up tomorrow; putting physical and emotional distance between them. 

Back in New York isn’t enough emotional distance. There’s a message from Louis on WhatsApp waiting for Harry when he lands, and one from Oli, too, that doesn’t make much sense. He ignores that and responds to Louis.

WhatsApp chat end.

WhatsApp chat end.

It’s just text, and of course there’s no way to read his tone, but the ‘mate’ on the end of Louis’ last message feels off. Harry tries to let it go, but it’s difficult when Louis doesn’t reply.

Harry spends the rest of the week in the city. He wanders the way he used to do when he was younger and the aircon in his flat was terrible, ducking in and out of shops to look around. Back then, he never bought anything, but this time, he soothes his sadness by shopping. 

It doesn’t help. He keeps thinking about Louis, where he is, and what he’s doing, and he tries not to text every time he thinks of him.

Zayn flies home Thursday, and on Friday, he shows up at Harry's flat unannounced. Harry opens the door to find his best mate standing there, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed, arms crossed over his chest. 

“If you’re not going to date Louis, you have to go out with someone,” Zayn says, stepping around Harry and into his flat. He traces a large circle in the air with his hand, shaking his head. “This is unacceptable.”

“This?” Harry looks down and gives a little shrug. His old cut-off jean shorts and ripped Rolling Stones t-shirt have been with him since he was a teenager. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“I’m not talking about your comfort clothes, H,” Zayn says, walking over to sit on Harry's green velvet sofa. “I’m talking about you—a hot, single man with nothing else to do—sitting home on a Friday afternoon with no plans for the weekend.”

“I just got back home,” Harry says, heading for the kitchen. He grabs a bottle of water for each of them, and joins Zayn on the sofa.

Zayn takes a moment to sip his water, and turns slightly to face Harry. “You’ve been home for three days, and you’ve been on holiday for almost two weeks, and you haven't been on a date since last autumn.”

“So?” 

“So, you need to go out,” Zayn says, tapping his fingers on the side of his water bottle. “You need to go out on a date.”

“With who?” Harry asks with a scoff, but Zayn only stares back, blinking slowly.

“Remember that director I told you about?” Zayn reminds him, and Harry tries not to flinch. He nods, and Zayn says, “I can give him your number. Tell him you’re not busy tomorrow night.”

“That sounds desperate,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Don’t tell him that.”

“What if I tell him…” Zayn trails off, humming quietly, then says, “You asked me to give him your number last week, but I forgot, and… you’ve been waiting for his call.”

“You’d never forget to do something like that,” Harry says.

“He doesn’t know that.” Zayn grins and winks, and says, “I’ll tell him you and I have plans for Saturday, but that I’ll cancel, and he can swoop in to save the day.”

Harry rolls his eyes, leaning his head back to look up at the ceiling, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to go on a date with some guy. He wants to go on a date with Louis. 

“H, you just spent three whole days with Louis, pining after him the entire time,” Zayn says as if he was there and has first hand knowledge. “Unless you intend to continue this lovesick be—”

“I’m not lovesick!” Harry huffs, getting to his feet, twisting the lid to his water bottle open and closing it again over and over, and for the first time, he admits aloud, “Yeah, I like Louis. But I’m not pining. I’m not heartbroken.”

“Then go out with Douglas,” Zayn says with a closed mouth smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can call him right now.”

Harry groans, throwing his head back, and yells, “Fine!”

“Harry Styles,” Zayn says flatly.

“Sorry!” Harry growls, clenching his jaw, then he forces himself to take a deep breath. And another. “I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to be… upset with you. Or annoyed or whatever. But I haven't been home and I don’t want to go out with this guy to—”

“Douglas,” Zayn corrects, and Harry sighs. “You know, you could just call Louis and ask him out.”

“No,” Harry says, pressing his lips together. He leans forward and sets his water bottle on his coffee table, freeing his hands, and begins to tick off his perfectly valid excuses for not telling Louis how he feels. “Louis isn’t interested in me. He said so during the interview. Like, he said he was no longer interested in me, specifically. And he told me he doesn’t like to date when he’s touring because he’s shit at keeping in touch. And— And! We slept in the same bed twice and he never made a move. In fact, he practically jumped away from me when he woke up with his hand on my shoulder. We weren’t even touching otherwise. He’s just not into me.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, reaching over and tapping the tip of each of Harry's extended fingers, gently folding them back down. “Would you like to hear my point by point rebuttal?”

“No, I would not.” Harry slouches back into the couch cushion, trying to frown without making the lines between his eyebrows any worse. 

Zayn licks his lips and inhales deeply, nostrils flaring, then he gives his head a quick shake, and says. “Instead of tomorrow, should I tell Douglas you’re free next weekend?”

“That’s… That’s fine,” Harry says, rubbing his temples. “You have grand plans for tonight?”

“Nothing grand,” Zayn says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I thought I’d spend some time with my best friends. Maybe watch a film. Maybe eat some pizza.”

“What about Niall?” Harry asks, and Zayn grins, checking his phone.

“On the way,” Zayn says. “He just picked up the pizza.”

A night in with his friends is exactly what Harry needs to get him feeling back to normal. They watch the new Julia Roberts film and the classic that made her a star, Pretty Woman. Harry spends the evening on his sofa, sandwiched between Niall and Zayn, perfectly distracted from any thoughts of Louis or of this Douglas person. That is, until Zayn and Niall are saying goodbye, standing just outside the door to Harry's flat, and Zayn says, “I’ll give Douglas your number.”

“The Kramer look alike?” Niall asks with a grimace. “What about Louis?”

Zayn turns to him and says, “Louis has made it clear, in Harry's opinion, that he's not interested. And Harry doesn’t want to hear that Louis said that before they became actual friends, or that he certainly manages to keep in touch with Harry whether or not they're dating, or that he—”

Harry shuts the door, cutting Zayn off, though he can hear Niall’s loud cackle from the hallway. 

By Monday afternoon, Zayn’s forgiven him for closing the door in his face. 

The first week returning to work after a few weeks hiatus is always a bit weird, but they're back in the swing of things midway through the day on Wednesday, and when Douglas texts Harry to arrange their date that afternoon, he’s surprisingly okay with the idea. It’s not that he expects the date to lead to anything more—he doesn’t even expect it to go well—but he finds himself looking forward to going out, making conversation, and most of all, not thinking about Louis.

Their WhatsApp chat is almost normal again, though Harry can’t stop his mind from repeating Zayn’s words, “He certainly manages to keep in touch with Harry” over and over.

WhatsApp chat end.

Harry tries not to read much into Louis not inviting him to join them after the concert. The next morning, Harry wakes up to a message declaring that all of Louis’ bones remain intact. 

Thursday evening, Harry gets home at his usual time, and goes through his usual routine, talking to his plants, showering off the day, and when it’s time to eat, he wanders into the kitchen. As much as he likes to cook, he doesn’t enjoy making meals for one, but tonight he’s in the mood for pasta, and that’s not difficult to portion out. 

He makes himself Scampi with linguine, tossing the prawns with twice the garlic the recipe calls for, barefoot in the kitchen and sipping wine while he cooks. His phone vibrates on the counter, and he picks it up, expecting Zayn with some contrived excuse as a poor disguise to check that Harry hasn’t backed out of the date with Douglas. Not that he’d need to find out from Harry directly. Surely he has ears in the film industry as well, and would probably know Harry cancelled the date before Harry did the cancelling. But it’s not Zayn. It’s Louis. 

FaceTime was invented for people like Louis who look impeccable from every angle, not for people like Harry who has to make sure his hair is in some sort of order, his face isn’t covered in spots, and his nostrils aren’t front and centre. The stainless steel of his refrigerator makes a poor mirror, so Harry just rubs his lips with the hem of his t-shirt to hopefully remove any purple stains from his red wine, holds the phone up at what Zayn tells him is a flattering angle, and answers.

“Hello?” Harry frowns at the dark screen, but no image resolves. “Louis?”

“Harold! Oh, hold on,” Louis says, and he appears with light shining down on him, clearly lying on his back in his bunk. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” Harry says, turning his phone and aiming it towards the cooker where his dinner is almost done. He flips the phone back around and smiles. “Pasta.”

“I didn't have pasta today,” Louis says, image shifting and blurring until it stills and he’s lying on his side, heavy curtain behind him. 

“What’d you eat?” Harry asks, moving the pot off the heat. 

“Went with the lads to a restaurant and had some, uh, barbecue,” Louis says, then he clicks his tongue, narrowing his eyes. “Made a fucking mess of myself, so I came back to the bus to change my shirt and decided to take a nap.”

“You’re not napping.” 

“I’m not,” Louis says with a smile that threatens to melt Harry from the inside out. “Couldn’t fall asleep, and I thought maybe your voice would do the trick.”

Scoffing, Harry sticks his tongue out at the camera, crossing his eyes, and Louis laughs, his hahahaha making Harry's insides all squirmy. He clears his throat, and says, “I’m not singing you a lullaby, Lewis.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Louis says a little quieter. “What’ve you been up to since you abandoned me?”

Harry gasps, affronted, but there’s an air of truth to Louis’ question, and he feels like he has to defend himself. “I didn't abandon you. You knew I was leaving.”

“Not true, Harold,” Louis says with a shake of his head that half buries his face in his pillow. “I convinced you to stay on to New Orleans. Thought I’d convince you to come to Florida by promising to take you to Disney World.”

“Did you?” Harry asks, biting his lower lip when Louis half nods, half shrugs. “Did you go to Disney World?”

“Yeah, it was alright, but I reckon it’d’ve been better with you there,” Louis says, shifting around on his bunk. “It was hot as hell and I had to sit with Oli on all the rides because JD and Joni are both too big for most of ’em, and roller coasters aren't nearly as fun with him screaming in my ear.”

“I don’t like roller coasters,” Harry admits, and Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, forehead wrinkling funny against the pillow. “I’m not afraid. I just… I don’t like feeling out of control.”

“That’s the best part, Harold,” Louis says, rolling his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Makes you grateful to get back on the ground.”

Harry studies Louis’ face, his sharp teeth and crooked grin, the crinkles by his eyes and the unreal blue of his irises, and says, “You’d’ve probably convinced me to go, and I’d’ve been sick all over you or something.”

“Gross, Harry,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose, eyes closed, clearly disgusted at the prospect.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me that,” Harry says, and he thinks back, searching his memory. 

“Well, it’s your name, isn’t it?” Louis huffs a little laugh, and Harry frowns.

“It’s weird.” Harry reaches up to rub at the lines between his eyebrows, and says, “Everyone else calls me H.”

“You want me to call you that?” Louis asks, and Harry shakes his head, but then he stops and looks up at the ceiling, pouting. “What?”

“You can call me H if you want to, but I like that you call me Harold most of the time,” Harry says, nodding as he puts words to his thoughts, dodging the ones like ‘it makes me feel special’ and ‘it sounds like a term of endearment’ and ‘you can call me whatever you want’ and ‘my name sounds so soft coming out of your mouth I can’t handle it’ and instead, changes the subject, “Are you all going out tonight since you don’t have a gig?”

“We might,” Louis says. “What day is it?”

Harry laughs and says, “Thursday.”

“Then, yeah, we might go somewhere,” Louis says, stifling a yawn by turning his face and hiding it in his pillow. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, and asks, “What about you, Harold? Big plans this weekend?”

“Oh, um…” Harry debates whether or not to tell Louis the truth, but he can’t make himself lie, so he tries to downplay it, and says, “I’ve got a date Saturday. No one special or anything, but Zayn’s been on me about giving the guy a chance, and I haven't gone out with anyone in so long I—”

“Harold,” Louis says, interrupting Harry's ramble before he builds up steam. “I hope you have a good time.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Harry says, glancing over at his meal cooling on the cooker. 

“’Course, mate,” Louis says, rolling onto his back, image blurring and steadying again. “But, um, I’ll let you get on with your pasta. Can’t be good to let it sit there while I talk your ear off.”

“It’s okay, Lou, I like talking to you,” Harry says, but Louis doesn’t seem to hear him.

“See you at the show next weekend, alright?” Louis gives Harry a tightlipped smile when he nods, then before Harry can speak, Louis says, “Bye, Harold.” 

The image on screen freezes and Louis’ gorgeous face is still there for a few seconds, then he disappears and Harry's left staring at nothing. 

His pasta has gone soggy, and his shrimp are tough, but Harry eats it anyway, sitting alone at his dining table, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut about his date with Douglas. It’s not hard to see that Louis was jealous at the mention of a date, unfairly so considering he’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in Harry that way. Still, Harry's mood sinks low, and he’s still grumpy when he goes to bed that night. 

At work the next day, Harry doesn’t say a word to Zayn about his conversation with Louis. He’s not up for arguing. 

Friday night, Harry watches some of Louis’ concert through a fan’s stream, but it’s not as fun as seeing him perform in person, and the sight of Louis on stage on a tiny screen just reminds Harry of their FaceTime conversation, so he closes it out.

“Ugh… Who goes to Central Park on a first date?” Harry asks as he hangs his carefully chosen outfit back in his closet. He’d planned for dinner and drinks, but then Douglas called and told him what he’d like to do today, and now he’s trying to decide how to dress for an afternoon date outside in the summer heat. 

“It’s creative,” Zayn says, not even looking at him from his spot on Harry's bed. He’s there for moral support and makeup application and to stop Harry from cancelling at the last minute. “You have to wear shorts. Unless you want to wear a skirt.”

“Not on a first date,” Harry says with a snort. “All of my shorts are athletic shorts.”

“Not true,” Zayn says as he sits up slightly, leaning back on his elbows. “You have those cut off jean shorts.”

“I’m not wearing those,” Harry says, heaving a sigh and digging a pair of white shorts from under everything else and holding them up, head cocked to the side as he tries to recall where they came from and if they actually belong to him. “I think these are Niall’s.”

“He won’t mind if you wear them.” Zayn twirls his finger in the air, and Harry rolls his eyes, dropping his joggers to the floor and stepping into the white cotton shorts. He fastens the zip and spins around, and Zayn says, “They look cute. When has Niall ever worn white shorts?”

“Golfing probably,” Harry says, turning to check out his bum in the mirror. “Should I wear a polo?” 

“Cosplay as Niall Horan, you mean?” Zayn asks with a laugh, shaking his head. “Wear one of your lacy tops. That mustard yellow one with the white flowers or the multicoloured stripes.”

Harry finds the striped shirt first, and slips it on, watching his reflection as he does up the buttons. “I’m going to hate every second of this date.”

“That’s the spirit!” Zayn throws a pillow at him, and says, “Have you been talking with Louis lately?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, unbuttoning his shirt. There’s sunscreen and makeup to apply, and hair to style, and it’s so much easier to do all that in his pants. He shucks the shorts and tosses them on the bed with the shirt, crawling onto the mattress to lie down beside Zayn. “We FaceTimed the other night. And I’m going to his last concert out in Queens next weekend. Which reminds me… Will you come?”

“To Queens?” Zayn asks with a slow blink. When Harry nods, he says, “Only for you, H. And you better not leave me to fend for myself.”

“I would never,” Harry says, stretching out on his bed, sighing into the cool fabric of his pillowcase. “Besides, Niall’s coming.”

“I was only joking, babes,” Zayn says, combing his fingers through Harry's curls and scratching his scalp. “Liam’s coming to visit next week, and he’s already asked me to go to Louis’ show, so maybe I’ll desert you, hmm?”

“You’re not going to Queens for me, you’re going for Liam,” Harry whines, pushing against Zayn’s head, asking to be petted again. 

They stay there on Harry's bed for a little while, Zayn slowly raking his nails through Harry's hair, Harry half asleep, but eventually he has to get up and get ready. There aren’t any spots on his face to cover, so Zayn simply applies some clear mascara and leaves Harry to cover himself in sunscreen. 

Douglas has asked Harry to meet him at the boathouse, and at first Harry thought he meant The Boathouse, as in the restaurant, but no. He wants to go out on a rowboat on the lake. Like tourists. Harry arranges a car to take him, not wanting to wind up sweaty and gross before the date can begin. 

It’s all wasted effort. The date is absolutely awful—Douglas shows up late and then preens and talks nonstop about himself without asking a single question about Harry—and Harry calls it off early when Douglas lays a hand high on his thigh for the third time after being asked politely, then less politely, not to.

“I might murder you for setting me up with that man,” Harry says as soon as Zayn answers his phone. 

“Murder’s a little extreme,” Zayn says, then he hums a little tune that has Harry instantly suspicious. 

“Did you know he was an arsehole when you set me up with him?” Harry asks.

Zayn scoffs and says, “No, but I’m not surprised the date didn't go well. You’re only interested in one person.”

“Don’t say it, Zayn.”

“I won’t say a word, H.” Zayn sighs quietly, and says, “Sorry the date didn't go well. Really sorry he was an arsehole. What happened?”

“He kept touching my leg!” Harry waves and smiles at his doorman when he steps into his building, keeping his voice down as he walks to the lift. “Smarmy, slimy man. Hope I never see his smug face again.”

“So… What are you doing now?” Zayn asks, and Harry rolls his eyes as he presses the button for his floor.

“I’m going home. And I'm going to shower. And then I’m going shopping,” Harry says as the doors to the lift slide shut. “Care to join me?”

“In the shower or shopping?” Zayn asks.

“Both if you get here fast enough.”

While he’s out shopping with Zayn, Harry doesn’t mention anything about the actual conversation during his FaceTime call with Louis. He’s not stupid, and even if he was, the lack of communication on Louis’ end since that night would be enough to knock some sense into him. Louis was obviously unhappy that Harry was planning to go on a date, and it just seems silly for him to act like that when he’s made it so clear that he’s not interested and not up for dating while he’s touring, especially when he’s about to set off across the Atlantic Ocean for the next four months. 

Harry tries to keep up their friendship, but it’s a halfhearted effort. He texts when he knows Louis is on stage, wishing him well and asking for updates on the state of his skeleton. Louis responds late at night when Harry's asleep. The last few days before Louis comes to New York, Harry doesn’t send a single message. 

On Saturday night, before Louis’ concert, Zayn and Liam and Niall all come over to Harry's flat so they can ride out to Queens together. Liam’s hired a car for his stay in New York—the perks of being James Bond—and Harry rides up front, not wanting to be stuck in the back with the happy couple and hoping to keep his clothes from wrinkling. It’s no use, really. His wide legged linen trousers tend to wrinkle from the slightest touch. But he looks good. Zayn said so. Black fabric flowing around his legs, the horizontal black and white stripes of his boatneck top making his shoulders seem broader and his waist smaller, and no spots on his face this time. 

“Oli says have the car drop us at the back of the stadium on 69th Avenue,” Liam says, and Harry looks back, watching Liam frowning at his phone screen. 

“Sixty-nine,” Niall says, predictably. “Heh.”

“Right.” Liam lays a hand on Zayn’s thigh and squeezes, and says, “He’ll meet us there and show us to our seats.”

“Seats?” Harry repeats, and Liam looks up.

“I think they’ve put us in the VIP section,” Liam says, lifting his hips and slipping his phone into his back pocket. “Have you been here before, H?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, turning to face forward, hoping to hide his disappointment. He thought he’d at least get the opportunity to see Louis backstage, but if they're headed for VIP seating, that probably won’t happen. “VIP sections are called Speakeasy Suites. They're on the floor and walled off with artificial hedges.”

“Artificial hedges?” Niall laughs, tapping at his phone screen, likely looking it up.

“Instead of fences,” Harry says. “It’s meant to look nice. And it really is nice. There’s a bar and food and a concierge inside.”

“You sound excited,” Zayn deadpans, and Harry glances around at him.

“Just readjusting my expectations,” Harry says softly, watching out the window as the driver pulls up to the fence that runs along the back of the stadium. Oli’s there waiting for them, and Harry waves, climbing out of the car. 

“Hello,” Oli says, swinging the lanyards in a circle as Harry approaches. “Long time, no see.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Harry says, huffing a laugh as Oli hands over his VIP pass. He loops it over his head, and flips the laminated card around, surprised to find it’s not like the backstage all access passes he’s had before. It’s a standard VIP lanyard, just like every other person in one of the Speakeasy Suites probably has tonight. 

Harry swallows against the lump forming in his throat, and lets the card fall against his chest. He stands back while Oli hands out their VIP passes, and then he follows with the group, unable to stop himself from searching for Louis as they walk by the tour bus, trying to catch a glimpse as they pass the entrance to the backstage area. He doesn’t see anyone he recognises. 

It’s a great venue, and the VIP section they're in is the suite closest to the stage. The view is amazing, and there’s no doubt they're in one of the nicest sections, but Harry can’t help his disappointment. 

He hardly pays attention to the opening act, wandering back and forth from the deck with the artificial hedges to the inside suite with the aircon, drinking too much tequila, too fast, until Niall corners him by the bar. 

“Zayn tells me I’m not allowed to mention Louis Tomlinson to you,” Niall says, leaning in closer and resting his hand on the bar. “I find that strange because, as you may or may not know, we’re currently at a Louis Tomlinson concert.”

“You can mention him,” Harry says with what he hopes comes across as an amused huff, though the tequila makes it hard to gauge his own tone.

“Hmm… I’m not so sure I can, actually,” Niall says, tilting his head to the side and studying Harry's face. “You’re blushing. But not in a good way. In a frustrated way. Like I’ve caught you doing something wrong.”

“I haven't done anything wrong, Niall.” Harry shakes his head and rolls his eyes, and says, “Yes, I’m a little disappointed not to be backstage, but this is better.”

“Uh-huh,” Niall says with a slow nod. 

Harry looks around for Zayn or Liam to swoop in and save him, but they're out on the deck, and without meaning to, he says, “Also a little bit upset because I thought Louis would invite me to go out and party with them after the show, and he didn't. And Oli was kind of standoffish and, you’re right, I do feel like I’ve done something wrong even though I don’t think I did.”

“You know what you should do,” Niall says, taking a sip of his Guinness. 

Swirling his tequila around in his glass, Harry asks, “What?”

“Text Louis,” Niall suggests, “Or Oli, if you’d rather go around your arse to get to your elbow.”

“Around my… Niall, what are you talking about?”

“You, sunshine.” Niall takes a half step back and says, “You know… When you flew to Texas to see Louis, I thought this is it, and when you stayed on tour with him for those few days, I assumed you two were getting together, but then Z told me you were being an idiot. Only I didn't realise how big of an idiot you were until just now.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Harry insists, almost spilling his drink in his haste to cross his arms. 

“Okay, H,” Niall says, giving him an obnoxious wink and a thumbs up. “You should text Louis.”

“Okay, Niall,” Harry says with extra snark sprinkled in. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his linen trousers and waves it in Niall’s face. “I’ll text him right now.”

Niall lifts an eyebrow, and says, “That was easy.”

Harry ignores him and opens his WhatsApp chat with Louis, quickly sending a message. Because he’s about to go on stage, Harry doesn’t expect a response, so he winces when Louis immediately starts to type. 

WhatsApp chat end.

The little blue check marks don’t appear beside that message, and Louis doesn’t text again, so Harry locks his phone and puts it away. He sticks his tongue out at Niall and blows a raspberry, and says, “Happy?”

“I really am, H,” Niall says, slipping his arm around Harry's waist and guiding him out onto the deck to join Zayn and Liam just as the red lights flash on stage and Louis walks out wearing a black and white polo and black jeans, waving at the crowd and smiling and going right into “The Greatest.”

In a split second, Harry's mood is lifted, and gets higher the louder he sings along. Occasionally, Louis glances his way, but Harry can’t tell if he’s just looking out at the audience or if he’s searching for Harry specifically, a silly thought that Harry dismisses as soon as it crosses his mind. 

Louis gives his all to each song. “Written All Over Your Face” is the best Harry's ever heard it, “Holding Onto Heartache” almost makes him cry, and during “Silver Tongues” Niall jumps around and pulls Harry by the hand, spinning them round and round until the song ends and Harry's a little nauseated. 

When “Headline” starts, Harry drops Niall’s hands, moving closer to the hedge to watch. Louis stands centre stage at the mic stand, but he turns his whole body towards Harry's side of the audience when he sings “so fast to judge in error, you thought you knew me better, so quick to kill forever,” and if it wasn’t ridiculously egotistical, Harry’d think Louis was singing to him. 

After he finishes the second verse, Harry starts to wonder if he might have the right idea. Especially when Niall sidles up to him during the chorus, and says, “Mate, he’s looking right at you.”

Harry shakes his head, but then Louis locks eyes with him before the outro, and softly sings, “Sometimes, I wake up and I wish you were beside me.”

“Shut up, Niall,” Harry says before Niall can even speak, smacking his arm for good measure. 

The rest of the concert is a blur. Harry stands there and sways to “Only the Brave” and jumps around to “Out Of My System” but his mind is elsewhere; on Louis going out tonight without him. When Louis goes down to the barricade, propelling himself into the audience only for JD and Joni to yank him back to safety, Harry’s stomach sinks and he grabs Niall’s hand and drags him over to Zayn and Liam. 

“I have to go,” Harry says, nodding rapidly, then taking a steadying breath. “I need to get home.”

“What?” Liam asks with a loud laugh, but Zayn rubs his arm and Liam stops. 

“I’ve had— I’m drunk, and I want to go home,” Harry manages to say, holding a hand flat to his stomach. It’s not just the alcohol, but he doesn’t want to get into the thoughts he can’t stop from spinning around his tequila soaked brain. 

“Want to take the car?” Zayn offers, glancing at Liam and Niall. 

“No,” Harry says, patting his pockets to check that he has his keys and wallet. “I’ll take the subway, but I’ve got to go now or I’ll get caught in the crowd.”

“Go, then,” Zayn says, pulling him in for a quick hug and kissing his cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, promise,” Harry says with a quick nod. “Love you.”

Zayn rubs his arm, tipping his head towards the open door to their suite. “Text me and let me know if you want us to come over.” 

Waving at his friends as he backs away, Harry ducks into the suite where their concierge is waiting. 

“Raymond?” Harry smiles, and he nods. 

“Yes, Mr Styles,” Raymond says, “What can I do for you?”

“Please help me get out of here as quickly as possible,” Harry says, already starting for the door. “I’m heading for Gramercy Park, and if you can point me in the direction of the closest subway station, I’d be very grateful.”

“How much of a hurry, sir?” Raymond asks, opening the door and ushering him through. 

“Bit too much to drink and I don’t want to get caught up in the traffic,” Harry settles on after only a few seconds hesitation. 

“It’s not far to the 71st Street station,” Raymond says with a glance at Harry's battered white Vans. “If you hustle, I can take you to it.”

Harry lifts the hem of his trousers to be sure his shoes are tied, then he nods, and says, “Let’s go.”

They walk fast enough through the venue that Harry's heart rate is already elevated when they reach the back fence and Raymond leads him out onto the street through a hidden gate. The security there checks their IDs and lets them go, and then they're off. 

“How far?” Harry asks, glancing over at Raymond as he leads him down Continental Avenue. 

“Less than half a mile,” Raymond replies, slowing his stride. “You okay?”

“I’m off my face, mate, but I’ll be alright,” Harry says, picking up the pace. Raymond easily matches him, laughing as he does so, and a few minutes later they slow as they approach Queens Boulevard, the station just across the street. Harry stops and turns to Raymond, pulling out his wallet and trying to be discreet as he hands over all the cash he has on him. “Thank you so much. I hope this won’t get you in trouble.”

“Thanks, Mr Styles. It shouldn’t,” Raymond says with a grin. “Mr Tomlinson told me to do anything to make you happy, and I think this counts.”

Before Harry can process his words, he disappears around the corner. The crossing light turns and Harry hurries to the station, unsure when the next train will be there and unwilling to pause long enough to check. He swipes his card and pushes through the turnstile and is just in time to catch the E. 

The ride on the subway is just what Harry's drunk arse needs. Even beating the rush, with the drunken walk from the station, it still takes almost an hour to get back to Gramercy Park, and he’s tired, slumping against the wall of the lift on the way up to his flat.

When he gets there, it hits him that he’s alone, that his friends are somewhere without him, that Louis is out having fun, celebrating the final show of this leg of his tour, and that Harry's sat at home, drunk and lonely. 

And what’s a drunk, lonely boy to do if not send messy voice messages to the object of his affections. Harry squints as he opens WhatsApp and slides the microphone upwards to record.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry starts out by dragging out Louis’ name as he paces his living room. “Do you know what? You’re in New York and also I’m in New York. We’re in the same city! We are in the same, same, same city. And you!” Pointing at his reflection in the mirror over his fireplace, Harry squints and says, “You did not invite me backstage. And, and, and, and, and Oli was weird tonight. He was… standoffish with me. He said ‘long time no see’ like he didn't want to see me. But wait okay. Wait. I’m not…” Harry stops in front of his sofa and sits down, trying to focus on what he’s saying. “I’m not trying to get Oli in trouble. I don’t want you to be mad at me. No! No. I meant to say, I don’t want you to be mad at him. At Oli. I just think he’s mad at me. Maybe. It doesn’t matter!” Harry scoffs loudly, flinging himself backwards on the couch and sinking into the cushions. “This isn’t about Oli. This is about me. And you. And this is about you not giving me a backstage pass. But not because I wanted to come backstage because it’s ‘backstage.’” He adds the air quotes even though no one can see him, and continues to explain, “It’s because I wanted to see you. And I thought you’d invite me to come out with you after the show, but you didn't. And now I’m home by myself and I’ve had a lot of tequila. It’s very nice tequila. Tell Raymond he did an excellent job. He walked me to the subway station and I gave him some money for a tip for being so helpful, but you should still tell him that he’s a good concierge. That is a fancy word. Concierge. Con–see–air–juh. Anyway, have fun tonight without me. Love you. Bye.”

Harry presses send and tosses his phone onto the coffee table, stretches out on his couch, and is asleep the second he closes his eyes.

Jolting awake, Harry's eyes go wide at the echo of the tail end of the sound of his doorbell. He sits up, swallowing hard, mouth dry and tasting of tequila. According to the clock on the wall, it’s just after two, so he’s been asleep on his couch for a couple of hours. The doorbell rings again, and Harry gets to his feet, the kitchen light an overwhelming glare as he makes his way through his flat, assuming Niall’s the one on the other side of the door. He has a habit of showing up at Harry's house in the middle of the night when he doesn’t feel like going home. Or that’s what he says. Harry likes to think that when Niall drinks too much he can’t remember where he lives. 

Harry steps on the backs of his Vans as he walks to the door, kicking them off and leaving them where they land. He’ll get them tomorrow. 

Stifling a yawn with one hand, Harry reaches for the doorknob with the other, and pulls the door open, jerking backwards when he sees Louis standing there, arms folded across his chest. Stupidly, Harry says, “You’re not Niall.”

“No, I’m not,” Louis says, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Can I come in?”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, not fully awake and still drunk, he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

Louis lets his arms hang at his sides, and says, “If you let me in, I’ll tell you.” 

“Oh, um, yeah.” Harry steps back, holding the door wide open, and waves Louis inside, closing it and locking it, a step he skipped earlier in the evening. “So… What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Louis repeats with a short laugh that makes Harry take a step back. “You took off tonight before—”

“No, I left after the concert was over,” Harry snaps, the night coming back to him the longer he’s awake. “Not before.”

“You left before Oli could get to your suite and invite you lot to join us,” Louis says, moving closer, eliminating the space Harry just put between them. “Zayn and Liam and Niall are still out with the lads. But you’re here. Alone, apparently. And up for sending me messages telling me how angry you are at me.”

“I am angry with you,” Harry says. This time, he steps a little closer. “You’ve been very confusing.”

“Me?” Louis laughs again, but this time it’s a genuine one. The corners of his eyes even crinkle. “You’re the one who left me a drunk voice message complaining about not being invited to a party I was planning to invite you to. And then saying ‘love you, bye’ as if that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry says, searching his mind for a memory of his voice message. “I say that to everyone. If I had a catch phrase, it would be ‘I love you’ because I even say it to the Late Night Talking audience.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Louis asks, tipping his head to the side and frowning. “You tell everybody you love them but—”

“I just said that.”

“You didn't let me finish,” Louis says, smiling far too smugly. “You tell everybody you love them. You probably told Raymond the concierge you love him. You told JD you loved him when he brought you oat milk for your cereal. You tell your audiences you love them every night, Monday to Friday. You say you love everyone, but you’ve never said it to me. Until tonight.”

“I told you, I’ve had tequila,” Harry says as a burp sneaks up on him, and he barely covers his mouth in time. 

“You’ve had plenty of tequila before, Harry, and you’ve never—”

“Ugh!” Harry spins around and stomps away, going straight to the kitchen for a glass of water that will either sober him up or reactivate the alcohol in his system, if that’s a thing. He fills a glass with water, chugs it, and sets it down, turning around to find that Louis’s followed him into the kitchen and is leaning back against the counter, watching him. “Sorry. Okay, Louis, here’s the thing… I never said that to you because I thought it would be weird after the whole…” Trailing off, Harry twirls a finger in the air, and says, “Interview thing. And our history from ten years ago. And then we became friends, but it would’ve still been weird to say it because I had a crush on you and—”

“You had a crush on me?” Louis asks, smug smile making a reappearance. 

“Stop interrupting me.”

“You’ve interrupted me, like, a million times tonight,” Louis says as he pushes away from the counter, but Harry ignores it. 

“That’s not the point, Louis.” Harry reaches for his empty glass, and refills it from the pitcher, belatedly offering, “Would you like a glass of water?”

“You’re polite when you want to be.” Louis nods, taking a step closer, and says, “No cheese and crackers tonight.”

“It’s been ten years,” Harry says, filling a glass for Louis. “Get over it.”

“And rude when you want to be,” Louis says, huffing a laugh as he takes the offered glass of water. He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, his small smile shrinks. “After your crush on me, when we were just friends and you—”

“Oh, stop it, Lou!” Harry slams his glass down on the counter and water sloshes over the rim onto his hand. He wipes it off, and says, “I like you, okay. Like you, like you, but you’ve made it very clear that you’re not interested in me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Louis says, holding his hands out in front of him, palms facing out towards Harry as he inches closer. “I never said that.”

“You did.” Harry rolls his eyes when Louis only looks confused, a small pout on his lips, eyes focused off to the side like he’s trying to remember. “When you were on Late Night Talking.”

“When I was on your show? When I was dating Everett?” Louis asks, taking another step towards Harry. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, then chews on the inside of his cheek, studying Harry's face. “Forgive me for saying I wasn’t interested in dating you when I was dating someone else. Although, I’m almost certain there’s a quote in print out there somewhere of me saying you’re my celebrity crush.”

“That… That’s true,” Harry says, unable to keep from frowning. The tequila in his system is making him sluggish, but he successfully clamps his jaw shut on a yawn, nostrils flaring instead. “But it doesn’t matter if I’m your celebrity crush or if you are interested in me when you’ve said yourself that you don’t want to date anyone while you’re touring. And you’re touring until the end of the year.”

“Okay, I don’t mean to, like, refute everything you say, but I don’t think I said I don’t want to date anyone while I’m touring,” Louis says, shuffling closer. Harry looks down to find Louis’s taken his shoes off at some point, his thick white athletic socks an exact match for the ones Harry's wearing. “I’m pretty sure I said it’s easier.”

“Yeah, because you’re shit at keeping in touch,” Harry says with a rueful laugh. He points at Louis, jabbing his finger in the air, almost touching Louis’ chest. They're too close to each other and it’s making it hard to think, so Harry inches backwards away from him. “That’s what you said.”

“That’s what Everett said. Many times. But Harry, we talk all the time, you and me,” Louis says, taking another step towards Harry. He frowns slightly, little lines marring his perfect forehead, and Harry grabs for his glass of water to keep from reaching out to touch. “Do you think I’ve been bad at keeping in touch?”

Harry shakes his head, backing into the fridge with a thump as he’s trying to put a little more space between them. Trapped there, his back against the cool stainless steel as Louis moves ever closer, Harry clutches his glass against his chest with both hands.

“I return your calls and texts. We FaceTime. We send each other voice messages,” Louis lists off his points, socks making it easy for him to slide almost imperceptibly closer as he speaks until, when he’s finished, his toes are touching Harry’s. He takes the glass of water from Harry's hands, setting it on the nearest counter, and leans in, gaze darting down to Harry's mouth and back up, and Harry pulls his head back, knocking it into the fridge again. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, cheeks flaming hot when he hears how breathless he sounds.

“I’m saying maybe I’ve been shit at keeping in touch with other people,” Louis says softly, reaching up to tuck one of Harry's unruly curls behind his ear, the movement bringing him so close, Harry could count the freckles on his face if he could focus, but Louis’ hand cradling his cheek and the pounding of his own heart are too distracting. “But I think, with the right person, it’s not a chore.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing?” Harry asks, lifting a hand between them and touching his own chest with his fingertips, then touching Louis’ with the backs of his knuckles. 

“Oh, um, waiting for the right moment,” Louis says, the palm of his hand grazing the side of Harry's neck and he slides it down to rest on the centre of Harry's chest. “Can I kiss you?”

Harry nods before he has a chance to think, then he shakes his head and says, “You think I’m the right person?”

“I think you might be, yeah,” Louis says, and all the alcohol buzzing in Harry's veins attempts to escape his body through his pores. He breaks out into a cold sweat, overwhelmed by his proximity to Louis, the conversation, the late hour, and his own feelings. “How drunk are you, babe?”

A whimper escapes Harry's lips at that, and he closes his eyes. “I was asleep.”

“And before that?” Louis asks, and his tone is clearly amused, but his hands are gentle as he rubs up and down Harry's arms. 

“Drunk enough that I don’t really remember anything I said in that message earlier,” Harry admits, blinking his eyes open slowly. “It was a lot of tequila.”

“You were upset,” Louis says, giving voice to Harry's thoughts, so Harry nods, and Louis continues, “Because you thought I didn't feel the same way.”

Harry nods again, and whispers, “Yes.”

“But I do feel the same way,” Louis says, lifting his chin slightly and keeping eye contact, making it impossible for Harry to look away. 

“You do?” Harry asks, words breaking over the hope bubbling up in his chest.

“Yeah, babe,” Louis says with a quiet laugh, and he leans in again, but this time Harry meets him halfway, and as he rests his forehead against Louis’, the tips of their noses touch and Harry's eyes cross. “You’re so drunk.”

“I’m tired,” Harry says with a pout, and as if his body has been waiting for the word, a yawn stretches his jaw. He tries to cover his mouth with his hand, but whacks Louis in the chin on the way, and Louis steps back, wincing and rubbing his jaw. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright, Harold.” Twisting his lips, Louis pats his chin, and says, “No harm done.”

“Do you still want to kiss me?” Harry asks, and Louis’ smile lights up the already too bright kitchen.

Louis catches the corner of his lip between his teeth, and asks, “Can I kiss you tomorrow? ’Cause I think you ought to go to bed, honestly.”

Instead of the scowl Harry wants to aim at Louis, another yawn sneaks up on him, and Louis laughs, tapping Harry's nose with the tip of his finger. Harry turns his head away, embarrassed, but he can’t keep the smile from spreading across his face. 

“Will you stay?” Harry asks, wanting nothing more than to be horizontal and close to Louis as his exhaustion hits him full force.

Louis nods, but then he steps back, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Have to text Oli or he might show up at your door.”

“You’ll stay?” Harry asks again to be sure, relief coursing through his veins. “In my bed with me?”

“Yeah, babe, of course,” Louis says, reaching for Harry's hand. 

It’s all the permission Harry needs, and he takes hold of Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together as he leads the way through his flat to his bedroom. Once his bed’s in sight, Harry gets tequila induced tunnel vision. He yanks his shirt over his head, shoves his linen trousers down his legs, and crawls beneath the sheets in nothing but his pants. The cool fabric is like heaven against his skin, and as he stretches out on his stomach, Harry hums happily, watching Louis through half-closed eyes.

“D’you like cuddles?” Harry asks, and Louis huffs a laugh from inside his shirt, pulling it the rest of the way off and tossing it on the floor.

“Love a cuddle,” Louis says, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down over his gorgeous thighs, leaving him standing there in his pants, his soft cock visible through the fitted white fabric, the red band and the capital letters of the word ‘SUPREME’ like a badge declaring Louis’ body the immaculate creation that it is. 

“Love your thighs,” Harry says to Louis’ thighs, reaching out to touch them, then pulling his hand back and tucking it under his pillow.

Louis walks around the bed, and Harry struggles to lift his head and turn it to keep him in his line of sight. He pulls back the blankets, and asks, “Sure you want me to sleep with you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry mumbles into his pillow, reaching across the bed to pat the mattress. “Cuddle me.”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that when you wake up with my drool on you,” Louis says, but he climbs into bed beside Harry, laying on his side. 

Harry huffs, annoyed at how far away Louis is, but it’s an easy fix. He wiggles and shifts and works his way over until he bumps into Louis, and Louis laughs, draping an arm over Harry's back and pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. That simple touch is overwhelming, and Harry's drunk mind surrenders, falling asleep before he can say goodnight.

Drunk sleep is the worst. Harry wakes up too hot and hungover, with a headache like his temples are stuck in a vice. The pain eases when he realises part of the stifling warmth surrounding him is Louis. 

“Odds you’re going to be sick?” Louis asks, his rough, quiet, morning voice too loud in Harry's ear.

“One in ten,” Harry answers with a groan, taking a steadying breath through his nose, hoping to stop the swirling in his stomach. 

“Three, two, one…” Louis whispers, and immediately says, “Four.”

At the same time, Harry says, “Seven.”

“Means you can’t be sick now,” Louis says, rubbing circles on Harry's lower back beneath the blankets. 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Harry burrows into his pillow, hiding his face from the sunlight that so desperately wants to shine through the windows of his bedroom. A burp burns the back of his throat, and he turns his head, grimacing at the taste, and hoping Louis can’t smell it. 

“You have paracetamol?” Louis asks, breath warm on Harry's back. 

Harry attempts to point in the direction of his en-suite, and Louis chuckles quietly, slipping from under the covers and walking around the bed, taking his body heat and leaving Harry cold. The morning light gives his tan a golden glow, and Harry lifts his head to get a look at Louis’ arse, the fabric of his pants stretching tight, all of Harry's dreams coming true in the form of a mostly naked Louis Tomlinson bringing him water and paracetamol for his hangover. 

“Here you go, babe,” Louis says, and Harry opens his eyes, belatedly realising he must’ve drifted off again. He sits on the edge of the mattress, and Harry takes the pills with a grateful gulp of water. “Need anything else?”

“Cuddles,” Harry says as he scoots backwards, making room for Louis to get back in bed on that side. 

Louis smiles and does exactly what Harry wants, cuddling up to Harry, sliding his arm under the pillow and moving in close. “Go back to sleep, Harold.”

The next time Harry wakes up he’s alone, but he can hear Louis’ voice somewhere in his flat. He sounds like he’s on the phone, probably talking to Oli. Harry forces himself to sit up, and is surprised to find that he feels just fine. The paracetamol did the trick. His hangover is gone, but he desperately needs a shower. 

Apparently, he’s not the only one. Louis’ pants are on the floor of the bathroom, there’s steam in the air, and drops of water dripping down the glass door of the shower. Harry steps inside with a smile, pleased that Louis washed with his soap and used his shampoo and is possibly currently naked in his living room. 

As fast as he can while still being thorough, Harry washes from head to toe, and brushes his teeth, gargling with mouthwash, and barely drying off before he pulls on a clean pair of pants and goes looking for Louis. He finds him in the kitchen where he’s scowling at the coffee maker, one of Harry's sunny yellow towels wrapped around his waist, meaning he’s got nothing underneath. 

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, biting down a grin that threatens to take over his face. 

Louis’ scowl flips like a switch to a smile. “Hey, babe.”

“Oh… I’m going to need a warning before you say that again,” Harry says, heart pounding as he looks down to make sure his dick is on its best behaviour. “Need some help?”

Instead of a warning, Louis smirks, and sings, “Hey, babe.”

Harry presses his lips tight together to contain his whimper, and crosses the kitchen, crowding close to Louis, but not touching. “You want me to make coffee?”

“Please,” Louis says, turning around and reaching for Harry, but the second his hands land on Harry's hips, Harry forgets about coffee. “Odds you remember everything we talked about last night?”

“Hmm…” Harry tries to think if there’s anything he’s forgotten, but Louis’ touch is distracting. “One in thirty?”

“Slim odds, Harold,” Louis says, rubbing his thumbs up and down over Harry's waist. 

Together they count, “Three, two, one… Twenty-eight,” and Harry says, “You’re so easy with that.”

“You do remember then?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, scrunching his nose. “I want to do this with you. Date you, I mean. You, um… You want to date me?”

“Yes, Harold,” Louis says with a wink. “I want to date you and have you backstage whenever you want and visit your family in Holmes Chapel and I really want to kiss you and, to be honest, I want to fuck you, too, but, um, that can wait, you know, if you’d rather.”

“You want to visit my family?” Harry asks, reaching up to pinch his lower lip, tugging on it when Louis nods. “You’re serious, then?”

“Of course, I’m serious,” Louis says with an exasperated eye roll. “I have a month before the European leg of tour, and I do have a flat here in New York, so I thought maybe I’d stick around. See what it’s like being your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have any experience being my boyfriend, but I think you’ll like it,” Harry says, and Louis laughs quietly, sliding his hands up Harry's sides and making him shiver. “Do you need coffee or can we go back to bed?”

“Coffee can wait,” Louis says, and Harry lifts a hand to cradle Louis’ jaw, rubbing his thumb over Louis’ sharp stubble, heart thumping in his chest when Louis circles his arms around his waist and pulls Harry to him. He leans in, gaze locked on Louis’ bright blue eyes, lips slightly parted as they brush against Louis’ and send sparks shooting up his spine. 

Closing his eyes, Harry presses forward, guiding Louis into the kiss with his hand on his jaw, and sliding his other hand around to caress his lower back. He has to stop himself from kissing Louis until he can’t breathe or devouring him whole, breaking the kiss and pulling back, panting slightly, pleased at the flush on Louis’ face. 

“I’d like to do this in your bed, Harold,” Louis says, and buoyed by the bliss of having Louis as his boyfriend, Harry bounces on the balls of his feet, takes Louis’ hand, and drags him through the flat and back to his bedroom. 

Harry jumps onto his bed, wiggling out of his pants, and making grabby hands at Louis who’s too busy staring at Harry's cock, thickening quickly where it’s laid across his hip, to drop his towel. “Louis?”

“What do you… Do you want to top or bottom or what?” Louis asks, finally unwrapping the towel from his waist. He drops it to the floor, resting a hand low on his belly, and Harry gasps quietly. He’s got a tan line, his thick thighs paler than the rest of him, and his muscles flex as he shifts his weight. 

Harry touches his lips to make sure he’s not drooling as he takes in the short curls of Louis’ happy trail, the softness of his lower stomach, the firm planes of his abs and chest, the hair that Harry wants to twirl around his fingertips, and pert, biteable nipples. 

Louis clears his throat, smirking, and says, “Harold?”

“I’m verse, so… Whatever you want,” Harry says, fighting a blush at being caught so blatantly lusting after him. Shaking that off, Harry gets a hand around himself and strokes slowly a few times. 

“Want you to fuck me,” Louis says with a quick nod, crawling onto the bed and kneeling in front of Harry. “I mean, I’m up for anything, but right now, yeah…”

“Come here and kiss me first.” Harry needs to touch him, hold him, make sure this is real. 

He sits up as Louis leans in, and they tumble onto the bed together, Louis settling between Harry's legs like he belongs there. He kisses Harry softly, then firmly, sliding his hand up Harry's side and over his chest, parting his lips, tongue dipping into Harry's mouth and tasting of toothpaste. Harry giggles into the kiss, and Louis pulls back.

“What?”

“You brushed your teeth,” Harry says, shrugging a shoulder.

“I’m not about to kiss you for the first time with morning breath, Harold,” Louis says, turning to look at the en-suite. “I used a flannel and your toothpaste.”

“Creative,” Harry says, taking Louis’ face in his hands and guiding him into another kiss. It’s messier this time as Harry soaks in the warmth of Louis’ body on his, their cocks trapped between them. He glides a hand over Louis' shoulder and back, following the curve of his spine to his arse, and groaning as he allows himself to touch Louis there, too. His palm fits perfectly and when he gives it a squeeze, Louis grunts and ruts against him. 

“You’ve got condoms and all that, yeah?” Louis asks, and Harry nods, stretching his arm to the side and reaching for his bedside table. 

Somewhere in there is a box of condoms and a bottle of lube and an assortment of toys that he hopes Louis doesn’t ask about until later. Louis pushes up onto his hands and knees and opens the drawer, finding everything they need and setting it on the nightstand. Then he sits back on his heels, bites his lip, and looks at Harry expectantly.

“How d’you want me?” Louis asks, and Harry lets his head fall back on the pillow, closing his eyes. 

“On your stomach,” Harry says, rolling onto his side to make room, ready to worship Louis’ arse the way he’s wanted to for so long. 

Louis grins, but it’s a shy smile, and he crawls forward, laying flat on his front and reaching underneath himself to adjust his dick. Harry drinks him in with a happy sigh, and gets up on his knees, then he gasps and that gasp turns into a snort. 

“Louis, oh my God, that is the worst tattoo I’ve ever seen,” Harry says, holding a hand over his mouth to stop his laughter from escaping. It’s no use because Louis makes a miserable sound somewhere between a groan and a whine, and twists around to look at it. 

The penguin really is wearing headphones, its cartoonish eyes staring back at him, and Harry has to look away. He focuses on the other cheek. Its curve and its shape and its lack of tan lines. And lack of ink. The penguin draws his attention again, and he snorts. Again. 

Louis rolls over onto his back, erection flagging, frown fixed on his face. 

“Don’t be mad! Are you mad?” Harry grabs Louis’ waist and tries to flip him over, and a loud laugh bursts out of Louis, turning into giggles that have his dick bouncing and his abs clenching, and Harry loses control, cackling and dropping back onto the bed on his side, pulling a pillow to his face. “I’m sorry!” he shouts through the pillow, but Louis is still laughing, and Harry can’t stop either. 

Finally their giggles fade, and Harry tosses the pillow aside, moving closer to Louis and resting his head on Louis' arm. 

“I didn't mean to laugh,” Harry says as sincerely as he can. 

“It’s okay, mate,” Louis says, scratching Harry's scalp, and Harry frowns. “It’s a stupid tattoo. Keep meaning to get it removed, but haven't got around to it. Might have to go through with it if it’s stopping you from fucking me, though.”

“It’s not stopping me,” Harry says, still frowning about the whole ‘mate’ thing. “Just… a pause.”

“A pause,” Louis repeats slowly. 

“I…” Harry clears his throat and makes himself say what he’s thinking, “I don’t like it when you call me mate.” 

“Yeah?” Louis pushes Harry's shoulder, and Harry rolls onto his back with Louis on top of him again, but this time, Louis cages him in, legs apart, knees on the outside of Harry's thighs. He nudges his nose against Harry's, and says, “Know you like babe.”

“Mmhmmm…” Harry tips his chin up and Louis gives him what he wants, kissing him quickly before trailing his lips down over Harry's Adam’s apple to the hollow of his throat. 

“What about…” Louis sucks a kiss to Harry's collarbone and purrs, “Darling?”

Beneath him, Harry melts into a puddle of want, running his hands down Louis’ back to his arse. “I like that.”

“Honey?” Louis offers, and Harry grins at the way his accent plays with the word. “You’re sweet enough, I think.”

“I like honey for you,” Harry says, tracing the bumps of Louis’ spine with his fingertips as Louis kisses his way back up Harry's neck. “Honey, like the colour of your hair… or your skin when it’s warm and tanned like it is now.”

Louis brushes his lips over the spot behind Harry's ear like he knows it drives him wild despite never touching him there before. Voice low and slow, he says, “Baby.” 

A sound between a whimper and a whine leaves Harry's lips, and he can feel Louis smile against his skin. 

“Baby,” Louis says a little louder, and like the first time he called Harry babe, it goes straight to his cock. “I think I want to suck you off.”

Harry nods rapidly, but he clutches onto Louis’ arms, refusing to let him go when he tries to crawl down between his legs. “I want… I want your fingers.”

“Jesus,” Louis whispers against Harry's chest, the sharp hair of his beard grazing Harry's nipple. “Hand me the lube, darling.”

Letting go of Louis, Harry fumbles for the little bottle without looking, but he finds it and as Louis leaves a trail of kisses down the centre of his stomach, Harry closes his eyes and lets himself feel, clutching the lube on his hand. 

“Wanted to do this for years,” Louis mumbles before licking the tip of Harry's cock, and it takes all of Harry's willpower to keep from bucking his hips to chase the sensation. 

“Don’t tell me that,” Harry says, spreading his legs to make room for Louis between them. “Already feel like an idiot.”

Louis wraps a hand around him and slowly strokes his dick. “Don’t feel bad, love.”

“Why—” Harry hisses as Louis swipes the pad of his thumb over the tip of his cock, shocks of pleasure zipping through him. “Why not?” he finally asks, looking down at Louis as he takes the head between his lips, moaning at the wet heat of his mouth. He forces himself to keep talking, and says, “Could’ve done this ten years ago. Could’ve stopped you from getting that stupid tattoo.”

Louis pulls off and buries his face in the inside of Harry's thigh, nipping at the soft skin just hard enough to sting. “Do you want me to blow you?”

“Yes,” Harry says, brushing Louis’ fringe off his forehead. 

“Then hush.”

“Then put my dick in your mouth,” Harry says, and Louis rolls his eyes, but he ducks down and takes the first few inches of Harry's cock in his mouth, sucking him perfectly, lips tight around him. 

He pushes Harry's legs further up and cups his balls, rolling them in his palm and tugging them as he sinks down, pressing his tongue to the vein along the underside of Harry's dick. His slick fingers slip between Harry's cheeks, then over his rim again and again, and Harry opens his mouth, ready to ask him to please stop teasing when he does just that. Slowly, Louis pushes one finger past the tight muscle, and Harry exhales, welcoming him into his body.

Lifting off a little, Louis focuses on the sensitive head of Harry's cock, looking up at him through his eyelashes as he crooks his finger and finds Harry's prostate, making him jerk and twitch until he pulls back. He fits another finger beside the first, moving at a glacial pace and making Harry whine, nostrils flaring, impatient for more. 

Full, but not full enough, Harry plants his feet on the mattress and tries to ride Louis’ hand, but Louis stops him, rubbing circles over his prostate and drawing a string of nonsense from Harry's mouth. 

“Want another?” Louis asks, lips rubbing against the crown of Harry's cock. 

“Want your dick,” Harry says, twisting Louis’ hair around his fingers and tugging. “Now, please.”

“Please,” Louis repeats with a quiet chuckle, slipping his fingers free and wiping them on the sheets. 

Harry grabs a condom off the bedside table and rips open the package, sitting up and getting a good look at Louis’ hard dick for the first time. It’s thick and long and Harry moans as he reaches for it, wrapping a hand around it, stroking it, and biting his lip when Louis trembles at the touch and fucks into his fist. Stilling his hand, Harry holds the base and rolls the condom on, then leans in and kisses Louis. It’s messy and off-centre, and it’s over in a few seconds, but they can kiss later. 

Right now, Harry wants to get fucked. He clambers around onto his hands and knees, and looks back at Louis to find him watching, eyebrows raised, dick in hand, mouth hanging open. 

“Odds I come in less than three minutes?” Louis says, and Harry snorts. 

“I don’t care,” Harry says with what he hopes is an enticing wiggle of his arse. “We can do it again later.”

“Got no place to be for a month, so…” Louis rests his hand on Harry's arse cheek, giving it a squeeze, then he fits the blunt head of his cock in his crease, sliding it up and down. When it catches on Harry's rim, he stops, then presses forward, groaning when it slides inside. 

It burns just the way Harry likes it, and he gasps as Louis pushes further, his thick cock seeming to touch him everywhere at once. The cradle of Louis’ hips meets Harry's arse, and Harry gasps, full and stretched and desperate for more. Louis pulls back and pushes in gradually, like he really thinks he might come right away, and Harry moans, lowering his upper body down and turning his head to the side. 

Taking his cock in hand, Harry says, “Fuck me hard, Lou.”

“Shit,” Louis curses, caressing Harry's lower back, then grabbing hold of his hips and thrusting inside. The power behind it pushes Harry up the bed, and he reaches forward with his free hand and lays it flat against his headboard, rocking backwards to meet Louis halfway. 

Dicking in deep, Louis fucks him hard and slow, forcing grunts out of Harry every time and knocking the headboard against the wall. The divine friction of Louis’ cock sliding in and out makes the heat in Harry's stomach build fast, and he wanks himself in time to Louis’ rhythm. 

“Faster,” Harry begs, meeting Louis’ thrusts, and Louis hisses, sucking air through his teeth. 

“I’ll come,” Louis says, pushing in deep and staying there. 

Harry looks back at him, meeting his half-closed eyes, and bites his lip, clenching around him as he says, “Don't care. I’m close.”

“Fuck, okay.” 

Driving forward, Louis pistons his hips, fucking Harry so fast that his hand becomes a blur over his cock, and his orgasm hits. Muscles tightening and releasing, Harry comes over his fingers, dripping onto the sheet below as Louis fucks him through it until his thrusts become erratic, and Louis gasps, grinding against Harry's arse. 

Fingertips digging into the softness of Harry's hips, Louis comes hard, and Harry imagines them fucking bare, Louis filling him up, marking him on the inside, and his spent cock gives a little kick. 

Louis pulls out and Harry falls to the mattress, landing in his come, stretching his legs out, and watching from the corner of his eye as Louis gets up off the bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He reappears a moment later, leaning against the door jamb, and Harry drinks in the sight of him, naked and flushed, dick hanging heavy from a thatch of hair slightly darker than his beard, his thighs flexing as he shifts from foot to foot. 

“Odds I can use one of your fancy flannels to clean you off?” Louis asks, and Harry snickers into the sheets. 

“I’ll get up,” Harry says, pushing himself to his hands and knees, then crawling off the bed. He slips past Louis, kissing his cheek on the way, and Louis watches him wipe his come from his skin, lip caught between his teeth, eyes roaming over Harry's body. Figuring he’ll just shower again, Harry turns to look at him, and asks, “You want coffee now?”

“Yeah, if that’s alright,” Louis says. 

Nodding, Harry steps closer, draping his arms over Louis’ shoulders and leaning in for a kiss, tasting himself on Louis’ tongue. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Louis’, smiles and says, “Odds I meant every word I said last night?”

Louis hums, sliding his hands down Harry's back to cup his arse. “One in fifty.”

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

“Twenty-eight,” Harry whispers as Louis says the same, and Harry says, “I did mean it. Everything I said.”

“Everything, hmm?” Louis leans back a bit, narrowing his eyes, smirk playing across his lips, then he sings, “Hey, babe.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Louis,” Harry says, hiding his face in the side of Louis’ neck. 

“I meant it all, too,” Louis says, kissing Harry's shoulder. “And I think this’ll work. We’ll work. I always want to talk to you anyway, and I know I’ll want that more now. And I can fly here when I have breaks and—”

“I can come see you, too. Hiatuses and weekends and whatever you want. But for now, I’m going to make coffee,” Harry says, lifting his head and kissing Louis’ cheek. He gives Louis’ arse a quick smack—right on the penguin—and leaves him in the bathroom doorway, stomach flipping and heart rabbiting in his chest as he calls back over his shoulder, “Love you, Lou.”

“Wait, really?” Louis asks, running after him, bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. He grabs Harry's wrist and spins him around to face him, and says, “’Cause I love you, too.”