And P.S... If This is Cheshire

Just Friends

This is a work of COMPLETE fiction and in no way meant to be associated with the REAL Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik. It was more inspired by them and fandom lore. I urge you to consider it more like a movie where they're PLAYING characters who happen to share their names.

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When he was fifteen, Harry Styles had fallen hopelessly and madly in love. And truth be told, he had never fully recovered. It didn't matter that Louis was two years older and in no way interested in being "out" while still in school. When Louis had turned eighteen, he went to audition for X-Factor. And he made it through, which had meant moving to the judges' houses and leaving Harry behind.

They didn't speak for over three years.

They'd then grown up separately, Harry graduating and moving to London to pursue a possible modeling career, moving in with another beautiful, struggling youth named Zayn. Louis had gone on to be immensely famous and Harry would see him on TMZ and in tabloids, rubbing elbows with female underwear models he knew from work and actresses and singers, always playing the role of the prolific womanizer and yet - somehow - the private and sensitive songwriter who didn't like to discuss his private life.

Louis had just turned twenty-one when the bombshell dropped.

He was a father. Harry could remember physically feeling his heart break as he read the headlines. A girl from Scotland had been killed in a car crash, beautiful and tall with curly hair so brown it was almost black. Stunning with blue eyes. And she had left behind a two year old son, whose birth certificate touted famous British musician Louis Tomlinson as his father. According to the tabloids, he'd had no idea. They'd dated for a bit before he even officially won X-Factor, her role having simply been a girl working in the wardrobe department.

In high school, Louis had always been defiant in his insistence that he was not gay. Perhaps, Harry thought upon seeing the photos of Louis suddenly out and about with his brand new toddler, this was true. The child, named Deacon, looked just like Louis. Shimmering, crinkled blue eyes, a mischievous little smile and perpetually unkempt brown hair sticking in every direction. It had to be his kid.

Maybe Harry was just a phase, a teenage experiment. Louis was not his Prince. Harry would never be the Princess.

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Harry had been living in London for less than three months and already hated how much of a tradition his isolation had become for him. His flatmate Zayn would try and talk him into some outing or industry party and he would decline, content to wrap himself up in too many thick blankets and power down a bottle of wine and burn through romantic comedies. If you ever want to start WORKING working, Harry, you're going to have to actually go out and let people SEE you.

It wasn't always the exact same routine. Some nights Zayn would come home to find him sprinting on the treadmill, desperately trying to avoid his emotions and dedicate all his brain power to the exhaustion of exercise. Sometimes, he would be writing poems or even songs, but those words were only ever meant to be seen by his eyes only.

Tonight's choice - and he really should have thought this through - was The Notebook. He had only managed to finish dinner and put away a glass and a half of wine. Noah rowed Allie through the river, surrounded by hanging tree branches and swans. He could feel the tears coming again, but held them at bay.

They had been so close and he had just disappeared one day and he was never going to get him back. He was a miserable wreck - couldn't even move on like Allie had. At least Allie had a rich hot fiancé and a future going for her. He'd had a few decent paying modeling jobs, but nothing long-term or anything that foretold of a real career. Harry was such a waste.