17 Black

Can't Help Falling in Love -- Chapter 3

 Harry had never been more frozen in place than he had been in that moment. His body felt foreign, unknown—as though he was watching the boy from outside of himself. He felt like a match gripped just moments from slipping into water; this boy had saved him from a fate he didn't even notice was coming.

He watched with awe as the boy gripped onto the pole, his small posture meaning nothing when faced with his large presence. He seemed to fill up the whole entire room.

Wishing to God he'd caught his name over the loudspeaker, he allowed his eyes to take in what he'd wanted all along, his body to feel the feelings it had always wanted to feel, his persona to slip off into the night and give him the anonymity he'd ever wanted. As the boy began his set, Harry felt as though he was finally ending his. He was no longer Harry Styles—just a man feeding his hungry soul.

The boy moved with more grace than Harry thought possible for someone so young, someone surely more untrained. He looked graceful, every feature soft and yet slicing at the same time. He was like wine to Harry, or maybe a rose—someone so sweet, so soft, and yet so sharp, so sure.

His body flowed like a river, his hands dragging down the harsh metal pole like it was silk. The music thumped hard behind him but it didn't seem to drown him out, only enhance him as he pranced and slid, dived and bowed, working for every cent he made.

As that thought crossed his mind, it seemed to jolt Harry back into the reality he was in. He became aware of his body again, aware of how his limbs seemed so foreign when they bent, aware of how dizzied his mind felt, aware of how tight his jeans were in his crotch. And how heavy his wallet felt in his pocket. Looking up at the boy, he wanted nothing more than to give him everything he had.

Scrambling, he clutched at his pocket, removing his wallet as though he was in a trance, flipping through the folders without tearing his eyes from the boy for a moment. Desperately, he wanted him to see him, to be seen, but the boy was so entranced in his dance that Harry doubted he could see beyond the stage at all.

For a moment, he stepped forward, desperate to hand him the money, desperate to make him look off the stage and into his eyes, before he once again was uncomfortably aware of his reality. This was not a lawless place, this was not a dream strumming at the chords at the back of his mind—he had rules to follow if he wanted to thank him.

Swallowing hard, struggling to think clearly, he vaguely remembered that Xander had mentioned tip jars at the bar back up the stairs. Surely someone had to know the dancer's name there?

Fighting the urge to blow a kiss to the stage, fall on his knees for a boy he never knew, he took in his rocking and rolling body with one more hungry glance before dashing up the stairs to the bar.

Lights were more muted, more subtle up here, as opposed to the flashing rainbow of lights shining down below, leaving Harry to blink, struggling to see for a moment. When he came to, he noticed the bartender leaning over the bar, smirking up at him.

"Dazzled?" he purred.

Harry was too shocked to even reply, barely managing a nod as his thoughts ran rampant.

The bartender smiled, lolling his head before glancing back down to the stage. "Can't say I blame you. He's quite a cutie—one of the newbies, I think."

"What's his name?"

The bartender looked up, seemingly surprised by his low voice. "Louis," he said before allowing a sultry look to overtake his face, "But don't you want to know mine?"

This was too much, this was all too much. Harry's mind was going at a mile a minute and he had no idea how to make it stop. Barely hearing himself, he mumbled an order to the flirty bartender to give the tip money to Louis—only Louis—before dashing towards the small bathroom sign beyond the bar.