Harry's at Louis and Zayn's after his Wednesday class. He's got his books and papers spread out on the floor in front of the television and Louis is on the couch with a package of biscuits and Misfits on. Zayn's sitting on the other side across from Louis with a novel on his lap, but he seems way busier with his phone than anything.
"What're you working on?" Louis asks Harry during an advert break.
Harry groans. "Emily fucking Dickinson. Three pages of analysing the Master Letters."
Louis raises an eyebrow. "I've got a tomahawk in my side but that don't hurt me much," he says in some sort of American/Scottish hybrid accent.
"What, you're secretly a Dickinson fan, Lou? So much for hating poetry, honestly." Harry sets down his pen and pops his back.
"I don't hate poetry!" Louis kicks a foot out, nudging Harry.
Harry leans back onto his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Right, right, just poets. You'd fucking hate my professor, then."
Louis visibly tenses. "Would I, now? Who's your professor?"
"He's pretty up himself, to be honest. Fancies himself a brilliant poet; one of those types, you know. Spent twenty minutes on a PowerPoint that was just, like, photos of pigeons, while he read his own stuff out loud to us. Like, honestly, did we have to be there for that? Couldn't he just wank on his own?"
Pursing his lips, Louis says, "I mean, like, what's his name?"
Harry looks at him curiously. "Summers. Why?"
Zayn looks up from his phone at that. "Are you fucking serious?"
"What? Why?" Harry looks between both of them. Louis looks ill and Zayn has fire in his eyes.
"That fucking shithead has no business teaching anything," Zayn spits.
Harry has no idea what's going on. "I mean, like, he's pretty irritating, but he seems to know what he's talking about, so..."
"Louis," Zayn says. "Jesus. You're not getting out of this one."
Louis is pale. "Shut up."
"What is going on?" Harry demands.
Louis shrugs. "I was going after an English degree a few years ago, too."
"You went to uni?" Harry asks. Little surprises, every day. Four months in the life of dating Louis Tomlinson.
Louis rolls his eyes and quirks an almost-smile. "You haven't got to sound so shocked, Styles."
"No, I just mean like. You've never mentioned it."
"Well, I'm not anymore, am I?" Louis asks pointedly.
Harry's absolutely lost the plot of this conversation. "So, what, you had Summers or something?"
Zayn snorts.
It clicks. Harry's eyes widen. "Are you fucking kidding me."
Louis is glaring at Zayn. "Thanks loads."
Zayn shrugs. "It's his bloody professor, mate. He needs to know."
Harry's still processing. "Wait. Are you serious? You -- are you serious?!"
"Mistakes... were made," Louis gets out eventually. "I was eighteen. I don't know. It kind of just happened."
"What? How does that kind of just happen?! I'm pretty sure that takes some serious effort on someone's part!" Harry feels like he's having an out of body experience or some shit. Like, he's watching himself play the part of a kid who's just found out his boyfriend slept with his professor. Like, this isn't real life. This can't possibly be real life.
