For the rest of the week, Harry tutors Louis in helpful and beneficial ways.
And Louis doesn’t really know what he was expecting to happen in that week, after they’d made their sort-of peace, but it wasn’t…this.
But it’s not like he had envisioned, say, Harry joyously opening the door upon his arrival and proceeding to laugh at all of Louis’ jokes and spill his tightly locked away secrets and cry to him about feeling unaccepted and apologize for all his previous wrongs. No, Louis didn’t envision that in any way or form, certainly not. Because that would just be odd and abrasive and thoroughly too much, especially considering they weren’t even proper mates yet.
Still, though.
Harry could’ve at least started…smiling, or something.
And sure, yeah, it’s only been a handful of days, but honestly. Zayn told Louis to keep his patience and fuck, yep, he’s definitely going to need patience because Harry is layered, layered, layered in issues and walls and unfeeling weariness and Louis’ not even sure if he’s begun to chip away at any of it.
So, needless to say, that first day after Louis apologized and Harry actually accepted it, was a bit of a disappointment.
Louis had left early his flat early (not in hopes to bond or anything, nope) and was just rounding the corner to Harry’s building, ready to mount the grand steps that led to his beautiful rooms over the sunny gardens, when he stopped in his tracks, the low, musical rumble of Harry’s voice catching in his ears. He searched for the source, eyes flicking through the passing students dressed to the nines, hoisting up their Armani bags, heels clicking against the ancient walkways, trying to spot a bow tie or a mess of coiffed curls.
Eventually he found his target. Resplendent in ivory and gold, his bow tie glowing under autumn sun, the diamonds of his watch shining like a beacon, looking typically ridiculous and endearing simultaneously. While talking to a beautiful raven haired girl in a long, pale yellow dress. Swiping his finger beneath her giggling chin.
He was smiling down at her—with that smile that makes Louis shudder, with its emptiness and villainous tight corners—and pressing whispers into her ear that forced even more tiny, insistent giggles out of her as she stared adoringly. Harry’s grin grew with each breathy laughter, and Louis distinctly remembers finding it nothing but sinister.
And, somehow, just so incredibly disheartening. And sad.
But also annoying.
After a few warm clutches of the arm and coquettish pleasantries delivered with a lot of teeth and dimple, Harry finally sent the girl on her way, smacking her bum as she giggled and left.
Which is exactly when Louis marched over.
As Harry turned to face him, the remnants of his soulless, amused smile faded, his eyes connecting with Louis’. The false cordiality that had previously taken hostage of his face was swiftly replaced with something…quieter, more observant, and…trepid? It wasn’t smiley, no, but it wasn’t fake either, so Louis thought of it as a good start to their session.
“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry greeted, but his voice was lackluster, and Louis really would like to think it hadn’t been filled with something that could be recognized as disappointment, but, well. It had been.
Which took Louis by surprise. Because wasn’t Harry supposed to be all excited to see Louis now that they basically had agreed to be bestest mates and share secrets? Shouldn’t they be holding each other while they cried by now? So Louis sort of half-waved in an extremely unnecessary manner and smiled awkwardly while also feeling his eyes narrow with weariness. He can only imagine what his face must’ve looked like.
“Hi Curly,” he responded almost automatically, but his nerves had already surfaced, making his voice bumpy, sharp with uncertainty on the edges.
It felt like Harry assessed him for a full minute, eyes blank and built far away, but Louis could almost feel a hum beneath the boy’s skin, as if a thousand panicked thoughts were flitting through his bloodstream. And Louis could only hypothesize that somehow, somewhere, Harry had already come to regret their peace treaty, had already made up his mind not to have any more friends, let alone ones like Louis Tomlinson.
Because Harry liked distance. And, perhaps, he could see that Louis did not.
In any case, Harry’s eyes revealed nothing, and at last the spell was broken when Harry swooped his curls out of his face with a large, pearl-smooth hand.
“Right. Well. I’m going up the stairs now,” he said, and Louis couldn’t tell if he was feeling awkward or if he just had a habit of stating unnecessary comments. But he continued, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket, hands on his lapels. “You are to remain five paces behind me,” he added, but it seemed forced and determined. Almost as if Harry was attempting to rekindle their past mutual distaste.
Which…really?
So Louis rolled his eyes. “I think we’re past this by now, aren’t we? Besides, I think you meant to say ‘steps.’”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You meant five steps behind you. Because I would say ‘paces’ is more of a walking term. ‘Steps’ ensures a distance of five actual steps. Since we’re going up stairs and all. With steps.” Louis smiled sunnily, tilting his head with exaggerated cuteness.
“You can still use ‘paces’ for walking up steps,” he snapped, eyebrows furrowing at lightning speed.
“But it’s not as succinct, is it?”
There was a pause where Harry studied him, glare mingled with the tiniest hint of actual confusion, and Louis could see the wheels turning as he pondered his choice of vocabulary.
“No matter,” he finally concluded. “Just stay behind.”
“Oh, sure thing, Curls.”
And so Louis raced ahead.
“Hey!” Harry immediately protested, and jolted forward, dashing after Louis up the steps and grabbing at his orange jumper spastically, his serene image of charming cool long forgotten.
“I WIN!” Louis declared in a thunderous tone as soon as he reached the top, shoving victorious fists in the air.
Harry huffed behind him, shaking out his hand which had knocked against the railing unpleasantly when Louis shoved him off.
“That’s not fair,” he grumbled in protest, but Louis turned to him, grinning.
“’Remain five steps behind me’” he repeated in laughing disbelief, rolling his eyes and shaking his head while Harry glanced at him with slight discomfort, still cradling his hand. “The things that come out of your mouth. I tell ya, son.”
“’Paces’ not ‘steps,’” is all Harry mumbled in response, before begrudgingly unlocking his door and letting Louis in.
“So you’re teaching me proper, yeah?” Louis asked upon entering, flopping down on the chaise longue and grinning, kicking off his shoes.
Harry froze at the spectacle, keys dangling from his long fingers. “Gross. Shoes must be kept on at all times.”
“My feet are cold,” Louis replied, as if that was the end of that, and slid his phone out of his pocket, shifting his attentions elsewhere.
With a steeling of the shoulders, Harry stalked over to his desk, muttering obscenities. “Fine, whatever.”
Louis smiled as he flitted through old texts, staring unseeingly as his screen.
There were a few moments of silence, interrupted only by the opening of Harry’s desk drawers and the rustling of papers while Louis flicked through his phone, answering a text from Niall that merely said:
‘Best mates yet?’
To which Louis’ replied: ‘Dnt be cheeky’
A few more moments passed, and Louis took in the room, the cat figurines, the velvet curtains that brushed the floors, Zayn’s paintings that hung quietly, and the scattered pages of sheet music that littered the corner by a violin and an ancient lute, Harry’s familiar scrawl covering the margins and every other bit of white space. Which, huh, Louis didn’t know Harry wrote music. But it didn’t really come as much of a surprise.
Silence dragged on, Harry still rummaging in his drawers with that quiet displeasure written in his features, and Louis watched him, noting the shadows and wondering their cause. He wanted to ask, GOD, he wanted to ask what they were from, but he didn’t, knowing it would probably only serve to distance him further from Harry, and so he merely watched, biting back the question that always pressed against his brain and tongue every time he’s alone with Harry: ‘Have you found Des yet?’
He’s not even sure if that’s the right question. But, regardless, he didn’t ask it then and he still hasn’t since.
So, instead, he stretched out his limbs after the silence felt too long, yawning exaggeratedly loud in hopes to catch Harry’s eye.
Which, nope.
Irked, Louis stood up, walking over to stand before Harry’s desk, knuckles thumping against the wood.
Almost immediately, Harry’s eyes, which were studying some bit of paper, his head bent, shot toward the source of noise, before shooting even further up to meet Louis’ eyes.
Irate. That would probably be the appropriate description of Harry’s stare.
Louis smirked. “I’m ready for my incredibly insightful, helpful-beyond-belief lesson, Curly McCurlyfish.” Harry’s eyes rolled. “Mould me! Transform me into a new and better machine of wisdom!”
With a light shake of the head, Harry returned to his seemingly pointless duty of paper shuffling. “I’m not really one for impossible tasks,” he muttered, shoulders dainty and slouched, a curl catching in his eyelashes.
“But the impossible ones are the funnest ones,” Louis countered, tapping the wood of the desk incessantly, his impatience and annoyance beginning to ripple.
Harry paused, observing him, before he finally shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied simply, then motioned for Louis to sit, and proceeded with the tutoring.
And that’s how it went.
That’s how it’s been going since. Louis being playful and charming and endearing (yes, all of those things) as he examines Harry’s belongings, stares out of Harry’s windows, asks every question that comes to mind, begs for tea (and that’s one thing that’s different—Harry now knows exactly how Louis likes his tea, which is something Louis takes very seriously), all the while as Harry tolerates, judges, and teaches in his slow, cascading voice that tastes like chocolate and feels like suede, sitting in his desk chair and sipping champagne, adjusting his Chanel watch, mussing his hair, checking his phone, and getting lost in his own thoughts.
But he teaches Louis—he really does. His slowness allows Louis to keep up, his indifference leaves room for Louis to try harder, and sometimes, when he’s quoting some novel or poet or author or whateverthefuck, the tragically beautiful words match the tragically beautiful prisms in Harry’s eyes, and the words echo in Louis’ brain, staying with him for the rest of the day, through sleep, and into the next lecture where he’s asked to write them down from memory.
Sometimes the left side of Harry’s mouth will twist when he’s talking about things he cares about —say, Oscar Wilde, who he speaks of religiously, adoringly, reverently, endlessly--and sweet mother of god, Louis means endlessly--or Victorian culture, and Louis thinks it may be some sort
of smile that struggles to surface, but the walls of Harry’s face haven’t learned to let it through yet. Louis marvels when it happens, because he likes to think it grows stronger every day, though that’s probably not the case. Still though, Harry alights when he speaks of such things, stuffing the details into his sentences, and his quiet, dopey enthusiasm that seeps through his calm exterior has Louis feeling triple the enthusiasm he would normally feel, hanging onto Harry’s every word and phrase, every blink and slide of fingertips against brittle book pages. It’s a passion of his, Louis surmises, so it’s quite convenient that he’s tutoring him in a Victorian course that he couldn’t care less about himself.
So it works. And Louis is learning. He can tell by the way he doesn’t fall asleep as much in lecture, or by the fact that the thought of doing his homework doesn’t traumatize him. It’s helping, and he’s grateful, and sometimes when he leaves the lecture hall, he texts a boastful exclamation to Harry.
Because, yes, Louis forced them to exchange numbers. And, no, Harry never texts him back. Ever. As in, not once. Not even if Louis has a question.
So there’s that as well.
And it’s all this—the lack of warmth, the unresponsiveness, the lack of progression, Harry’s seeming indifference to Louis’ general existence—that has Louis contemplating ditching today’s tutoring altogether, helpful or not.
Because it’s been a shit day. He slept through his first course, got woken up by Niall’s fucking piano and a text from his sister complaining about Mother Dearest (but Niall assured him that he’d spoken to Jo since and he’s sorted her out, so…yeah…that happened) and he’s had a splitting headache. Not to mention the fact that he spilled beans all over his pristine, white trousers, or the fact that he tripped on one of Niall’s empty beer bottles that he likes to keep on the floor, or that tomorrow’s Halloween and Zayn’s throwing the party of the century and he really, really wants to be rested and energized for such antics and also, hopefully, be in a somewhatly pleasant mood. Which, at this point, seems less than likely.
And now his phone’s dead, he’s hungry and had forgotten his wallet this morning before he left, and he’s supposed to be at Harry’s in ten minutes so he can sit and be talked at by a poisonous mouth and guarded eyes and fuck all of that.
Fuck it.
Louis is going back to his flat.
So he just keeps walking.
**
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Harry’s?” Niall asks mildly, strumming his guitar on the couch. Rory’s in the kitchen, cooking up something that smells delicious. And fuck, are those chocolate biscuits?
“Hungry. Hate the world. Don’t give no fucks,” he manages, stuffing biscuits in his mouth without hesitation, and Rory raises his eyebrows, but Louis can’t quite care right now.
“Did you text him?”
Louis scoffs, crumbs falling from his open-because-it’s-so-stuffed-he-can’t-close-it mouth. “Like he’d even read it,” he says almost unintelligibly, sending sprays of biscuit bits at Rory who winces and looks on at the spectacle with severe distaste.
“Glass of water?” he offers with a grimace, and Louis glares.
“Oh, shut up. I don’t judge you when you hang your sweaty socks over our chairs,” Louis counters, now reaching for the Nutella, and Rory sniffs but keeps the peace.
“So then…FIFA?” Niall offers, glancing back at him.
Louis uncaps the Nutella, dipping his finger in and scooping up a heaping portion. With blissful ease he licks it away, his smile blooming and warming his cheeks.
“Sure thing, Nialler. FIFA it shall be.”
And Louis plops on the couch alongside Niall, grabs a controller, and lets his nerves uncoil.
**
“You really should go to your lesson. Didn’t you say it was helping you?” Niall asks after a few failed rounds, chomping down the stew that Rory had just made.
Louis snatches a bit of meat from him, causing Niall to nearly growl. “Yeah, probably. But I doubt he even notices that I’m not there, to be honest.”
“I thought you were getting on?”
“Well, yeah, I mean, I don’t think he hates me anymore or anything. But, like, he doesn’t smile or laugh or talk much. He just…sort of sit there. Judging me. With those eyes. Those very unnerving eyes.”
“Maybe you deserve to be judged. You can be quite annoying.”
“Hey!” Louis squawks, shooting upwards and staring at Niall, appalled. “I’m not annoying! You’re annoying!”
“I’m sociable. There’s a difference.”
“There is not. Besides, I’m attractive.”
Niall stares at him like he’s confessed to liking women. Or something equally absurd. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“So you agree!” Louis sings, and plants a kiss on Niall’s temple before hopping up off of the couch.
Niall shrugs. “I’d shag ya,” he says, then burps.
Louis pauses. “You would?”
“Yeah. You’re fit. Why not?”
Louis’ hand immediately clutches at his heart, his mouth opening in shock. “Why, Niall Horan! That may be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He grins, settling deeper into the couch and shoving another spoonful of stew into his mouth. “That’s what friends are for!” he says jovially, and Louis pecks him on the top of his head before darting to his room. “You going to Harry’s?”
“Yep!” Louis calls from his room. “Suppose I should. I know I’m late, but. Even if he only has time to write out one of his damn outlines, that still helps more than the notes I get. I hate dons.”
“You hate everything. But have fun, honey! Don’t be out too late—gotta get rested for tomorrow!” Niall calls cheekily.
“Halloween,” Louis smiles knowingly, and offers his hand which Niall immediately smacks.
“Hallowen,” he agrees, grinning.
“Bye, love,” Louis sings, draping a cardigan over his shoulders and grabbing his bag before hopping out the door and closing it happily behind him, finally feeling a little more human.
**
As soon as Louis reaches Harry’s door and is raising his fist to knock, the door swings open.
“Where’ve you been?” Harry demands without hesitation, brows knitted, wearing a purple turtleneck and black trousers that contrast shockingly against his pale, delicate skin.
Louis stares, wide eyed, hand still poised to knock, midair. He notes the affronted rage in Harry’s eyes and something that almost looks wounded or hurt, and Louis actually glances behind him because…surely Harry isn’t acting this way about him.
But there’s nobody. And Harry is talking about him.
And….what?
“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, feeling a surging roar of guilt crash into his bones. Why did he think food was important? Why did he play video games? How could he have been so rude?? “I was having a terrible day,” he continues, without blinking, staring into Harry’s childlike, wounded eyes that are desperate to throw a tantrum rather than admit any offense, and fuck fuck fuck, he feels so guilty, and he’s really not even sure why at this point, but he thinks, maybe, he could be the most horrible person on the planet. “I went back to my flat because I was hungry. I ate. Are you hungry? I should’ve come and asked if you were hungry. Do you want to eat? I can eat again. I’m sorry. Are you hungry?”
And well, yeah, Louis is rambling like a crazy fuck, and his words don’t even make sense (Louis Tomlinson does not apologize, but for some reason that’s all he ever seems to do to Harry), they’re just spilling out to fill the quiet spaces, and he feels shocked and awkward, is acting awkward, but that look in Harry’s eyes is still there and he’s really, really determined to do whatever it takes to make it go away. Because the most important thing in the world right now is that look and Louis doesn’t know why, he just knows it’s important and it’s shitty and ugly and needs to stop.
“I’m not hungry,” Harry grumbles quietly, but his pout is lessened, seeming more lingering than spirited. He folds his arms over his chest, looking out crossly in the distance, over Louis’ shoulder. “You could’ve texted.”
“I—“ is all Louis manages, because his shock is actually filling his mouth like a gag and he just stares at Harry, very nearly flabbergasted.
Because what?
Like, what??
“I didn’t know you read my texts,” Louis blurts, and Harry’s eye snap to him.
“Don’t be stupid. I have a phone, don’t I?”
“But you never respond.”
Harry quiets, before sniffing and looking away. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just come in. It’ll have to be a short lesson today.”
“Why?” Louis asks, following him inside and still feeling very blown apart. Because what???
“I have guests arriving in thirty five minutes.”
Guests. Great.
Louis rolls his eyes. “God forbid you cancel.”
“That would be rude. Unlike you, I stick to my engagements,” Harry glares.
Well, shit.
“I’m sorry, Curly.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“But I like it,” Louis protests, stepping towards Harry, who is still folded up like a child and looking everywhere but at Louis.
“Why? It’s silly.”
“Because. You’re curly,” Louis smiles, and dares to reach out and tug at a loose curl of Harry’s.
Harry’s eyes snap to him, his shoulders seize, but he doesn’t step away, instead allowing the tiny endearment, before rolling his eyes and folding his arms tighter, turning his face away once more. He remains silent.
Louis watches him, trying to catch his eye, his smile still present, and it feels soft, not like his usual smug smirks or obnoxious grins. “Besides, I like silly.”
Pause.
“I know you do,” Harry says at last, and his features are relaxed now, his eyes downcast, but there is a very, very light upturn of the lips. And, if only in the most technical sense of the word, Louis thinks it could be classified as a smile. Because each corner of the mouth upturned is a smile, right? Even if it’s only a fraction higher than usual? Still counts.
And Louis feels like he’s won the lottery. Because thank fuck. Maybe Harry doesn’t hate him. Maybe even enjoys tutoring him.
Maybe.
“So,” Louis says, and his smile sounds in his voice.
Harry’s quiet, but the ‘smile’ is still there.
“Let’s make this thirty-five minutes the best yet,” Louis declares, and Harry finally meets his eye.
“All right.”
And they proceed to study.
It’s fun, though. More fun than usual. Maybe because Harry’s high or something. Louis really can’t think of any other explanation; the boy is usually miles away or taking mysterious phone calls or just watching Louis with mild, unamused eyes that look on the verge of darting if he comes too close but today their words come easy and Harry’s voice seems lighter, highlighting the key points in Louis’ notes, and raising his eyebrows whenever he comes across one of Louis’ vicious doodles--he may or may not have a slight tendency to draw the various ways he could murder his teacher on the spot using the available tools provided, such as pens, notebook spirals, and keys.
“I think you may have an unhealthy state of mind, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, milky smooth, eyes flicking over one of the more detailed depictions.
“No, but you should have heard him that day. He didn’t stop for breath once, not once, and he laughed at all of his own jokes. You’d be envisioning choking him with a pencil case as well.”
Harry’s cheek twitches, which Louis has now come to label as ‘Harry’s laugh’ (though it’s far from any actual form of a laugh, but still) and Louis grins, imitating the doodle with the pencil case in his hand for an added touch.
And then Harry makes a noise in his throat that sounds like amusement, and Louis almost comments on it, almost, but Harry doesn’t meet his eye and he can’t do it. He just can’t. Because some fight will probably ensue from it, or Harry will deny it, or, worse still, it might prevent him from every doing it again, so Louis looks down at the pencil case and remains quiet, biting back a grin.
There’s silence, an odd silence, and one glance upward tells Louis that Harry looks noticeably uncomfortable.
And that isn’t right. Louis can’t have that. And, sure, he doesn’t know what’s caused it, but no matter, because Louis just can’t have that. They’re supposed to be progressing.
There’s a pang of silence, with Harry’s eyes blindly skimming over the words of the outline, fiddling with his rings, and Louis keeps his eyes down on the pencil case.
“One time I imagined stuffing him in the rubbish bin and catapulting it out the window.”
And, just like that, Harry’s shoulders loosen and he makes the noise again.
Louis feels like Christmas.
Invigorated, he continues, watching Harry’s face and noting the appearance of the famous dimple as he nibbles his lips, keeping his amusement at bay. “But we should probably stop this conversation before I tell you about my vision with the cat food.”
Harry peers up at him, biting his cheek. “Cat food?”
Louis nods very seriously. “Yes. The cat food. I’ll save it for another day.”
“A rainy day?” Harry offers, smirk faint.
“The rainiest,” Louis agrees, and then, as one, they look back down at the papers before them, Louis biting back another smile, and Harry looking like he doesn’t hate Louis.
The lesson continues, easy and informative, Harry’s movements calm and relaxed, Louis actually remaining attentive.
And then thirty-five minutes have passed. Harry’s phone vibrates.
They both jump, surprised by the sudden shake of the desk, before Harry glances at the screen, his eyes darting across the words.
“They’re on their way,” his voice says, and though it sounds the same on the surface, there’s something a little hollow about it, and Louis doesn’t think he’s just imagining it.
“Oh,” Louis tries to say lightly, but he feels his eyebrows raise in their irritated fashion, and he begins to gather his things. “How fun.”
Harry nods, clearing his throat, sliding the papers towards Louis before standing up. He smooths down the fabric of his turtleneck, hikes up his trousers.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. At the party,” Louis says, zipping his pencil inside his pencil case, feeling odd. And repeatedly glancing up at Harry.
He nods. “Study all that,” he adds, adjusting his sleeves. “Report back your findings on Monday. Write down any questions. You know the drill.”
So business-like. So to-the-point.
“Can I write you a list of questions about the lesson and then another list of questions unrelated to the lesson? Like, say, ones about you?” Louis then asks with a small smile, eying Harry as he packs his bag. And he’s not sure why he said that or how he said that, but he plays it off as light and teasing rather than creepy, hoping he didn’t just scare off the timid squirrel before him.
Harry blinks, pausing his fussings and looking over to Louis, brow confused. “Why would you do that?”
And Louis opens his mouth to answer, just as the door swings open, a barrage of bodies and scattered voices filling up the space.
“Harold!” they chorus, beautiful people slowly but steadily swarming towards him, and Harry’s eyes remain on Louis, who sends a smile and a shrug his way, before waving and ducking out before his irritation gets the better of him. Because some auburn haired little rich boy literally just tugged on Harry’s belt without even offering up a greeting and who the fuck does that? And why the fuck does Harry allow it?
So Louis trudges back to his flat, thinking about tomorrow, feeling really fucking weird, and sort of smiling because of Harry Styles.
