No One Does It Better

Chapter 8

When Harry arrives at Mike's that night, he's already drunk and later than he usually would be. It's for that reason that, when he finally shifts through the growing crowd of slightly-lesser drunks, he finds his usual barstool to be occupied. He pauses only long enough to scowl hatefully at the back of the man he dubs 'Stool-Stealer's head before taking the empty one next to him.

"What'll it be, mate?" Damien asks without looking up from the careful row of shots he's pouring. He's sweating a bit, and his usually pulled-back dirty blond locks are down around his shoulders, tucked behind his ears.

"'ello, love," Harry shoots his forehead a wide smile, baring his teeth.

Damien looks up at the sound of his voice, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline upon noticing Harry's smile. He can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Harry smile in a way that didn't look like he was in pain from the attempt. "Holy shit. You have dimples," and it wasn't what he meant to say, but it'll do.

"That I do, Dami boy," Harry says, unblinking, smile not faltering.

Damien lowers one eyebrow slightly, giving off the slightest air of suspicion as he looks Harry over. "You've been drinking. How long have you been here? I didn't notice you come in. It's busy and all," he waves his hand in a vague gesture to the rest of the bar which he's kindly let Louis to deal with alone now.

"Just got here, actually," Harry says, pointedly ignoring that first part.

"Usual then?" Damien asks, reaching to his left and hitting the top of the sliding cooler door that holds frozen mugs.

"No, thank you," Harry purses his lips now. He really does not want beer, and he tries his hardest not to scoff or condescend Damien for assuming so despite his previous assumption. "Shots," he says decidedly. "A round. On me. Your choice."

Damien goes to ask him if he's sure, talk him out of it, but the guy next to them, Stool-Stealer, hears him and cheers heartily, slapping the bar top and announcing it to the rest of them.

Harry sends an unamused look to the side of Stool-Stealer's head before turning back to Damien. "Everyone but him," he says bitterly, pointing to where the bloke next to him has started talking to the woman to his left.

---

Four hours later and Harry's the last one in the bar. He's given up on trying to balance his head, which feels like a bloody brick, mind you, and has it rested on the cool counter, watching silently as Louis and Damien patter around to do their closing side work.

Had it been anyone else, Damien would have kicked them out by now, or have called them a cab at most. He's always felt for Harry, though, and so it's only after Harry closes his eyes that he turns to Louis, "Hey, mate, I've gotta make a phone call. Can you take these glasses off me?" Louis turns from where he's taking inventory and nods, grabbing the tray of clean glasses and placing them on the shelves he has to tiptoe to reach.

Damien smiles gratefully and reaches into his back pocket with his now-free hand and leans against the back counter, eyeing Harry sadly. He dials a familiar number and waits three rings before it's answered. It's a practiced call, really. An answer, a greeting, a "Harry then?", a confirmation, "See you soon," and a beep declaring the call over.

When he slips the phone back into his pocket, he turns to Louis who's side-eyeing him in a way Damien knows he thinks is sneaky. "Out with it then," he smiles at the shorter lad.

Louis smiles back, "I-uh. Should I?" Louis pauses, tilting his head quickly toward the resting man at the other end of the bar.

"No, no," Damien shakes his head, dropping eye contact, "Someone's on their way for him."