The next day, before his tutoring session with Harry--and after the most boring day of lectures yet —Louis fell asleep during all three of them, being awkwardly awoken by others each time, papers crusted to his face--Louis knocks on Zayn’s door, his nerves jumbling frantically and his palms sweating with ‘what the fuck am I going to say’.
“Come in,” he hears the silken voice reply, and he pushes the door open, smiling instantly as he meets with Zayn, who is dressed in black track shorts and a Nirvana t-shirt, paint smeared on his hands and arms, as he stands before a canvas covered in blacks and grays, speckled with whites.
“Hey,” Louis greets, his hands in his pockets as he slowly makes his way over, feeling rather awkward and nervous and generally weird.
Zayn smiles instantly as he takes in the sight. “Louis,” he greets, his pallet in his left hand, paintbrush in the other.
“Er, hi,” Louis greets once more, and his awkwardness is absolutely showing as he mentally scrambles for an introduction to what he’s trying to get at.
But Zayn doesn’t appear curious or intrigued, instead carrying on as if Louis wasn’t even in the room.
“I was wondering when you’d come to see me,” he finally says with a smirk, beautiful hazel eyes catching the crystals in the lights as he studies his work, then dips his brush in midnight blue paint.
“I see you all the time,” Louis replies with a laugh but it’s nervous and light and Louis shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
Zayn glances up whilst smearing his brush in the rich color. “You’re here because of Harry,” is all he says.
Louis gapes. How in the fuck??
“How did you—“
“Relax. Doesn’t matter.” He pauses, running his brush along the top of the canvas, head tilted as he follows the motion of his hand. “Liam’s at a meeting. So we’re alone.”
Louis nods, understanding the implications, and appreciates the reassurance of privacy. But his stomach is still queasy. And his shoes suddenly feel too tight, so he taps them against the dark wood of the floor. They look so dirty against its polished gleam.
He’s never been alone with Zayn before. That, coupled with the awkward subject matter, is
leaving Louis a little blank.
“If you ask me questions, I’ll answer honestly,” Zayn’s gentle, glossed voice prods, and though his eyes never leave his canvas, Louis knows he’s trying to help him, trying to ease him into a conversation he doesn’t quite know how to go about.
Louis begins to open his mouth.
“But only in regards to myself—situations that concern myself, and general knowledge. I won’t disclose any information that’s Harry’s own right to disclose. All right, mate?” he asks, but it’s not really a question, and he now dips his brush into a thick mess of gold as he stares at Louis head on.
Well shit.
There go all the questions.
But Louis nods anyway, admiring Zayn’s principles and morals and unyielding loyalty, and a small smile lightens his expression as he watches the beautiful boy before him. “All right,” he agrees.
And Zayn goes back to painting, quietly and steadily.
So. Here it is. But where does Louis start?
“I’m-I’m not sure if you know about the past couple days?” Louis begins, tugging the sleeves of his pale gray sweater over his hands, giving himself cozy little paws. He focuses on them, glancing occasionally up at Zayn who continues his work.
Zayn remains silent, impassive. Louis isn’t sure if that’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’—Zayn’s always been hard to read—so he doesn’t waste any time in wondering, merely plows on as he scrunches his sweater paws.
“I feel badly,” he continues, and he knows his voice sounds so unlike him, all serious and trepid, so he clears his throat and attempts a stronger tone. But it just comes out more disquieted. “I thought, maybe, if I knew more about him, I could...understand him better? I don’t know, Zayn. I just…” He bounces his paws together, flicks his hair out of his eyes, smoothes out his features. “I think we could be mates, yeah? But I need to know what’s…wrong.”
He glances upward as he says the last word, and Zayn nods, just barely, eyes focused, listening, and understanding.
“So, I was wondering.” Louis stares at him, dropping his paws to his sides, letting his hands break through the sleeves. “Could you tell me everything you know about Harry. In regards to you. What’s your story, that sort of thing.”
Hopefully that was in the realm of safe questioning.
Louis waits.
And Zayn smiles. “Good question.” Louis relaxes. “We went to school together, me and Harry. Since young lads.”
“All right. Were you friends?”
“Yeah, of course. Good friends. We’d grown up a bit together, cuz we were in the same social
circle, our parents. Des’ wife when Harry was a kid was a model, so they were always at all the banquets and gatherings that my mum went to. Then we started going to school together.”
“So you’re childhood friends,” Louis restates conclusively, and Zayn nods, flicking paint onto the canvas in splatters.
“We kicked about at school. Harry was always popular, always got attention, always was first in everything.”
“I reckon you weren’t much different,” Louis smiles.
Zayn shrugs. “Yes and no. I didn’t like the attention, see. But Harry loved it. It wasn’t the same at home, like, so he loved everything about it. He was a sweet, charming lad.”
“Was he. What happened?” Louis scoffs.
There’s a moment’s silence, where Zayn sets down his pallet and picks up a moist rag, beginning to clean his brush. His face is calm and emotionless, but it doesn’t quiet Louis’ intrigue any, instead setting him even more on the edge.
“It’s common knowledge that Harry’s mum died when he was 9.”
No it’s not. But Louis nods.
“People said he weren’t upset about it. And he wasn’t on the outside—not really. But—“ Zayn suddenly stops, his motions stilling as his eyes get lost somewhere on the ground, his mind far. And then suddenly his movements continue, the cloth dragging over the brush, and he’s back. “Well, that’s his story to tell. He’d had a time of it though, Harry, and just because nobody else could tell by the way he acted, doesn’t mean there wasn’t shit happening to him.”
Brush now clean, Zayn sets his tools down before gliding towards the large table that sits in the middle of the room, picking up a slim, guilt case. He opens it, extracts a cigarette, then offers one to Louis, who takes it without hesitation, as he waits for Zayn to continue.
Zayn places the cigarette between his perfect lips, the white contrasting against the warm hues of his flesh, and he fumbles for a lighter in his pocket. “He’s had quite a few mums. None of them stuck around. And then Des started dating my mum.” The lighter flicks into life and licks at the cigarette as Zayn inhales, deep and beautifully, long, dark eyelashes draped over his cheeks. “We were about fifteen at the time,” he exhales through smoke, the words curling into wisps. “Then they got married, we all moved in.” He pauses, reflecting, pinching his cigarette between paint stained fingers. “He was happier then, Harry. He still had his demons, but he weren’t… He had fun, yeah, but he cared. We got into so much trouble.” Zayn smirks at the memory.
Louis smiles in response, passing his unlit cigarette between his hands, listening intently.
“He introduced me to everything. We partied all day, every day. Drank everything we could get our hands on, fucked everything we could get our hands on, smoked everything we could get our hands on—the first time I tried a cigarette was with him.”
Louis can’t help but laugh at the reverence in Zayn’s voice, and Zayn matches it, his chuckles soft and cute, so unlike the sharp contours of his exterior.
“We did everything together. To be honest, I think we were both a bit angry about our parents being married. Des was better back then, he were on medication and he wasn’t drinking as much and was still clean, so he was all right. I never cared much for him though. If he weren’t on the road or doing press, he were in the recording studio, and he never said much. Cared more about
guitars than people, I reckon. But we were best mates, Harry and I, so we saw it as an excuse to fight together, you know? Us against the world, that sort of thing. And Harry was good, he was funny and thoughtful and fucking weird. And played the violin and asked me to sing cuz he loved my voice. Told everybody how good I was. Brought me everywhere. Showed me everything. Picked flowers and left wreaths at me door and fell asleep in my bed and…” Zayn pauses, his brow beginning to furrow. “He wasn’t perfect, but he was better than he is now. It all changed when Gemma left. And then his au pair.”
“Wait, what?” Louis asks, surprised. “His au pair?”
Zayn nods, slowly, eyes downcast. “She was the closest thing he had to real affection, I think, aside from Gemma. Des hated her. She hated Des.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “But Gems left first. Took off cuz Burberry signed her on. Was already dabbling in drugs, then became a proper addict. Cut off all ties from the family—even Harry. It got to him. But I didn’t notice at the time. He never said anything, never acted any different. Weren’t till later that I realized… But I think it was too late.” Zayn’s voice is quiet now, distant and calm like the rolls of the ocean, and Louis can barely hear over the cracking of his own ribcage.
“What do you mean?” Louis asks, voice whisper soft. He isn’t sure if Zayn hears him.
“Only about a month later did…she leave. The au pair.” Zayn’s voice is funny, his face contorted. “Harry loved her, though he never said it, I don’t think. But he did, I know he did, and when she left, things really started to change. Again, it was too hard for me to tell at the time. I didn’t even realize. But after that, gradually, he became who he is now. Empty. Distracting himself. Existing on the outside but not on the inside.” Zayn looks down, his cigarette dwindling to ash.
But Louis, having swiftly gone from sad to infuriated within seconds, stares at him, mouth agape.
Because WHAT did Zayn just say?
“What?” he demands, but Zayn doesn’t look up. “Are you fucking serious right now? No, really. Are you?” Zayn bites his lip. “You fucking see it? You know that something’s drastically wrong with this boy, and you don’t do a fucking thing about? You just let it happen?! I thought I was the only one who noticed, Zayn! Fuck’s sake, why isn’t anybody trying to help him?!”
“I can’t do anything, Louis,” Zayn says quietly, but Louis doesn’t hear.
“I’ve been sick over the TRAGEDY of that human being in the mere two months that I’ve known him, and you’ve known him for years and yet you don’t even fucking care?! Zayn, what the actual fuck?? That’s not—“
“I tried, Louis,” Zayn says, voice louder, and he looks up at Louis, eyes filled with more emotion than Louis has ever seen in them. “I tried, all right? But he didn’t…” he trails off, stubbing his cigarette into a tiny, silver try. He sighs, silkenly, movements smooth as his face begins to relax. “There are certain things Liam doesn’t know, Louis. Things he doesn’t need to know.” Zayn’s eyes raise, connecting with Louis’.
“What are you saying?” Louis asks slowly.
Zayn sighs. “I was in love with Harry.”
Louis lets out a stream of breath.
“I was fucking gone for him,” Zayn continues, gaze distant. “Would’ve done anything for him.”
“Did he know?”
“Yeah.”
Shit.
“Did you guys ever…?”
“Yeah. All the time.”
Louis’ eyes widen. “Fuck. No wonder Liam doesn’t know.”
“And he shouldn’t. It’s not important anymore. I didn’t know Liam then. All I had was Harry. And I thought we were something, I did. But, apparently, I was alone in that. He never connected sex with love. Never. Hell, he never connected love with anything because he’s never really known what it is. I told him how I viewed the situation every day. I tried to talk to him, tried to take care of him, but we were young, too fucking young, and he never came close, Louis. Never once came close to being anybody other than the person everybody else knew. He cared, yeah, but not the same. It was never the same. He laughed when I first told him that I loved him.”
A thousand emotions are flowing through Louis, each more powerful and overwhelming than the last. He swallows past them though, mind whirring, before settling his gaze back on Zayn, who is now staring at him.
“What happened after your mum and Des split?”
Zayn shrugs. “We left. Mum tried to keep in touch with Harry, but. He never wanted it. Suppose he’s had enough mums in his life. I don’t know. She tried being good to him, she did, but…he wasn’t right. He never treated her like a mum. He charmed her, made her laugh, was kind to her, but. I don’t think he could love her. So she never loved him.” He shrugs once more. “At least, I don’t think she did, I don’t know.”
A heavy silence settles, and Louis’ thoughts are loud enough to echo as he paces the room, envisioning a sixteen year old Harry, bright, beautiful, shining, and on the verge of being lost forever. His heart cringes, the thought burning into his brain.
“Well, then. Wow,” Louis finally says, lifting his eyebrows as he attempts to crawl back into the present. “So there’s that.”
“Don’t give up on him,” Zayn says, cool and calm, remastering his control.
Louis looks to him, startled. “What—“
“I think you’d be good for him. As a mate,” he adds, as Louis opens his mouth in protest. “He could use someone like you. Someone who won’t take his shit, someone who’s strong and got a good head on his shoulders. Someone who’s kind as well. You’re funny, too, and you’d get on, I know you would. I like you, Louis. I think Harry would, too.”
“I don’t think Harry could ever like me, to be honest. Especially not after this week.” Louis shakes his head at the memory. “Did you know he had me run all around town? Picking up cheese danishes and fetching nonexistent books? Just so he could laugh at me with a couple of tarts? He don’t give no fucks, Zayn, I’m telling you. He won’t even talk to me.”
“It’s not him being cruel, though, that’s the thing,” Zayn continues patiently, settling in his throne and leaning back. “He just doesn’t know how to act most of the time. Not really. It’s not in him, like. He’s been through a lot, more than you know, more than I know, and he’s got scars, massive scars. He doesn’t know how to heal himself. If he can heal at all. I don’t know. Thing is, Louis.
You’ve got to be patient with him.”
“Zayn,” Louis says, taking a seat on Zayn’s left. He holds his stare, articulating each word, hoping to sink them into Zayn’s understanding. “I was nice to him. On Monday, I told myself that, no matter what shit he pulled or bullshit he spit, I was gonna be nice to him. And do you know what happened? He treated me like dirt. Like fucking pond scum. For no fucking reason!”
No reaction emerges from Zayn, just calm, lidded eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes that tickle the sky. “Did he know you were acting nice? On purpose, like?”
“What?” Louis blinks, confused. “I dunno. Yeah, I guess.”
Zayn shakes his head, lets out another sigh. “I’ll say this once, Louis. Every day he deals with phony people. They just hang about for his money or his dad or his name or whatever. They pretend to be nice. They do whatever he says. At home, if they remembered he was there, he was treated the same. Given what he wanted, pushed aside. I saw it myself. Louis,” Zayn says, voice emphatic, and Louis leans forward, feeling like a dumbbell’s just dropped on him. “There’s a reason he reacts the way he does.”
Louis stares dumbly.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“That makes sense, doesn’t it,” he says quietly.
“I don’t have all the answers. There’s a lot I don’t know about him—he doesn’t talk about anything. Never. But it’s not hard to put some of it together, yeah? Be patient with him,” he repeats.
Patient. With Harry. Yeah.
Fuck.
“Yeah. I will be,” Louis promises, but he’s barely registering his own words, instead lost amongst the hundreds of words that have barreled him over during this brief encounter. “I better go.”
He stands up and, with wobbly legs, makes for the door, Zayn remaining in his throne at the head of the table.
“There’s one more thing you should know about Harry,” Zayn’s voice suddenly says, cutting the silence of the room and the chaos of Louis’ thoughts.
Louis pauses, turns to face him, his emotions already overburdened. He gives an expectant look.
“His family is everything to him. Des is all he’s got left. His mum’s gone. And his sister’s wasting away. She doesn’t care. His father’s all he’s got, Louis. Even if Des…” Zayn stops himself, reassessing his choice of words. “Des has no right to Harry’s loyalty,” he amends. “But he’s got it. He’s got it in spades, and Harry won’t ever change.”
Louis swallows. “Why do I need to know that?”
“Because if that’s the only thing that matters to him, then it’d probably affect his life, wouldn’t it?” Zayn hints.
Ah.
“So, like when he’s in a bad mood or summat, it’s probably cuz of…” Louis concludes hesitantly, not knowing how to appropriately word the sentence, feeling that ending it with ‘his train wreck of a father’ may be a bit harsh.
“There’s more than meets the eye. That’s all I’m saying,” Zayn finishes, and he unscrews the cap of a nearby water bottle before bringing it to his lips.
Louis follows the movement with his eyes, brows pinching. “But I knew that already. I know that his father, or whatever, bothers him.”
Zayn quiets, setting the bottle down, peering at Louis with half-lidded eyes. “But I don’t think you realize how much. I know I didn’t.” He pauses, bringing his hand up to play idly with the newlyformed scruff beneath his chin, contemplating his next words. At last, he concludes with, “I’m asking you to look out for him, Louis. I know he doesn’t know you that well and you don’t always get on, but.” His gaze connects with Louis’. “He’s different with you. In the short time he’s known you, he’s opened up more than he has to me in the fifteen years we’ve known each other. And that’s just from the little I’ve seen. Even if he doesn’t realize it…” He leans forward enough to lay his warm fingers on Louis’ forearm, and his quiet, hazel eyes cut through the air, through Louis. “You affect him.”
Louis blinks.
He affects him?
Louis affects Harry? Cold, moody, empty, barren, makes-Louis-fetch-nonexistent-textbooks-justfor-the-fun-of-it Harry?
His body reacts, sending surges of blood and thoughts swimming within, colliding with each other and erupting in sparks, and he’s not even sure why, probably couldn’t explain it if he was asked, but he feels significant somehow, in hearing this. Significant and torn, and all he can think about is how Harry still probably hasn’t found what he’s looking for, still searching empty houses and staring at a blank phone, and he wonders how many times Harry’s cried or Harry’s grabbed onto something for dear life because he felt utterly helpless and alone and unwanted and—
Fuck fuck fuck. Louis’ eyes almost begin to prickle with just too many thoughts. All for a boy who, despite Louis “affecting” him, barely exists. Harry’s somewhere beyond the realm of existence, in the dark corners that get forgotten or shunned, and he’s far away from everybody, so far away, but Louis imagines himself reaching out, imagines stretching his hand into the bleak darkness, and imagines his fingers brushing against the bits of Harry that are still there.
And that’s all he needs.
Louis opens his mouth to respond to the watchful eyes of Zayn, whose hand still rests lightly upon Louis’ flesh, his words seeming to echo through the room and slide off of the smooth surfaces, when the door is suddenly thrown open, and in emerges Liam, a smile instantly splitting his face.
“Louis!” he greets, delighted, and walks up to him, smiling giddily squeezing his elbow, before pressing a sweet kiss to Zayn’s lips. “How are you, mate?”
“Uh, good, I’m good,” Louis barely manages, still reeling from everything that had just happened, and Liam’s grin is only lightly questioning, his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “How was your meeting?”
“Do you know what, it was actually really strange. I’m the editor of the paper, see, but there was
this guy who I’ve never seen before, and he kept going about and trying to make all these decisions, and saying all this rubbish about what he thinks we should be doing. And I thought it was funny because…”
Liam continues talking, about whatever it is he’s talking about, and Zayn is at least pretending to be interested in it, so Louis allows himself to zone out, giving in to his many thoughts that currently plague him.
Thought of:
Harry Harry Harry Harry fuck shit oh god I feel terrible what’s happening to my life Harry Harry Harry I’m an arse Harry Harry Harry
“Louis.”
Upon hearing his name, he returns his attentions back to the present.
“Yes?” he asks, blinking, looking to an expectant Liam.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Liam asks, in a tone that implies it wasn’t the first time he’s asked it. “Tea? Water? Anything?”
“I love water,” Louis says distractedly, and Zayn peers at him from his chair as he brings his hand up to lace his fingers with Liam’s, draped over his shoulder.
“Did you know that water is both the softest and strongest force in the world?” Liam asks animatedly.
And Louis knows Liam doesn’t feel the weight of emotions that Louis and Zayn currently do. He knows that he wasn’t there, didn’t hear the words spoken, didn’t envision the thoughts, didn’t partake in this mess of a conversation, but Louis still prickles with annoyance at his oblivious comments and his pert, polished voice, so he steps away before another word is said.
“Sorry mates, I’ve got to go.”
Liam pouts. “But I’ve only just gotten here.”
“I’ve got tutoring with Harry.”
He laughs, swift and short. “Oh yeah. How’s that going, by the way?”
Louis doesn’t know how to reply as his mouth searches for words, any words.
“Stop distracting him, he’s already late,” Zayn tells Liam, nudging him gently in the side, and Liam immediately looks to Louis in apology.
“Oh! Terribly sorry mate! I’ll text you later.”
“Yeah. Sounds good. See you guys later,” Louis says, and he leaves, dazed, and heads toward Harry’s rooms, totally unprepared for the day’s tutoring session.
Or, rather, totally unprepared for Harry.
**
When Harry opens the door, his face is unreadable, his eyes dark.
“So,” he says, folding his arms across his chest as he stares at Louis, dressed in a shimmery gray sweater and black skinny jeans, effortlessly chic and smelling of privilege and manufacturing. “Which personality has decided to show up today?”
The sentence is cold, but it’s said quietly enough, the words reverberating against the chilly breeze that tousles Louis’ hair and rustles the leaves on the nearby trees, so that Louis only feels guiltier, dumber, sadder.
Louis sighs, looking down at his feet.
“Fair enough, that,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, but he sees Harry’s face react in his peripherals, so he chances a glance upward.
The boy’s eyebrows are furrowed, but there’s a quiet curiosity sitting in the corners, and it’s almost encouraging, really, that there isn’t complete vehemence in his expression.
“I’m coming inside. It’s cold,” he declares, but he peeks out a small smile as he says it, catching Harry’s eye.
Harry replies with silence, but nods once, stepping back and closing the door behind him once he’s entered.
And then Louis is standing in the middle of the room, taking in the new rugs lain on the floor (they’re rather nice), and Harry stands behind him, stiff, just staring with an intent scowl that could either be concentration or abhorrence—at this point, Louis really doesn’t know.
Zayn’s words are crowding his skull.
…just because nobody else could tell by the way he acted, doesn’t mean there wasn’t shit happening.
I was in love with Harry.
…he never connected love with anything because he’s never really known what it is…
Be patient with him.
You affect him.
Fuck.
There’s a lot happening right now.
“Look,” he says, turning to face Harry, and he forces himself to look in those eyes. Those terrifying, vacant eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
Harry stares, his scowl morphing into lines of confusion.
But Louis just continues. “I’m sorry about yesterday, about the day before, about every day, about now, about everything. I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot, to be honest. And I’m sorry, Harry.”
There’s this heavy moment of silence where Louis stares at Harry, feeling awkward and like he’s on fire, and Harry looks almost comically bewildered, caught between frowning and widening his eyes.
“You’re apologizing?” he asks at last, slow and suspicious, but he keeps his distance.
Louis nods. “Well, yeah. I kind of have to.” He pauses. “I mean, I left your door open when I left yesterday. How rude was that?”
At that, Harry’s lip twitches, and though no actual smile is made, Louis still feels instant relief.
“I really am sorry though,” Louis adds quietly after a moment, and he looks down once more, fiddling with the fabric of his jeans.
He hears the drag of Harry’s shoe across the floor as he draws patterns with the toe of his boot, and one brief glance upward tells him that Harry is looking down as well, hands clasped behind his back, and he looks fragile and petite and small despite his towering frame and giraffe limbs, resembling a shy little schoolchild on their first day. It’s sort of bizarre and insanely out of character, this almost bashful discomfort coming from him, yet it somehow fits him perfectly, and Louis can’t stop sneaking glances at the spectacle.
“It’s okay,” a small voice purrs quietly, and it takes a moment for Louis to realize it’s Harry that’s said that, and not a voice of his own imagining.
His neck almost pops as he shoots his head up, staring at Harry who still isn’t looking at him.
And he wants to ask if Harry actually just said that, just vocally forgave Louis, or if he just misunderstood, but he doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want to force too much attention on it, and so he just shuts his gaping mouth and clasps his own hands behind his back as well, biting back a smile.
“So you going to tutor me, then?” he asks after a momentary silence. “And properly, I mean, not just one of those bloody outlines that are as useful as the textbooks I can’t bother to read anyway?” Louis’ voice is teasing, smile still present.
Harry nods, expression quiet. “I’ll teach you what I can. I make no promises, but I’ll help. Properly,” he adds, and Louis’ smile widens. “I can’t today, though. I’ve actually got to—I—“ he cuts off, picking up his phone off of a nearby table, and Louis knows. He just knows it has to do with Des, something that Louis can’t quite understand, and he hears Zayn telling him to be patient, telling him about the shit nobody can see that lies quietly inside of Harry.
“Yeah, alright, no worries,” he agrees, nodding. “Tomorrow, then.”
Harry nods, eying Louis. “Don’t be late,” he bosses.
“Don’t bring a harem,” Louis counters.
Harry glares. “I don’t have a harem.”
“Well, see, now you’re just lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. But it’s alright, mate, cuz I told you you had shit handwriting yesterday, and that was a lie, so. I figure we’re even.”
“You’re aware your opinions bear no effect on me, correct?” Harry asks dryly, folding his arms across his chest again.
“I never said they did.”
“I never said you said they did.”
Right then.
Louis blinks at him, not fully understanding where the conversation went wrong. Apparently Harry Styles is four years old.
“I think this would be a good time to leave.”
“Good. I’ve got to go.” Harry turns around, heading towards his room.
Louis does the same, except in the opposite direction, but just as he’s about to reach the door:
“Wait.”
Louis stops, turns around. “Yes?”
Harry looks at him hard, his curls frizzy and lopsided, his sweater hanging off of his shoulders. “Don’t ever do that again. Being all…weird." His eyebrows pinch the tiniest bit more. "I don’t like it.”
Louis considers. “Only if you don’t ever ask me to get you a cheese danish again.”
And Louis swears that Harry bites his lip to hold back an amused smirk, but he can’t be sure.
“Right,” is all Harry says, before continuing to his room and shutting the door.
A small laugh escapes Louis as he opens the door.
“Right,” he agrees quietly, then leaves, smile still in place.
