A House Built Out of Stone

Part 9

It’s raining when Harry asks about the flyer hanging on the window of Louis’ shop.

They’d been up on the roof for a bit. Louis has still got his wellies on and Harry’s boots are wet, drying out by the door. Louis’s closed up for lunch, so it’s just the two of them, shivering a bit and shaking water from their hair.

Louis is up on the table, fiddling with the thermostat and trying to get the heat to work. Harry would be better up here, got longer legs and longer limbs in general, but he’s too busy roaming ‘round the the shop, intermittently calling out titles of books and asking if they happen to be Louis’ favorite one.

“Louis,” Harry says, and Louis sighs, craning his head around from where he’s trying to set the temperature.

“I don’t have a favorite,” he replies. “And even if I did I wouldn’t say just to spite you, obviously.”

“No, that’s not.” Louis hears Harry’s heavy footsteps coming up behind him. He turns and sees Harry looking up at him, all furrowed eyebrows and damp, wet curls. “Would you really not tell me?”

Louis shuts the door to the thermostat and bends at his knees to balance himself on the table.

“I’d tell you,” he says. “I can’t imagine how cross you’d be if I didn’t.”

Harry lets out a pleased little hum, and Louis settles down on his haunches. Harry’s picked up a habit of touching Louis now, nothing pressing or serious. But a hand on his thigh, like now, the swipe of his fingers over Louis’ shoulder or pushing at the pulse beating just underneath the skin of his neck. Louis leans into it, because Harry’s hands are warm and big and Louis’ jumper is still damp from the cold and the rain.

Louis isn’t sure what’s giving and what’s taking anymore.

“What were you going to ask about then?” he murmurs. “If not my favorite book?”

Harry holds up the flyer that Louis’ had taped up to the window. It’s got a picture of Zayn on it, brooding and intense and Louis smiles at it. The absurdity of it all happening. “Someone you know?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Zayn’s my. He’s my best mate. Got his first big gig next week.”

The thing about Harry is that he’s earnest as anything, grinning over at Louis like he’s proud of Zayn too, even though Louis’s made sure to never mention him. “That’s amazing, Louis. Seriously. You must be really proud of him.”

Louis feels the pride ballooning up in his chest, burst out into his lungs and his chest until it feels like he can’t breathe with it. “Yeah, I’m. Yeah, he’s worked really hard for it. He, like, proper deserves it, you know?”

Harry nods. He runs his fingers over the font lettering on the page, same as Louis has done plenty of times. “That’s. I can tell, you know. In your face.” Harry smiles up at him, bit of a flush on his cheeks from the cold maybe. Maybe something else. Louis watches it spread across his face with the slightest bit of fascination. “It’s showing on your face, I guess. Usually I have to search, you know. To figure you out.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Harry’s hand moves up to his jaw, thumbs over the bump behind Louis’ ear and where his hair curls a bit behind there. “I’m not nearly as complicated as you think I am,” he says.

“Yes, you are,” Harry tells him. “Maybe more, I haven’t decided yet.”

Louis huffs out something like a laugh, breathless a bit. Like he feels in the middle of a book, where the plot could go one of two ways and Louis’ stomach drops in anticipation. “D’ya want to, like. I don’t know.” He gestures to the flyer in Harry’s hand, the gentle way his fingers grip the edge like he knows that it’s important. “You should come with me,” Louis says. “If you want.”

Harry looks earnest but he’s a conniving little thing, edges of a smirk curled into his cheeks. “Like a date?” he asks. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Christ.” Louis breathes out, huffy. He stretches his legs out, jumping down off the table and landing on his heels. “It’s not. Like. You’re a bit of a shit, Harry, you know that?”

Harry laughs, throws his head back so his whole neck shows, milky white and unmarked. “I know,” he says. “Are you going to say it’s a date now?”

“Never,” Louis says, but he makes Harry an extra cup of tea so he stops pouting. He gives him more sugar than he needs and doesn’t kick Harry out after closing, even though he’s full of energy and nearly vibrating with it, wide green eyes and a wider, more distracting smile.

-----

The shop still hasn’t greeted Harry but the roof knows him. His boots stomp heavy and familiar over to the railing, his curls blowing in face as he bends over and looks down at London.

“’s incredible, isn’t it,” Harry says. “This view’s incredible, Louis.”

He’s got his bomber jacket on, the collar curling over his neck and his ears. The wind’s put some color on his cheeks, made his skin a bit pink and and his lips chapped and he leans over the rail and stares down at the streets, at the people passing by.

He’s a book Louis’ never read. A book with too many words and too many pages and it will take Louis ages to get through, probably.

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “The view’s incredible.”

Harry grins. Teeth and dimples. “’s totally a date, you know.”

He leaves another note, Harry’s chair, it says. Louis takes it off, but he sticks it behind the counter, this time. For safekeeping until the shop’s ready.