Harry keeps checking his phone.
Which is ironic, because Louis is doing the exact opposite—he’s shut off his phone. For fear of incessant phone calls from his mum. That he may have been tempted to answer.
But only to have stopped the incessant ringing.
They’re barreling down a country road in the antique car (much to Louis’ confusion: “Isn’t this Zayn’s car?” “We share it,” Harry had said simply, then gotten in without another word), having long left their little town, and neither has spoken a word since Louis agreed to follow Harry. And Louis is sort of, maybe, panicking, but he’s keeping his shit together as he sits in the passenger seat trying to figure out just what the fuck is happening. And why the fuck he agreed to be here.
It’s nearing evening, the cloudless sky tinged with citrus hues, and the honeysuckle and cotton blossoms soak the crisp air. Harry and Louis ride along in their windy silence, their frames saturated in amber light as breezes ruffle through hair and lick at skin. Sunlight and trees glide past them in streaks as they wind down the road. Louis drums his fingers on the door, on his thigh, everywhere, his feet shuffling as he flicks stubbornly curious eyes at Harry occasionally, very secretly desperate for an explanation or a sense of ease. But he tries his best not to stare fully, and so he turns his head the opposite way, pretending to take in the blurred scenery.
But he’s acutely aware of Harry and his every move.
Harry.
Harry with his furrowed brow that never blinks as his soft curls whip into his face, his lips set in a tight line. Harry who’s checking his phone every other minute, face void of emotion minus the creases and the tightness. Harry who was in a foul, shitty mood and made the world thunder before whisking Louis away to safety without rhyme or reason.
Well. Hopefully safety. There’s still that chance that murder is eminent.
They’ve been driving for ten minutes and Louis can’t stop picking at the hole in his jeans.
Ten whole minutes of driving.
And Harry still hasn’t told them where they’re going.
And Louis is a really, really curious person.
“All right. I need to know,” he finally bursts, turning to face Harry, whose eyebrows are knitted together, eyes intent on the road. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere.”
“That doesn’t count as an answer,” Louis says crossly, rolling his eyes. “And you can stop with the attitude. I have a right to know.” He pauses. “You could be taking me somewhere to kill me.” He watches Harry’s reaction closely.
“I wouldn’t kill you,” Harry says, sounding as if it’s the most ridiculous notion in the world. “That’s messy.”
Oh wow.
Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! My bad! You could be taking me somewhere to have someone else kill me, then.”
And Harry keeps silent at that.
Which is, maybe, slightly worrisome.
Overcome with unease (he doesn’t think he’s ever been in a more awkward situation in his life) Louis reaches out to fiddle with the radio which looks completely at odds with the vintage vehicle, if he’s being honest. He flicks it to the first station he can think of.
“Aaaaaalright,” the DJ’s voice booms through the silence and the wind, and Harry’s eyes flick sideways before settling back on the road. “Well there it is. ‘One Heart’ by Electra, their brand new single, out October 16th. It’s sure to have the kids dancing, isn’t it, Ted?”
“Right you are,” Ted agrees, and Louis smirks at their grandiose, exaggerated voices, noting Harry’s white knuckles on the steering wheel as he glances once more at his phone which sits on his thigh. “But that won’t be the only hit for Nick Grimshaw this year, will it?”
“No?”
“He’s got that new single with Des Styles, hasn’t he?”
And Louis stiffens at the name, and he thinks Harry might, too.
“Ahh, yes, you’re right. And they’re sure to deliver—they always do! Speaking of Des, he’s had a bit of a—“
But the radio switches off then, Harry’s hand flying to silence it, and Louis starts, looking over at him in alarm.
“I was listening to that!” he complains, but Harry’s brow only furrows further, his silence taking on a new edge.
“I wasn’t,” he counters, as if that’s all the reason in the world needed to end the conversation.
Which, normally, would spur Louis to do the exact opposite, but Harry’s cold eyes flick back down to the black screen of his phone, and Louis can’t bring himself to argue amidst the alreadythere layers of tension and silent chaos.
So Louis lets it go. Because whatever those radio cronies were about to say in regards to Des, Harry didn’t want to hear it. Or did he not want Louis to hear it?
“That’s funny that Niall’s doing the drum bits for your dad’s new song,” Louis drops conversationally, unable to resist pressing the matter just a tiny bit.
Harry nods quietly, knuckles white, but says nothing.
“I think he’s actually going back tonight for more work. That should be fun.”
Which makes Harry turn his head sharply. “He’s already been at the studio?” he asks, attention piqued.
“Er, yeah, two days ago or summat. Didn’t you know?”
Harry’s face reacts, just barely, almost too sudden for Louis to catch. He blinks steadily, and his lashes catch in the gold of the sun. “Was Des there?” he asks in a controlled tone, ignoring Louis’ question, and though Louis hears nonchalance on the surface of each word, he feels the tension sparking beneath Harry’s skin.
“No. He wasn’t,” is all Louis says.
And the silence returns, filled only by the wind that whips against the car and through their bodies.
And Louis silently wishes for an anvil to drop on him.
**
When they reach their destination, the last road Louis expects Harry to turn onto is a long, winding cobblestone one that snakes through willow trees and endless expanses of green grass. And the last sight he expects to see as they wind their way further down is the large, beautiful mansion with classic architecture and Corinthian columns, sat in front of gardens and elaborate fountains at the end of the property, tall, silent, and shadowed by the midday clouds.
“Holy shit,” Louis breathes under his breath, but Harry makes no move. “I thought we were going to go to Starbucks or something,” he mumbles, staring at the sight before him with wide eyes.
Harry smirks, the tiniest bit, stormy walls of his eyes flickering for a millisecond as they make their way further toward the house, Louis staring betwixt Harry and said house with a mixture of awe and confusion.
They ease into the roundabout that lies before the enormous expanse of stairs and entryway, large marble vases overflowing with roses and ivy sitting on either side of them. It’s even more enormous up close, and more beautiful, and Louis stares with a full dropped jaw at the balconies and archways, vaguely aware that he should be Snapchatting this to Stan as he spots an actual fucking gargoyle sat at the top of the tallest peak.
“Welcome to my house,” comes Harry’s sudden drawl as they park the car.
And Louis’ jaw only drops just that bit more, because he genuinely thought they were at a fucking museum. Not Harry’s home.
“Sweet mother of god,” he mutters, sending Harry into an irritated eye roll as they emerge from the car.
When they enter the house, Louis is actually expecting Alfred from Batman to pop out of nowhere, opening the door for them and offering champagne on a tray despite Harry’s gruff explanation of “Our butler’s on holiday so we haven’t got the staff here today.”
Which, really, is fucking insane enough itself.
Louis immediately notes that it’s dark, very dark, the windows shrouded in curtains, sealed off from the world, and not one light is on anywhere. The furniture is draped with soft, white sheets, everything is still as stone, and it smells of wilted flowers and faded cologne. It seems empty somehow despite its grandiose appeal, and though it took Louis’ breath away from the outside, the inside feels intensely barren and hollow, and Louis doesn’t like the feel of it one bit.
He is also becoming increasingly certain that he is, indeed, being brought to a sacrificial alter.
Harry stalks ahead wordlessly, heels of his boots clicking through the shadowed, empty halls, echoes bounding through the limitless ceilings and renaissance paintings that are hung at every turn. The marble beneath Louis’ Toms is cold and shiny as he follows closely, not knowing what else to do, and he can’t imagine why anyone would desire such a floor as it is absolute murder on the feet. But, then again, he can’t imagine this place was designed for comfort in the first place.
They whip through room after room, Harry’s stride purposeful as he examines every inch of space, opening closets and sliding his palms along the thick, embroidered curtains that cover every window from the lingering sun, leaving only shrouds of darkness and slivers of struggling faded light; every room is cold and shadowed in blues, and Louis wonders why they can’t flick on a damn light or, god forbid, pull back the curtains.
But he doesn’t question it—not when he sees the tight clutch Harry has on his phone or the crease between his brows as he glides forward, shoulders stiff beneath the crisp confines of his black buttoned shirt, rolled up to his milky elbows, revealing bits of tattoo. He continues his search for something nameless, apparently immune to the darkness, and Louis follows close behind because he doesn’t know what else to do.
It’s odd. It’s weird. It’s strange as fuck. There’s tension and silence and Harry’s eyes are somewhere distant, barely comprehending Louis is with him at all—and why the fuck is he? He assumed Harry was taking him somewhere random, just as a distraction. He assumed this trip was because of him, and not just to tag along as Harry runs errands or takes an aimless pit stop at home or whatever the fuck they’re doing.
So Louis’ mind whirrs as he follows the click of the heels, thousands of questions and accusations sitting on the tip of his tongue, barely restrained.
Then suddenly Harry stops, unlocks his phone, and throws a glance in Louis’ general direction. “Wait here,” he says, and it’s so sudden, so unexpected, so loud in the still, silent space, that Louis can only blink before Harry disappears down a flight of stairs.
And he could wait, sure.
But Louis was never one to be told what to do.
So, feeling completely at odds with everything happening in his life in this moment of time (and he really wishes he could just turn on his phone and text his annoyance and distress to Niall) he turns on his heel and strays from the staircase Harry had just descended, instead walking up the staircase on the opposite end of the room and towards the only source of light he can see, pouring from a little room at the end of the left hall. He doesn’t think, just seeks the source, and walks carefully as if he were intruding, any noise made giving him away.
Each footstep connecting with the polished floor leads him closer to the streaming light, and while he tries not to think about where he is, what he’s doing, and with who, and WHY (as if he could think about anything else though, because what the actual fuck), his heart misses the memo, hammering uneasily in his chest. His palms sweat, too, so he wipes them on his jeans absently as he stares at the cold, painted faces of dead ancestors on the walls, the guilt molding, lavish
wallpaper, and statues that rest on Ionic pedestals, proud and dead and untouched. But he looks away, feeling as if he’s seeing too much.
Because he’s in Harry’s house. Harry Styles’ fucking house.
And, yes, he knew he was rich, but he didn’t know he was, say, Zayn rich—he expected a modern, lavish house with a pool in the living room and a TV that’s 3D and maybe a zebra running about or a gold toilet; but he most definitely did not picture an ornate mansion that would befit the Sun King.
His brain can’t stop asking those persistent, nagging questions : Why is he here? Why did Harry bring him? He’s obviously on a mission of sorts, doing something important, something he’d been meaning to do—he didn’t just come here on a whim. Harry has a purpose. Louis just doesn’t know what it is. And he certainly doesn’t know why he’s part of it. Judging from Harry’s behavior earlier, he certainly hadn’t wanted Louis’ company, was in an even worse mood than usual, and yet. Here they are.
Louis can’t even begin to make sense of it.
So he doesn’t. Instead, he strides into the room with the light pouring from it.
He finds a large, desolate space filled only with empty, ornate birdcages. Some hang from the ceiling, some stand alone, some sit atop the large, granite fireplace at the far end of the room. They vary in color and size, resting silent and still, their tiny bars chipped with paint and age. But Louis doesn’t focus on them despite their dominance in the room—instead, he finds the source of the light that cuts through them, and finds glass French doors opening to a balcony. The curtains that hang don’t cover them fully, leaving large strips of light exposed, and Louis walks up to them, pressing his hands against the warm glass.
And he just stands there.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing exactly—not when the room is too silent and too closed off and too eerie and too alien. Not when he’s not even sure if Harry will remember he’s there, or just forget him in this tall, dark, ornate prison of a mansion with its air that strangles the light and welcomes darkness. Not when he stares out at endless rose gardens and fountains of fish people vomiting water, and not when he’s surrounded by gold and glass and marble, all the while dressed in a Rolling Stones t-shirt and red jeans.
Because when Harry had whisked him away to evade mum, taking him to an empty mansion was the last place he expected.
So he just stands there, really, really wishing he hadn’t agreed to come.
**
Eventually, Louis searches for Harry.
Because he absolutely does not want to be left behind, and he’s uncomfortable and a little sick, and the day has been terrible, and he really just wants to return to his flat which suddenly seems a lot less ridiculously posh and smoke, drink, eat, and play video games.
Hell, at this point he would welcome just going home to listen to Niall play his goddamn piano.
So Louis searches the unfamiliar territory, leaving the stark birdcages behind, and finds Harry at last (after awkwardly knocking on closed doors, almost knocking priceless vases over, and finding dark rooms that were positively terrifying—one held actual fucking knight’s armor, rusted and all,
encased in glass and standing on the far end so it very much looked like a very real threat) and he breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the tall, troubled boy with the phone pressed to his ear.
He’s standing in the middle of a large hall on the ground floor, fist clenched at his side, head bowed, muttering deep and mumbled words into the receiver.
Louis makes out only one sentence.
“He’s not here.”
And it’s said so hopelessly, so quietly, so very almost-tinged-with-fear, that Louis feels his chest cave again, just as he had on that day he’d stumbled upon him in his room, tears and all.
And fuck.
Louis is not equipped to deal with this boy. Not when he flounders between severe annoyance, distaste, confusion, and pity for him. And part of him wants to pull away, suck it up and turn on his phone, call Niall or his mum or whomever, and just catch a ride home, forgetting about today and Harry Styles and his carefully worded sentences and dripping blinks but, fuck, he can’t, he just can’t, and so Louis steps back into the shadows and waits for Harry to hang up the phone, his mind fighting the urge to race.
Because who’s not here? Who is Harry looking for?
Louis thinks he could know, might know, but doesn’t understand it; there are too many questions and no fucking answers--the most infuriating thing in the world, to Louis--and so he doesn’t begin to analyze or pick apart, he just waits.
Harry mutters a farewell after a few more murmurs, before dropping his hand to his side, phone still tight in his grip. His head is still bowed, and as Louis leans further, he catches sight of his eyes which are determined, almost manic, and fighting back a thousand emotions that seem to burst beneath his skin.
It makes Louis’ palms itch.
“There you are!” he finds himself bursting aloud suddenly, unable to watch whatever it is that’s happening any longer, bounding out from the shadows and towards Harry. He adopts his sassiest tone, his most relaxed limbs, and raises an eyebrow in annoyance, steadily ignoring the pangs of emotions that irritate him within.
Because, no. Louis is not emotional. And no, he does not care about the mess that is Harry Styles.
Harry turns around, his face immediately masked, eyes cool and assessing as they settle on Louis.
“I told you to wait,” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“I know,” Louis says simply, and sends a sugary smile.
Harry studies him for a moment, eyebrows on the brink of annoyance, before he scoffs a bit and averts his gaze. But it’s not nearly as cold as Louis has seen come from him before, and he feels another pang.
“This is some place,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets as he takes in the room before him. It would be the perfect setting for a ball. “Can’t imagine living in a house like this.”
Harry shrugs, remaining silent.
“You quite proud of it, then?”
“Of what?”
“Living here. Coming from all this.”
Harry looks around, expressionless, as he takes in the high, vaulted ceilings and tapestries. “Not really,” he says, simply and monotonously. “It makes no sense to me.”
Louis steadies his gaze onto him, surprised, and quirks his eyebrow. “Then we have something in common, after all.”
Harry’s own stare slides to Louis, and their eyes lock, Harry’s boring into him unblinkingly. Louis can feel the pangs beneath the surface, the swirls and a thousand other things, and even when he clears his throat, Harry doesn’t look away.
“Well?” he suddenly questions, breaking the silence, “Aren’t you going to show me around?” He tilts his head inquisitively, taking a few steps towards Harry.
There’s a pause, and a cloud moves to cover the sun outside, muting the sunbeams that sneak through the cracks of the covered windows.
“No,” Harry finally says, but it’s said with such little conviction, his mind obviously in a thousand different places, and the exhaustion in the hallows of his eyes and tension written in his skin is enough to send tiny jolts through Louis’ bloodstream, stabbing at his heart.
And fuck.
Louis’ seen the darker bits of Harry, has seen his foul moods and his glares and his tears even, but this quiet anxiety within him is new, and it’s unsettling, very unsettling, and Louis doesn’t want to see the forlorn stress that pours from his skin any longer, because it’s making his fingers twitch and it rubs the back of his throat unpleasantly.
So, with a smile and a complete lack of thought, he walks up to Harry and finds himself nudging his elbow playfully into Harry’s side. “C’mon, then. Just a quick look? I might even get jealous. And hate my life, wishing I was you. Wouldn’t that be nice?” he teases with a large smile, and nudges into him once more, trying to soften the sharp edges of Harry’s expression.
And Harry…Harry fucking smiles in response. He smiles.
Harry Styles actually smiles.
It’s small (tiny, really), it struggles to bloom, and it’s paired with eyes that are still a little distant and dark, but his lips quirk and his dimple flashes, and it’s the softest, most sincere thing Louis’ ever seen, even if it is gone in a split second.
And Louis can hear the refusal, can see it building behind Harry’s eyes again slowly and—
“Okay,” he relents suddenly, his tone calm, quiet. And he leaves it at that. No charm slathered on, no quips, no winning smiles. Just a simple “okay” and he leads the way, his limbs relaxed as his long legs glide forward.
Louis stares after him, truly surprised, before catching up and stepping into place beside him.
**
Harry showed Louis all of the main floor, dutifully giving the names of each room and relaying a bit of history, and was being a very helpful tour guide. He was on the quiet side, surveying each room emotionlessly or, occasionally, watching Louis which Louis caught him doing only a handful of times, his eyes fixed and quiet as Louis touched every surface and commented on everything he deemed fit. (“That’s bad manners. You shouldn’t say things like that.” “What? You’re going to tell me it’s not stuffy in here and smells of mothballs?” “It doesn’t smell of mothballs.” “But it is stuffy, innit?”And Harry didn’t respond, instead turning his head away and doing something that looked suspiciously like suppressing a small smile.) It all went surprisingly smoothly and calmly, their voices echoing and their glances just missing each other, weariness still lingering on the ends of them, but Louis almost found himself enjoying the situation, almost even enjoying Harry’s taciturn demeanor as it accompanied him through every room like a ghost.
Until they went upstairs. Where Harry suddenly disappeared.
And now, once again, Louis is alone and utterly confused, almost panicking, wondering where the fuck Harry could have possibly gone. They literally only just climbed the stairs, and all Louis did was bend over to pick up his phone which had slipped out of his pocket, and suddenly Harry was gone when he’d stood back up, either having evaporated or had found a fucking port key. So Louis begins walking aimlessly once more.
He searches, entering the nearest room and noticing a slightly ajar…door?...in the middle of the wall (it blends perfectly with its surroundings, Louis would never have noticed it if it wasn’t already open) and he shuffles towards it before hesitantly widening it. Surprisingly, it connects to another room, a wee library, and he sees yet another door across the way.
He follows this pattern, stumbling through elaborate room after elaborate room, until he finds a large, pale, barren room with long angora curtains billowing with the breeze from the open window, and finds Harry sitting alone on a large sapphire velvet and satin couch. The shadows almost swallow him and the breeze tickles his curls and the soft, blood red bow of his lips.
Louis stills, struck instantly with the image of a piano and the quiet desolation of Harry being alone and looking so frail. Why is this such a reoccurring image? Inside AND outside of Louis?
His chest lurches again, with pity and discomfort.
But Harry’s not crying, not this time, instead staring quietly out the open window, hands lying in his lap, feet crossed at the ankles, and he looks neat and folded and so, so small despite his endless limbs and semi-scowl that seems ingrained in his features.
So Louis wordlessly walks ahead and sits beside him on the couch, at the opposite end, and together they stare at the vibrant orange sun as it descends on the horizon.
“Are you all right?” Louis suddenly finds himself asking, but his words are quiet, barely cutting the calm of the scene, and they glide along the breeze gently enough for Harry to get away with pretending to not have heard.
But Harry’s head moves infinitesimally towards Louis before returning back, and his hands immediately clutch together, strong and tight.
“I’m always all right,” he answers, but his voice is emotionless and brittle.
It catches Louis off guard, the struggle in his voice, and he turns to him, stares at the boy, and he wants to poke, wants to pry and ask for more, but Harry’s eyes are lost. They’re lost and far away, and Louis doesn’t know what to ask.
So he returns to staring at the sun, hyper aware of Harry’s presence, despite Harry being almost completely unaware of his own.
Minutes upon minutes go by, and the sun is almost gone, sending its last, most glorious rays to the world, and Louis glances toward Harry, noting the phone that lies quietly on the table beside him, screen staring expectantly, as if Harry’s waiting for a call. Maybe even begging for one. But it doesn’t come, and Harry stares unseeingly and Louis fixes his hair, feeling uncomfortable and unsettled and off.
“I notice you’re a fan of creepy bird cages,” he then says, and Louis really wishes he could rip his own vocal chords out because why can’t he just stop talking? Why??
Harry doesn’t blink. “They’re not mine. I hate them.”
And Louis is surprised because such random, antique rubbish seems right up Harry’s alley.
“What? Why?”
“I like things to be free.”
Louis looks over to him again, fully now, and stares openly at the boy before him with his sculpted jaw and smooth skin and noble nose.
And in that moment, Harry looked anything but free.
And Louis can’t explain why. Or how.
And he doesn’t know what to do—fuck, what can he do?—so he looks away, clutching the armrest tightly and bouncing his leg, wishing there was music or chatter or screaming or something to fill the pounding silence of the room and to fill every corner of Louis’ brain, because he doesn’t want to think about the boy next to him and he doesn’t want to feel the gnawing desire of needing to know what’s so very wrong, and he doesn’t want to question why Harry had said ‘he’s not here’ on the phone or why he goes missing for days at a time or why he falls into bed with everything with a heartbeat or why he glares at Louis but cries when he’s alone or why he looks so soft in the quiet spaces of the day, when no eyes are upon him.
So they continue to sit until Harry stands up, signals for Louis to do the same, and they leave in silence.
It’s as they’re leaving the house, the heavy doors shutting behind them, that Louis remembers why they’re here.
“Surely we’re not going back already,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks as Harry makes his way to the car.
Harry pauses, looking at Louis over his shoulder, furrowing. “Your mum wouldn’t really be there still, would she?” he asks, and Louis is taken aback. Because Harry actually remembers, despite the obvious piles of shit weighing on his mind? And Harry knows the dread in Louis’ statement was directed toward his mum, and that alone? He bears concern for the situation at hand? Human concern? For another?
Louis shrugs, swallowing his thoughts. “She probably would be, if I’m being honest, mate.”
Harry looks to the ground. When he looks back up at Louis, his face is stoic.
“Let’s look at the gardens. I have a new flower.”
And he takes off.
“You really need to work on your transitions!” Louis calls after him, but Harry’s already far ahead of him, probably out of earshot in the soft winds, and so Louis can only roll his eyes as he trots ahead, making to catch up with him as his heart beats to the knowledge that Harry is helping Louis keep away from his mum.
When he matches his pace alongside him, Harry’s face is still tense, giving nothing away.
“I don’t know many people who flit through flower obsessions quite like you do,” Louis comments, glancing sideways.
Harry shrugs as he walks. “Maybe the people you know are boring.”
“Oh? And you aren’t boring?”
“I’m many things, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, looking at Louis, the right corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile, “but I am anything but boring.”
Louis opens his mouth to protest, as he usually does with Harry, but he shuts it almost immediately, thinking on the statement. “You know what, Curly? I’ll give that one to you. I can truly say you aren’t boring.”
And Harry’s face lightens immediately. Not incredibly, not largely, not even happily—it just lightens, like a light’s been flicked on in a room or the sun’s just peaked out from an eclipse, and though Harry doesn’t acknowledge Louis, he seems pleased with his answer, genuinely pleased, and so he begins to walk with a bit more purpose.
“Here. Here it is,” he says, pointing at a black and, quite frankly, terrifying flower.
Louis stares.
Harry emanates pride.
“I didn’t think it could be done,” Louis says, still staring at the thing before him. “But I have to say. That flower is fucking terrifying.”
And Harry almost looks like he wants to laugh as he stares at it, with its long, sharp ebony petals and black, ribboned strands that hang from the center. But he looks at it fondly, appraisingly, and Louis’ words only seem to deepen his affections for the subject at hand.
“I find it perfect.”
“Not even a little creepy?”
“Only in the good ways.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Yeah it does,” Harry protests, and it’s so close to a whine that Louis looks to him with his eyebrows raised, a silent ‘Really?’ written in his brows.
Harry half-scowls through an unaffected smile, before returning his gaze to the flower before him. “I like it,” he says quietly, and a smile still plays on his lips, but it’s nothing to do with Louis. This is a moment between Harry and a terrifying piece of flora and, despite the absurdity of the situation, Louis really doesn’t want to break it, not when Harry’s having one of those rare
moments where he resembles a human, so he keeps silent, hands stuffed in his pockets as he gazes at all the different flowers grouped together, colors sharp and cutting through the evening gloom.
“They’d look better in the sunlight,” Louis comments. “It’s too dark right now. They look dull.”
Harry shakes his head, eyes still on the flower. “No. That makes them more special.”
Louis scoffs. “Hardly. It makes them weaker. It’s when they’re standing there, out in the open, in full sun, that they’ll get my respect. Full sun and I’m there.”
Harry’s thoughtful gaze turns annoyed as he flicks his eyes up to Louis. “The full sun strips them away of anything interesting. They’re on display. Nothing left to the imagination. They’re boring.”
“Not boring. Bold. They’ve got nothing to hide. I like a good, sunny flower that can flaunt its petals.” And Louis doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying, doesn’t know why they’re even talking about this, but Harry is staring at him like it matters as he soaks in his words, and so he just goes along with it, turning his face away to stare up at the violet and cerulean sky, spotting a few spattered stars that are beginning to peak out. “Look,” he then says, pointing. “Stars.”
Brow still very much furrowed, Harry pulls his gaze away from Louis and up to the sky momentarily, before settling back on him. “I like that,” he suddenly says, as Louis begins striding through the garden path, wrinkling his nose at some of the more ostentatious flowers. “About the flowers being bold.”
“You like something I said?” Louis asks in mock surprise, unable to resist a bit of sass as he continues his stroll.
Harry watches him, almost curiously, almost wearily, hands folded behind his back. “They’re just words,” he says simply, almost confused by Louis’ statement, but his eyes are watchful, observant, and Louis only shakes his head.
“Not really, though. But whatever.”
Harry continues to watch him.
“You don’t like your mum,” he suddenly says out of nowhere, boldly, and it’s not a question, his eyes stuck on Louis.
Louis starts. “I never said that.”
“But you don’t like her.”
“I… Well. Of course I love her. But. I don’t always like her, no.”
“Why?” Harry asks, and it’s so forward, so unabashed, and so demanding, that Louis feels at odds with the conversation, can sense the challenge in Harry’s voice and doesn’t understand.
“Why did you save me from her?” Louis counters, ignoring the question (that he really didn’t feel like getting into with Harry of all people), and Harry blinks, face neutral.
“I didn’t save you.”
“You took me here.”
“I was running late because of you. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Tell me to leave. Obviously.”
“You don’t listen to me.”
“But I would have then. I was on my way out anyways.”
Harry falls silent. He averts his gaze, stroking long, slender milky fingers over the petals of the hideous flower. “I suppose I didn’t think about it. It doesn’t matter, regardless.”
The crickets begin singing. Or playing. Louis doesn’t really know what to call it.
Harry’s hand drops from the flower before he glances up at Louis. “It’s dark,” is all he says, the moonlight beginning to softly glow, painting his porcelain skin in eerie blues and dusting his curls in silver.
“She’s probably gone,” Louis says. “I doubt she’s waited this long. She’ll have gotten bored. So we can go.”
“I wasn’t waiting for her to be gone,” Harry says coldly, slowly, but it’s bullshit, Louis can smell it from here, and so he doesn’t protest, just begins walking towards the car and ignoring his biting retorts and eye rolls.
As they climb into the car, Louis shutting the door, he feels lighter. And this evening was weird, yeah, but it could have been a lot weirder. And if he’d been at his flat with his mum, it could have been a lot more terrible. So, all in all, despite Harry’s murky conversation skills (when he’s not “on” so to speak) and his penchant for looking at Louis like he’s a stain on the bottom of his shoe, Louis owes him.
Maybe a lot.
“I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for,” he says on a whim, looking over to Harry who freezes in the midst of shutting the car door.
Eyes staring ahead unblinkingly, Harry breathes, unmoving, Louis’ words seeming to marinate within him, before he breaks himself from his reverie and slams the door shut, that grimace back in place. Without a word, he buckles his seat belt and starts the car, and they drive off, Louis sneaking glances as they fly down the road, and Harry’s hands grip the wheel even tighter.
**
When Harry stops the car on the street outside of Louis’ building, he’s genuinely confused.
Because isn’t Harry going to just park by his own rooms and make Louis walk back to his? Like he always instructs Zayn to do whenever they take a drive?
“This is my building,” he says stupidly, and looks to Harry who looks very unimpressed, both eyebrows raised.
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” his voice oozes, and the deep velvety timbre of it is almost lost in the gloom of the night. Because Harry’s voice can be so loud and raucous and yet, sometimes, so soft and low that Louis thinks it could vanish; he thinks that if he weren’t able to see Harry, he wouldn’t be able to hear his words at all, their presence only established by the slow, twisted movements of his sinful lips.
“I guess I’m just surprised you’re not making me walk across town,” Louis replies dryly, throwing him a look.
Harry eyes him, still as stone beneath the stars. “That party’s tonight,” he replies, and Louis blinks because what? What does that have to do with anything at all?
“What are you talking about?” he asks bluntly, squinting his eyes and tilting his head with a ‘what the fuck’ air that he has perfected.
“If you walked across town, you’d be late for that party. You’d keep Zayn and Liam waiting,” Harry explains calmly, and okay, yeah, Louis definitely has no idea how Harry’s brain works at all. All he knows is that Harry’s train of thought is quite possibly the most scenic route available.
“Well then,” he says, as Harry checks his phone, “thanks, I guess.”
Harry nods. “And tell the boys I won’t be making it. I’m meeting up with someone.”
Someone. Of course.
“Will do,” Louis says shrewdly, unable to resist a shake of his head. “Should have known,” he mumbles under his breath.
Harry makes no move to reply, just taps a few things onto his phone before sliding it back in his pocket.
Louis’ tempted to bite something out, sling judgment or attitude Harry’s way before stalking off because Harry is always so damn cold, no matter how much time they spend together, no matter the progress he feels they almost make, and he’s pissed off about it, annoyed with it, and tired.
But then his mind wanders to the phone call with his mum (and, oh yeah, he should probably turn his phone back on) and he hears Harry’s words of 'Follow me' and he sees Harry stalking ahead to the garden when Louis feared they were returning, and he can’t be mad. Not really. Not fully.
And so he exits the vehicle, palms tingling and chest warm, while Harry waits and stares ahead silently. But before he closes the door, he turns to face him, smoothing out his features. He knows Harry won’t turn to meet his gaze because he’s already done and over the situation, ready to move on to the next scene.
But Louis says it anyway.
“Thank you, Harry. Really,” he says, and it’s genuine, probably the only genuine thing Louis’ ever said to Harry, as he stands there in his simple clothes and messy fringe, a bit of scruff lining his jaw.
As expected, there’s silence in return.
But Louis isn’t too bothered, having said what he’d wanted to say (and owing Harry nothing more) so he closes the door after a pause, then turns on his heel toward his flat, already preparing his greeting speech to Niall. Who is probably going to punch him in the face after having had to deal with his mum all evening.
It’s then, as Louis’ walking away and losing himself in internal monologue, that he hears Harry.
“You’re welcome, Louis.”
And Louis stops.
His heart quickens just that bit more and he feels jarred as he turns around slowly, completely taken aback by the quiet sincerity in Harry’s voice that was directed toward…Louis.
He finds Harry staring down at his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched and small, but Louis only keeps staring until Harry finally looks up.
And it’s such a clear gaze that meets Louis, so open and green and glinting under moonbeams, that he takes a sharp intake of breath. It’s not a kind or happy or sweet gaze—hell, it’s not even gentle. It’s just honest. It’s Harry looking back at him, walls removed and replaced with the fragility of openness, and it’s so alien and blatant and real, it’s as if Louis were staring at Harry naked.
Harry doesn’t blink, but Louis, feeling a million things fighting against his skull and ribcage, feels himself erupting into a soft smile, sending it into Harry, pelting him with it, before giving a short, respectful nod.
Harry’s eyes flit a bit in surprise and something else, then Louis turns around, slowly walking towards his flat.
He can’t help but feel that something has altered, something has changed between him and Harry, and, as he steps through the gates and admits himself into the walls of the ancient school, Louis thinks that, maybe, having Harry Styles as a friend wouldn’t be so bad.
