Larry Stylinson ao3 one shots.

i just hope (my perfect stranger)

Written by:lovesofoolishly

Summary: Louis has a puppy named Pineapple Sunshine and Harry has a pitbull named Monkey. They meet at the dog park.

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So, it's pretty much a fact at this point—puppies are the worst thing to ever fucking grace this green earth. At least, that's the case when it's five o'clock in the morning (no, wait, 4:48 in the morning) and instead of the opening bars of that new Beyonce song bringing Louis back from sleep, it's a ginormous puppy paw. Seriously.
Impulse is a thing in Louis' life, there's no denying. A bright streak in his personality, it's brought him too many tattoos, a few days of dyed red hair, and a string of jobs he's constantly quitting, just because he can. Oh, and a puppy. A medium-sized short-haired mutt with bright eyes and huge fucking paws that bat at his face and squish his internal organs as the damned thing tries to get comfortable, again. His name is Pineapple Sunshine, but Louis usually calls him Snapple. Or Trashbag.
It's been a month of this. A solid thirty days of, "oh shit, what the fuck does he have in his mouth, are you fucking kidding me, seriously, give me back my fucking vans, I swear to god, is that a goddamned sock in your mouth, where the fuck did you find that, please don't swallow it, I can't afford another vet trip." So, yeah, to say puppies were the biggest mistake was kind of an understatement to Louis' sleep-deprived brain.
He tugs experimentally on the quilt thats managed to sink to the bottom of the bed in the middle of the night, trying to cover himself in a bit more warmth. Surprise of surprises, the weight on his gut lifts itself, settling on its paws and darting for his hand. No, nope, too fucking early.
"I'm not feeding you until six." Louis trains his gaze firmly on the dog as he speaks, exhaustion making him believe that maybe his words would mean something. Snapple cocks his white and black head to the side. His pink tongue makes it's first appearance of the day, tentatively reaching out to lick the soft spot between Louis' thumb and forefinger, and, okay, that might be somewhat adorable and kind of what made him adopt Snapple in the first place. Louis props himself up on his elbows and uses his other hand to tug lightly on the puppy's ears, giving in to the silent demand.
It isn't actually bad. It isn't actually terrible. Its kind of exactly what he needed, or so he'd told his mum after surprising her with a visit two weeks ago. Sitting down with her in his childhood room, Louis managed to pull rationalization after rationalization out of his ass.
"It's not that I don't trust you, Boo Bear. You live on your own, you have a job, you're doing better, I know that." His mum had trailed off then, looking over at Snapple as he gnawed cheerily on Louis' pillow. "But this isn't a toy. It's a real live animal. He's not even housebroken yet. You've never had a dog in your life, and, no, Loki doesn't count. He's Liam's."
"And Zayn's. They all live with me. It's kind of the same thing.
"It's...No. It's not. Lou, what on earth made you think you need a puppy?"
"I dunno. He was cute and he needed a home and the rest of his litter had been adopted, apparently. Besides, it'll be good for me. I'll have to wake up before noon, won't I? And if I have to feed him, I'll probably remember to feed myself." Louis nodded as he spoke, lips tugged down in the most serious face he could pull while there was a puppy in the room. His mum had just sighed, tousled his hair, and walked out (hopefully to make him a cuppa).
And now he's here. Now it's been a month and the dog is still having accidents, still prone to destroying his favorite shoes (never the ones he hasn't worn in years, just the ones he wears daily), and he's still the cutest goddamned thing in the world. To be honest, Louis doesn't quite know what to do. So he rolls slowly out of bed and grabs Snapple's lead, because if he's got time to kill, he might as well work on the whole housebreaking thing.
—
"So you haven't tried, like, a dog park or some shit?" Zayn places his elbows on the counter, giving Louis an expression perfectly balanced between boredom and amusement—something only he could ever do. "Don't you remember when we brought Loki home?"
"No."
"Yeah, you in no way remember the year old dog pissing on our pillows and tearing up our papers and destroying a box of your precious tea."
"Oi, where is the little fuck, you're right I do remember, I never made him pay—"
"Shut up, Tommo. Anyway, point is, Liam didn't have time between classes and working out and managing the pub to exercise Loki, right? And you're a useless fuck. But a mate of mine mentioned this dog park, yeah, and I went a few times, which, honestly, worked fucking wonders. Don't go much now that Loki's mellowed out, but I reckon Snapple would love it. He's just like you—it'd probably take only five minutes for us to get kicked out, but in those five minutes he'll tire himself out more than he could possibly do here."
"And you're only just mentioning this now because...?"
"I had to deal with it for six months. No one told me. I'm only telling you now 'cause Snapple just ripped Li's headphones in half. You're paying for that, by the way."
And if Louis smacks Zayn across the back of the head for that, well, they're best mates, and that's kind of a requirement at this point.
—
It's two in the morning and Louis is alone. It's two in the morning and he can't sleep, can't think, can barely breathe because he's still alone. He's twenty-two years old and he sleeps alone in a bed too big, in a flat too small, in a  city too wide and sprawling and terrifying. It's two in the morning and he's not at a bar, not in a stranger's bed, not even with a friend. It's two in the morning and the only people he knows he truly loves are most likely wrapped around each other in sleep, while he's mere metres away, alone. Always alone. It's two in the morning, and Louis rolls on his side only to see the peacefully sleeping face of his puppy, nose pressed against his pillow, and maybe that's exactly why he adopted Snapple in the first place. He bites his lip and brings a soft hand to pet even softer fur, eyes drifting shut.
It's two in the morning, and while he's not in love, he's not actually alone, either.
—
"Zaynie?"
"Don't call me that."
"Zaynidoodle?"
"Stop. I'll hang up, Tomlinson."
"Zaynikins?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Dog park?"
"Is that a nickname or a request? I'm busy, seriously, fuck off."
"He ate our curtains."
"Christ. I'll be home in ten."
—
Louis definitely expected dogs. He kind of thought heaven (or maybe hell) would look a bit like this—a wide, grassy field, more sun than a typical London afternoon, and dogs everywhere. There are also people, which throws him off more than a bit. Right. Dog park. Dogs. Owners. Pretty women in dresses and sun hats and pretty men in shorts and sunglasses and, that's right, people exist outside his little Louis-Zayn-Liam bubble.
Once upon a time, he was a great people-person. Once upon a time, he'd have been in this place five minutes and had a crowd around him, laughing and joking and noisy. Once upon a time.
Now he hangs back, hand tight on Snapple's leash, because everything's big and impressive and his puppy is so little. And there are golden retrievers, and pit bulls, and everything's so big. Even the sky. Damn the sky for being so breathtakingly huge.
"Lou, see, the point is to give Snaps some time off the lead." Zayn's voice breaks his internal turmoil, and Louis watches him unhook the metal clasp from around Loki's collar. The black and white dog sits with his tongue out, looking up at his owner adoringly, waiting for the "okay" before charging off to chase a little yorkie that looks half terrified, half ecstatic. Snapple has less restraint, tugging on his lead with all his little might, paws flailing on the grass. "C'mon, mate. He'll be fine. He comes when you call, that's about all you need here."
Louis heaves a great sigh, and with a dramatic sweep he bends over to unleash his dog. "Okay, Snapple, I know it's a big crowd, and everything's gotta be a bit scary, but you'll be..." He trails off as his dog starts running. Snapple doesn't look back, he just bolts, racing after Loki. He looks older like this, more like a dog and less like a puppy, and Louis wonders why he feels nostalgic. It's just weird, is all. A month or so of this thing being entirely dependent on him, with no one else to greet or lick or love, and now he's out there trying to bite the neck of a German Shepherd. Wait, fuck, is that normal?
"Is that normal?"
"It's how they play. Relax, let's sit or something." Zayn takes Louis by the arm and all but drags him to a nearby bench, flopping down as if the effort cost him greatly. His dark eyes follow the two dogs, and his lips quirk as he watches Snapple stumble and fall, repeatedly. Louis sits next to Zayn, legs crossed with his chin in his hand. More than a few people are looking their way now, and it's either because of Zayn's insane beauty or the fact that he's smoking. Wait.
"We're sitting next to a fucking No Smoking sign, wanker. Are you kidding me?" Louis plucks the cigarette from his best friend's lips and stubs it out on the grass before setting it on the bench between them. "You can wait an hour for your nicotine."
Zayn groans, again, and leans  back as far as he can without falling. With his long body stretched out that way, the stares don't dissipate, and it's all Louis can do not to roll his eyes. He's not bad himself, a bit on the short side maybe, but his skin's good, and he's been told he can pull off the shaggy "I look like a single dad but really you just want to call me daddy" hair quite well. Nothing compares to Zayn, though. Louis is a homeless junkie next to someone who could easily be Britain's Next Top Model. Maybe that's why people are looking—wondering where Zayn's bodyguard is, and why he's letting something like Louis anywhere near his perfectly coiffed hair. Bastards. Whatever. It's not like the thirsty onlookers have a chance with him. What no one here knows is that Zayn is truly, painfully in love. What no one where knows is that Zayn's been in the same relationship since he was sixteen.
Louis looks out over the park, following Snapple's movements with a watchful eye. It's been said over and over again, "like owner, like dog," and, really, it's true. Snapple has a habit of getting in over his head, of charging in and breaking everything, and if that doesn't reflect on Louis, well. At this particular moment in time, the mutt is trying to climb on top of the same pit bull, who's at least twice his size, nipping at the thick neck and tugging on its bat-like ears. Like owner, like dog. And, wait, it looks like Snaps may or may not have gotten his little teeth a little too close to something sensitive, and, okay, pit bulls may not entirely deserve their shitty reputation but that dog is suddenly terrifying, knocking Louis' pup to the ground and pinning him down. Yeah, that's his cue, and he's running now, because either Snapple's hurt, or he's being a little shit, and Louis really needs to know which.
At the same instant that Louis reaches the growling dogs, a bigger hand shoots out, grabbing the collar on the pit bull and yanking. "Monkey!" It's said almost painfully slow, and from where Louis' crouched beside his puppy, he sees a tall boy running his large hands up and down the sides of the pit, forcing her to sit. He's pale as can be, with curls that reminds Louis of his tea before he puts the milk in. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what's gotten into her."
"You named a female pit bull Monkey?" It's the best Louis can come up with, the only thing he can think other than, oh no. Oh no. Snapple is still shaking between his legs, covering his hand in little puppy kisses, and the pit bull is now lolling on her side as the man-boy with the monster hands scratches her tummy.
"I like bananas, and I like her, and that seemed like a nice middle ground. I wasn't about to name a pit bull Banana, y'know?" Okay. Okay, what? Louis blinks, taking in the way those cherry red lips curve around each syllable. It took at least twenty seconds for the inanity of that statement to fully reach him, and, god, he can't help it, but he's laughing now.
"What the literal fuck?" The other guy just grins serenely, and his eyes, oh man, Louis had thought the grass was green, shit.
And it's just then that Zayn decides to finally join them, having meandered over after Louis took off running, not willing to mess up his perfect hair or (god forbid) break a sweat. "Y'alright there, mate?" Fuck. Zayn, Zayn with his perfect everything, and there's a pretty boy in front of him and there's the most devastatingly beautiful creature behind him, and Louis knows in ten milliseconds he'll be the closest thing to invisible. Which, nope, cannot happen. No thank you.
"Yeah, hey, I can take care of him. Snapple, I mean. Didn't you need a smoke?" The clumsy brush-off only has Zayn lifting his eyebrows in that practiced way, and Louis can't even bear to look towards the boy. Man. Boy. How old is this kid? Because that should be established before Louis finds a way to incorporate "can I get a blowjob" into the conversation. Probably.
"Really, guys, I'm so sorry." Red-Lips-Green-Eyes interrupts Louis' mini fantasy, a perfect pout on his mouth. "Is your dog okay?" The drawl of his voice has Louis scrambling for words, and of course he's gonna come off as an arse, because that's what he does.
"Oh, I reckon he's horribly embarrassed. Can't imagine Snapple would want to ever show his face here again, at this point." Louis takes in a crestfallen face and, well, okay, he really needs to be careful with sarcasm and apparently too-trusting people. "I'm kidding. It's okay. Thanks, though. I'm not sure how I would've stopped the situation."
"She's right friendly, actually. All you have to do is tell her to stop and she'll roll over for some love." There's a sparkle in his eyes again, and, okay, Louis really needs a name, if only for his spank bank.
"Still. Thanks....?"
"Oops. It's Harry."
"Hi. Louis. Pleasure. Ish." Okay, not ideal, but there's a boy who loves his dog, and his dog may be worse than Louis' dog, but he's pretty and Harry still hasn't gone back to wherever it is he came from. It's the little things in life.
Zayn coughs from somewhere to his left, and, right, the prick hadn't actually gone anywhere and Louis has already made a horrible fool out of himself and he should probably get going. He clips the lead to Snapple's collar and stands up properly, towering over Harry for the first time during the whole ordeal. When Harry tries to move the same way (Louis has perfected it—standing with no help from anything other than his stomach and leg muscles), he tumbles back a bit, and Louis shoots out a hand to steady him. Harry's fingers swallow Louis', and oh, there's an image, okay, and the moment's over before it's begun, Harry back to being several inches taller and somewhat stable on his feet. He grins a little crookedly, with lazy eyes, and withdraws his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Louis. I hope Snapple decides it's safe to come back. I might see you later, yeah?"
Louis nods, swallowing thickly, and shoots Harry a (hopefully) winning smile. "I'll try to convince him it's worth it. Maybe."
And as he and Zayn plus the pups are walking back to their flat, Louis can't help but think maybe his dog isn't the worst thing that's happened to him. Perhaps.
—
Louis is a bartender this month. Last month, he sold crappy novelty phone cases in a tiny kiosk in the marketplace. Before that, it was a Starbucks that lasted all of a week before he got fed up with "secret recipes" and "excuse me, but I asked for six splenda and this tastes like seven." It was only due to Liam that he got the position in the first place, and, okay, he may or may not have had to pinky swear to work there longer than five weeks, but something tells him even if he didn't, Liam wouldn't hold it against him. For too long, anyway.
It's not like he's not good at customer services, and it's not like he clashes too strongly with management. It's more this restless feeling tucked beneath his breast bone, reminding him of his Drama major and his English minor and how he'd sworn he'd prove his mother wrong when she told him quietly that neither of those tended to add up to a steady career outside of teaching. He just wants to be something, be someone, show everyone that he could be more than the below-average student he always was.
Liam's voice in his ear reminds him of the group in the corner waiting for their order to be taken, and Louis' daydream of emailing his shitty geography teacher back in upper sixth a link to a website claiming his net worth to be £20 million crashes around his ears. If only it were true.
A silky smile graces his lips as he meanders over to the booth, noting with distaste that it seemed to be crowded with thirty year olds dressed like they were twenty. One man in particular had hair higher than even Zayn could manage (but at least Zayn would pull it off). They all wore plaid and tight pants, and there was no doubt in Louis' mind that, if he looked under the table, he'd see more high heeled boots than there were women. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but still.
"Hullo, guys. What can I get for you tonight?" Smile still plastered on his aching mouth, Louis directs his question at Quiff-y, as he seemed to be the loudest of the bunch. His mistake, then, as the order was given in a syrupy-slow voice that, oh god, oh shit, he recognized instantly. The man-boy from the dog park, Harry, was on Quiff-ster's other side, fit snugly against his hip. Oh, fuck.
"A round of shots, I s'pose, vodka. It's Louis, right?" Harry smiles sweetly, and, Jesus Christ, is that a scarf or a tablecloth wrapping up his pretty curls?
"Mm. Hi, Harry. Can I get an ID right quick? Not from the rest of you lot, mind." Louis is aiming for brisk and probably hitting passive-aggressive, which has absolutely nothing to do with the arm Old Man Quiff has wrapped around Harry's shoulders. There's a bit of a shuffle, then, as Harry tugs a wallet out of his pockets (which, how the fuck, they're practically painted on, okay). A quick skim tells Louis all he needs to know (twenty and definitely too young for this crowd), and he's handing it back and asking if there's anything else needed.
"For now. Thanks, love." Sir Quiffington interjects in a bored voice, leaning forward just enough to block Harry from view. Right. Message received loud and clear. It probably shouldn't piss Louis off to the extent that it does, but, fuck, possessive boyfriend or not, no one looks through Louis Tomlinson as though he's made of glass. Louis doesn't even pause to answer before turning away, back to the bar.
And, okay, it's not like he'd been thinking about Harry at all, nope. No way had the feeling of those long, pretty hands caught up in his own crept into his mind as he pulled one off in the darkness of his room. And those lips? Louis had entirely forgotten Harry even had lips. Of course. It was just a guy, a very pretty guy with a very energetic and stupidly-named dog who smiled at him and made conversation and, okay, now's not the time to get into this shit. Collecting a tray and filling it with shot glasses, Louis scans the near-empty bar again. Three hours left on his shift, three hours left till closing and the hipsters have no choice but to leave, three hours and he can clean up whatever mess Snapple undoubtedly made just for him. Three fucking hours.
—
The whole night seemed devoted to fetching more and more shots for the booth in the back as the rest of the bar dwindled from near-empty to vacant. Louis couldn't blame the other patrons—there were nicer bars, nicer pubs, better alcohol and music to be found elsewhere, but damn if it didn't fuck him up to know he had literally no choice but to play servant to a clique of grandparents and their tag-along grandchild. It was nearing midnight, and as the hours rolled past he found it easier to be more and more mentally uncharitable to the booth that monopolized his evening. Honestly, though, the rest of the lot had to be at least thirty--is a ten year age gap even legal? Like, the morals. Nothing made sense, and it gave Louis almost too much to ruminate over throughout his shift. He took to coming up with backstories for each of the characters, as if this were a play instead of his life. Lord Smirky von Quiffs-a-lot had the worst of the bunch, but, hey, no one but Louis needs to know that.
When he finally got to make noises about closing time and last call, Liam was leaning against the bar and grinning brightly at him, which, no thanks. "Have you been sneaking drinks?" Louis grumbled, poking the other boy's hip as he returned from passing out the last round for the booth.
"Me? Never. I have, however, been watching you mentally undress that customer all night while simultaneously planning the murder of the rest of the lot. What's not to love?"
"Piss off, mate. Speaking of, are we getting drunk tonight?"
"If by drunk you mean you and Zayn each drink a bottle of wine and I try to teach Snapple how to sit, then yeah, we are."
"Sick."
Closing doesn't take long after that, really.
—
It becomes routine, shortly enough. Twice a week, Louis and Zayn would take the dogs to the park. Snapple would get in some sort a scuffle, typically with a much bigger dog, and they'd leave soon after. He never once saw Harry.
There, at least. After the first night, it seemed to be the new place for the grandparent hipsters to unwind after a long hard day of ripping their jeans and tousling their hair. He learned a few of their names, much to his own annoyance (not that it kept him from coming up with better ones for Monsieur Quiffington). Harry stayed as pleasant as ever, quiet and lazy and never quite reaching the painful levels of drunk his mates seemed to be so fond of. While the rest of the lot were tossing back drinks (and tipping enough to pay Louis' half of the rent), Harry tended towards a beer or two. He never left Oh Holy Quiff's side, though it was yet to be known if that was by choice. Not that Louis pays attention to, that is.
It's been a month since The Monkey Incident, and Louis had only spoken to Harry more than a handful of times, each when The Quiff was in the loo, or otherwise involved. And it's like. He's so fucking charming, this kid, with his stupid clothing and stupid tablecloth-headscarf and his pretty eyes, and Louis just feels a bit lost. He speaks to Louis the most of the lot, always placing the order(s) and greeting him with that lopsided smile that absolutely did nothing to Louis' internal organs. Nothing at all. The rest were quiet whenever he came near, if not a little cold, which, okay, he might be the same, so. It's just a thing.
It's Thursday night, and the pub was empty save a handful of girls Louis' age giggling into their hands. They'd spent the past hour looking up the names of ridiculous drinks on their iPhones and asking Louis if he knew how to make them, which, hey, gave him a chance to be dramatic and interact with people, so no complaints there. With a grand flourish, he sets down a concoction of Jack and Apple schnapps for the blonde whose name he'd forgotten forty minutes ago.
"Have at, love." Louis winks and twirls back to the bar. And, okay, maybe he'd been sampling a tiny bit, but it was the slowest night of the week, and Zayn had dropped by, sufficiently keeping Liam occupied at a corner table for the past half hour. They were basically asking for trouble, really. He pulls out his phone again and flicked through the bartender app Liam had insisted he pay for, punching in the first bottles he saw on the shelf to see what he could make. This kept his attention for all of five minutes, when of course, there was that voice.
And it's just. It's Harry, of course it's Harry, but it's kind of different boy entirely from the one he'd been serving this past month. The hipster crew were loud at best and intolerable at worst, but Harry had always found a way to fade into the background on their nights at the pub, and Louis had begun to wonder if his first impression of the lad had been entirely wrong. He'd seemed cheerful, charming, the kind of person you'd want to shrink and fit into your breast pocket to pull out on rainy days (or during shitty work shifts). With his "friends," a term Louis used loosely, Harry seems more like pretty wallpaper than the main event he should've been.
Along with the rain and wind trailing after Harry's coat, there's a blond boy with a honking laugh. And no one else, no grandparents in ugly jumpers, no cougars in lipstick—just Harry and a lad who can't be more than a year or two older. Still laughing, still talking, the pair slides onto stools a few feet down from where Louis stood. And, okay, there's a surprise—the booth was unoccupied (along with the rest of the bar), and to be frank, it wasn't often people sat there. Really, just the few lonely regs requesting shot after shot on a Monday night ever sat at the bar—or Zayn, on nights when Liam wasn't working and he took a bit of pity on Louis. It was the ultimate friend-zone, or drunkard-zone. And Harry's really didn't count as either.
The other boy has the potential for both, clearly, as he greets Louis loudly and happily.
"Your finest Guinness, mate!" His voice was, again, loud, and decidedly Irish, and Louis is forcibly reminded of the hideous leprechaun statue his nan had brought home from a trip years ago—wicked eyes, tousled hair, clashing clothing, and pointy teeth. As he pours the drink (finest his ass, this is Manchester, not Dublin), Louis felt the pinpricks of eyes locked on the back of his head. Turning back to the two made it clear that those eyes were green and bright, belonging to Harry. The lad's regarding him with a tentative smile, almost as if posing a question. Well.
"Hey, Harry." Louis leaned against the counter as he slid the drink to the leprechaun. It was hard to ignore the appreciative smacking of lips that followed the first sip, but Louis kept himself busy, mixing Harry the same drink he'd brought to the girl's table. On the house, because why the fuck not?
Passing over the glass, Louis catches an eyeful of those tea-coloured curls, free of their tablecloth. Harry's attire seemed to shift with his friends, as tonight he was wearing a simple white tee, exposing pale arms, one of which was positively littered with tattoos. He spies, in his quick once-over, a ship, a heart, and a set of shaking hands before he had to force himself to look away. Black ink, apple-white skin, and nothing would possibly complete the look better than a purple bruise or two courtesy of Louis' teeth. Nope. Harry should've stuck with the flannel.
Harry's eyebrows rise at the drink, and it might be because Louis never once wavered from his detached server script, and this blocking is unpracticed, uncalled for. Fuck it, fuck it all, Señor Quiffolio is nowhere in sight and Harry's pretty, so very pretty.
"Not here with the usual crowd, I see."
"Mmm. This is Niall. He's m'flatmate." Harry leans forward slightly, elbows propped on the countertop, hands clasping the glass in front of him. The blond, Niall, grins, having half-drained his drink in the span of ten seconds.
"Who's t'usual crowd, then? Grimmy?" Louis bites the inside of his cheek, because Grimmy has to be The Monster Quiff, and, like, okay, that's kind of a fitting name. Niall doesn't sound even the slightest bit fond. "God, Nick would appreciate a dive like this. No offense, mate."
"Oi." It's Harry, looking a bit wounded, and Louis doesn't know if it's on behalf of him or the bar, but fuck it, he's charmed. "S'not bad, really. You like the drinks, you like the people, not much more y'can ask for, yeah?" At this point, Louis isn't really involved, and he could easily extract himself, trail back to the table of pretty, wasted girls and rack up the tips, but there's no rush. It's nice to see this kind of human interaction, the way the two boys seem to come together with a crash and a shout not unlike him and Zayn.
Louis was a social little shit, back before he came out. Life of the party, loud, spontaneous, loud, and loud, he'd collected friends like some collected pens—individually useless, replaceable, forgettable, yet entirely necessary when it came to navigating his small Yorkshire hometown. The title of "Best Mate" was reserved for Stan Lucas for the majority of his teenage years, before Louis even knew what the words truly meant. 
It wasn't until he finally clicked with Liam Payne and Zayn Malik that he fully understood.
He'd known the two of them since the days of sandboxes and swings, but it became clear in the earliest days of school that Liam was too driven, too focused to get sucked into the swirling chaos of Tiny Orange Angry Louis Tomlinson. Zayn might have been angry enough, might have had the certain bad-boy image that would've fit perfectly with a drunken twelve year old boy throwing up gang signs, but something kept them apart. Four years later, when footie star Liam kissed quiet Zayn after winning the most important match of the year, all Louis could think of was how much more beautiful it seemed to him than the plastic kisses he'd exchanged with too many girls.
Louis wasn't a downright prick at sixteen, but he certainly knew his place. In a town where "gay" was the quickest insult and "fag" the worst, Louis had spent years cultivating the persona of "The Funny One," shielding him from being "That Queer Kid." He'd even gone so far as to ask out Hannah Walker, walking beside her in the halls and holding her hand. One day he'd know the joy of kissing someone out of desire instead of obligation, but for the moment, he just needed to feel safe.
Still, the jeers and trash thrown at the lovestruck boys wormed their way into the shadows behind Louis' eyes, looping infinitely in the hours between sleep and wakefulness. The scene was the one thing that truly held him back from, and later, truly inspired him to come out.
Fast forward two years, when Louis starred in his school's production of Grease. It wouldn't be long before he'd be done with the town and everyone in it. The knowledge of that and the loaned confidence of acting gave him a taste of courage he'd never had, and two days after the show closed, he dumped his girlfriend. It didn't take much longer for him to ditch his stereotypical teenage friends, to stop hiding behind baggy jeans and sports jerseys, and to fall in with Zayn and Liam. Louis went to school proudly in tight red trousers and striped t-shirts, in suspenders and matching TOMs, and he managed on more than one occasion to comment loudly on how "fucking fit" David Beckham had looked at whatever premier he and his wife had recently attended.
It wasn't bad, at first. He and Zayn connected on more levels than he knew possible, to the extent that he knew, without question, who he would call at two in the morning if all hell broke loose. Liam too fit Louis perfectly, even with their few initial clashes.
("Louis, that's stupid and reckless and I'm not gonna take part in it."
"Well, that's kinda how I work, Liam, so if you don't like it, you're free to quit the relationship."
"What does that even mean?"
"Exactly.")
It just made sense, really, for the three of them to go to the same university. Four years later, and the bubble solidified, and the three were still each other's world. Zayn and Liam were still together, still as hopelessly gone for one another as they had been that day they said, "fuck the world," and kissed in front of what felt like millions. And Louis was still there, too.
It wasn't a surprise that his social skills were rusty as fuck, really. More than a few one-night stands in uni didn't compare to the relationship his best mates had, and between the instability of his jobs and no longer being in school, Louis hadn't found it in him to widen his personal circle. It was some kind of fresh air, really, to be there with Niall and Harry—not quite a part of it, but not entirely alone, either. And so, with the same impulsiveness that led Louis to adopting a puppy, he spent the rest of his shift alternating between shooting the shit with the two lads and bringing more drinks to the table of girls.
Dammit, Harry's funny. It's not like Louis really knows what he's looking for, in a friendship or partner or whatever, but there was no denying that there's something easy between them as they fall into each other. It feels like every topic under the sun came up at one point or another, from dog-training tips to concerts they'd seen to the merits of the movie Titanic. Niall gets progressively more and more drunk, and by his fifth glass, he's actually standing on the bar (oh, man, thank god for Zayn and his ability to distract Liam) and proclaiming to the world, "I fucking LOVE Louis Tomlinson!" Which, okay, flattering. Mortifying. Fucking brilliant.
Harry groans and drops his head in his hands in an exaggerated show of defeat. "Okay, Nialler, you win. Lou here can be your new best mate. Just leave my torn and bleeding heart on the chair—it's fine, I'll survive."
"'Course you will, you've got Nick Grimshaw to keep you company."
"Why do you insist on using his full name? Every single time, I might add."
"'Cos it's ugly. I like it."
When Louis goes home that night, its with a bounce in his step he thought he'd left with his Danny Zuko costume, and two new numbers in his contacts—Harry Not-Harold Styles and N!ALL!! Whore-an. No accidents greet him in his living room, just a sleeping Loki and his own puppy, who isn't too tired to cover him in kisses and fall over from the force of his own little tail. And really, it doesn't get better than this
—
"No boy, down. Seriously, down, sit. SIT. Get the fuck off me, Snapple, I swear to god." Louis is sitting on the couch, nursing his first tea of the day, and he's never been more regretful of the time Zayn thought it would be brilliant to see if the dogs liked tea. Loki had just eyed them distrustfully before settling his head on Liam's lap, but Snapple seemed to actually enjoy it, to the point where he'd begun begging for Louis' mug each and every time he saw it out. Now, he was hopping on and off the couch, sticking his narrow muzzle in every opening he could to try and reach the drink. Louis loves his dog, yeah, but no one messes with his tea. No one.
Could dogs even drink tea? Was it poisonous or something? Maybe it was like cocaine to them—one hit, and you're gone. Goddammit.
Louis only just succeeds at downing the last dregs of his mug when he hears a key turn in the lock, and Liam's sneaking in. He's got on trainers and running clothes, and even after almost three months, he hadn't adjusted to the fact that Louis was actually awake when he gets in after his morning jog. Though, to be fair, neither had Louis.
"Crap!" And, okay, sitting in the dark was kind of worth it when Liam dropped his keys and his iPod on his feet, too busy being assaulted by Snapple's ridiculously long body to keep a proper grip. "Dammit, Tommo, control your dog! Down, Snapple! Sit." Liam blocked the last jump with his elbow and raised his hand over the puppy's head as if it contained a treat. At this, Snapple's butt dropped to the floor instantly. His head cocked to the side and his tail beat against the wooden floor. Of course Louis' dog would listen to Liam—everyone listens to Liam. Bending in half, the short-haired lad scratched a sweaty hand against the black and white ears, and even in the dark Louis can practically see the joy radiating off his dog. "Good boy! Who's a good boy? Who's a good puppy, Snapple? Good boy!"
"You've gotta teach me that, Li. Seriously, he gave me about two minutes to drink my cuppa, and you know I've been trying to make that illegal for the past six years."
"Longer than that, innit?" Liam finally rights himself, depositing his keys and other handhelds in the bowl by the door only he ever had the patience to use. "Have you fed him? Taken him out?"
"Yeah, but the second I left the kitchen he followed me, so."
"He's a puppy, that's what they do. Loki followed me into the bathroom for the first year. Still does, if Zayn's not around."
"But I like the couch. The couch is my friend. If I can't stay in bed until eleven, I get the couch until at least then. If he's so hungry, why wouldn't he just eat and then follow me?"
"You're his daddy, Lou. He doesn't want to be anywhere that's not with you. Remember crate training?" None of the boys had slept for a week straight during the disastrous attempt, when Louis kept a crate in the living room for Snapple to sleep in at night. The puppy had been loud as hell, desperate for Louis to come and unlock the door. At first, they'd thought he was scared of the dark, but leaving a light on was worse. It only got worse when Loki decided to join in, as if it were some sort of doggy sing-a-long (howl-a-long?). Moving the crate into Louis' room hadn't helped, either, and until he gave in and let the dog sleep on his bed, taking up half the pillows and kicking Louis in the face every couple minutes, there wasn't a moment's silence.
Liam moves towards the kitchen, refilling his water bottle and downing half of it in one long gulp. They're still trying to be relatively quiet, because if Louis hates being awake before the sun, Zayn finds it a justifiable reason for homicide. The room shared by the two of them was pitch black, and it's kind of a miracle Liam could navigate it at all to leave for his daily routine. Like everything Liam-and-Zayn, it shouldn't have worked, should've shown the stark differences between the two lads, and yet. Liam had perfected the art of sneaking out, and Zayn was an entirely softer person if what woke him up was his boyfriend singing in the shower (as opposed to Louis singing, which Zayn claimed repeatedly should be legal grounds to surgically removes one's vocal cords).
Liam hummed his way from the kitchen to his room, and from the couch Louis could hear the gentle murmurings of morning kisses and the first "I love you" of the day. Putting his mug on the coffee table (stupid name - wine table or tea table would be more accurate), he slid to the floor to join his dog. Snapple regarded him with bright brown eyes and timidly reached out to lick his nose. Wrinkling his face, Louis brought a hand to tug on his puppy's ears the way only he knew how. Within seconds, Snapple was curled in his lap, making little growling noises of contentment.
Living with Liam and Zayn was everything he'd needed at nineteen and twenty and maybe even twenty-one, but knowing as he did the secret Zayn had kept in his sock drawer for the past two months, Louis couldn't help but wonder what was next for him and his little pup.
—
The next time Harry comes in with Quiffzilla, Louis doesn't know what to do. And, okay, he's not typically the kind of person to hang behind the bar and let Liam take over, but Harry's boyfriend(?) seems to really dislike him, and it's not like the feeling isn't mutual. The giant mop of curls doesn't seem to notice, however, and for the first time since he's been coming, Harry extracts himself from his group before even getting to the booth, making a beeline for Louis. Fuck.
It doesn't make sense to be worked up over something like this, really. It's just that the other night Harry and Louis had found out they'd been to the same concert (The Script in Manchester in 2009) and they'd adopted their dogs from the same shelter, and it seemed like an awful twist of fate that they'd just so happen to meet now, when Louis has forgotten how to interact with people and Harry is otherwise engaged. Because it was just easy, talking to Harry that night with Niall. It wasn't like Harry was a thorn, popping the bubble Louis had blown around himself, no. Something in this was electric, chemical, and Louis is positive he'd be able to find the perfect analogy if only he'd paid attention to the lessons on molecular bonding. It just fits.
"Hey, Lou." Harry's sliding onto a barstool, and how does that work in painted-on jeans? Surely something's not right with Harry, anatomically. Louis wants to investigate—for science. There's a grin on his red mouth that could only be called cheesy, and Louis wonders what it tastes like. "How've you been?"
"Alright. Snapple knows how to sit now, apparently. The lads and I are celebrating this momentous occasion tomorrow night."
"An excuse for cheap wine and food?" Harry's eyes take on a hopeful shine not unlike Snapple when Louis has a cup of tea. Too bad he's not all over Louis in the same way.
"I resent that—only the finest box from the grocery store for me, thank you kindly." Louis runs a nervous hand through his fringe, because this conversation has only two paths, and both should, in his opinion, come with hazard signs. Pinching the bridge of his nose briefly, he settles on a route before he can second-guess himself too much. "Eh, I mean, you seem to be pretty busy most nights, but if you're free, you and Nialler can join." Fucking smooth, Tomlinson. Great, making himself sound simultaneously like he stalks him and he hates him. Brilliant.
If such a thing as green stars existed, they'd have only half the brightness of Harry's eyes. Everything about him seemed to glow, really, as the boy straightened his back and let loose a dimpled smile that threatened to split his mouth. Dimples, dimples, Louis just kind of wants to shrink so he could fit in the perfect pocket they made. Instead he reaches out a finger to poke one, which, bold, but Harry almost seems to lean into his touch. Louis makes a mental note to spend more time examining these cheeks. Everything about the lad needed to be in a museum—but one only Louis could visit. No one with hair higher than a half-inch allowed, thanks.
"Styles, stop flirting and get us some drinks, there's a good boy!" Speak of the fucking Quiff.
"M'coming, Grimmy." Harry's words roll off his tongue like velvet, and Louis already knows the drill—a round of vodka shots, to be kept coming until they left for greener pastures. Or went back to their retirement homes, because, really, who knew where this lot was even from. "Message me tomorrow with the details, Lou. I'll pass it on to Niall. If you splurge a bit on something stronger, he'll show."
"Oi, and I thought it was my devastating cheekbones and Kardashian-like arse that had him pronouncing his love for me. You wound me, Haz." The nickname slips out of his mouth, and Louis can actually see the word floating towards Harry's ears. Fucking shit, he wants to reach out and catch it, cram it back into his mouth. The boy barely blinks, though, lips quirking up a bit at the corners. He stands to return to his crowd, but not before leaning in the slightest bit closer, eyes focused on Louis.
"I mean, I don't think Niall's the right lad to appreciate your arse, but that's just his loss, innit?" Harry smirks at something (probably Louis, who can't even feel his face it's gone so hot) and turns, back to his regular crowd and his regular table, back to the man Louis had only been assuming for a month was his boyfriend.
Fuck. It isn't even a surprise, to be honest. The other night, they'd spent a solid half-hour discussing the exact moment they realized they were gay. Louis claimed it involved David Beckham in a pants advert and some very sticky bedsheets, while Harry described in detail the first time he saw Titanic and fell "head-over-dick" for Leo Dicaprio.  Niall had laughed that Irish cackle and told them point blank if Britney Spears' video for Toxic didn't give them at least a semi, they needed to get their pricks checked out by a doctor. So, okay, yeah, Harry's gay, Harry knows Louis is gay, and...what? He's hitting on him all of a sudden? Agreeing to a drunken night with Louis' mates, both of whom are gay and dating one another? Going back to squish himself next to McQuiff? Just, fuck it all, really. Louis is kind of entirely done.
He also should probably actually tell Liam and Zayn they're hosting a thingy tomorrow night. Eh, details.
—
"So, what's the deal with this kid?" Louis glances up from his mobile to be assaulted by a cloud of smoke, which, thank you, Zayn. He nicks the cigarette from Zayn's hand and takes a drag, just because he can, and okay, smoking is definitely not as cool as his best mate makes it look. Louis coughs up a lung or two, wrinkling his nose. "Diversion tactics are futile and you know that, Lewis. Last time you attempted to invite other people here, you ended up trying to sleep with Eleanor."
"In my defense, she's right fit. And don't act like you didn't enjoy watching her remind me, forcefully, how very gay I am."
They're sitting on the balcony of their flat (if the four feet of cement could really be referred to as such). Zayn spends almost every second Liam's not home out there, or at least he has since Liam finally got tired of knocking over the endless ashtrays in their rooms and put his foot down. The only times Zayn ever smoked inside anymore were when they were all too drunk to care, and while that was a frequent occurrence, it was only nine in the morning. So, give it a few hours, then.
"So? Spill. What's the excuse for this party that you planned without asking either of us?"
"Sorry, Mum, I forgot I'm sixteen and still living in my parent's basement. Oh, wait, fuck off, that's right, because I pay also happen to be renting this place, and technically didn't I find it?"
"Defensiveness gets you nowhere, Lou."
"Alright, okay, so the last time might have been a minor disaster, but I know for a fact you're gonna like Niall, and if you don't like Harry, you're soulless. Really, I'm giving you a present, if you think about it."
"Oh?"
"Yeah—mates who aren't me. Sick, innit?"
"Best gift I could ask for, and somehow you've still managed to spend exactly no money on it." Louis laughs at that, he can't not, because since college every single one of his birthday and Christmas gifts had been made from either paper or odds and ends he'd found around whatever place they shared at the time, and, really, he's a genius.
The mobile vibrates against his palm, and he's distracted, because Harry texts entirely in emojis, and Louis is staring down at about fifteen bananas and an equal number of pineapples, which, really? Should not be nearly as cute as it is, thank you very much. Louis had come back from his morning walk (or standing on the sidewalk in the rain begging Snapple to just piss already) to find a cheery "Good morning!" text from Harry Not-Harold, and since then they'd exchanged too many pictures of their dogs and even more unflattering selfies.
"I don't think I've seen you staring so intensely at your phone since the Flappy Bird fiasco. 'Course I'm gonna fuckin' ask." Zayn takes another drag before stubbing out the butt in one of the four ashtrays littered around the balcony. It was their morning routine, on days Zayn could be arsed out of bed before noon. Louis with his third or fourth cup of tea, Zayn with three or four cigarettes, and No Dogs Allowed. If they turned their heads to the right, they'd see two white-and-black faces staring mournfully at them from the couch. Both were well-versed in this ploy for a second breakfast by now, and kept their eyes trained firmly on what they could see of the sky line.
Louis snaps a quick picture of Zayn, looking grumpy and sleep-deprived and yet somehow still more beautiful than anything else the city could provide, and sends it to Harry, along with a message detailing what a party pooper Zayn is, complete with sad emojis and tears. He's not, absolutely hell-to-the-fucking-no not gonna answer any of Zayn's questions, because there's nothing to say.
Harry's answering selfie is a shot of him making that frog face he's so fond of, and, oh dear lord, Louis could've done without knowing that Harry's texting him at least partially undressed, because unless he's wearing a tube top there's no other explanation for the wide expanse of shoulders and skin he's greeted with. Louis may or may not drop his phone, may or may not bury his face in his hands in attempt to muffle a short scream of frustration, but at least Zayn's a good enough lad to not comment. At that particular moment, anyway. Give him ten minutes to stop laughing.
At least Zayn kind of has an answer to his questions.
—
"Liam! Dog park, please, fucking please, please, please." It's closer to noon now, and Louis can't stop fucking fidgeting. Plus, Snapple's in one of his weirdly needy moods, the kind where every time Louis makes the slightest noise, he has to investigate, because apparently today the only thing the puppy wants is to be by his owner's side. It switches back and forth like this every so often—Snapple going from wanting nothing to do with Louis unless it's playtime, racing around the flat banging himself into different walls and doors until he can't walk straight, to howling if Louis isn't in eyesight, trailing him even to the loo.
From what Louis knows, Liam's never actually been to the park, because playtime with Loki is Zayn's responsibility and training and feeding is Liam's, or something horribly domestic like that. It's not a surprise when his friend puts up a fuss, really, but Louis is gonna get his way. It's just what he does.
"I'm really not up for it, mate. I've just done my workout, and we have to stop by the shops to pick up the stuff for tonight. Can't we go tomorrow?"
"You're working tomorrow."
"By we, I kind of meant you and Zayn." Liam glances up sheepishly from where he sits with the newspaper. "Oh, come off it, you know I'm not good with that kind of stuff. It'd probably just confuse the poor dog, really. He likes you and Zayn better, anyhow."
"He'd be stupid not to. Oi, Loki! Snapple!" Louis stands up off the couch to call the dogs, clapping his hands together a few times. The rapid click-click of uncut nails against the hardwood only precedes the racing pups by a second, and maybe the two begging faces are working better on Liam than Louis' pouting (he can't even take offense at that, because Snapple's really fucking cute). It's another minute or so before Liam throws his hands in the air in a show so dramatic Louis is almost proud. Dog park it is, then.
—
It's two in the afternoon and Louis still can't keep still. It's not unusual by any means, but he's had about five cups of tea and Zayn hid his phone "for the good of mankind," so it's almost amplified. Because tonight, there'll be a tall boy with wild hair in his flat and there'll be alcohol and Snapple is dozing off on the couch and everything seems exciting and perfect. An hour and a half at the dog park might have tired out his pup, but Louis hardly did more than fiddle with his jacket strings and tickle Liam, so it's kind of his turn. He's taken to pestering the two other boys for a ride to the shops, because they need alcohol, they need vodka and beer and food and they only have six-ish hours before Harry and Niall show up, really, is that enough time to get everything straight?
"Louis, mate, don't even act like you're not going to cry if everything goes 'straight' tonight." Zayn balls up yet another sketch and lobs the paper at Louis' head, hitting him just above the ear.
"As if it could, with you and Liam gaying it up everywhere," he scoffs, as if that were a witty comeback in the slightest. Even Zayn looks a bit perturbed at that, because, really, even half asleep, Louis can do better.
"Might wanna crack open a book of jokes or summat before they get here. Can't have yourself looking like a complete arsehole, can you?"
"We'll buy one at the shops. Up and at 'em, bad boy."
—
Vodka, check. Beer, check. Zayn mysteriously vanishing, likely in search of that bag boy who always has good weed, check. Nachos, fucking hell yeah. Louis is just kind of throwing shit in at random at this point, and he doesn't even notice himself grabbing a box of oatmeal because he's too busy imagining himself feeding Harry and whispering, "have a nacho, cutie." Sickening, really. Only a few conversations and Louis is seriously considering sharing his food. Christ, this boy needs to be stopped
It's only at a text from N!ALL WHORE-AN, asking if they can bring Monkey, that reminds Louis that, oh, right, this is supposed to be about Snapple or something like that, so he throws in a bag of Beggin' Strips and calls it a day. When Zayn returns with a very pleased smile and a book of knock-knock jokes, Louis can't even complain. Liam's paying for the lot, anyway. Really, he's got the best mate-slash-boss ever. Maybe he'll even read the damn book, impress Harry with some not-so-clever line. He seems like the kind of person to appreciate that kind of thing, if the endless puns from the other night were anything to go by.
It's not a question, at this point, how Louis feels about Harry. He grew up in a small town, breathing in recycled air, and he went to a university where everything felt a little too big. He'd lost his virginity on a one-night stand he'd been foolish enough to think might have become something more, which set the trend for the next few years. Still, he knew what attraction felt like, he knew the sense of falling into another person, even if they weren't there with open arms, even if they sidestepped and vanished stage right. He knew enough to hope that whatever it was he felt plucking at his skin whenever Harry was in eyesight might not end the same way it always had in the past.
Never claim that Louis Tomlinson does not believe in love. He watched his step-father walk out on his wife and children at age eighteen, unable to cope with a gay child he'd never asked for. He'd never seen his biological father at an age that mattered, yet another man who didn't think he was worth sticking around for, even at age two. But Louis had grown up with his mum, a woman who read fairy tales to him every night and never stopped wishing, never stopped dreaming. Even through double the loss, two times she said, "I do," only to eventually learn that he didn't. Jay Tomlinson kept her head high. She cried at night, Louis knew, but she never lost herself in her heartbreak, and never missed a bedtime story for him or his four sisters. She went out with her girlfriends. She called her own mum once a week. She made him breakfast and taught him how to brew a cup of tea and didn't shed a tear when he came out. So, Louis knows, has always known, that love is true, it's real, if not quite in the way you'd expect. He may have not yet found the man to hold him while he sleeps, but he has a dog that looks at him like he hung the moon, a mother who's never renovated his bedroom and always greets him with a hug and a kiss, and two best friends who love him as much as they're in love with one another. Even if he never found that one, he's definitely found enough.
—
If the chorus of barks didn't alert the three boys to the imminent arrival of their guests, the sound of fists sure as hell do the job. Someone, probably Niall, is giving their door a proper beating, and Louis jumps as if he hasn't been staring a hole in the wall waiting. Zayn's still in the shower, because his grooming only gets more drawn out when there's someone to actually impress, and Liam's probably in their room like a good boyfriend, to help with the artfully casual look Zayn should have down by now but can't seem to trust unless given the thumbs up by his boy. Louis had forgone the usual post-dinner walk with the dogs, and that meant that by eight o'clock, they were still whirlwinds of energy. So, of course they were jumping at the door, howling and scratching in excitement. It took Louis six tries to get even Loki to sit, and he scooped Snapple up in his arms after the eighth because, really, it just wasn't gonna happen today. Oh well. He's still struggling with the armful when a loud voice calls through the door—Niall.
"Oi! I can hear you, lemme in! I've got things!" The banging starts up again, and maybe it's his elbows, or his feet, because it sounds too forceful to come from full hands.
"A minute, a minute, please, fuck, no, okay, the door's unlocked, just—" Snapple starts kicking then, struggling just enough to make it impossible for Louis to take the requisite hand off of him. There's a beat or two of silence, before the door's nudged open by Harry's recognizably large hand. A large, brindle head appears in the doorway, effectively setting off Loki, who can't be bothered to keep still when there's another dog waiting to be tackled. Monkey, having caught scent of the two dogs, pushes the door open fully with her strong body and launches herself on the couch, tail thumping with a force likely to break the fabric. Loki tears himself away from his spot by Louis' foot, pausing to sniff cautiously at the larger dog. Once Monkey's scent is deemed acceptable, Loki joins her on the couch, joyfully clamping his large jaw around her neck.
Snapple is struggling in earnest now, flailing his long legs and thrashing his head around, and Louis is kinda shocked he hasn't dropped the dog yet. He shuffles backwards to give the other two boys room to squeeze through the doorway. Niall is almost entirely obscured by an obscene amount of liquor and food, which, okay, that works, and Harry is....Harry. He's got on a flannel half buttoned (giving Louis a view of a large butterfly tattoo) and a ridiculous hat perched atop his wild curls. His lips are red and raw, as if he's been worrying them for at least ten minutes straight. All in all, he looks wholly delicious, and it's rather unfair of him when this get-together is supposed to be a friendly thing.
It's only due to Niall repeatedly clearing his throat that Louis manages to rip his eyes away from the sparrows tattooed across Harry's collarbones. Right—host, meet guests. Host, play your part. He lets Snapple wriggle to freedom, which probably isn't the smartest thing to do, but, honestly, with three dogs, it's inevitable that something will get broken tonight. Louis hopes whatever it is belongs to Zayn.
"D'you not trust me or something, Niall? I went out of my way to provide, and you're here upstaging me, in my own flat. It burns." Louis pulls two handles of vodka from the mess in the Irish lad's arms, and leads the way to his kitchen. Jesus, did this boy rob a pub or something? Did he rob Louis' pub? Christ.
"Harry mentioned beer, I needed to make sure I was well set."
"So, what you're telling me is that you plan on drinking two handles, a six-pack, and a bottle of Jack on your own tonight, along with three bags of popcorn and a litre of Coke? I respect that."
"I think I can help with the Jack." It's Zayn, appearing just in time to not have to lift anything. He's got an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and a Liam Payne on his arm, who grins widely at the two other boys. "'M Zayn."
"Harry." With the regular grace Louis has come to expect from the lad, Harry stumbles over a pair of trainers in an attempt to shake Zayn's hand. He's still got a giant, dopey grin to compliment his wide, crinkled eyes, and Louis is just grateful for the distraction of clearing space for Niall's contributions. It gives him a second to hang back and observe, something he's never found it in him to want to do before. He watches as the boys get acquainted—Liam being pleasant, Niall the epitome of jolly (is he already drunk?), Harry goofy and charming, and Zayn being a bit stand-offish, taking in the scene before him.
It should be alarming, really, how quickly it seems to fall into place. The first beers of the night are passed around, and Liam's made a spot for himself under a writhing pile of dogs. Niall's fiddling with everything in sight, passing a ruddy hang over the collection of DVDs and various gaming systems, and Zayn seems to loosen up with each sip, cracking his first proper smile of the night at Harry, who's splayed out on the floor, hat tossed to the side. Louis himself is a nervous bundle of energy, unsure of where to sit and how to stay put. Conversation unfolds easily enough, and for the first time in months the flat is filled with voices careening off the walls and warming the empty spaces. It's some sort of wake up call, really. Louis had spent so many years curled between Liam and Zayn, replaying the same conversations about the same worn topics, and suddenly there's something new added, a spice and a kick of opinions that hadn't been voiced before. When Zayn talks about his internship at the tattoo parlor, Harry's eyes light up with something long lost on Liam and Louis. The conversation shifts from there on, drifting towards the various drunken mistakes both Harry and Zayn have littered across their bodies. Louis is almost interested in reliving the story of the girl on Zayn's shoulder, if only for Harry's input.
Food is passed out then, and the three dogs are locked in Louis' room to give a bit of breathing space. Niall positively inhales the take-away Chinese, and between his full mouth and brash accent, it's almost impossible to understand a word he says. Liam lazily picks at popcorn, alternating between flicking unpopped kernels at Louis and tossing the butteriest pieces at Zayn's open mouth. Harry and Louis are splitting the nachos, close together on the floor.
It feels like that first night at the bar, amplified times ten. Niall gets progressively more and more drunk, and Harry listens to Liam as he tells story after story of the past four years. Everything is funny and bright, and Harry is the only thing Louis can really see. He's basically a giant mess, and it's almost the best thing in the world. His limbs flail every which way whenever he tries to rearrange himself, and he's kicked the table more times than Louis cares to count. Every word he speaks is drawled out, even when he raises his voice, and it's fascinating that even when he's as passionate about a subject as he is about his own internship at a small radio station in the city, his inflection barely changes. It's charming and stupid and Louis is maybe a little bit drunk.
Drunk enough, in fact, to demand a few rounds of karaoke. The world is spinning a bit, and over the past hour he's found himself sprawled across the couch on the laps of Liam, Zayn, and Niall, that last of whom is scratching a casual hand through his fringe. He's always been a hands-y drunk, and if he won't let himself touch Harry yet, he'll certainly make sure someone else has their hands on him at all times. Harry's stayed put on the floor, growing more and more subdued by the minute, and that won't do. So, Louis sits up, squirming a bit to settle his ass comfortably against Zayn's crotch.
"Lads, I'm drunk and you're great, and I'm gonna sing you a pretty song. Liam, fix it up for me." Louis kinda wishes he had a crown, or something to announce himself as Ruler of the Party, because Liam follows his direction with no complaint, and even Zayn is allowing him to cuddle up a bit more than usual, wrapping his thin arms around Louis' tummy. It's warm and cosy and Niall's nodding off a bit on his shoulder, and Louis just needs everything to keep shining as bright as it is in his mind. Harry's still silent, nursing his fifth beer and keeping his eyes firmly on the floor, and Louis isn't having that. It takes more time than it reasonably should to hook up the karaoke machine (Zayn bought it on a whim ages ago, it's been untouched ever since), but then they're scrolling through the song selections.
Louis is first up, coercing Zayn into a rousing rendition of Summer Nights, and they miss the mark more than they hit it at this point, stumbling over the couch and the table and legs and feet. They can't remember any of the choreography, even though Louis watches Grease at least twice a month, but they nail a spin, Zayn dipping Louis at the waist. The song ends with more of a crash than necessary, and Louis smacks a kiss on Niall's cheek as he passes over the microphone. The Irish boy goes with N*Sync, and he somehow nails each part (Louis suspects he practices in the shower or something like that). Harry still hasn't cracked a smile or a joke by the time Liam and Zayn run through Don't Go Breaking My Heart, even with Liam's ridiculous hand gestures and Zayn forcing his voice to crack on the high notes, and Louis doesn't quite know what to do. So, he shoves the thing at Harry, because it should be his turn. They're finally drunk enough that Liam's ignoring the lit cigarette in Zayn's mouth, and Niall's in the process of rolling a joint that Louis didn't even know was an option.
"Let me guess. Wonderwall?" Louis winks, scrunching his nose and poking Harry's cheek. He's drunk enough now that boundaries don't matter, and he's trying to tease a dimple out from it's hiding spot. Instead of letting it loose, though, Harry bats away Louis' hand and stands up.
"I'm actually fancying a smoke. Zayn, can I bum one?" It's a surprise, really, because Louis doesn't consider himself an expert on Harry Styles quite yet, but he's certainly never caught a whiff of smoke around him. After being handed the cigarette and a Zippo, Harry actually ducks out of the flat onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him with care. It's all a bit sudden, really, and brings a bit of a somber feeling on the crowd.
Niall looks up from where he's still fiddling with the weed, eyes on where his friend had vanished moments prior. "'S a bit odd. Harry only ever smoked when he's pissed or upset. Haven't seen him drink much, but I guess...." He trails off to lick the paper closed, shrugging. "Who wants the first hit?"
"Should someone go after him? Did we do something?" Liam's concerned, as he always is.
"Nah, he's probably just drunk and in need of air." Niall pressed the joint into Zayn's hand, which, hmm, that's more manners than he'd shown before. Louis himself is busy staring after Harry, wondering what the fuck just happened, when Zayn whistles softly. He glances over just in time to see a cigarette flying directly at him. He doesn't quite catch it, but he catches the lighter that follows, and he knows without question what Zayn's trying to say.
"I kinda want one as well, so I might as well..." Louis stumbles to his feet, and he can tell without looking at him that Zayn's smiling.
—
"Hey." Louis' voice seems too big and loud for the little balcony, and he almost wishes he had a setting between off and on. Harry's leaning against the railing, long body hidden in shadow. All Louis can see of him is where the cherry of the cigarette lights up as he drags, highlighting his lips and the tip of his nose. It's unfair, it's so fucking unfair, that there's this boy, this beautiful boy who looks like something out of the saddest French film, and maybe it's the cold air or the defeat in Harry's shoulders, but Louis finds himself moving forward, closing the distance between the two of them. He bumps his shoulder against Harry's as he lights his own cigarette, willing himself not to cough.
Close up, Louis can see Harry's eyes focused on the ash collecting at the tip, and just as he opens his mouth to fill the pressing silence, Harry speaks.
"I don't smoke."
"I know."
"I don't know why I'm smoking now." Those green eyes look silver in the lack of light, refusing to meet Louis', and everything feels tight and crowded and so, so not like it should. Louis looks at his own barely touched cigarette, and flicks it off the balcony, losing sight of it as it falls to the concrete below. There's just something so precious about this moment, so quiet and strained, and Louis can't bring himself to lighten the mood when the night fits Harry so well.
"Everyone does stupid things when they're drunk, Haz. It's okay."
Their eyes meet for the first time in over an hour, silver and silver, and it's as if Louis found the magic phrase, strung his words together just right to help Harry make up his mind about something Louis didn't even know was a question. He's holding his breath, because Harry's looking at him softly, repeating Louis' words quietly, so quietly, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
If Louis hadn't known, on some level, what was about to happen, he'd think it was just the wind pressing against him. The kiss is a whisper against his lips, and Harry's hand has the weight of a ghost on his hip. It's so little and it's so fucking much, the way they're breathing each other's air, and Louis can't stop it, can't keep himself from taking Harry's cigarette and tossing it into the dark below, can't help crowding closer and carding his fingers through Harry's curls. Even with eyes closed, he thinks he can almost see Harry, the way their heads tilt just enough to fit easily together. Fingers grip tighter on his hips, not enough to bruise but enough to ache, and it's just...it's just everything, right here. Dragging his teeth against Harry's bottom lip, Louis feels the sharp intake of breath as if it were he who took it, and he wonders which one of them is making those little noises as they pull closer to one another. It's only when Louis feels something thick and hard against his hip that he has the sense to pull away, because drunk as he is, their mates are just inside, and this kiss was worth too much to move so fast.
He doesn't leave Harry's space, though, brushing his fingers up and down the taller boy's chest and shoulders. Harry curls his arms fully around Louis' slender waist, and Louis tucks his head under Harry's chin, because if they're gonna stay close, they're gonna do it right. He's looking out at the dark city sky, wondering if this is what it feels like to be out in the proper country-side. He should remember, but he can't quite think of anything other than the boy wrapped around him.
"Talk to me. Tell me something no one else knows." The broken silence should be sharp and cutting, but Harry's voice is as gentle as the thumb he's trailing up and down Louis' spine.
"I hate carrots." Harry snort-laughs into Louis' hair.
"No, c'mon, please. Just let me pretend like we've known each other for years." Louis melts a little closer to Harry at that, because, Christ, they're not just on the same page, they're on the same sentence, possibly even the same word, and it's so much at once that he's wanted for so long. He doesn't feel drunk anymore, and he knows that Harry never really was, and still he's considering it, turning the words like pebbles over in his mind.
"My entire world is tattooed on my arm. You can read it, if you want."
And they pass two hours together, exactly like that. Harry doesn't look, doesn't move except for the tracing of his fingers against Louis' skin. Most of the inkings are so old they're no longer raised, but he knows their positions by heart, and each time Harry touches one, he whispers the chapter it represents. A compass pointing towards home, several birds, a stickman, the words Far Away...
For each tattoo he explains, he gets two of Harry's, due to the sheer amount cluttered on the boy's body. They don't give voice to it, but it strikes them both at almost the same instant how many of their tattoos could match up perfectly, and when Harry clasps Louis' hand between their chests, they're both fully aware of the rope and the anchor lining up just so.
The sky has long passed it's darkest point, and though the sun is still hours away, they can feel the time in the lulls in conversation. It's a joint decision when they turn back to the door, slipping quietly into the now-silent flat. Zayn and Liam are passed out on the couch, molded together in a way only they could work, and Niall's curled around a handle of vodka on the ground, surrounded by the dogs that must've been set free at some point in time.  Harry's hand is still wrapped around Louis', and he's grateful for the lack of an audience, if only because he's not sure what kind of statement is being made.
"Do you want me to go? Gather Niall and bring him home?" Harry's voice comes from right above the shell of Louis' ear, and the shiver that trails down his spine is all he needs to make up his mind. If Louis shifted back even the slightest, he'd be pressed against the taller boy from the chest down. He does exactly that.
"I think we still have a few stupid drunk things to do. I'm good at making mistakes, if you haven't noticed."
Louis twists his head around to catch Harry's lips with his once more, before tugging him forward. The faint smell of weed and the debris of alcohol is making him reckless, even more so than he usually is, and he's pulling Harry towards his room.
The door shuts with a faint click, and Louis feels like he's been holding his breath for far too long.
"This okay?" His hands are cupping Harry's chin, lips placing needy little kisses along the line of his jaw, and the murmur of consent is all he needs to keep pressing forward. Harry stumbles back a bit as his legs hit the end of Louis' bed, and Louis eases him down, down until Harry's back is pressed into the mattress. Their hands get tangled again, and Louis is hovering over the taller boy, pinning his wrists gently above his head as his mouth begins to work a bruise between the sparrows on Harry's chest. Harry's fully stretched, hips rolling up to meet Louis' as he nips and sucks at purpling skin. Louis can feel Harry pressed against him, feel his cock straining against those absurd jeans, and he rocks forward to meet him, groaning at the friction that sends heat spilling through his veins.
Releasing Harry's wrists, Louis works his way down the wide expanse of pale chest and dark ink with soft kisses and small nips. With one hand, he slips the last few buttons on Harry's flannel free, and places one last, gentle kiss on the dark hair above Harry's navel. Louis looks up again  in search of green eyes. He's not progressing without a nod, without something to give him permission, so he brushes his chin against the soft skin, letting his stubble scratch and mark. Harry's free hands spring to life from where they'd lain limp above his head, coming down to trace through Louis' hair. The gentle tugging brings a soft moan to the smaller boy's lips, and Harry groans again, lifting his hips in a silent demand.
It's as much of a yes as Harry seems capable of at the moment, so Louis palms him through his jeans before bringing both hands to the button at the top of Harry's jeans. He should've known this was gonna be an issue, he really should have, and suddenly the room is filled with quiet laughter. Harry's giggling, and batting Louis away gently, peeling his jeans and pants off quickly, before tugging on the hem of Louis' shirt. It doesn't take much after that for both to be fully undressed, Louis kneeling between Harry's spread legs, and no one's laughing anymore. The only sounds in the room are heavy breaths and soft whimpers as Louis places gentle kisses and kitten licks on the insides of Harry's thighs.
It's been so long since Louis has been in this position and felt anything worthwhile, and he can't help but need to drag it out. Lifting his head just enough to get a proper view of the younger boy spread beneath him, Louis sees a beautiful wreck. Harry's chest rises and falls irregularly, eyes tightly shut with his teeth worrying his bottom lip, and, Christ if it doesn't do something to Louis to know he's the cause. It's with a quiet surge of confidence that Louis breathes over the head of Harry's cock and smiles when he feels a tremble under his hands. Digging his fingernails into Harry's thighs, he tongues at the tip, reveling in the quiet gasp that escapes Harry's mouth. And, well.That's more than enough encouragement for Louis to continue wrapping his lips around the swollen head, giving soft licks to Harry's slit, doing anything to pull more pretty noises from those beautiful lips. It only takes Louis lifting a hand to cup Harry's balls, gently kneading the skin in time to his sucks, and Harry's moaning in earnest, hips bucking up and muscles clenching under Louis' hands. It's a silent demand to which Louis obliges, licking a long stripe up the side of Harry's cock.
He's getting louder now, more desperate and Louis pinches his thigh in an effort to quiet him down. Of course, this means utterly nothing because in the same breathe, Louis is taking Harry completely in his mouth. Slowly, steadily, inch by inch, until his nose brushes the soft hair above Harry's cock. His fingers are rubbing circles into Harry's firm thighs to match the circles being rubbed against the back of his neck, and the sensation has Louis moaning around Harry. Glancing up through the dark of the room, Louis can only make out small details—lips bitten red and raw, an arch to Harry's back, curls wild on Louis' pillow.
It's silent until Louis begins to bob his head, pulling off and sucking Harry back down until his head touches the back of Louis' throat. He's got no delusions on his gag reflex, knows when to pull back enough to breathe, and he compensates by wrapping his fingers around Harry's cock where his mouth doesn't reach.  Harry's hands are grasping now for any sort of contact, and they trace the hollows of Louis' cheeks reverently, cupping his jaw and carding through his hair. It's not a minute later that Harry's tugging, trying to warn Louis. Instead of pulling off as intended, Louis opens his eyes and pinches Harry's hip. Even though he's not really able to smile, he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkle as he meets Harry's, locking gazes for only a few seconds before Harry is biting his own wrist to keep from calling out. Louis sucks Harry lazily through his orgasm, rubbing a light hand against his thigh until it's clear the sensation is too much.
Sitting back and licking the smear of come left on his lower lip, Louis crawls his way back up to Harry's side. The other boy looks weightless, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, and Louis can't help but press a soft kiss to his cheek. The drag of his body reminds him, almost painfully, how hard he is, full and thick against Harry's hip, and it doesn't go unnoticed. The next few minutes are everything Louis had denied wanting since he'd met Harry—large, mildly calloused hands slick with spit and precome tugging him off in lazy strokes, gentle teeth nipping at his jawline, and a rough kiss swallowing Louis' moan as he spills on Harry's flat stomach. Everything's warm and hazy and quiet as they wipe each other off with Louis' discarded shirt. There aren't words, just small kisses and lazy touches, and both boys are asleep in each other's arms before Louis can even properly ask Harry to stay the night. Like everything else, it just kind of happens.
—
It's five in the morning when Louis is awoken by frantically clicking nails against his bedroom door. Something feels off the second he turns on his bedside lamp—Snapple's  outside, decidedly not in his bed, but then again, no one else is, either. And just like that, the events from last night bloom in his mind. A starless sky, Harry, hands and sweat and gentle kisses, and the fact that he hadn't asked Harry to stay. A frown tugs at his lips as he feels the other side of the bed, testing for any lingering warmth. It's cold.
It takes Louis a minute to get dressed, and in that time the scratching has stopped, replaced by a high-pitched whimper. He shoves his old glasses on and opens the door, blinking a bit at the lights that had been left on in the living room. Bending down to scratch his puppy's ears, it's clear that Monkey, too, is gone.
Words twist and turn in Louis' mind as he prepares breakfast for Snapple and a cuppa for himself. There's a note stuck to the tea kettle, written in hurried, boyish script. 'I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you, and Monkey would have if I'd stayed longer. Thanks for last night. I'll see you.' There's a single x scrawled in the corner, and with that, a bit of the tightness in Louis' chest loosens. Last night, the words "stupid," "drunk," and "mistake" had been thrown around too many times for him to know what to think, but one night stands don't leave a note. They just don't.
Louis breathes a little easier, knowing how well Harry got on with his mates, how well Louis got on with Niall, how right it felt to open his arms and lay himself bare. The emptiness of his flat means nothing compared to that.
—
It's with a bit of a bounce that Louis walks to work later that afternoon. Liam was already in, working an earlier shift, and Zayn had vanished to god knows where around noon. No one had questioned where Louis had vanished to the night before, or why he'd never come back, and it feels strange, holding something like this to himself. Usually, by now he'd have given Zayn every single detail, down to an impression of his partner's O-face. It was nice to have something of his own, a little memory he'd already taken out to examine so often it already felt like slipping into his favorite sleep shirt.
He hadn't spoken to anyone all day, actually. Niall had shot him a quick text earlier in the day thanking him for the booze, but Louis hadn't heard a peep from Harry. Again, nothing to worry about—maybe he was sleeping off a hangover (until five in the evening), maybe he was just busy with Monkey. Louis is fine.
On his way to the back door of the pub, he spies his coworker, Eleanor, sitting on the steps and smoking, hair in a messy ballerina bun on the top of her head. She winks at him, but that's about as far as their interaction ever goes (minus that night she had reaffirmed his homosexuality).
Opening the door and slipping inside, Louis catches sight of Liam, in full work-mode, doing the last of the dishes in the old, dirty sink. The place serves proper food earlier in the day, until about four, when it switches over to a menu of alcohol, chips, and crisps, and Louis can't be grateful enough that he's never had to work earlier than five. He hates dishes, hates the sink and the stove and the greasy feeling his fingers get from handling anything in the kitchen area. Liam, on the other hand, thrives on it, excels at cleaning and serving and generally being a human being.
The only greetings exchanged are short, before Liam is all but pushing Louis out to the bar. "We've got your lot in early—get a move on, quick. I have to finish up here, I've got a date with Zayn. It's just you and El tonight. There are a few—"
"Liam?"
"People at the bar, and some of them have plates, for god's sake do not leave the dishes—"
"Have you quite finished? I'm set. I'm good. Go. Do. It's fine." Louis is well-versed in Liam's panicky, I've-been-working-with-incompetent-bastards, do-your-damned-job monologues by now, and it's just. It's just, Harry's going to be here, right outside the door, and Louis has so many butterflies he's surprised they haven't fallen from his mouth when he opened it to shut up Liam. Ducking in front of the taller boy, he rinses his hands under the spray of hot water before darting out the door, pausing long enough to flick the excess drops at Liam's beard (why the hell he would ever grow one, Louis has no idea).
It goes like this. It goes like those old experiments where babies were placed on a see-through floor, crossing it with blind faith that it'll  hold because their parents stood waiting on the other side. It goes like those starved and abused dogs found in the homes of drunks, who, without fail, wag their tails when their rescuers come, even though they should, by all logic, not be capable of trust. It goes like a boy, head filled with the highest hopes, walking out into the world like maybe he's found something worth holding onto. It goes like this.
And maybe these last few days were a figment of Louis' brain. Maybe this entire month had been a lie, something cooked up to distract himself on long and lonely nights at the pub, something to sing him to sleep and drown out the way the air in his flat is filled with love, but he can't quite touch it. Because there's the booth, and there's Harry, but there's also Nick Grimshaw, whose hand is currently smoothing over the inked shoulder Louis had tried so hard to memorize the night before. There's a beautiful boy tucked against someone Louis can't help but hate, so tightly pressed he'd think their sides were stitched if he hadn't ever seen them apart.
It should happen so much quicker than it does—it should be momentous and loud and painful and quick, like the time Louis broke his leg jumping off a swing set. Instead, it's like each heartbeat takes it's time, pulsing to the ends of his body before pinging back to center. Because there are suddenly so many words, the echoes of "drunken mistake," and "stupid things," and Louis had never fucking asked about Nick Grimshaw. He'd meant to, because everything he'd seen could only indicate a serious, long term relationship, but he'd just. He'd just kissed the boy, walked the boy through the story of his life, backed him into his bedroom and laid him out bare. He hadn't asked, though. He hadn't asked.
It's not a question anymore, and he doesn't need Nick Grimshaw glancing up from the table over at Louis. He doesn't need the hard glint to his eyes or the firm set of his mouth. It's a challenge, clear as if Louis were fifteen again on the football pitch.
It goes like this. It goes like landing on Mars in hopes of finding liquid water, when in truth, there's probably nothing to be found but dry, cracked land.
And so Louis does something he hasn't had to do in years—he runs.
—
Thank fucking god for Eleanor Calder.
It's been two weeks since Louis quite literally ran out the door. He'd bumped into her immediately, and fucking. He'd fucking burst into tears. And once it started, he just couldn't stop, because, really, no one's seen him cry since the night his parent's split and Zayn and him went camping for a week in the middle of nowhere, and it was horrifying and humiliating but, like. She's a good fucking person, a great human being, because she hadn't done anything but hug him tight and tell him to go home to his dog. Lovely, lovely Eleanor, sassy, smart-ass Eleanor, she'd brushed his fringe back and tucked his beanie on. She'd kissed his forehead and squeezed his shoulders, and told him to go home.
And he had. He'd walked the few blocks back to his flat and found a near-empty pack of smokes Zayn had lost the night before. He'd released Snapple from his bedroom and brought him out on the balcony, no-dogs rule be damned. He'd lit each remaining cigarette and watched them burn to the filter without taking a drag. And then, he'd made a cup of tea, because in his entire life, he'd never been able to feel stupid while holding one. And, fuck, he felt so fucking stupid. So dramatic and stupid and absolutely crushed, because he'd only known Harry for a little over a goddamn month and he'd fucking cried. Because a part of him had clung to that night and dreamt it to be more than it was. He'd let himself hope that maybe someday his kids would look more like Harry than they would him.
Thank god for Liam Payne.
Thank god for the best roommate he could ask for, who brought home beer without request and had changed Louis' shifts to mornings.
Thank god for Zayn Malik, who'd once again been the person to kick him out of bed and forced him to go to work. For being the best mate, the kind of listen to you scream and then not even question it when you later claim not to care at all. For not letting him touch another cigarette, no matter how much he'd begged.
Above all, thank god for his fucking puppy.
Because that dumb lump of fur loves Louis with everything it has in it. Snapple had curled into bed with him for twelve hours straight when the tears became too exhausting, and not even once kicked him in his sleep. The dog had spent the first few days quieter than ever, refusing to leave Louis' side and keeping his large, dopey head rested on Louis' thigh, providing more comfort than the boy knew could be contained in something so much smaller than him.
Things were okay.
A few years ago, Louis would have gone to bed and not gotten up. He'd have quit his job and spent a month refusing to leave the flat, refusing to put on different pants or shower and possibly not even eating. But he was smarter than that, and stronger. He had a commitment to Liam, to the pub, and he genuinely liked the job, and his coworkers. He had a dog to take care of and bills to pay and a stomach that needed food and hygiene to maintain. And he wasn't going to let a sad, beautiful thing like Harry distract him from being okay.
Because Harry clearly had Nick Grimshaw, and Louis couldn't do shit about it. Whatever had happened was a mistake, a drunken, stupid one-night stand not even worth mentioning, not when Harry had looked so bloody happy next to his boyfriend, so full of sunshine and joy and everything good. Louis wasn't the kind of person to ruin a smile like that, not even for his own peace of mind. He didn't need to ask, because the story was written on the table at the pub, lining the crinkles of Harry's eyes, tucked into the dimples in his cheeks.
When he got a simple text from Harry the day after he'd gone home, a simple hello, Louis had turned off his phone and rolled over. Explanations entirely unnecessary, at this point.
There wasn't anything to say.
—
Three weeks, and Louis is fine. Liam had told him that after a few days, the group of hipster grandparents had stopped showing at the pub. He'd pestered Eleanor for more information, but all she had to offer was that they'd been perfectly pleasant to her, but they were definitely gone. That's just the kind of pub they had—if someone didn't show for a week, it wasn't likely they'd be coming back.
So, he's back on night shifts, back to working with Eleanor instead of Greg, which, thank fuck for, because Greg had always had a way too obvious crush on him, and Louis just wasn't here for that right now.
He's fine, really. Absolutely. Harry hadn't contacted him again, nor Liam or Zayn, from what he knew, and aside from one text consisting entirely of question marks and exclamation points (and a few angry-face emojis), Niall hadn't, either. It just isn't a thing—brushed under the rug with the rest of the dust. The memory of that night was folded in the back of his closet, smoothed over and untouched. It is what it is—nothing
It's still nothing when, an hour before closing down the empty pub, Nick Quiffshaw walks in. It's still nothing when his quiff is higher than ever, eyes hard and angry, and he's making a beeline straight for Louis. It's nothing, it's always been nothing, and Louis is gonna tell that right to his quiff because he can't look the man in his eyes without feeling weak.
"Louis." Nick doesn't pull up a stool, doesn't sit, he just stands, facing Louis with pursed lips as if his name tastes sour on the tongue. It probably does.
"That's me." He rolls his shoulders and forces himself to stand as straight as Nick does. The effect isn't quite as impressive, because if Louis is being honest, he's short, and Nick has to be over six foot. It's not fucking fair, but then again, Louis has bested more intimidating boys on the football pitch, so, like. Whatever, right? Football pitch, confrontation over possible cheating. Same thing.
"I'm gonna be blunt. I'm gonna be fucking rude, actually. Where the fuck do you think you're getting off here?" Nick's voice creeps up, getting louder and louder, and the back room is suspiciously quiet because, Christ, Eleanor is definitely eavesdropping. Okay, this is happening. "Is this a fucking game to you? Jesus Christ, I knew there was something I didn't like about you, but I didn't think you'd pull a shit move like this."
"Okay." It's all Louis can offer, because he knows what's coming next, and if dealing with his stepfather has taught him anything, it's that men need to let everything out before they'll even give you a chance. Not that, to be honest, Louis has much of one. If he speaks, he's gonna leave with a black eye, and if he doesn't, the metaphorical sutures he'd sew into himself to keep it together since Harry will be ripped to fucking shreds. So like. He's fucked, either way.
"No, don't you fucking dare. Don't you fucking say that. You don't fucking get it, do you? I've been dealing with this bullshit for two fucking months, and neither of you have the balls to do shit about it. People aren't a goddamned toy. Are you aware of that? D'you have any fucking clue what I'm even talking about, or have you already forgotten? Is three weeks long enough to move on from such a royal fucking cock-up?"
And it's like. That's just not on. That's just not fucking on. Because Louis may be a fuck up, he may have accidentally fucked up a perfect relationship, but, fucking christ, he's not fucking ignorant. He's not a goddamned idiot.
"Are you fucking kidding me? No, seriously, what kind of shit are you talking? You think I've got no clue? That I don't fucking know exactly what I did? Because I'm gonna be fucking blunt here—I know exactly what I fucking did. And I regret it. And I'm done. I'm not in either of your fucking lives, I switched my fucking work schedule so I didn't have to fucking see either of you, so you didn't have to see me. I know exactly what happened, thank you so fucking very much." He just can't hold it in. And it's gross and unprofessional and he's at work, Eleanor's right behind the goddamned door, but Louis just can't. Everything's hot and burning and it just needs to stop. He needs to take a step back and be cold and be heartless and move the fuck on, because it's been three fucking weeks and this prick shouldn't get to him like this. So Louis keeps talking.
"I kissed your boyfriend. I blew your boyfriend—I had his dick in my mouth and he had mine in his hand and I fucking regret it. But he didn't fucking tell me you were together. Maybe you should be having this goddamned conversation with him. Because I'm done."
It's silent, it's utterly, painfully silent as Nick's face goes slightly slack. And, yeah, Louis may not have had to play this role in years, but he hasn't forgotten how to pack a punch into a string of words. All he can hope is that he hit hard enough that neither Nick nor Harry will ever fucking come back.
And then there's laughter.
And then there's genuine, crazed laughter, Nick's head tilting back to the ceiling and his hands covering his eyes, which, okay, maybe Louis should've checked for psychopathy before engaging in this kind of row.
"My boyfriend? You have got to be fucking kidding me." He's breathless when he finally speaks, still choking back laughter, which, really, what the fuck? "Louis, you complete and utter sack of shit, you think Harry's my boyfriend?"
"Uh."
"Y'know, I've pretty much hated you since the first day, because Styles thinks you're so fucking clever and intelligent, and just like, that's kind of my role in his life. That's kind of me. Jesus fucking christ, if I had known you were so bloody stupid, I wouldn't have wasted my venom."
"Okay." Alright then.