Wednesday begins as a mess.
It’s already rubbish because Louis is utterly exhausted since he had gone to bed too late once again. He’d grilled Niall as soon as he’d returned, casually demanding if Des was at the studio— he wasn’t—and gathering whatever other information he could on the situation—which was nothing—then proceeded to smoke too much, watch too much tellie with blank eyes as his mind wandered and heart beat angrily, and stuffed whatever food Niall had piled around them into his mouth.
All the while resolutely not thinking about a certain light in a certain window as a certain shadow flickered on the walls.
Thus today, through the exhaustion that mercilessly pulls on his eyelids and sinks his limbs to the floor, he has found himself late for every single course of the day. And not once has he retained an ounce of information throughout said courses, pen always uncapped but never connecting with the blank notebook page before him, because his minds keeps flicking to either one of two places:
1. His bed with its plush sheets and lonely pillows.
And
2. That certain window.
And it’s a big fucking mess.
Which only worsens when he runs into Cindy, the only person in his “The Study of Prose in Victorian Era Playwrights” course that doesn’t make him want to pour sulfuric acid into the sprinklers and set the world on fire, as he’s heading to that very course.
“Louis,” she greets with a smile, bedecked in what appears to be Hogwarts robes. Or some shit.
Louis tries not to judge her choice in attire (he likes Harry Potter, so who is he to judge?) but instincts take the wheel and he finds himself sliding disapproving eyes over her ensemble.
“Cindy,” he nods happily, but his eyes are still caught on her sleeves which are as large as church bells.
Luckily she doesn’t notice, instead grinning and asking a curious, “Where’s your gown?” while tilting her head in confusion.
Which now confuses Louis. Gown?
“What on earth are you referencing?” he asks with amusement, shouldering his bag as he walks into step beside her.
“Your academic dress. We’ve an exam today and you know the rules—have to wear your robes proper if you’re taking exams, else you’ll be asked to leave. Remember?”
And Louis shits his pants.
Because, no, he did not know they had an exam today, let alone that they had to wear rubbish bags to do so. Well, he did have a faint recollection of such regulations, but actually putting these things into practice is another world entirely.
Without explanation or reason, Louis takes off in full sprint, in the opposite direction, throwing back a frantic “Sorry!” as he flies through the stone corridors, leaving a very perplexed Cindy in his wake.
And so Louis arrives to his first exam—in the one course that is threatening to sink him to the bottom of the academic ocean—late, academic regalia haphazardly adorned (Niall attempted to help him assemble in the mad rush, but he was in the process of eating pizza, his hands flecked in sauce and reeking of beer, so Louis spent more time shushing him away than anything) with the fear of death rattling his ribcage.
He proceeds to take the exam, attempting to answer as intelligently as his bewildered brain permits, before finishing with pained hesitance and leaving the building with a very real sense of failure.
And so it’s decided that Wednesday is utter shit.
‘At Zayn’s. Come after class’ his phone reads as he slides it out in misery.
Which is convenient, because he was just about to text his suffering to Niall anyway.
Brain addled with self-reprimands and bitter-tinged curses aimed towards society—because why do they need exams, anyway?—Louis marches in the direction of Zayn’s rooms, robes removed and bundled up in his arms, eyes staring unseeingly at the ground, and mind very much removed from anything but his stupid fucking exam that he has almost certainly failed.
**
He arrives at Zayn’s rooms still in a daze, his mind detached and straining to remember the answer to question twenty-five (because he’s nearly positive he put A, but he might have put C, and was the answer D? Because he’s almost certain right now that it is indeed D), barely registering the slew of beautiful females and two males that file out of the large wooden door at the top of the stairs, smiling like peacocks and strutting like chickens as they clamber downward, firmly ignoring Louis as they flit through their iPhones.
Which should have tipped him off, really.
But unfortunately he’s currently still thinking about question twenty-five, and so when he pushes open the door and is greeted by Niall’s boisterous, “Louis, mate! How did the examination go?” and he answers with a bemoaned, sightless, “I failed it, you fucker,” the last thing he is expecting is a velvety quipped, “Well, that comes as no surprise,” that drips like molasses down the back of his spine.
Immediately his head snaps up and there he is.
Dressed in a solid ebony suit and bow tie, curls tossed and practically shimmering in afternoon light, lips obscenely pink (the fucker wears lippy, he has to), is Harry Styles, holding a champagne glass with his fucking pinky extended, smiling in a half-sneer that tugs at his dimple and leaves his eyes shadowy and desolate.
And fuck, this day just got worse, because there is he, right there, and Louis had totally forgotten that he’d returned. Had totally forgotten that he’d stood outside his window last night.
Oh god.
“Well, well. Shady’s back,” Louis mumbles, eyes stuck on Harry and feet stuck on the floor. His mouth is dry and his hands crawl into his pockets to hide and he flicks his hair nervously and just when the fuck did he become so awkward around Harry fucking Styles?
Oh yeah, maybe after he’d seen him crying in his room? Or maybe after he’d seen his body tugged in ten different directions by harpies? Or maybe when he held his hand as he slept peacefully. Or maybe not, who knows.
But Louis just stares now, frozen to the spot, attempting a glare but unsure of the outcome as he feels every pair of eyes on him in the room.
“I told you he would be,” Zayn smirks from his throne, lounging with a cigarette and Liam at his side, and immediately Harry and Louis’ eyes fly to him.
Louis is speechless. And on the verge of throwing a brick at Zayn’s head—because, thanks to Zayn, Harry now knows that Louis had inquired about his whereabouts. And the last thing he needs Harry to think is that he cares about him in any way at all, because that will probably only be used against him and to Harry’s own advantage.
Not that Louis cares.
But then he feels Harry’s eyes slide over to him and he refuses to react, refuses to look back, having absolutely no idea how to proceed with the situation, while still staring at Zayn with a fury that only the Hulk himself could match. Zayn merely smokes peacefully and traces the patterns of the tablecloth with his forefinger.
But, luckily, there’s always oblivious Niall and innocent Liam to the rescue.
“You failed your exam?” they utter simultaneously, Niall amused and Liam very nearly flabbergasted.
“Er, yeah,” Louis confirms as he gathers himself, clearing his throat as he turns his back to the scene, sliding his shoulder bag off and ignoring the burn of Harry’s gaze. “I didn’t even know we had one today. It was by luck that I’d managed to run into Cindy beforehand.”
“Cindy who?” Harry’s voice asks, and Louis still refuses to look back, instead busying himself with his belt which is suddenly conveniently too loose and needs to be readjusted. Now.
“Jones,” he mutters, sliding the leather through the buckle tighter, fastening it on the next hole with fidgety fingers.
“I’ve had her,” Harry drawls pleasantly, and Louis can practically hear the delicate sip of his champagne between his smug lips.
“Fuck’s sake,” he breathes, rolling his eyes and feeling a surge of disgust. Because, really? Was that necessary information?
“You’ve had everybody,” Niall muses, before Harry smirks, and then Niall clomps over, throwing an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “So then, Tommo. What happened?”
“What do you mean ‘what happened?’ I fucking failed, didn’t I? Nothing else to say,” Louis finds himself snapping. And he feels bad, he does, but he can’t be bothered about it now because it’s a shit day and if Harry can be such a prat 24/7, surely he can have a slip-up once in a blue moon.
And Niall doesn’t seem to mind anyways, instead clapping a soothing hand on Louis’ back and shrugging his shoulders with an, “Ah, well. Better luck next time.”
“You’ve been having trouble in that class,” Zayn comments mildly, peering up at Louis who nods in response, eyes studying his hands as he tries not to glare or pout.
“You should get some help with it,” Liam suggests earnestly. “George is an excellent tutor. So is Edward. And that bloke who’s on the Student Union with us—Arthur—his grandfather used to teach the course.” He looks to Zayn who nods slowly, eyes trained on Louis.
“I’ve never needed a tutor,” Harry then comments uselessly, sliding his fingers through the bouquets of flowers on the table, eyes lost in the petals.
And everybody except Liam rolls their eyes, though Harry is oblivious to any of it.
“Hey. You’re good at Victorian literature,” Zayn points out suddenly with a growing smile, eyes calm.
Harry sighs, a half-hearted smile at play as he looks up and meets Zayn’s gaze. “Yes. I am,” he says simply, then returns his gaze to the roses.
“You should tutor Louis.”
And for a moment, the room is completely silent, all eyes sliding to Louis’ face. Which is now posed in absolute and total horror.
Harry’s own face immediately contorts to an affronted glare as his head snaps up once more. “No,” he counters immediately, gripping a hand over his stomach defensively as if burned, fingers digging into the rich fabric of his jacket.
“But you love the subject,” Zayn breathes through smoke. Liam’s eyes curiously turn to him, quietly calculating.
“Well, I have a say in this as well, and I also say no,” Louis adds, pouring himself a very generous glass of champagne and feeling his cheeks flush. Because what the fuck is wrong with Zayn? And when did it get so hot in here?
“Why not?” Liam asks, his naivete giving him the air of a small, golden retriever pup, staring betwixt the two boys with wide brown eyes that search for answers, before settling back on Zayn.
“I’d rather peel my own skin off,” Louis spits at the exact same time that Harry replies with a, “Some cannot be taught.”
Registering the other’s answer at the exact same time, they whir around to face each other, faces set in matching glares.
“I beg your pardon?” Harry demands, grip on his glass tightening.
“Say that again, Curly,” Louis dares, ignoring him, and setting down his own drink.
“Some cannot be taught,” Harry repeats, and it’s said with such childish spite that Louis is almost tempted to laugh, and Niall actually does.
“Well, that’s funny, that, because some cannot teach.”
Harry stares. “What are you trying to say?” he demands, voice deep and even, ruby lips slow to form each word.
Louis smiles angelically, batting his eyelashes with exaggerated innocence. “That you can’t teach.”
Harry looks as if he’s been slapped, actually recoiling from Louis as if he’s been beaten with a hotwire, and Louis feels the power of his position, regaining confidence as he fixes his steady stare downward to inspect his nails with faux-casualty, enjoying the control of the situation at hand.
Liam watches with wide, almost fearful eyes, and Zayn sips at burgundy wine, eyes nothing but amused and patient. And Niall scratches his stomach, stifling a yawn.
“You know, I’ve said so myself that there’s nothing a knob like you could teach me,” Louis lies. Because, no, he hasn’t exactly said that, but he’s probably thought it. “I could learn more from a broomstick. At least it does actual work.”
And there it is—Harry’s eyes are engulfed with all the rage of a man who will absolutely find a broomstick of his own and beat Louis over the head with it. Until he’s dead.
“Broomsticks do not do actual work,” he mumbles, eyes ablaze. “They are used for work—it’s other people who perform the duties. They’re just the tool.” Harry pauses, blinking a slow, angry blink, his glare deepening infinitesimally. “So there.”
Louis stares at him. “That’s what you got out of that? Really?”
Harry continues to glare.
So Louis smiles poisonously sugary and places a hand chock-full of attitude on his hip, tilting his head as he flouts, “Well, then I suppose we’re on the same page in thinking you can’t teach worth a shit!”
“OUR FIRST SESSION WILL BE TOMORROW,” Harry immediately clips in a rasping, angry thunder, and his chest puffs with the indignation that Louis is absolutely delighted to hear soaking his words. “You will be the best student in the fucking school by the time I’m done with you.” He pauses, scowling. “If that’s possible.”
“On your end or mine?” Louis counters, and Harry is actually baring his teeth at this point.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, lowly.
And Louis really, really wants to refuse the offer, throw it back in Harry’s face (along with his drink) but it’s tempting, and the quiet nagging in his stomach keeps him silent, only leaving him space to nod his assent.
“Tomorrow it is, then,” Louis agrees, and takes the hand Harry has extended, shaking it with forceful finality and squeezing with just enough force to infer who’s boss.
Which doesn’t work when Harry squeezes back, harder.
So then Louis squeezes harder, then Harry does, then Louis, and pretty soon their hands are twisting in the air, shaking and flushed as their faces contort in grimaces and growls, leaving the other three boys to stare at them, Niall mid-bite into a biscuit.
“Fuck’s sake,” he says with wide eyes. “Nice one, Malik. Really brilliant suggestion you had.”
And Liam doesn’t defend Zayn’s honor, instead sliding hesitant eyes to his smiling profile.
Without a word, Zayn merely continues to smile, as Harry and Louis continue to struggle before them like a pair of clumsy rams.
**
Louis is not in a state of terrified discomfort. Nope.
Just because it’s already Thursday and he’s due to arrive at Harry’s rooms in less than fifteen minutes for his first tutoring session, it does not mean that he’s in a state of terrified discomfort.
No sir-ee.
Nope.
(He’s also not in a state of unease because he woke up to seventeen missed calls from his mum and a text that merely said, ‘I love you boo bear. Call me please. I miss you. Call me love.’ No, he’s certainly not concerned for the well-being of his five sisters, since his mother seems to be going through one of her phases again. But he will have to call her later, after he’s returned from his tutoring session, and deal with the mess that he’s sure to find.)
“You better get going or you’ll be late,” Niall admonishes from the couch where he’s draped in blankets and shoving Jaffa cakes into his mouth. There's a nameless and borderline-terrifying cartoon on the TV.
“Yeah. Look for me if I don’t return? Tell my story?” Louis calls weakly, picking up his shoulder bag.
“Will do!” Niall calls, unfazed and mouth full. “Text me if you need anything. See ya, mate!”
And Louis closes the door behind him.
Fuck.
He remains calm as he walks, admiring the warm, golden rays of the sun that have begun to mingle with the nip in the air and the pale, stone walls of the university that peek through clusters of muted green vines and ivy.
It’s really rather peaceful, actually.
He kicks at pebbles and smiles at passerby and hums Grease songs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, then takes them out, then stuffs them back, all the while as he continues to walk. And he absolutely does not feel anything except for a strange sense of serenity that engulfs his limbs.
And so, when he reaches Satan’s door, he knocks with a steady hand, feeling oceanic waves of calm crash over him as he sniffs at the cool air and the soft perfume of flowers that it carries with it.
The door opens, painfully slow.
There he is, Harry, and Louis does a double take as he processes the scene before him; because Harry is wearing a gray, knit JUMPER and JEANS and fuck—Louis didn’t know he possessed anything besides suits, bow ties, tacky patterns, and velvet.
He stares in surprise.
“It’s rude to stare,” Harry points out, eyes unimpressed as he watches Louis, arms crossed.
“You’re wearing normal clothes,” is all Louis can manage in surprise, and Harry merely glowers as he steps back and allows Louis inside, no word said in response.
He walks into the large room and, much to his surprise, it’s rather different from when he was last there—which immediately sparks the image of a sleeping, unkempt Harry and a quietly doting Louis, and he winces away his thoughts as he focuses his attention on the bushels of white lilies covering every flat surface and the large paintings that adorn every inch of space on the walls. Paintings that look oddly familiar.
“Zayn’s?” he questions, motioning towards a large canvas of fiery stars hanging above the mahogany and marble fireplace.
Harry, glower still firmly intact, merely nods, standing at a distance with his hands folded behind his back. He almost looks soft, with his loose jumper and rumpled jeans and powdery, askew curls, but the diamonds from his Chanel watch cut through the air, almost as much as his cold, empty stare, and Louis is reminded that Harry Styles is anything but ‘soft.’
“You’ve remodeled,” Louis comments, eyes flicking to the candles that cluster the floors, shelves, and tables, woven between the large and worshiped collection of cat statues, and arranged neatly on the tables amidst champagne bottles. Antique guitars and lutes are scattered about, and crinkled sheet music litters the floors amongst soft yellow rose petals and drips of what Louis assumes is Dom Perignon.
“I change my rooms every week,” is the low, mumbled response.
He glances over to him. “You mean, you hire someone else to change your rooms every week for you.” Louis smiles brightly.
Harry scowls.
There’s silence.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Harry murmurs in a growl, and slumps towards the large, antique wooden desk in the corner, flopping himself down in the plush velvet chair before it. “I’m just going to draw up an outline for you,” he mumbles in a poisonously slow tone, eyes lidded and following his careful movements of…assembling a quill and ink?
And oh fuck. Is that parchment?
“Christ sake,” Louis laments, standing before the desk, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “Can’t you just use a bloody laptop, man? We’re going to be here all fucking day if you do that. We’re studying the Victorian era, not fucking living it.”
A tiny quirk pricks at the corner of Harry’s lips, but other than that, no reaction is made as he slowly dips his quill in the ink and smooths out the parchment before him. Wordlessly, he begins writing.
Louis sighs loudly, and very dramatically, but Harry pays no mind, instead delivering an elaborate
scrawl.
After moments of silence, in which Louis tries to keep his back to the scene in a display of protest but fails (his curiosity was always his weakness) he asks, peering over the desk and attempting to decipher Harry’s neat, swirling handwriting, “You can at least tell me what you’re writing.”
“An outline,” Harry rumbles without hesitation.
Louis rolls his eyes. “So I heard. About what? You haven’t even asked to see the course schedule or my books or—“
“I know the professor. I also know the course. I assure you, this is everything you’ll need to know. Now, stop questioning me.” And Harry’s eyes never leave the paper, bored and confident and sightless.
“Oh, bravo,” Louis mumbles with another roll of the eyes, but he remains silent (if not for the mere fact he can’t think of anything to say) as he begins to pace around the room, arms still crossed, surveying the nooks and crannies of Harry’s chaos.
“Do you play these old things?” he asks, nudging a dusty and decrepit lute with his toe.
“Yes. And don’t touch them.”
“I’m surprised they don’t break.”
“Well, if you’re not an idiot, it’s pretty easy to avoid those kinds of things.”
Louis’ temper begins to prickle. But instead of throwing himself into an argument which would only serve to lengthen this acute form of torture (why had he agreed to this again?) he clamps his mouth shut and stares into the sightless eyes of the porcelain cats that are now before him.
And then a shuffle sounds from behind him, and Louis spins around just in time to see a beautiful boy with devastating cheekbones and coal black hair emerge from Harry’s room, clad in a disheveled school uniform and smoking a cigarette.
Which is unexpected.
“Oh!” Louis starts, dropping his arms to his sides, taking a step back in surprise. “I didn’t realize you had company.” He blinks, feeling immediately awkward as he stares between the two, Harry still scribbling, the boy just standing and eying Louis as he takes a long drag.
“He was just leaving,” Harry says mildly without a beat of hesitation, and the boy gives one last lingering look to Louis before nodding his direction and walking towards the door.
“See you, mates,” he calls, before the door closes.
And Louis just stands there.
“Are you serious right now?” he suddenly bursts, turning to Harry who seems completely unfazed. “Do you realize every single time I’m here, a random person emerges from your bedroom? How many people are in there? Are they like fucking gremlins? Do they multiply when you pour water on them?”
“Hm, very much so,” Harry mumbles, and that very faint quirk of the lips is back as he continues writing. “And, as you can see, if you feed them after dark they turn into a nightmare in the morning.”
… Did Harry just make a joke? Or was he being a dick?
Louis eyes him suspiciously. “Well, regardless, you could have told me there was another person here.”
“Why?” Harry hums, bored, hand flying across the parchment.
“So I wouldn’t wee myself when they suddenly materialized out of thin air.”
“He didn’t materialize.”
“Says you.”
At that Harry glances up at Louis, pen momentarily stilling, his eyes assessing and empty. But faintly, just faintly, Louis can almost see a stirring…
“Well, that’s all for today,” Harry suddenly drawls, standing up with a flourish and setting down his quill. “This outlines the chapters you need to pay special attention to. I’ve written down the key words, but you’ll have to look them up yourself. We’ll go over the details tomorrow; this is just to familiarize you with the general concepts since you seem to have trouble grasping even that.”
And, yes, that is most certainly condescending.
“Thanks so much,” Louis glares, snatching the parchment out of Harry’s hands. “No need to be a dick about it.”
Harry stares at him, cold, lips tight and pursed into a thin line. “You best run off, novice. I need to depart. I’ve an engagement I’m already quite late for.”
Louis snorts. “An engagement? You mean you’ve got to meet up with your next potential fuck?”
“There’s nothing potential about it. And it’s ‘fucks’. Plural,” he says with a languid blink and dopey smile that holds all the poisons of the world, just beneath the surface.
“Oh, of course. There’s never just one.”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“So are venereal diseases.”
Harry’s eyes immediately narrow. “I wouldn’t know.”
“The trickiest ones are the silent ‘uns. Best get on that before something falls off, mate!”
“Don’t call me ‘mate.’ Now go.”
But Louis just stands there in defiance, arms crossed and clutching the parchment that he so very desperately wants to shred in Harry’s face right now because, FUCK, he’s annoyed. But he doesn’t.
After a moment of mutual distaste, Harry sighs and storms past Louis, heading straight towards his room, curls bouncing. It’s just as he’s about to stalk inside, that he pauses at the door, making firm, unyielding eye contact with Louis who glares from his spot on the other side of the room.
He braces himself, taking in the chasms of green before him.
“And when you’re finished with that,” Harry finally says, motioning to the parchment in Louis’ fist, “make sure to tap it and say, ‘Mischief managed.’”
And then the door snaps shut.
And Louis blinks.
Because what the actual fuck?
Did he just…quote Harry Potter?
But before he allows himself to even attempt to wrap his head around the situation at hand, Louis marches out the door and doesn’t look back once.
**
When Louis returns to his flat, he finds a note from Niall that reads:
“At the studio.
Working on the track.
Smoke and eat when I get home.”
And it’s paired with a cigar, a tenner, some lint, and a pack of gum. In other words, the contents of Niall’s pockets.
So Louis is alone.
And even better, Zayn’s just texted him.
‘How did tutoring go? ;)’
Louis shakes his head as he taps out a response.
‘You fucker.’
Sometimes Louis really hates his life.
**
It’s Friday.
Glorious Friday.
And, despite being woken up too early by both the piano AND the drum set, (“I’m practicing, you cunt!”) Louis feels strangely optimistic. Perhaps because last night, after Niall had finally returned, they, along with Zayn and Liam—apparently Harry’s potential fucks were going as planned, as he was mysteriously absent and Louis absolutely refused to ask why—had a delicious dinner in a small restaurant with low lighting and good liquor before spending the rest of the night in Liam’s rooms, lounging amongst laptops and textbooks as they attempted homework intermittently between serenading each other with songs at the piano. Which, Louis is coming to discover, is an actual thing they do—Liam belting out opera as Niall plays one minute, Zayn crooning soulfully in Italian the next—and it’s all taken very seriously, so Louis just watches, unable to deny that the boys have talent, real, actual talent. Louis almost wants to call it 'classy' but the porn that was
being played on mute, plastered across the giant flatscreen, sort of took something away from it. Occasionally they’d step outside and smoke cigarettes on the balcony, watching the curls of smoke disappear into the stars as they laughed while Niall repeatedly begged to abandon studying and scour the city for clubs and good drugs.
It was a good night. Just what Louis needed.
And now he has a whole weekend ahead of him that’s going to be filled with sleep, late night runs for cakes and everything else Niall so desires when he’s having his cravings, weed, video games, parties, good drink, and track pants. And still better, Zayn’s planned on taking them to “Candle House” (as Zayn and Harry refer to Zayn’s spring home) and there’s not going to be anybody there but them, some escargot, croquet, and all the time in the world.
So, needless to say, Louis is excited. And he’s just finished his courses for the day.
“I want it to be tomorrow,” Louis wails, draped over the couch. “I want to go to Zayn’s spring home. Have you ever been?” he asks Niall, craning his neck to stare at the boy sat behind him as they stuff éclairs in their mouths and plow through FIFA.
“Nah,” Niall muffles through his stuffed mouth. “But I’ve heard good things.”
“I’m excited. This weekend’s going to be sick, Ireland. Sick! We should have dinner tonight, just the two of us, to celebrate the festivities.”
“Can’t, sorry. I need to take a nap and—“
“Why on earth do you need a nap? All you ever do is sleep.” Louis peers over at him as the boy rubs his eyes, his golden hair mussed and greasy.
“I was up all night after we came home. Rory made me do half of that project for my ‘Audio and Visual’ course,” Niall yawns, wrapping a blanket around himself as they wait for their next match to load.
“Oh, you poor creature,” Louis tuts sarcastically, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “You actually had to do your own homework? The shame.”
“Hush, you,” Niall scolds, but grins goldenly as he swaddles himself, leaving only his face to poke out.
Louis grins, eyes crinkling. “You look like a little baby.”
“I am a little baby. Now let me sleep!”
“But we’re supposed to go to that party later! Sleep when you’re dead!”
“I’ll sleep now and go to the party later, how does that sound?”
Louis ponders, hands suspended in midair on their route to rip Niall’s blanket off of him, before they drop. “All right, fine. But what am I going to do until then? Zayn and Liam are at their stupid meeting for the stupid Student Union,” he pouts, sinking deeper into the couch.
“Don’t you have tutoring with Harry?”
Louis’ stomach recoils.
“No,” he lies.
“Yes you do.”
“…Well, I’m not going.”
“Louis.”
He pouts at Niall, sinking still deeper into the cushions. “You should have heard how foul he was to me yesterday! I’m not tolerating that again! I might kill him.”
“Just go, you need the help.”
“No.”
“Louis.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I’ll just tell him to come here.”
Louis stares at Niall, jaw dropped. “You wouldn—“
“You know I would.”
He narrows his eyes, sitting up on his elbows. “I actually hate you, Niall Horan.”
“Fine. Just go, goddammit. And let me fuckin’ sleep!”
And as much as Louis hates following orders, he does actually go, flicking off the TV and game console while donning Niall’s jumper and fluffing up his hair with one hand, ignoring the pangs of dread in the bottom of his stomach at the prospect of another tense afternoon spent with Harry Styles.
**
“You came,” Harry grumbles as soon as he opens the door, his tone suggesting he was ardently hoping for the opposite.
“I came,” Louis repeats flatly, and his own tone suggests the same.
With a long suffering sigh, Harry walks back into his rooms, leaving the door wide open for Louis behind him.
“Anymore gremlins today?” he asks as he makes his way inside, dumping his bag on a chair and settling onto the chaise longue.
“I’m alone,” is all Harry snaps, stalking past Louis in his black button up and black trousers, hair quiffed and messy with curls. “I’ll just get this written up, then, seeing as it’s Friday and I have a life to live.”
“As do I. I have to get ready for that party Zayn’s been talking about,” Louis sniffs, smoothing out his [Niall’s] jumper.
Harry pauses, staring at him with something akin to revulsion. “You’re going?”
“Of course I’m going,” Louis glares. “Zayn’s my mate.”
“He was mine first,” Harry counters as he sits at the desk, eyebrows furrowed deep as he dips his
quill in the murky ink, careful to dab the tip against the glass for excess drips. He then begins making work of the parchment before him, the quill scratching efficiently as Harry watches his own scrawl with lazy, pale green eyes, bottom lip bitten between his teeth, the dust-swirling sunbeams that shine through the room soaking him in gold and shadow.
And Louis can’t help but glare because he hates how poetic this fucker looks right now, with his Greek-mythology styled curls and clusters of eyelashes that would have spiraled Keats into depression and worn Byron’s fingers to the bone. Especially when Louis keeps pin-balling between being convinced that he’s a demon and a broken angel.
But a broken demon is probably more accurate.
“I’ll just sit here, then. No need to talk,” he mumbles, flashing his eyebrows upward and ripping his eyes away from the scene before him. “I mean, why would you want to ask me if I understood everything from last night’s assignment? That would just be strange.”
Harry’s jaw sets. “I’ll ask you on Monday, though I already know the answer.” His murky stare flashes up to Louis’. “It’s not like you’ll be touching this during the weekend, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis snaps.
“That you’re not going to touch this during the weekend anyway,” he repeats slowly, and now he’s stopped writing and is full on glaring at Louis, quill poised in one hand, the other clenched in a fist atop the desk.
Louis shakes his head, scoffing. “You know, you really are the most incredible piece of—“
But Louis is swiftly cut off by the sharp vibration of the phone in his pocket.
Shooting one more glare in Harry’s direction (who has already begun writing again) he slides it out, already prepared to answer Niall and exaggeratedly complain about Harry, but then he sees the caller ID.
And it’s not Niall.
Mum.
“Fuck,” he hisses, feeling his heart drop immediately. Because he hadn’t texted her back yesterday, had he? Or called. How could he have fucking forgot?
Because he’s been corrupted by this fucking school, that’s how.
He continues to stare at the screen, psyching himself to answer as it continues to vibrate expectantly, and he feels Harry’s quiet gaze flicker up to him as he bounces his leg nervously. Shutting his eyes firmly tight, he swipes the phone and brings it to his ear before he can change his mind.
“Hey!” he greets in his happiest tone, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Lou? Louis?” he hears his mother answer, almost frantically. God.
“Yes?”
“Where have you been? Why’ve you been ignoring me? You up to trouble?”
“What? No, I—“
“It’s your fucking father, isn’t it?” she all but screeches, and Louis winces, pulling the phone away from him momentarily.
“What are you on about? I haven’t even—“
“He sends you to that bloody school and now you think you’re too good for us." She's such a mess.
Louis’ fists clench. Yep. This is exactly what he’d been fearing. And expecting.
“Where are you?” he grits out.
“I’ve been a mess, Lou,” she admits quietly, and he can hear the sniffles. “I can’t do this on my own, I can’t.”
“Where are you?” he repeats, louder, keeping his voice steady.
“I’m in the park.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Of course? He sees red. “Where are the girls?”
“Margaret’s watching them, she’s old enough now, love.”
“She’s only eleven. Go home.”
“I can’t right now. I can’t do it, Louis—“
“Go. Home.”
There’s a pause as Louis rubs at his forehead, and all he hears is his mother’s quiet breath and the static of a breeze on the other end of the line.
“What’s gotten into you?” she suddenly asks, voice quivering. “You used to be here, you used to care for us. Now you’ve gone and left—you’re just like your bloody father.”
His blood boils at the accusation. It shouldn’t, really, not when he’s heard it before, but it still stings and his jaw clenches as he focuses his attentions on a particularly soothing painting of Zayn’s before him—an ocean. It’s filled with blues that swirl. Just like real water. “I won’t have it, Lou, I won’t have it!” she continues, shouting through the receiver. “I’ve raised you better!”
There are greens in the water, too. Greens mixing with the blues.
Louis rises, fisting his jumper in his free hand as he grips onto the phone, white-knuckled, and stands directly in front of the painting, immersing himself in it, his back to Harry whose scribbles have now ceased entirely.
“Just stop it. Please. Stop this and go home. Go now. You can’t leave the girls on their own. You know this. You can’t do that shit anymore—I’m not going to be there to fix it this time. I’m not.”
As Louis waits, his nerves grating, he hears her faint whisper. “Come home.”
“What?”
“Come home. Please come home,” she pleads.
But pity is lost on him, and instead he feels another surge of anger and annoyance. “No.”
“Come home!” she says louder, but Louis only shakes his head.
“No.”
“Then I’m coming to get you.”
“What? No! Go home, the girls are there, just go—“
“I’m on my way, and I’m taking you home with me.” Her emotions are frazzled, obviously, and her voice shakes in its determination.
“WOULD YOU CALM DOWN,” Louis begins to shout at the receiver, now gripping his hair in frustration, because fuck, no, his mother can’t do this now, she cannot do this now. Not when Louis is just beginning to like this place, not when things are going so smoothly [for the most part], not when he’s finally had a chance to breathe after all these years of being both child and parent because he was unlucky enough to be born into a selfish family that festers in their own emotions. “Don’t you dare come here, I won’t—“
But the dial tone rings, and Louis knows, he just knows, his mum is on her way.
Because this is what she does. She panics. And she drags Louis to fix the mess.
But not this time.
Without reaction, he immediately texts Stan.
‘Pls go to my house? Mum’s at it again, sisters home all alone.’
And almost instantly he gets a response. ‘Sure thing mate’
And he just really loves his best mate.
By the time he looks up, he’s all but forgotten where he is and who he’s with. Until he sees Harry, brow furrowed, staring at him from the desk, clutching the quill in both hands absently, sliding his fingertips over the feathers and looking somewhere between cross, alarmed, and unsettled.
And he continues to stare.
Louis, having no fight left in him and absolutely dreading the return to his flat where he’ll have to deal with the hot mess that is his mother, only stares back.
Then Harry clears his throat.
“Who was that,” he asks nonchalantly, eyes now averted as he corks the ink bottle and wipes the remaining ink off of the quill with a small vermillion cloth.
“My mum,” Louis admits lamely, running a hand over his face.
Harry nods, continuing to clean the quill with painfully slow movements. “She’s coming to get you?” he asks, but his voice is odd, slow in its usual drawl, but off in timbre.
“Yeah,” Louis says simply, and leans against the bookshelf.
“She’s going to your flat?”
Louis nods dazedly, eyes lost in thought. “Yeah, she is.”
And fuck.
Fuck.
He groans, then proceeds to bang his head off of the side of the bookshelf. “I would give anything to disappear right now,” he laments, and he shuts his eyes, gripping the wood with both hands in a tight grasp.
“Well, you can’t stay here,” is all Harry says in a tart tone, sliding the freshly scrubbed quill into the drawer before adjusting his sleeves.
“I assumed as much,” Louis says flatly, shooting him a glare. “Besides, it wouldn’t help any. Niall would just tell her where I am. He’s oblivious like that.” He sighs, bringing his hands up to cup his face. “This is going to be horrible. Fucking horrible.”
Harry’s glare deepens as he begins picking at a loose hem on his shirt, but he remains silent.
“Might as well get it over with though, eh?” Louis continues. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” And with that, he pushes himself off of the bookcase and heads towards his shoulder bag.
Then Harry shoots up out of his seat.
“Follow me,” he says suddenly in a clipping tone, and his eyes are emotionless as he makes his way forward.
Louis blinks as he watches Harry grab his phone and a small cluster of keys off of the mantle. He glances at his Chanel watch, repeats something quietly to himself, then dons a fedora that had been resting on the coat rack.
And Louis just watches, because what the fuck? Did Harry Styles just ask Louis to follow him? Surely not.
But apparently he did, because now Harry is moving towards the door and pulling it open, staring at Louis with a bored expectancy, a hint of impatience in the dance of his long, leather-clad feet.
He raises his eyebrows. “Are you deaf?” he asks, but it’s less snapping and more sighing, though his glare is still present and his general vibe reeks of supreme distaste.
But distaste be damned, Louis can only assess the two options as they are:
1. Refuse the smarmy bastard before him and go back to his flat and face his train wreck of a mother. And all that entails.
Or.
1. Follow Harry Styles, who very much hates him, has already threatened his well-being, and could very possibly kill him.
One is responsible, one is reckless. And Louis was never really anything but reckless.
“Don’t sass me, Curly,” he says, striding up to Harry. “Now walk.”
And with a very slight smirk playing upon his lips, Harry takes off in his dopey skulk, Louis following close behind.
