When Louis arrives back at his flat, he’s buzzing with the chaos of the day—more specifically, Harry—but it’s all soon replaced with the harsh reality of his mum and the aftermath that Louis will most certainly have to deal with in her wake.
Because, sure, she’s almost certainly gone. But she was there, Louis knows she was there, and Niall was the one who had had to pick up the pieces.
And fuck, Niall’s going to be livid. Raging, Irish-ly, throwing-whiskey-bottles-at-the-walls livid.
So, pushing the very currently pressing and discombobulating thoughts regarding one Mr. Styles to the back of his mind, Louis braces himself as he opens his door, fully prepared for a tirade of incoherent Irish hatred.
He closes his eyes, just in case.
“There you are!” a pleasant voice greets him as he closes the door behind him with a dreaded click, and the voice sounds like Niall, but it’s far too kind to be Niall, so Louis peeks a curious eye open, back pressed against the door.
And it really is Niall.
Which…what?
“Yes. I am here,” Louis says suspiciously and nearly fearfully, eying the boy. He's sitting at the piano, half-dressed in preparation for the party, having obviously gotten distracted mid-primping; he's got on black trousers, a half-done belt, a vest, and hair that is still damp from the shower. Calmly, he tinkers at the keys while his phone sits on top of the instrument displaying sheet music he must’ve found online. Ever the musician, Niall.
“You just missed your mum,” he comments offhandedly, mastering a tricky little ditty with his clever fingers, and Louis really has no idea what’s going on right now, because he had just been
beginning to suspect Niall’s general pleasantness was attributed to his mum having not come after all…but apparently that is not the case.
So.
What?
“And?” Louis tempts, slowly walking towards Niall, prepared for any attack.
Niall looks up then, an easy smile painting his features as he shrugs his shoulders, hands still working the keys. “She’s nice. We had dinner.”
And Louis stares.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I took your mum to dinner.”
What the actual fuck.
“What—Why did you do that?” Louis splutters, staring at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues.
Which, to be honest, he sort of did.
“She was pretty upset when she came. So we had a nice chat, then I offered to take her to dinner. She felt better after that, stopped trying to call you, and we had chocolate mousse for dessert. Then she went home. Gave her a kiss on the cheek as she left, promised to ring. I think she misses having a son to dote on,” Niall says casually, and it’s so simplified and clear and utterly fucking random, that Louis can only continue to stare.
Because of fucking course Niall took his mum to dinner. And of course they bonded.
“Did she tell you why she came?” Louis asks wearily, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Not really. Said something about missing you, being worried about you. I dunno.”
Niall’s concentration is back to the piano, and Louis is tempted to press the matter (because, still, what the fuck?) but he doesn’t, feeling too emotionally demolished enough as it is.
“You’re going tonight, right?” he asks instead, after taking a gulp of water, eying Niall’s sleek trousers and freshly scrubbed skin.
“Course,” he says jollily, exaggerating his motions as he plays up the scale. “Like you’d let me stay back, anyway.”
Louis contemplates, drinking the dregs of his glass. “This is true,” he finally agrees, wiping his mouth.
A peaceful silence settles over them, piano tinkling pleasantly at medium volume (why can’t he play this calmly in the morning? Why is it always the fucking pipe organ at six A-bloody-M?) and though it’s comforting and safe, being locked back in his flat with Niall and the lush furniture and that goddamn noise box, Louis’ thoughts, which are pushing and pulling at the corners of his mind, seem louder somehow. Loud enough to invoke a paranoia within him that, somehow, Niall will be able to hear his inner panic.
“Where were you tho?” Niall then asks, soft blue eyes still set on the piano, and Louis is officially
“Where were you tho?” Niall then asks, soft blue eyes still set on the piano, and Louis is officially convinced that, yes, his thoughts can indeed be heard as he nearly drops his glass. “All this time? I thought you just went to your lesson with Harry?”
And oh shit.
“Well, obviously I did, Ireland. But then, uh….” Louis eyes the bottles of liquor sitting on their makeshift bar on the far end of the living room. “Well. Then mum called. You know how it is.”
Niall glances up curiously. “No. What happened?”
“Well, she were a right mess. Didn’t want to deal with it, did I? So…” Louis slides his hands into his back pockets, doing his best not to bite his lip or fidget but rather instead appear aloof.
“So?” Niall pushes, hands slowing on the piano. “Then what happened? You stayed at Harry’s? He let you?”
“No. He, uh.” Louis flicks his hair out of his face. “He took me to his house.”
The piano stops.
“What?”
“He took me to his house. Just, like, let me tag along while he looked for…something. Someone.”
Niall stares, displaying the confusion Louis feels. “He was looking for someone?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t find him though.”
“Him?”
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.”
“Des?” he voices curiously, and Louis feels a cold drip in his spine.
“I honestly don’t know, mate.” He pauses. “Why? Have you heard something?”
He shrugs, stroking the keys with his fingers. “Father called me a bit ago to say I didn’t have to come in to the studio tonight. Said recording’s on hold until they can get ahold of Des. Didn’t say anything about him missing, but. Could explain it.”
And Louis’ stomach grows cold as well.
They remain that way, Louis standing in the kitchen, leaned up against the counter for support as he stares blankly at the floor, and Niall petting his piano like a kitten.
Louis’ thoughts are barreling down a dark tunnel, his attempts at keeping the darker thoughts at bay failing, and the awful thought of ‘Why did Harry look so perfectly terrified while searching for that nameless something? Especially if that nameless something was his father?’ is beginning to form, when Niall suddenly peers up at Louis, curious in an uncomplicated way.
“I thought you hated each other.”
Louis blinks. “Well. Yes.” He sighs and flicks his hair again, more nervously than out of necessity. “And no. I think something’s wrong with him.”
“You think?”
Louis rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “No, but I mean it. Something is seriously wrong.”
Without an ounce of worry, Niall dives back into playing whatever song it was that he’d been attempting to master. “Well, what can you expect? He’s had a very unconventional upbringing.”
“Big words.”
Niall shrugs. “’S true, though.”
The sentence presses into Louis’ mind. Unconventional upbringing.
Howso? Yes, the 'rock star' father who is apparently batshit crazy and goes missing. (It runs in the family?) Yes, the drug addict, supermodel sister. Yes, the slew of ‘mums’ and the one who passed away due to unknown causes, probably to drugs.
Unconventional upbringing.
Harry Styles’ been constructed out of madness, he has. And fuck. How can…
But no.
No.
Louis is not going to be mentally ensnared by Harry today for any longer than is necessary. He’s already spent the day with him, followed him around, been left behind, stared at scary flowers and been on the receiving end of the most fluctuant-ly intense stares of his life. And he’s made an odd sort of peace with him as well, so that should really be enough for the moment.
“Whatever,” Louis says with finality, shaking the thoughts out of his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyways. We best get ready or we’re going to be late. And you know how Liam is about that sort of thing.”
And with that, he stalks to his room and straight to his closet, dedicating his full concentration on what to wear for the night ahead.
**
The party is much like the rest.
Niall crowd surfs over a sea of glittering people, his laughter booming over the blasting music as it pours from the speakers, sunglasses taking up half his face. Not too far behind him is Liam, also crowd surfing, his smile gleeful and excited as hands pass him to and fro. Louis notes with fondness that Zayn is always close by, hands protective beneath or around him, making sure he doesn’t fall or get groped unnecessarily. It’s adorable, really, and Louis smiles as they glide past, Zayn sliding a wink Louis’ way.
There’s decent music and good drugs and beautiful people, and Louis gets caught in a longwinded conversation with a fit young boy with too many teeth who keeps staring at his crotch like it’s painted with gold (which Louis can’t really blame the poor thing for, because fuck yeah, these trousers were made to serve his body and that’s that) and, briefly, Louis wonders, through his haze of weed, alcohol, and who knows what else, if it would be worth it to drag this nameless pretty face to the corner and maybe have him fuck or suck him senseless, or at the very least oblige a friendly hand down the trousers. But he doesn’t feel it, just can’t force it, and he finds himself bored and studying his wine glass for amusement before finally being saved by Niall, who demands to show him a bloke who “looks like the splitting fucking image of that cunt Shakespeare”. And he sort of does; it’s odd.
Unfortunately, Louis also thinks about Harry throughout the night.
Of course.
Because how could he not? After the mess of the day, after being prisoner in Harry’s mansionhouse-castle and forced to endure that creepy flower in the garden and getting lost in the dark shadows in the rooms and suffering in the quiet moments and hearing Harry’s very softly murmured, “You’re welcome, Louis,” how could he fucking not think about him?
He just wonders where he’s at, what he’s doing, and why, why, why. He wonders WHY about so many things in regards to Harry.
By the end of the night, with a thick mouth that tastes of rubbing alcohol and a sour stomach that has begun to twist rebelliously (who ever said shots were fun?), Louis latches himself onto Niall so as not to be left behind, not in this state of mind, and eventually they make their way home despite Liam’s protests. Because, naturally, Liam is insisting, through dilated eyes and excited gestures, that they move on to another party that his old primary school friend’s holding that’s sure to be a “kicking” good time.
They decline though, arrive in their flat instead, and, dropping into bed, Louis vaguely praises the fact that he’s too inebriated to lie in bed awake, mulling over the thoughts of the day.
**
“Mozart this morning?” Louis yawns, trudging past Niall who is effortlessly thundering the piano once again.
“You’re getting better at identifying the songs!”
“If that’s not a sure sign that I need to move, then I don’t know what is,” he grumbles, setting up the kettle.
“Candle House today,” Niall reminds, and Louis picks it up immediately.
“Ah, yes. The famous Malik…’spring’ home, was it?”
Niall nods amidst a particularly complicated piano riff.
He sighs, shaking his head as he plops a teabag into his cup. “I think I’ve had it with your lot, Ireland . With your spring houses and your summer houses and your rich dads and your clean manners and fake smiles and—“ he cuts himself off, his thoughts dangerously close to verging on a certain someone. And, it being only half past nine, he can’t really afford to begin his day that way. “Well, anyway. What time are they coming to pick us up?”
“An hour or so.”
“So that means about three hours?”
“Yup.”
“Excellent,” Louis says, and drifts towards the shower.
**
It’s nearly midday when the boys finally make it to the flat, dressed in autumn tweeds, scarves, fedoras, and smelling of cigars and eau de toilette in celebration of the autumnal weather.
They arrive as one, Harry leading the way in his gray and mocha plaid blazer, cream knit sweater, and matching gray bow tie, carrying what appears to be an umbrella… With a dog head for a handle. Which would annoy Louis far more if he wasn’t currently caught on an emotional fishing line, trying his best not to stare intently at Harry’s eyes (are they duller than yesterday? Is there life in them today? Are they unchanged at all?) and instead focus on the atrocity in Harry’s hands.
“This is Berkley,” he purrs fondly, faux-smile bedazzling the room as he holds up the dog carving reverently.
And, fishing line or no, Louis stares at the thing with blatant revulsion.
“That has got to be the ugliest thing I have ever seen,” he states flatly on instinct, causing Harry’s eyes to immediately flash to him. He scolds himself instantly though because he’s trying with Harry, he really is--and, judging from Harry’s acknowledgement of him, he thinks he might be trying, too--so he adds a hasty, “But it’s very quirky,” and offers an attempt at a smile.
Harry still scowls, but it’s not cold or cutting like it usually is. It’s, as odd as it sounds, an amiable scowl, but Harry still shields the umbrella from Louis, and averts his eyes elsewhere as he makes to greet Niall.
So perhaps there really is progress. And perhaps whatever mess Harry was in yesterday has been resolved. Because his smiles aren’t as fake as usual, and he seems very up and pleased with that umbrella. So that’s something.
“So sorry we’re late, mates,” Liam says, but it doesn’t sound very apologetic, just scripted, as he clutches Zayn’s arm with one hand and smooths out his hair with the other. “Our meeting ran a bit longer than usual today.” And there’s no mistaking the glee that rides just below the surface of his words.
Zayn is quick to roll his eyes, meeting Louis with a half-lidded, exasperated stare as he shakes his head. “By his own doing.”
“Hey, now,” Liam responds, whirring to pout at Zayn, thick eyebrows meeting as one, “You said I could do whatever I wanted. Not my fault there was a lot on the agenda.”
Zayn just shakes his head, but there’s a light twist of his lips and he presses back a smile.
“So, are you going to tell us what you’re talking about, or…?” Louis states, leaning on the counter and glancing between the two with very unimpressed eyebrows.
“Student Union?” Niall offers from the other side of the room where he’s adjusting his cream jumper and unpinning the tags as Harry watches him calmly, dog-shaped umbrella handle beside him at eye level. For fuck’s sake.
Zayn nods, and Louis bites back a snort.
Zayn’s the president of the Student Union. Naturally. And about once a week, he “holds” meetings where he sits in a large chair as he watches other, lesser, beings make articulated speeches and discuss the goings-on of the school in professional tones and spreadsheets, planning affairs and making nice with the so-called “elites” of the university. And, of course, Liam is also in it.
Because, you know, god forbid Zayn and Liam ever separate.
“Even though I’m the Vice President, Zayn let me hold the meeting and do all the work today,”
Liam gushes, and stares at Zayn like he’s made of glittering gold. Liam is also the editor of the student newspaper because he’s a bloody overachiever. Work is fun for him. Or, rather, getting the prestige and holding a position of power is fun for him.
“Isn’t that how it usually is, though?” Harry asks mildly, now staring into the glassy eyes of Berkley.
Liam beams, completely unfazed. “Yes, but today I was able to call order and dismiss everyone.” Liam positively gloats, rubbing a hand along Zayn’s back as he stares at him with adoration. “Next week he said that I can send out the e-mails.”
“Oh, well that’s…cute,” Louis mutters with a disgusted roll of the eyes, and from the corner, Harry’s laugh threatens to emerge before he stuffs it back inside and sends an indifferent sniff Louis’ way.
Louis notices. Which makes his own lips quirk upward.
“I’m ready,” Niall suddenly announces randomly—clearly uninvested in the conversation—as he seems to be unaware that it’s still happening, plowing between the boys, eyes set on the door.
“You should bring a change of clothes. We’re playing croquet,” Harry says as he begins poking at a pile of Louis’ school books on the table.
“Why would you need a change of clothes for croquet?” Louis scoffs, and Liam turns to him with a quizzical brow.
“Why wouldn’t you?” he counters, and it’s genuine and light, while Zayn grins at Louis’ expression.
Louis tries his best to control his judgment. “Right. Well, I think I’ll just wear this, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Harry breezes, now in the kitchen, shamelessly opening cabinets and peering inside of them, examining the contents of the whole flat.
Which, no.
He may be warming up to Harry in some small way, may even be indebted to him, but Louis will absolutely not stand for a boy who thinks he owns the world and doesn’t respect others’ boundaries. So with a glare and a firm step, he marches to the other side of the cabinet door and snaps it shut in Harry’s face, leveling him with narrowed eyes.
“Don’t snoop, it’s rude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?” he scolds.
And just like that, Harry’s eyes darken.
There’s a pregnant pause in the room, heavier than it should be, and Louis momentarily wonders what he’s done (he was in the right, after all, the fucker was just opening cabinets at will), as the boys stare betwixt the two, Niall chewing on his fingernail, Zayn peering with lidded eyes, stone still, and Liam in a similar fixture, absentmindedly picking at his fingers, almost nervously.
But Louis continues to stare at Harry, who’s building walls before his very eyes, his perfect brows arching in distaste, his rosebud lips twisting.
“She couldn’t,” he says shortly, and he takes a step back, immediately cold and guarded.
Eh?
Louis’ about to press the subject because his curiosity and intrigue are screaming, but before he can open his mouth, Zayn is sliding his fedora on and saying, “Come on, boys. Let’s go. Can’t keep that parking spot forever.” Which, yeah, he’s Zayn Malik, yes he fucking could, but whatever.
So Louis lets it drop.
Still though, his mind prickles with curiosity as they march forward, and he follows in the back, curiously watching the bob of Harry’s curls as they make their way towards the car.
**
They ride in the cool autumn breeze, and Louis really thinks it’s about time they retire the exposed-to-the-elements antique car, as charming as it is, because he’s fucking freezing, and he’s too busy trying to keep his hair in place anyway.
Niall notices his distress, pulls him on his lap and musses up his hair viciously while laughing, and Louis is teetering between biting the shit out of him and koala-ing him to soak up his vast amount of body heat. He decides on the later, and Liam snaps a pic of the two with a squinty smile from the passenger seat as Zayn tries to reach back, whilst driving, and tickle Louis, his pearly teeth glinting in the review mirror.
It’s sweet and cozy and filled with laughter and profanities and wind, and Louis distinctly feels the sensation of being loved.
But not once do Harry’s eyes look at him, even amidst his own chuckles and grizzled shouts, instead sending winks to Zayn and sensual shoulder rubs to Liam and handshakes to Niall. With Louis, his eyes glide past, almost as if they barely register his presence, and while it isn’t filled with the malice Louis knows Harry is capable of, he feels forgotten and overlooked, and it doesn’t sit well in his stomach. Not when Louis had begun to feel hope toward their friendship.
But there’s nothing he can do, so he ignores it, burrowing further into Niall and laughing into his neck, enjoying all the warmth he can get.
**
“It’s the cutest little cottage,” Liam explains as they amble along down a small road near a lake, the car bumping along over pebbles and stones. “You’re going to love it.”
“Am I?” Louis questions, squinting his eyes in the sun and taking in the expanses of trees and wild-flower addled fields.
“I’ve seen it once or twice,” Niall comments, staring out. “It’s nice.”
“More than nice,” Zayn criticizes as he turns onto a gated pathway. “Better than all of yours.”
Liam beams, placing a hand on Zayn’s knee. “Of course it is, love.”
And Zayn catches Louis’ eye in the mirror and winks.
“Well, we’ll have to see. I don’t like when people tell me that I’m going to love something. I make my own decisions. In fact,” Louis adds, sliding his arm around Niall’s shoulders, “I will purposely not love it now.”
“You’ll hate it on principle?” Niall asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Exactly, Ireland. I’ll hate it on principle.”
Liam apparently finds this hilarious, and begins laughing near-hysterically, clapping his hands. “Hate it on principle!” he repeats through his giggles.
“I’ll hate it with you,” Zayn says, meeting Louis’ eye in the mirror.
“But it’s your house,” Harry protests, and Louis is surprised, having thought he wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation at all. And also finding him to be a hypocrite because he didn’t seem too fond of his own residence just yesterday...
“That’s why I can hate it,” is all Zayn says, but his voice is joking and light and it rolls off the shrug of his shoulders, so it makes Louis smile more and nod his assent.
“You’ve got my back, Malik.”
“I’ve got your back.”
They drive on.
**
Louis sort of does love it.
On the outside, at least. It’s certainly smaller than Harry’s mansion, but ‘cottage’ is the last word on earth that he would use to describe it.
“You’re not allowed to describe things anymore,” he tells Liam, who strolls ahead, flicking out his lighter to set flame to the cigarette perched between Zayn’s lips. “This is not a cottage.”
“We’re home!” Harry says emphatically, smiling so large it looks painful, and he hops out of the car, arms looking ready to embrace the building as he close his eyes blissfully.
“Did you live here?” Louis asks, surprised, turning to him.
But Harry doesn’t open his eyes nor acknowledge the question at all.
“Come on,” Liam says before Louis can protest, tugging his arm forward. “I want to play croquet.”
“Show us the house first,” Niall orders, and Zayn strides forward, puffing on his cigarette, motioning the others to follow with the mere flick of his finger.
“This way, lads.”
They climb the steps to the stone building, its ivy and morning glories carpeting the walls. The windows are large and plentiful, most of them opened and welcoming the cool breezes. There are balconies and patios and a garage stuffed with shiny vehicles, and surrounding them is a large expanse of green grass, mini gardens, gazebos, and willow trees whose long branches tickle the soil.
It’s not as classically over the top as Harry’s house. This actually feels like a home, albeit a grand one, and Louis already feels more at ease as he passes through the front door, it’s heavy wooden oak cold and smooth against the palm of his hand as Niall presses it open for him. He finds himself standing in the entry way, with its tall ceilings and coat racks, and, thankfully, it’s much, much warmer than Harry’s house on the inside as well. The sun streams through the large
windows and warms against the cream colored walls, glinting against glass vases filled with fresh flowers, and the air is filled with the scent of warm bread, herbs, and clean carpet. He notes the widescreen that takes up the whole actual wall in the adjoining room, and shakes his head with a laugh as the others walk on and he lingers, attempting to take it all in.
“Oh, the posh life,” he jokes to himself, sliding his hands in his pockets as he looks about.
“You don’t like it?” a rumbling voice drips, and Louis jumps, having thought he was alone.
It’s Harry. It’s always Harry. Harry, walking up to him and staring with eyes that are almost bright with curiosity. Almost.
“I don’t not like it. I just…don’t care. It’s not like I have an attachment to it like I’m sure you do.” He leaves the unspoken ‘Which I can only assume because when I asked you about it you ignored my fucking question’ in the air.
“But these things don’t affect you?” Harry presses. “All this…stuff,” he finishes, gesturing towards the imported curtains and cherry wood floors.
It’s Louis’ turn to stare curiously at Harry. “Why would it affect me?”
Harry returns the stare and there’s a pregnant pause, before he finally blinks languidly.
“I used to come here when Mira was married to my father. So, yes, I suppose I lived here,” he states, and Louis feels the tiniest tightening in his chest immediately. Because Harry is speaking. He’s revealing things. He’s…well.
Really, it shouldn’t be a big deal, that little sentence. For anyone else, that would be useless information, forked over easily. But for Harry…
Louis waits for more, breath suspended somewhere near the miniature chandeliers and between the tapestries.
“I liked it,” Harry continues simply. “Still do.” He rips his gaze away from Louis before taking in the space before him, and Louis studies him, trying to gauge his mood, his vibe, his everything.
Because yesterday Harry seemed weary and on edge and terrified. But today? He seems light, simple, and maybe a little charming. Sure, that undead indifference still sits in the jade of his eyes and his smile is more for show than anything, but he’s better than yesterday, and Louis doesn’t understand it, not even a little bit.
But he takes it as a good sign. That maybe he’s better, their potential friendship is better, that everything is better.
And now he’s staring back at Louis expectantly.
“We should join the others. After you,” he says, graciously gesturing for Louis to move forward.
Louis smiles in response, nodding a thanks, and walks ahead.
The day may just turn out to be a good one indeed.
**
They’ve been playing croquet for a very long time.
A very long time.
A very long time.
It was fun at first as they all joked beneath the bright sun, swinging their mallets (mostly at each other) and being offered a slew of beverages from Zayn’s kind and obliging staff. Louis literally almost shit his pants when he discovered there were actual maids and footmen who resided there. They’ve become family friends essentially, Liam explained, but it was still alarming as fuck, and Louis often took to sneaking his own drinks and snacks. Being served was entirely uncomfortable. It’s bad enough when Rory offers to do him favors.
But the overall vibe was good, and, miraculously, Harry’s good mood stayed intact. He made clever jokes and laughed at the appropriate times and bantered with Zayn about their times together here—some jokes flying over all their heads, including Liam’s who stared between the two with polite curiosity—and they relayed story after story of the shenanigans they pulled.
“We got away with too much,” Zayn had said while staring fondly at Harry, who shook his head.
“Never got away with enough,” he countered, and winked in Zayn’s direction before picking up his mallet.
There was something there, a feeling laced within the words, but as Louis watched the pair and their secretive eyes and glances broken by Harry—who was more interested in the game than anything else—he found himself clueless, the intangible history of the group far beyond his grasp. So they played on.
And now it’s been a good two hours, the clouds are pouring in, and everyone is incredibly bored.
Except Harry.
“I’m over this,” Niall says, sunglasses donned, one hand propping him up with the mallet, the other on his hip. His face is vastly unamused.
“To be quite honest, I am as well,” Liam says, and everybody turns to Harry.
He’s got the mallet in his hands, feet splayed in a sturdy stance. He sways the mallet gently on occasion, testing its weight, lips pressed between his teeth in concentration as he stares intently at the ball. It’s all very intense. And very unnecessary.
“Just give it up, will you, Curly? It’s going to rain,” Louis says, glancing at the foreboding clouds and occasional flickers of lightning.
“Says you,” Harry mumbles, still sizing up the ball.
“It’s not even fun anymore,” Niall complains, throwing his head back with misery, but Harry makes no movement.
“You’re being spoiled. And immature. And a prat,” Louis accuses, glaring at Harry. “Majority says not to play anymore, so you ignoring the majority makes you an arse.”
Harry glances up to him, cross. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he says dryly before returning his concentration. “I’ve almost won. Just let me finish.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs, throwing up his hands. “What does it matter if you win?”
“I never win.”
“That’s true, though,” Liam says fairly.
“Yeah, because you always win,” Zayn teases, and Liam beams. “Unless Niall plays. Then Niall always wins,” Zayn adds, and Liam deflates.
“Irish luck,” Niall shrugs.
“Well, then use some of that luck and get this boy going, yeah?” Louis says with exasperation, staring up at the clouds with increasing worry. Juicy drops slowly begin falling. “Fuck. It’s totally raining.”
“It is not.”
“Ah, but you see, it really is. Here’s proof.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“It’s a moist spot on me jumper. From a raindrop.”
“That proves nothing.”
“I think you’ll find that it does actually.” But before Louis can prove his point further, lightning bolts across the sky.
It’s just as he’s about to announce his departure (he’s not fucking around with lightning) that the crack of thunder coincides with the crack of Harry’s mallet against the ball, sending it through the last hoop.
And that’s when the downpour begins.
Instantly, chaos ensues as Zayn shouts, “RACE TO THE HOUSE!” and takes off with Liam at his side, the atmosphere filling with the deafening rush of rain as it pours relentlessly down on them.
Louis is quick to react though, dropping his own mallet and sprinting across the wet grass toward the house which seems farther away than it did before, laughing as he feels his clothes become heavy beneath the pelting streaks of rain. He’s running as fast as he can, his feet flying like Hermes himself, and is quickly gaining on Zayn and Liam who are laughing, throwing glances back at the rest of the boys to gauge space and speed.
Then suddenly he feels a solid weight collide with his body, sending him to the ground.
“Ooof!” he emits, feeling the wind knock out of him as a golden head scrambles over him, making to stand.
“Gotcha Tommo!” Niall laughs, attempting to run away, but Louis’ faster, grabbing at his heels and sending the boy back to the ground.
“No you don’t!” he laughs, and they wrestle, the rain drenching their limbs and stinging their eyesight.
After a few tussles, Niall finally weasels out of Louis’ grasp and, laughing, sprints towards the house without a second glance.
“You bastard!” Louis shouts, but he’s grinning despite himself as he scrambles up and attempts to follow his tracks. But it’s pouring and hazy, the steam from the ground coming off like fog, and with Niall’s wily speed, he’s soon out of sight, leaving Louis to wonder how the fuck he can get inside, as there seems to be no visible door.
He trots to the nearest porch--which luckily has a door, albeit a camouflaged one--with his chuckles still reverberating through his chest. He slides through the opened door, slouching through the room and entering the house, leaving puddles in his wake as he feels his heart still pounding in his chest, his bloodstream alight with adrenaline and laughter. He can hear the laughter of the other boys ahead and he follows the sound, squishing past large windows.
Then suddenly something catches his eye.
He stops, turning toward the large window nearest to him, and stares, squinting through the torrential chaos of water and lightening. Amongst the ribbons of rain he sees a grayish blur.
Harry.
He’s standing in the middle of the yard, arms outstretched, champagne glass in hand, head bent back to face the heavens as rain pelts him relentlessly. His body is splayed, almost begging to be struck by the licks of lightning, but his face is calm, emotionless, unmoving.
Louis stares, catching his breath, his adrenaline ebbing out of his body as he takes in the scene before him, the laughter of the other boys now distant in his ear.
Because, fuck. Wasn’t Harry supposed to be better? Wasn’t he in a good mood today?
But damn. Louis realizes, with a sick twinge of his stomach, the question is more like: Wasn’t Harry a good little actor today?
Fuck.
It shouldn’t mean anything, Harry standing in the storm, shouldn’t imply anything at all other than he likes a good downpour. But Louis knows. He just knows.
He knows that this is yet another one of those moments, those things, that instantly alerts Louis to the shambles that Harry is made up of. He knows this is another sign, another thing wrong, and that of fucking COURSE Harry wasn’t just suddenly better after yesterday. He'd just been putting up a front for the boys, a false bravado.
And now here he is, thinking he’s alone, quiet and splayed and mentally bruised, letting his body wash away.
Louis feels a thousand internal pangs as Harry continues to stand and he wants nothing more than to move, to retrieve the idiot and drag him inside where it’s warm and safe, but all he can do is stare as he listens to his own breath return to normal.
He swears that he can almost hear the gentle pings of the raindrops hitting the champagne glass clutched in Harry’s left hand.
**
Harry still hasn’t come inside.
And not a word has been said about it.
They’re gathered in the living room and kitchen, swaddled in bathrobes while their clothes dry (and Louis is really trying to ignore the fact that each bathrobe is monogrammed with “Z.M.” because, really), stuffing their faces with incredible food and wine, but Harry still isn’t there and not once has anybody questioned it.
Liam had introduced Louis and Niall to the remaining staff as soon as they’d gathered after their rain race--which, by the way, nobody won, due to Liam claiming it was Zayn and Zayn claiming it was Liam--and they had all milled about and shared a laugh. Louis found himself to be particularly fond of Stephen—Zayn’s personal chef—who is currently laughing joyously at Niall’s reactions as he samples each and every dish he procures, taking the time to explain the ingredients in detail, much to Zayn’s amusement who watches from the table where he’s playing a solitary game of cards, cigarette dangling between his lips.
Louis watches the group with a smile, throwing out an exuberant comment every once in awhile where he sees fit, and while the boys chortle around him—especially Liam who always seems to look anticipatorily toward Louis when something funny occurs or is said—Louis’ mind veers in almost every other direction. And as he helps himself to another cup of punch, politely declining Darla’s offer to assist, he begins to feel a strange sort of inner panic as he dumps peach tinted liquid into his sparkling glass teacup.
His smile remains fixed, and occasionally he’ll meet the eyes of Zayn or Liam, or roll his eyes in Niall’s general direction…but the rain pelts against the windows steadily, a bit calmer now, and more often than not he finds himself glancing out into the empty expanses of yard.
He can’t see Harry, doesn’t even come close to it, but with each tinkle of rain against cool glass, with each careless laugh shared between the boys, Louis’ chest tugs with anxiety. Because they’re all sitting here, having the time of their lives, while one of their party is missing, actually blatantly missing, and nobody bats an eye. Not even Zayn, who seems a bit more attuned to Harry than the others.
With a tight grip, Louis brings the punch to his mouth, swallowing the tart liquid in gulps, his eyes glued to the windows.
Does nobody honestly care? Does nobody realize? What the fuck?
Then again.
Is he any better? He, who just turned and walked away from the spectacle of Harry crucified under a crying sky, numb and emotionless as he embraced emptiness? He saw Harry, saw him and left without a word. And, sure, everybody here is just mindlessly enjoying themselves, and yeah, Liam’s now texting Edward and the lads to come out and join them, and they’re all innocently oblivious, but fuck—don’t they fucking realize that one of their best mates is out there drowning?
Because that’s what it is. Harry is drowning. Probably has been for years. And they don’t even fucking see it, but Louis—who has known him for a total of sixty days, give or take—saw it automatically, and fuck.
Just fuck.
Then again. He could just be looking too deeply into it all. Because, yeah, he doesn’t know Harry like these guys. He hasn’t lived with his mood swings and his obsessions and his insincerity and emptiness and unpredictability. Maybe they know him well enough to know that this is just what Harry does.
Because when does it get to be too much? Where is the line that separates healthy concern from invasive fuckery? And how does he even know if something’s off with Harry? Just because of his eyes? A few choppy expressions? A broken word or two? Standing in the rain? What does that even mean?
The rain pelts harder and Niall’s laugh is even louder.
And, what’s more, if Harry is indeed ‘damaged’ or whatnot, how is Louis to know if he’s even able to be ‘saved’? What if it’s too late? What if what’s been broken just can’t be fixed, and in concerning himself for this hot mess of a boy, Louis just embarks on a dead-end journey of useless stress and concern?
Or what if nothing’s wrong and he’s just a little spoiled fucker? Buried in hedonism and excess and demands and distractions to fill the boredom?
Liam’s glancing at his pocket watch, announcing the time, and Zayn suggests they spray paint the walls. Niall’s stuffing spinach croissants in his mouth, the flakes sticking to his chin and embedding in the band of his Rolex, and the rain pelts endlessly, and Harry’s missing, and Louis takes another sip of punch as the tightness in his chest only grows, feeling a little bit really fucking helpless.
Because what exactly is he supposed to be doing right now? Searching the grounds for an emotional Harry? Dragging him across the lawn, demanding he come inside? He can’t do any of those things. He can only do nothing.
But, fuck, no he can’t.
He can’t just watch someone drowning. Not when he’s standing in front of them. Not when Niall’s too busy laughing and Liam’s too busy texting and Zayn’s too busy stroking his fingers along the back of Liam’s neck.
Nobody’s reacting, nobody cares, nobody sees it or hears the tidal rushes of water or the rain or the absence of Harry and his fucking umbrella-dog-handle thing he named Berkley, but Louis does, Louis fucking sees and hears and feels and fuck—
“I’m going to the loo,” he suddenly announces to the room, too loudly and too disjointed, as he bolts upward out of his chair.
The room momentarily softens in volume for a second as the lads glance up at him, Stephen entering the room to place tiny quiches on a silver tray, accompanied by a few sweet-faced women in tight buns who gather the mess.
“It’s just over there,” Zayn points, eyes studying Louis who nods in acknowledgement, before turning away. He feels Zayn’s eyes on his back as he marches in the direction of his finger, before turning a sharp corner just as he’s out of sight.
Mind flicking and sparking, Louis retraces his steps from before, until he’s met with the porch he’d entered the house in after the rain.
He’s going to search for Harry. He’s going to scour the lawns, drag his dramatic, broken bum into the house, and he’s going to keep an eye on him. A close eye. Because Harry is a better actor than he thought, and he can’t watch someone drown.
It’s at that moment that he notices the movement, as he takes a step inside the porch.
On the far end, near the doors connecting to the outside, there stands Harry, pushing back his sopping hair off of his face, wearing only a thin white t-shirt that clings damply to his smooth, pallid torso, his tattoos visible beneath, and a soaking pair of trousers. The rest of his clothes are bunched on the ground or lain on the furniture to dry. The champagne glass sits on a table nearby, filled with more rainwater than actual champagne. Louis walks to it immediately, feeling the awkwardness of the situation charge his limbs (because, uh, what was he planning on doing
exactly?) as he picks it up, examining its foggy surface and dripping stem.
“There you are,” he says, only a little bit of his frustration breaking to the surface as he brings the glass to his eyes, determining his focus onto it, and steadily avoiding the wet mess that is Harry Styles behind him.
He feels Harry’s eyes on him, and a quick glance backwards proves him right. The boy’s eyebrows are knitted together as is custom (he’ll develop a unibrow soon, he will) and he doesn’t say a word, his thick lips pressed together, his fingertips dripping as the remnants of the rain cascade down his arms.
Somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind he registers that, were this a mere two days ago, this is when he would have given up. He would have registered Harry’s silence, allowed the annoyance to overtake him, and stalked off with a thrown back comment. And that would have been it.
But now…
Louis lowers the glass and keeps it in his warm grasp as he turns to stare at Harry, taking in the boy's wet, disheveled appearance, his hallow, pale skin, offensive red mouth, and washed away eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asks firmly, eyes holding no amusement.
Harry continues to stare, void of emotion beneath his knitted brow.
“What were you doing out there?” Louis tries again, but his voice is heavy under the weight of anxiety, and he can’t help it—he’s fucking tense and uncomfortable and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s trying goddamnit.
Harry’s face flickers at that, apparently lost for words. Louis feels the budding of hope in his chest, begins to see a bit of a life line, but then Harry’s composure has returned, and the emptiness is back in place.
“We’re going to be late for tea,” is all Harry says, as if Louis hadn’t even spoken, and he makes to leave.
But Louis catches his arm, turning him around, his heart thudding in his ears.
“Curly,” he says quietly, mouth twisting into an attempt at a smile as Harry’s eyes narrow at the nickname. “Are you all right?” He places special emphasis on the sentence, staring into Harry’s quiet, unlit gaze as fingers press into the cool, damp flesh of Harry’s arm.
Unblinkingly, Harry’s mouth opens after a brief pause.
Louis waits, his shoulders tensing, his discomfort at a maximum level.
And then Harry closes his mouth.
And then the creases of his face smooth into a plastic perfection.
And then he smiles with too many teeth.
“Tea time, Louis Tomlinson,” he says, and it’s hollow, leaving the air as quickly as it came.
Much like Harry himself, who is now striding ahead, long legs carrying him away.
And now Louis feels hollow as well. So he just stares as Harry vanishes around a corner.
**
It’s not long after that that Edward and the other lads arrive. As well as Harry’s guests. Who hang off of him like wet cloth while Louis glares at the spectacle over every sip of his wine.
They stay at the house for the remainder of the day and the pleasant afternoon turns to a bit of a shit show as everybody absorbs alcohol and laughter, the house filling up with increasingly unfamiliar faces, pricey perfumes mixing and blending in a way that leaves Louis a bit lightheaded.
He gets drunker than he should, at one point slinging an arm around Zayn and demanding to meet his mother in slurred tones because, damn it, she’s only been his favorite actress since he was nine and too many tears have been shed. Zayn had nodded politely as he listened, amusing himself more with restyling Louis’ hair than with the actual words coming from his mouth.
Louis also, as is the pattern in this new life of his, tries to avoid Harry. And by doing so, ends up watching him obsessively.
Because maybe the boys can focus their attentions on spray painting dirty drawings on the pavement outside and drown themselves in body shots and coke, but Louis still feels anxious and guilty and uneasy. Because his day went from him believing that him and Harry just might have a shot at being friends and that Harry was all right, to discovering that Harry was anything but all right and no more opened up to Louis than he was when they first met.
And that’s just disconcerting, really. Especially when the boy himself has three different people licking and sucking the salt off of his collarbones while he stares at the ceiling with vapid patience, his hands limp where they lie on either side of the back of the couch.
Harry, with girls and boys alike crawling over his lap, yanking his face to theirs.
And Louis, clutching a teacup filled with gin, shifting passerby out of his way roughly in order to keep his line of sight unobstructed.
And fuck, that’s weird, but it’s nearing night now and at least he’s not snorting lines of speed off of the kitchen floor like Niall and Liam—who are also covered in spray paint, having decided that was a good idea.
And it’s not even seven P.M.
Louis inwardly groans at the state of his life before ripping his eyes away from Harry and the whores and trudging to the farthest corner of the house, knicking a cigarette from Zayn on the way.
**
By nine o’clock, the boys decide to move the party to the club, and Zayn is just beginning to call forth his chauffeurs on his iPhone, when Harry announces he has other plans.
“It’s been a pleasure, darlings,” he announces blearily, each syllable interrupted by a breathy giggle as he stumbles around his gaggle of adoring fans. “The car’s just pulled up. Text me if you’ve found gold.” With a lopsided grin that looks worlds away from his foggy eyes, he begins stumbling forward, pressing a kiss to Niall’s shoulder as he passes.
And Louis watches from his perch on the sofa armrest, mid convo with a pair of Swedish twins. “If you’ll just excuse me a moment,” he says hurriedly as the one on the left blathers on about their
father striking oil, and, with tunnel vision—thank you, vodka—Louis chases down Harry.
Because no. Fuck no. He may be drunk. This day may have been random and weird and complicated. They may not have talked. But Louis is not going to just let Harry leave without acknowledging him. Not after yesterday. Not after Louis smiled at him. And looked for him because he was worried. And stared at his window the night he returned after he’d went missing. Not after he put his drunken ass to bed all those weeks ago and brushed the frizz out of his eyes and wiped the crust off of his mouth.
No.
So Louis drunkenly surges forward, grabbing Harry by the arm. And he hasn’t thought this out.
“You’re going to tutor me on Monday, then?” he asks drunkenly. And what? No—fuck, that is not what Louis wanted to say at all.
But Harry blinks blearily, smiling through the fog. “’Course, Louis Tomlinson. I’ll make you proper smart. Just you wait, laddy lad.” And he makes to go, but it’s not enough.
Louis catches his arm again.
“Are you all right?” he asks bluntly, taking a step closer, and by this point, Harry’s harem begins to thin out, walking ahead with hyena laughter as they pile out the door and to the awaiting car.
Harry’s good humor falters. “Why the fuck are you always asking me that?” he growls, pulling his arm away, but Louis steps even closer, staring as intently as he can into those eyes before him despite the swells of intoxication that are swiftly engulfing every sense of reasoning he has.
“Yesterday,” is all Louis can manage, and Harry’s scowl fades the tiniest bit as he searches Louis’ face with something akin to confusion. Or is it bafflement? Whatever it is, it has Louis stepping even closer, their toes now touching. “Did you find him?” he asks, quieter now, but just as slurred, and he doesn’t know where the question came from or what it really means or if it’s too personal for Harry to answer, but he doesn’t blink as he registers the changes of emotions in Harry’s face, just continues to stare.
Louis expects him to just walk away as he always does, just turn around and stalk off after the parade and into that car, but Harry doesn’t move, the corners of his eyes pinching and his mouth twisting uncomfortably. A loose curl falls into his eyes.
“No,” he all but whispers, keeping Louis’ gaze, and even amidst the blaring music from the inhouse speakers and Niall’s laughter, Louis can swear he hears the boy’s breath and nothing else. He stares at the brittle shadow before him, the exhaustion, the helplessness and the fear etched in his irises and creases, and Louis echoes the quietly pained ‘no’ in his mind over and over, and he knows now that, yep, most definitely, Harry is not indeed all right.
“Harry—“ he begins, reaching out for his arm, but then a sea of other arms suddenly engulf the boy, tanned skin clutching at his jumper and his unkempt curls, as they shout their laughter and pull him in their direction.
“C’mon Harold!”
“We’ve not got all night!”
“Styles! Don’t be a bore now!”
And Harry’s eyes, thick and lost and murky, fix on Louis, even as he’s dragged backwards
through the house, stumbling over limbs and oriental rugs, never blinking once, until the door closes and Louis is left alone, vaguely wondering if he’s begun to drown as well.
