Got The Sunshine On My Shoulders || larry stylinson

PART 14

Home Studios is hidden in a side lane somewhere in Clapham. Harry looks around a little warily when he steps out of the car, but the street looks normal enough - lots of people rushing back from lunch, a Sainsbury's on the far corner, a wedding salon tucked in right next to it, trees and bins and a paved sidewalk.

The entrance is a dilapidated metal door, with the bottom corner bent. Harry leans on the bell that's tacked onto the frame, and is let in with a loud buzz.

Inside, it's different from what Harry had been expecting. The walls there are properly painted, some kind of reddish colour that's not quite visible in the darkness. It's a single, narrow corridor, leading to a brightly lit stairwell.

Harry wipes his palms on his jeans, squashes any hints of nervousness swirling in his stomach, and goes down the stairs.

It's a small studio - tiny, even, with just about enough space for a couple of people. Some of it is standard: a single recording booth, a well-used control panel, an assortment of instruments hung up and tucked into corners and leaning against walls. Some of it, not so much: there's a couple of mini fridges stacked on top of each other in one corner, a huge leather sofa that takes up most of the room; a pile of papers spread over the volume controls, a mug, a hoodie hanging from the back of an empty chair. Frame after shiny frame with gold and platinum records.

Right.

“Hello?” Harry says into the room. It's dark, darker than he's used to anyway, only lit by a single standing lamp in the corner.

Maybe Will T is the Daft Punk of songwriting. Maybe he's going to sit in the recording booth with the light off the whole time, communicating through the microphone.

“I'm, uh,” Harry stutters as he steps further into the room and trips over a cable, “I'm Harry, I'm here about the demo?”

Nothing, not at first. Harry's own heartbeat echoes in his ears, a little scared despite himself. He might have come to the wrong place; maybe he does have a stalker after all, and they've lured him here to kidnap him.

He doesn't feel like he's in danger, though. There's something about this place, quiet and dark as it is, that makes him feel safe.

“Hello?” he tries again, going for nonchalant, managing to put his hands in his pockets on the third try.

To his left, a door clicks open, and floods the room with light.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice.

Harry blinks. His head starts spinning even as he's standing in place. He must have heard wrong-

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Louis says as he steps into the room. It's him, and there's no question about it - Harry would know him in complete darkness, would know him anywhere. “Liam wouldn't get off the phone, as always.”

Harry can't look him in the eye. He stares at the toes of his own shoes as Louis walks towards him, soft footsteps on carpet. He stops when they're all but breaching each other's personal space, when Harry can feel him breathing into what little air is left between them.

Raising his head becomes inevitable, then. Louis meets him with eyes that look sad beyond belief and a wan little smile, barely a curl to the corner of his mouth.

“Hi, Harry,” he says quietly. “Have a seat, if you want.”

As if on cue, Harry's knees wobble underneath him like he's just learned how to stand upright. He stumbles his way to the sofa, but only sits on the very edge of it. Louis sits on the big office chair and twists it around a couple of times, looking into the ground. Then, he stops face to face with Harry and rolls closer, until he can stretch his legs and prop them up on the sofa cushions, just a breath away from where Harry's settled, curled in on himself.