Harry has a type.
He likes older, sophisticated, mature men. Well-educated men. Men with life experience and passion for arts and social causes. Men who are established in their careers, who've sorted their lives out.
His type was Mason Meyers, the doctor he'd met shortly after starting university, and who, last Harry heard, was still on an extended humanitarian trip to Ghana. His type was Yunis Carter, the postgrad who'd organized open-mic poetry readings at the art gallery before he moved to London last summer. And his type was Nick Grimshaw, the sociology lecturer with his own weekly independent radio programme, who'd been Harry's longest relationship right up until they broke up before the Easter holidays.
Niall knows this.
And so Harry can't understand why he's sat here opposite Louis Tomlinson.
To be fair, Louis is older than him. But only by two years. And he certainly doesn't have his life figured out.
He works in the record shop where Niall sometimes gives guitar lessons in the basement. He was in a not-so-successful pop-punk band until they split up and now he posts not-so-popular YouTube song covers. When he's not too busy pranking his housemate, his hobbies include playing footie and playing video games.
His speech is almost exaggeratedly Yorkshire. He's never been to uni. His travel experience is limited to clubbing in Amsterdam.
Harry stays to learn all this because he's polite. But he knew as soon as he'd met him outside the pub, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling between tattooed fingers, beat-up skateboard propped beside him, that this was never going to work.
Harry informs Niall of his mistake upon getting home that night.
Niall just shrugs and says: "I thought he was a fit enough lad."
Then he snaps the cap off a beer for himself and hands a wine spritzer to Harry.
Harry collapses heavily down into a kitchen chair. "Of course he's fit."
He thinks about the way Louis's blue eyes sparkled under his fringe, long lashes brushing his cheekbones —
"Has a nice bum," Niall adds.
Harry eyes him. 'Nice' is a bit of an understatement but, seeing as Niall isn't an expert in the area, he'll let it pass.
"Look, he's just not my type."
Niall just raises an eyebrow. "Oh, is Louis not old enough for your daddy kink? Not enough grey?"
Harry sputters his spritzer. "What? I don't have a—"
"But what about that once—"
"Once," Harry hisses, slamming his hand down on the table. "Once and it was humiliating and will never be repeated and, also, I told you that in confidence."
"No worries." Niall leans back in his chair, unconcerned. "Our boy Shawn won't tell anyone."
Harry glances over at where Shawn is sat on the sofa watching ice hockey on the Premier Sports channel Niall makes them invest in. He raises his own beer at him in acknowledgement.
Harry sighs and turns back to Niall. "Look, no, shit. It's not a kink thing."
"So it's a sugar daddy you're looking for?"
"No." Harry rubs his eyes. "No, no, no. God. I just like someone in a little more mature place in life."
Niall looks at him for a long moment. Harry is sure he's going to bring up Nick, but instead he just says: "Fine."
