The Serpent and the Lion [L.S]

Chapter 8

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Harry's palms are sweating.

Not in a subtle way that he can ignore; he's wiped his hands down the front of his trousers twice now, and he can still feel the sticky warmth of his skin as he clenches his fist.

Harry musses a few fingers through the front of his hair, losing any faith that he'll actually get it to fall the way he wants it to. The bit at the top is still fluffed awkwardly from sleep, the longest of his curls reaching past his jawline. It's a typical Wednesday, or it could be, if Harry could just relax.

He's fucked, really.

It's the third night in a row that Harry's woken up with a jolt, from an unsettlingly realistic dream. Centered around a pair of vividly blue eyes, a sweet lilting voice, long eyelashes that hug the top of his cheeks when he laughs—

Whipped. Harry is absolutely and completely whipped. There isn't a better word to describe the way his chest always feels empty and full at the same time, tight with emotions he doesn't know how to name. Even after the past few weeks, it's still an odd concept to wrap his mind around.

Louis.

The worst parts of Harry's mind have convinced him that he made all of this up. That he'll wake up one of these mornings and find that all those dream-like encounters, every kiss and gentle touch and joke between them will have been just that—a dream.

Standing before the mirror, Harry's fingers fumble with the same knot in his tie that he's made every day for the better part of seven years.

"Fuck," Harry mutters aloud, loosening the tie once more and starting all over again.

He loops the first bit under his forefinger and back over his thumb, as always, and reaches to grab the tip of the tie to pull through. But his stupid hands tremble, he falters, and drops the silky fabric again.

"Fuck."

Across the room, his roommate Callum glances up from his position at his desk, an open textbook in front of him. He turns, resting his arm on the back of the chair.

"Alright, mate?"

Harry glares at himself in the reflection.

"I can't get this—fucking thing to just—tie," He mumbles, mostly to himself, but Callum laughs.

"You can't get your tie?"

"Bloody fucking—fuck," Harry grumbles, trying and failing again, frustration deepening his tone. "Why the fuck do we still wear these?"

"Beats me," Callum replies. He crosses to where Harry is stood, and holds his hand out. "Let's see it."

Harry reflexively opens his mouth to protest, and argue that he very much knows how to tie his fucking tie, but apparently that isn't the case today. Instead he sighs and obeys, slipping the tie over his head and passing it over.

Callum takes the tie and wraps it around himself, swiftly fixing it into a clean knot, one slightly more advanced than Harry's usual; after he's secured it, he loosens its position around his neck, and brings it back over his head, still perfectly intact.

"Here," Callum says as he hands it back to Harry, "This is how I normally do it. Just take it off this way, and you won't have to re-knot it every morning."

Harry smiles awkwardly as he takes his tie back, "Thanks, mate."

"Don't mention it."

As he finishes dressing for the day, jolts of anxiety continue to spark through every nerve ending in Harry's body. He huffs out a heavy breath every few moments that he can't physically contain, or he just might explode.