“Why the fuck are you awake this early?”
Louis blinks at the question, having just emerged from his room fully dressed (he chose a very wintery jumper on occasion of it being December 1st), and pauses as he takes in the image of Niall, half adorned in golf clothes, smoking a cigar, and pouring himself a glass of what Louis hopes is grape juice.
“Why are you?” Louis counters, searching for his shoes, resolutely ignoring the question. Because no, he is not going to admit to Niall that he’d been planning out the day ever since they’d gotten home last night, and no, he’s certainly not going to tell him of his plans to fetch Harry some morning coffee before he goes to his rooms.
And no, he’s definitely not going to address the fact that it’s only eight in the morning and yet he fully intends on arriving at Harry’s door within the hour. And why that might be considered bad manners. Or obsessive. Those issues definitely aren’t going to be addressed.
“I never went to bed,” Niall smirks in response, downing his glass of burgundy whateverthefuck.
“And why ever not?”
He shrugs, refilling his glass. “I went out after you went to bed.”
“Again? Have you ever actually touched a book before? Just curious,” Louis asks, throwing him a pointed look as he slides on his shoes, one by one, eyes already searching for his jacket and scarf.
“I’m sure I have.” Niall pauses, wipes his mouth, and a tiny burp escapes him. “Let’s get breakfast. I’m hungry,” he then states in a very final tone, glancing at his Rolex with lightly pink eyes.
“Can’t,” Louis says, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket—which was behind the couch somehow—and carefully avoiding Niall’s expectant eyes. “I’ve—er—I’ve got to study.”
“At half past eight,” Niall deadpans. “Really?”
Fuck.
Louis clears his throat, winds the scarf around his neck. “Yep.”
Niall watches him, hands splayed on the counter, his hair scattered yet mysteriously grease-free. His cheeks are flushed rosy and his eyes are unblinking, boring into Louis’ every movement.
“No,” he finally says simply, still watching Louis. “Food first. I don’t feel like eating alone.”
Louis sighs, long and suffering, before finally meeting Niall’s firm gaze. “I’m serious, Ireland. I have to study.”
“But you’re not actually going to study.”
“And what makes you say that.”
“Because you don’t wake up this early for studying. Especially if I haven’t even touched the piano.”
Louis looks sharply to him then, eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you telling me that you’re fully aware that that bloody piano wakes me up? And yet you still continue to play it?”
Niall grins, easy and blissful. “I’ll never tell.”
“Of fucking course,” Louis breathes, rolling his eyes and walking towards the door, fully intending to ignore Niall and just start his day, his mind only on one thing: seasonal lattes.
“I saw you chatting up with Harry a lot yesterday. And last night as we walked home,” Niall suddenly says, and he’s still at the counter, peering at Louis with careful eyes and bold shoulders.
And fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, is he?
“You mean when you were running about like a madman?” Louis asks, begrudgingly halting his stride and turning to face Niall, hands in pockets, the weight of his bag pressing into his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Niall grins. His eyes glint. “I don’t suppose you’re going to his rooms or anything right now. Are you.”
“No!” Louis replies hotly and immediately, but the warmth of his skin feels incriminating, so he looks away from Niall’s widening grin.
“Then where are you going to study? The library opens at ten on Saturdays.”
Fuck. It does.
“I’m going to Starbucks. Picking up a festive beverage,” Louis says truthfully, before untruthfully finishing with, “I’ll probably just end up staying there.”
“Starbucks you say?” Niall asks, eyebrows raised. “Excellent. I could use a drink myself. I’ll go with you.”
“No!” Louis rushes again, envisioning the unwelcome explanations he’ll have to concoct when Niall witnesses his order for two beverages. “You’ll distract me.”
Niall just assesses him, quiet and amused, maybe a little hungover, his hands still on the counter, before he shakes his head and thunders out a yawn, finally turning away. “Whatever, mate. I’ll see you when you get back. Assuming you’ll be back.”
“Of course.”
He nods, and Louis begins heading towards the door once more, keeping his stride even.
“Say hi to Harry for me,” Niall calls one last time just as Louis is shutting the door.
**
He just barely manages to push Harry’s door open, the tray with his two—surprisingly heavy— lattes taking up the majority of his hands. He’s got them both—the gingerbread and the eggnog lattes—and the air outside is crisp and faintly smells of smoke and cold, the scent clinging to his clothes and skin despite now having entered Harry’s warm, empty, softly lit rooms.
Empty.
Luckily, Louis’ growing more accustomed to Harry’s whereabouts, so the still atmosphere and vacant spaces don’t deter him, his focus shifting towards the lightly ajar bedroom door instead. The happy tinkling of a piano is heard.
Louis already feels his smile forming.
“I brought preseeeeents!” he practically sings as he bursts through the door, holding the tray above his head like Simba as Harry jerks, his hands falling from the keys before he spins around wildly.
His eyes connect immediately with Louis’, the shadows below suggesting an unrestful night, but they’re still as marginally relaxed and pleasant as yesterday, the corners of his lips barely pulling upward. A white sweater the texture of gossamer hangs off of the points of his shoulders and clings to his spindly, spidery legs, and his long, slender feet are adorned in black heeled boots, resting on the pedals of the piano. His hair is in artful disarray—much like his very soul, one could say—fluffed on top of his head in great, swooping curls that fall in his face and catch in his eyelashes and tickle his cheeks.
If he’s surprised to see Louis in his rooms this early in the morning—after all, Louis had never really specified just when exactly he planned on coming over—he doesn’t really show it, his face composed and calm, faintly tinged with a smile.
A smile that Louis’ caused.
Just because Harry’s sees him.
Him.
That probably shouldn’t feel as monumentally earth shattering as it does.
“Hi,” Harry says simply, quietly, before his eyes flick up to the tray Louis’ holding and his lips quirk higher. “What’s that?”
“Presents,” Louis repeats, watching the way Harry’s lips morph, his tired eyes alight. “Because you said you’re over strawberries, right?”
Harry nods, eyes returning to Louis’, the small smile present and watchful. The morning sun is streaming through the windows, setting the piano and the hairs on his delicate, pale arms on fire. Some of it gets trapped in his eyes.
“So I thought maybe a nice Christmas-y flavor could be your new thing,” Louis continues through his grin, feeling full of energy and just really fucking excited. Though he couldn’t explain why if he was asked. “So. Try these. Tell me your feelings about them. Let us discuss. Let us brainstorm. Because you have to start somewhere, don’t you?”
Slowly, Harry blinks, his smile fading. “My new thing? You brought these for me?”
“Correct.”
“Both of them?”
“Correct again.”
There’s a pause as Harry’s brow furrows as he inspects Louis’ face. "Did you need help with something, or…?”
Louis sighs, shaking his head as he makes his way over to Harry, plopping himself down beside him on the piano bench. Harry blinks, startled, sliding down the bench marginally, eying up Louis with almost-alarm.
“Jesus, Curly. I don’t have hidden agendas, you know. Ever consider that I just might want to be influencing you in good ways? After that travesty of an obsession—strawberries in November? Honestly?—you can’t really blame me for wanting to aid a helpless soul, can you. So here I am, willing test subjects at the wait, ready to change your life.”
“Change my life, you say,” Harry now smirks, shoulders already relaxing, and his hands settle back on the piano keys, already resuming their tapping out of a chipper tune.
“Yes, sir. Now. Try them,” Louis instructs, plucking them out of their tray and holding them out to Harry expectantly.
Upon Louis’ movement, Harry grins—full out, properly grins and it’s so large and toothy that it almost looks painful and definitely feels painful when it hits Louis’ chest and vital organs—and turns to face him, immediately smacking his hands over his eyes, lips quirked and goofy.
And Louis blinks.
Because what the fuck is Harry doing?
“Er. Any reason you’re covering your eyes?” Louis asks, still holding the two cups and attempting to assess the situation.
“It’s a taste test. You’re not supposed to see what you’re tasting,” Harry explains languidly, words curled into his smile, and leaves it at that, his palms pressed into his eye sockets, the large sleeves of his jumper sliding down his slender arms.
And Louis continues to stare.
“You do realize they’re in identical cups, right? And you have no idea what’s in either one? So you technically can’t see them anyway?”
“They’ve got labels on them. With detailed descriptions,” Harry explains, and Louis glances at the barely visible stickers tucked under the coffee sleeves that read ‘Vt Ging Latte’ and ‘Vt Egg Latte’. Hardly descriptive, but. Whatever floats his boat.
“Right then,” he says, refusing to smile at Harry’s childlike pose and demeanor, instead offering the cup in his right hand to Harry’s awaiting lips. This is already going better than he anticipated.
Slowly he tips it forward, Harry’s head leaning back, and he slurps a tiny taste of the gingerbread latte. His face immediately scrunches.
“No,” is all he says, before turning to sniff at the other one.
“Alrighty then,” Louis chuckles, now tipping the left cup against Harry’s lips.
Another slurp is heard and then a small, satisfied smile forms on Harry.
“Much better,” he muses before dropping his hands, his large green eyes blinking back into life and observing the two cups before him.
“Is it obsession worthy?” Louis asks, watching as Harry inspects each label, taking both cups from Louis.
He nods, reading the stickers quietly. “I think so,” he says distractedly, before poking at the gingerbread latte. He glances up at Louis. “This one was gross,” he comments.
Louis shrugs. “I dunno about ‘gross.’ It’s all right. Not really my thing, but hey.”
“No, it’s really gross.” Harry’s eyes cast back down to the subject in question. He pauses briefly. “I kind of feel bad for it.”
Louis’ eyebrows shoot into the air. “…You feel bad for a latte?”
“Yeah. A little bit.”
“And why is that, exactly?”
Harry glances up again, looking so, so inexplicably small and exhausted and unnervingly innocent with his wide eyes and wild hair and caricature lips. “Because it doesn’t taste as good as the other one. And it probably gets forgotten.”
Louis smiles, refusing to be endeared and at a loss for any other words as Harry returns the eggnog latte to Louis, keeping the gingerbread and clutching it tightly in his grasp.
“Gingerbread’s my new thing,” he suddenly declares, peeling off the lid and staring down at the frothy, amber liquid.
Of course it is.
“Because you don’t like it and feel bad for not liking it?” Louis asks, genuinely confused at the turn of events. Because how in the fuck does Harry’s brain even work? And why the fuck is it so infectiously quirky?
“Because I understand that it doesn’t have to be perfect to be liked,” Harry amends, and when he looks up, his face is bathed in a calm decisiveness that leaves Louis to wonder if he’s ever made such a strong opinion so quickly in his own life. He almost feels conviction-less.
Then again.
“I know the feeling,” Louis says, eggnog still in hand.
There’s a moment where their eyes are clicked together, staring quietly yet simultaneously not-soquietly, before Harry looks back into the surface of his coffee, and Louis looks into his.
“Well then,” he says, interrupting the silence, and Harry swirls the foam with his finger, listening. “I guess eggnog will be my new thing then.”
Immediately Harry’s head shoots up.“Your new thing?”
“Yeah. Mine. This school’s big enough for two obsessive personalities,” Louis smiles, tipping back his drink and taking a gulp.
Harry watches the movement, eyes narrowing into a glare. “I’m not sure if it is.”
“Course it is. Now. Time to study!” Louis sings, and slugs his shoulder bag onto the bench, ignoring Harry’s death stare. He doesn’t bother opening it though. Not when he still has a full cup of coffee to devour. And not when it’s not even nine.
Fuck, why did he come here so early again?
“Aren’t you going to sit in your chair?” Harry asks, eying both the bag and Louis distastefully as they hog the majority of the piano bench, leaving little room for Harry’s slight, sinewy frame.
Louis grins immediately (‘your chair’) before he shakes his head, cracking his knuckles distractedly and plonking a key. “I like pianos. And their benches.”
“You do?”
“No,” Louis reconsiders almost immediately. “I actually hate them. But I want to watch you play, all the same.”
Harry’s eyebrows raise at that, but his face reveals nothing as he begins tapping out a melody. “You and the rest of the world,” he says, his fingers picking up pace.
“Meaning?” Louis asks, watching his hands.
“That I’m a splendid pianist,” Harry grins impishly. “I’m excellent with my hands.”
“You’re an idiot,” Louis responds, unimpressed. “An utter idiot.”
“Hey.”
“What? You deserved that.” Harry glares at the words but continues to play as Louis’ eyes get lost in the movement. “And don’t expect me to ask you teach me how to play or anything. Niall already tried and it didn’t even come close to working.”
“Even if you did ask, I wouldn’t. I don’t teach.”
“You said the same thing before you started tutoring me. Look where that got you.”
“Shut up.”
“Thank you, Curly, I hope you have a nice day, too.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he laughs.
Louis might memorize the sound.
**
Harry’s been teaching Louis piano for the past hour. And it’s been going better than Louis expected it would.
Harry is surprisingly patient, his long fingers calmly finding the right keys and carefully showing Louis each chord, slowly describing each sound and purpose in a voice that is far more captivating than it should be, his syllables long and drawn out, his tone rich and deep, almost getting lost amongst the notes. He’s quiet and watchful too, almost curious, as Louis asks questions and dares to tinkle out a shaky melody, occasionally looking to Harry’s steady gaze for approval.
All in all, it’s a surprisingly pleasant experience and Louis smiles and laughs in time to Harry’s horror-filled eyes each time Louis manages to coax a particularly hideous sound from the
instrument.
“I’ve actually managed to remember something!” Louis exclaims excitedly, grinning at Harry in his sunny, crinkly way, and Harry’s grin stretches wider than it ever has before as he watches Louis’ hands on the piano.
“You’re not completely terrible,” he admonishes, but it’s said with that smile, so Louis can’t do much more than laugh and swat at Harry’s hands, which play besides his own.
Once again his eyes catch sight of the ink peeking out from beneath Harry’s watch—as they have throughout the whole piano lesson—and Louis’ curiosity stirs at the ineligible writing. Because why does he even have a tattoo there if he always wears a watch there? What does it say? Why is it covered?
These are things Louis had never before realized he needed to know.
They play a few more broken rounds of strung together lullabies before Louis finally gives into temptation and inquisitively taps his forefinger on the encrusted diamonds of Harry’s Chanel watch.
“So what’s this tattoo, then?” he asks bluntly, looking over to Harry, tucking his chin into his own shoulder, watching the boy’s reaction.
Which, of course, is that of a deer in headlights.
“Nothing,” Harry says immediately, retracting his hand, his face composing into silent stone as the piano quiets, the chords echoing into a faded peace.
Louis tilts his head, curious and inquiring, studying Harry’s profile as the boy in question looks down at the piano keys, the lines of exhaustion that are etched in his face somehow becoming more exaggerated.
“It’s all right, you know. I won’t judge you, or anything,” Louis says simply, swinging his legs.
The faintest smirk shows on Harry. “You judge everything about me,” he mumbles wryly.
“Only the things that deserve to be judged,” Louis replies unabashedly. “But, contrary to popular belief, I wouldn’t, like, hurt your feelings on purpose or anything. I’m not a mean person.”
Harry slides his fingers against the keys, head bent, curls tumbling down.
“I know that,” he finally says, quietly.
It lifts Louis’ heart in one swift motion. His smile probably grows, but he really can’t feel it, not when his head’s swimming in that odd way, so he just nudges Harry’s shoulder with his own, trying to catch his eye.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry. And you should never feel like you ever have to tell me anything. Even if I do want to know. And it drives me up a wall. Drives me up all the walls.” He smiles at Harry’s chuckle. “But, just for the record, you don’t have to, like, feel weird or whatever. Not with me.”
It feels good saying it, Louis notes, saying the things that have just quietly sat in the fibers of his skin and pathways of his brain—things that never shaped into their own words, just sat namelessly within him. But now that he’s constructed them into sentences and released them into the air… well. He feels accomplished somehow and it feels good. Right, even. Even if it means nothing to
Harry, he’ll know that he’s said it, said that he cares in his own roundabout way.
He’s so lost in his newfound feelings of accomplishment and self-satisfaction, that it takes a moment to register Harry’s silent movements.
He’s taking off his watch.
Just like that.
His head is bowed, carefully sliding the leather out of the buckle before he finally pulls it free from his wrist—which looks so petite and naked without the weight of the clunky diamonds and the heavy scent of wealth.
And there, written in boldface and capital letters, are the words ‘I CAN’T CHANGE’. It’s not nearly as incriminating as Louis was lead to believe.
He glances up at Harry whose face is neutral as he stares at the words, barely angled in Louis’ direction.
“I’m trying to decide if that’s a hopeful message or not,” Louis muses at last.
“Me too.”
The words sink into Louis’ skin. They sit there for awhile, Louis trying to decipher the meaning, trying to understand, trying to bear the inexplicable weight, all the while as Harry stares, quiet and almost peaceful, never moving a muscle.
“Don’t hide it,” Louis says at last, feeling at odds with the situation, but he means his words, says them with feeling.
“I have to. My—“ Harry stops abruptly, short and unexpected, before he seems to think better of it and suddenly continues, words careful. “My father doesn’t like it.”
Louis feels a flash bolt through his veins, feels the need to counter whatever it is that is being hinted at.
“I like it.”
At that, Harry looks up, eyes saturated in a powerful emotion that is still too alien to be defined. An emotion that Louis can see Harry physically trying to suppress away, keep at bay—but can’t.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly, but his voice is petal soft and seems to echo and fade—much like the chords of the piano that still feel as if they’re lingering in the smallest particles of the air. And though there’s no smile, no laugh, no pleasant banter, it somehow feels like the softest moment that Louis has ever shared with Harry, and it leaves his innards pooled with honey and warmth, filling the hollowed spaces of his ribcage and the cracks in his barely mended bones.
“You’re welcome, Curly,” he smiles.
They stay that way for a few more moments, sitting quietly on the bench together, Louis’ bag untouched, Harry’s wrist resting on his lap.
Then, silently, Louis plucks a pen from his pocket. Because this tattoo is important to Harry, very important somehow, and Louis can feel Harry wishing it wasn’t. Which isn’t right, isn’t right at all. And though he knows nothing about the workings at hand, has no basis to assemble any sort of conclusion, the moment feels too personal, too significant to ignore. So, wordlessly, he draws
quotations on his own wrist, on the opposite arm, on the underside.
“There,” he says, feeling Harry’s eyes on him. “Ditto marks. Now neither of us can change.” He half smiles before daring a look at Harry. His face is impossible to read.
The silence that follows is long and stretched out, Harry never moving and Louis sitting there, beginning to wonder if his actions should’ve been a bit more thought out. Was that insensitive? Intrusive? Too much?
But then, finally, Harry relents into a small smile, observing Louis’ wrist quietly, before almost shyly bringing his own wrist to lay beside Louis’, their marks side by side, Louis’ hand palm up, Harry’s palm down. Almost, Louis thinks, as if itching to be clasped together.
Which is an odd thought for this time of day.
“Well, don’t we make quite the pair,” Louis smiles all the same, ignoring his thoughts.
“We can’t change,” Harry muses in a mumble, repeating Louis’ earlier sentiment.
Louis’ chest hammers a bit as they sit there, the wind outside rattling the windows.
“Don’t wear your watch tonight,” he finally says, and he feels Harry look over to him, his own eyes still glued to their wrists, side by side. “There’s simply no reason to hide your tattoo—you’ve had it permanently inked into your body, after all.”
He then meets Harry’s gaze, his eyes large and distinctly wreaking of ‘puppy.’ “I don’t want to have to explain it though. Like, if people ask.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
He looks back down. “They’ll find a way to force it out of me, I know it,” he mumbles, brows scowling.
A flare shoots through Louis. “I won’t ever let anybody force you to do anything.”
Harry looks up.
Louis meets his gaze.
And it feels significant. Somehow. Maybe, sort of, like a promise.
**
The rest of the day is, to put it simply, wonderful.
Harry makes them tea and sandwiches, Harry teaches Louis how to play simple songs on the piano, Harry plays the violin so he can show off, and Harry listens to Louis’ over exaggerated stories that are more laughable than engaging. They spend all day together, all day, and not once are Louis’ books touched or opened. Instead, Louis enjoys every fucking moment, every second, and absorbs Harry’s dripping words and occasional clearings of his throat and his raspy chuckles and abrupt laughs and the way he sometimes tangles his long fingers in his hair and how he picks at his teeth after he eats for far longer than necessary—which should be disgusting but is somehow precious and real, causing Louis to stare fondly at the spectacle on the brief occasions where it doesn’t count.
And now they’re sat in Harry’s living room, splayed on his fine, ornamental chairs, having a very
passionate argument.
“I’m sorry, but who introduced gingerbread into your life?” Louis asks, adamant and preening as he pours himself another glass of champagne.
Harry ponders, unwrapping a chocolate before popping it into his mouth, eyes mischievous. “Probably Cecile.”
“Who in the balls is Cecile?”
Harry quirks an eyebrow. “My favorite maid.”
“She doesn’t count.”
“Why not?” Harry asks, and he’s genuinely offended at the thought, his brow pinched and lips pouting obscenely.
“Because she can’t cohost like I can.”
“For the last time—you’re not cohosting the party with me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, grasshopper. Tonight’s soiree is going to be hosted by Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.”
“I don’t do cohosting.”
“You do now. I assure you, I know what I’m about.”
“Oh? Is that so,” Harry says wryly, plucking a lily out of one of his vases and bringing it to his nose to sniff.
“It is so. I’m witty, charming, accommodating, alluring. Mesmerizing. Well dressed. Arguably perfect.”
“You’re an imbecile.”
“Not exactly the word I’d use.”
“Then I’ll use it for you.”
“Hey now!” Louis protests, sitting up and looking terribly offended. “I brought you a latte! Two lattes!”
Harry glances at him, lily masking his nose and lips. “And you keep saying that a latte.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And another beat.
Then:
“Harry Styles. Did you just make a pun?”
And then they laugh, just laugh, Louis giggling and bent over, clutching his lips, Harry smiling wildly and barely allowing his chuckles to escape, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I’m never speaking to you again,” Louis chortles, smiling at Harry.
Harry’s eyes hold his stare for only a moment before they flick back to the lily still in his grasp. “I’m not sure I’ll notice much,” he says with a twist of the lips.
And Louis throws a pillow that hits Harry square in the face, snapping his lily in half in the process, ascending him into even more laughter.
**
“Now. Let’s pick out your outfit for tonight. Since I’m the host”—“Cohost”—“I’ll have to approve of your choice. You must be adequately festive and chic. But not pretentiously chic. Attractively chic. Like you know how to throw on a pair of trousers but can still forget them in a mate’s car.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It’s a saying.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Look, do you want my help or not?”
“Not.”
“Well, you’re going to get it, so hush up and let me adorn you like the peacock you are.”
And Harry lets Louis guide him towards the wardrobe.
**
Eventually, evening draws near, and Louis reluctantly picks up his bag to leave as Harry begins making calls to caterers and sending mass texts to all and sundry.
He’s still buzzing from the day—the suspiciously happy day—he’s spent with Harry, and he doesn’t want to leave, never wants to leave, but he’s still wearing an ill fitting jumper and skinny jeans and it would simply go against his morals if he were to cohost in such garb.
“Well then,” Louis sighs when Harry finally ends his call. “I guess I’ll just head back and change. Get ready. Fetch Niall—he’ll be waiting for me.”
Harry nods, but he studies Louis. “You and Niall are good mates?”
“Well, yeah,” Louis says, surprised at the question. “He was the first friend I made here.”
“You didn’t know him before?”
“Nope. Met him the day he moved in.”
Harry nods, seemingly to himself, as they walk towards the door.
“Well. You best assemble yourself for the party, then. And try to select one of the outfits I’ve set out for you,” Louis teases.
“I’m a bit excited, actually,” Harry says, opening the door for Louis. “It’s been awhile since I’ve hosted any parties.”
“It has, hasn’t it?” Louis muses, nodding his thanks. “You’ve been quite the church mouse these past months.” He pauses. “Minus all the sex.”
Harry smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll be a nice change.”
“I suppose.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You suppose? Of course it’ll be—everybody already thinks I’ve gotten boring.”
“Good,” Louis says, voice strong. “Let them.” At Harry’s questioning gaze, he continues. “If there are people who genuinely believe you to be boring—you, who collect cat figurines and hold picnics in the dead of winter—then they certainly aren’t the kind of people that deserve to be around you.”
“What do you—“
“They look at you like you’re a piece of paper, Harry,” Louis continues, turning to fully face Harry whose eyes are pinched, contracted and confused. “Like, you’re just that. One flat surface, taken at face value, and that’s it. Like there’s nothing more to you than just whatever’s presented, right? Just fun, like. Enjoyed and, and—“—he pauses, not wanting to say ‘passed on and forgotten’ though the words sting his tongue, itch his thoughts—“and you’re not like that. You’re more like…a novel. You’ve got the cover, yeah, and it’s fun or whatever, but then, like, there’s so much more to it, isn’t there? There’s these incredible quotes and memorable passages and so much happens, so, so much, and there’s just…a lot, you know? It’s something, it matters, and there’s— there’s substance there. You know?” he finishes, and he knows he’s rambling, blathering on, but the sentiment is there. He ends with his arms falling to his sides, staring at Harry.
That really wasn’t as smooth as he’d intended it to be.
But, despite Louis’ lack of eloquence, the sentiment seems to have reached Harry, who is now staring at Louis with a sort of strangled, pleased expression, his lips itching to grin and his eyes fighting between a confused scowl and a smile.
“You’re starting to sound like me,” he says through his pressed lips, hand still on the door, Louis still framed in the space between Harry’s rooms and outside.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Louis grins in response.
Both smiles widen while the icy winds lick their way inside, the distant waves of chatter wafting in their wake.
“So if I’m a novel,” Harry says, and his smile might have grown even wider which makes Louis’ feet feel jittery, “then what are you? A children’s book?”
Louis laughs. It blends with the sun. “Probably a fairytale, to be exact.” He smiles sincerely, stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, absentmindedly rubbing his chin along the warmth of the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Which one, then? Peter Pan?” He says it with more fondness than mockery, and that alone sends Louis into spirals of warmth and flattery.
He might never get over Harry being kind. Which is just fine.
“Probably, yeah,” Louis laughs again, his voice sounding gentler than it probably ever has, and he tilts his head as he observes Harry, his flimsy jumper ruffling in the icy breezes. “Forever young.” He smiles. “And immature.”
A chuckle escapes Harry before he looks back at Louis, eyes light and curious.
“So which fairytale would I be then?” he asks.
“Pinocchio,” Louis responds without hesitation.
Harry blinks, puzzled. “Pinocchio? Why?”
‘Because you’ve become a real boy,’ Louis wants to tease, wants to laugh.
“Because I swear your nose gets larger every time I see you,” he says instead, and can’t help the laugh that escapes him when he hears Harry’s indignant squawk and takes in his appalled eyes. “Until tonight, cohost,” he continues without transition, suppressing giggles as he begins to turn away from him.
“Harold,” Harry corrects on autopilot, features still miffed.
“Harold,” Louis amends with a smile. “Harold, my cohost.”
And Harry glares and Louis laughs, but they exchange one last smile before Louis waves goodbye as he descends the stairs by the garden.
**
“It’s six, Tommo. We’ve got to go!” Niall calls, dressed to the nines in his chocolate suit and pristine white Nike’s. He glances at his watch. “They’ll probably leave without us and I’ve already given Nelson the night off so we’d be fucked if they do.”
“I’m ready, you git! Let’s go!” Louis calls, stepping out of the bathroom (no, he wasn’t in there for the better part of an hour, that would just be obscene), resplendent in a cream colored suit. He may or may not have played up his whole ‘eggnog is my new thing’ and adopted a very eggnogesque ensemble, color-wise. But that’s only because it’s in honor of the holiday season. And he’s technically coshosting this party.
It’s not because of Harry or anything. He’s not aiming for a laugh or a smile or a begrudgingly fond roll of the eyes.
That would just be weird.
Niall’s eyebrows shoot up the minute he sees the spectacle. “You dressed as snow or somethin’?”
“Or something,” Louis says with a roll of his eyes, carefully sliding on his jacket. “I’m cohost—“
“Yeah, yeah, you’re cohosting the party, I know,” Niall dismisses with a wave of his hand, already marching towards the door, bottle of Jameson in one hand, Hennessey in the other. “Still can’t believe Harry’s agreed to that. He’ll change his mind.”
“No, he won’t. Now. Onward, steed!” Louis announces, before marching out the door, Niall laughing and shutting the door behind them.
**
When they arrive at Harry’s rooms, the last thing Louis is expecting is to see Zayn and Liam, practically shimmering in smooth caramel suits, Liam’s waistcoat gold and glowing, smoking cigars and drinking eggnog, the murky liquid clinging to the crystal of their glasses as they throw them back.
While Harry is nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Harry?” Louis asks before the door’s even shut, and he glances around, startled when he sees the bedroom door open and revealing a darkened, still room. His eyes search the remainder of the space before he drifts along, finding an empty kitchen, empty bathroom, empty everything.
Zayn watches mildly from the chaise longue while Liam beams and follows Louis with his eyes curiously.
“He’s left already,” Liam says simply, as if it were obvious. “He’s hosting, you know. He said he wanted to finalize the decorative details and make sure that the gingerbread men were cooked to the perfect degree. His theme is gingerbread, you know,” he says, eying Louis’ cream suit. “He’ll be displeased that you haven’t followed his dresscode.”
“I’m cohost,” is all Louis says, forcing himself to ignore the distinct pain of disappointment and… could it be hurt? that lingers in the oxygen filling his lungs and fogging his brain.
“You are?” Liam asks, surprised. “He didn’t mention.”
Ouch.
“What did I tell ya?” Niall says easily, thumping Louis on the back before busting open the Jameson, already accepting a cigar from Zayn and tapping out haphazard texts on his phone.
Ouch again.
Louis glares at Niall’s golden head.
“He’s a bit distracted like,” Zayn says, calm, quiet eyes boring into Louis’. “I’m sure he’ll mention it once we get there.”
Liam looks to Zayn’s peaceful reassurances before setting pitying eyes on Louis—which make his stomach twist and his nerves flare.
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll mention it,” he says.
Louis laughs and pretends not to care, sliding off his jacket in the suddenly too-hot room and setting it on Harry’s desk, ready to drink, ready to laugh some more.
**
They arrive at the hotel the party’s at.
It’s the very portrait of perfection. Everything is gold and amber and caramel and brown, with sprigs of mistletoe and holly hung about, a large punch bowl filled with gingerbread coffee punch sitting in the middle—very reminiscent of Zayn’s party, actually, and Louis briefly wonders if Harry was the true host of that one as well—and ribbons, bows, and evergreen branches peppering every other surface and vaulted ceiling. The air smells of ginger and there are golden trays of gingerbread men and tiny porcelain teacups filled with eggnog.
It would all be very charming and very pleasant, really, if it wasn’t for the fact that Louis feels distinctly jilted. And forgotten.
Especially when he sees Harry, smiling and laughing with a cluster of beautiful guests, raising his teacup in the air and quoting some goddamn poetry. Which is really fucking annoying. And really
fucking pretentious.
And Louis, standing in his ridiculous eggnog themed garb, feels like a fucking fool. He also forgot his jacket at Harry’s. So there’s that as well.
“Let’s say hi to Harry,” Zayn breathes in his ear, ushering him forward by the elbow, and then Liam’s on the other side of him, smiling in that clean, practiced way of his and taking his other elbow.
It only serves to irritate Louis more.
“I can say hi whenever I like, thanks,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t protest any further than that, his eyes focusing on Harry as he comes into closer view.
Like clockwork, the guests around him begin to dissipate, kissing his cheeks and sliding manicured hands over his broad torso. Only a few stick around, skulking on the outskirts of Harry’s personal space, dragging eyes over his beautifully dressed figure—crushed ginger velvet with a silver bow tie and mistletoe corsage which is not one of the outfits Louis had selected—and drinking punch hungrily though it never quenches their thirst.
Louis feels homicidal.
“My darling guests!” Harry greets winningly as soon as he sees them, Niall ambling up behind the trio, open bottle pressed to his lips. Harry’s eyes are wide with delight, genuinely pleased to see them, and they flit to Louis repeatedly, holding his smile, but it’s still not enough, and Louis’ pride prevents him from returning it.
“Harry,” Zayn breathes and Liam smiles, while Niall thunders a, “Mate!” and claps him thickly on the back.
“You came early,” is all Louis says, and Harry nods, curls bouncing.
“I did. I had to make last minute adjustments.” He takes in Louis’ suit. “I normally don’t approve of such blatant disregard for my rules”—Louis scoffs as the word ‘rules’—“but I quite like what you did. Eggnog?” he asks with a smirk.
Louis nods.
“How charming,” Harry says, and it’s smooth and luscious and Christmas-y and just…strange. Cocky, maybe. Or hollow. Or all of the above.
In any case, it feels ingenuine and posed, and if there is some genuine sentiment lying beneath the surface, Louis doesn’t really care because Harry ‘s eyes are skimming across the sea of heads for familiar faces and he’s…just…
Louis doesn’t know.
But he doesn’t like it.
Still though, he tries. “I’ve seen that you really do like the whole ‘gingerbread’ thing,” Louis attempts through a smile that feels tight on his cheeks. “I’m glad.”
“How did you come up with it, Harold? It’s so odd,” one of the hanger-ons inquires, her golden hair curled and sprayed, her lips alarmingly red and pulled over too-white teeth.
“It’s just something that came to me,” he responds lazily, running his fingertips over the rim of his
teacup in lazy circles, and his eyes are dazed, staring sightlessly forward.
And that’s. fucking. it.
That’s all that Louis can take.
“Right. If you’ll excuse me, lads,” he breathes, breaking free of Zayn and Liam’s grips. They look to him, watchful and a little hesitant, but they let him go all the same. Doing his best to remain calm, Louis pushes past Harry, brushing his body against his sharply, and stalks forward into the crowd.
**
It doesn’t get any better.
The night is a fucking shambles.
It’s not at all how Louis envisioned it. There’s no laughing or joking with Harry. There are no secret jokes or Louis defending him from harpies or Harry finding his eyes from across the room and smiling. There’s no cohosting and no memories and no photos taken and, worst of all maybe, Harry’s wearing his goddamn watch. Even after he said he wouldn’t.
It’s like Louis’ just watched his tower of cards tumble to the goddamn ground and now it’s being trampled on by ignorant passerby and everything is just shitty. It’s really shitty.
The music is festive and beautiful, the violin croons out ghostly melodies, and the lads are in their typical form, laughing and dancing, consuming drugs and alcohol like there’s no tomorrow. And Louis tries, he does, tries to have fun and dance and gulp down everything that will put a smile on his face, but everything only makes him angrier, and no matter what he consumes, he can’t prevent his eyes from sliding to Harry, the picture perfect host, who cascades around the room and poses for photographs and presses wine-stained lips to person after person, all in the name of ‘mistletoe.’
It’s pretty unbearable.
And Louis attempts to forget. He willingly falls into conversations he normally wouldn’t, pretends to bond with anybody that will have him, laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, and allows overprimped boy after over-primped boy to chat him up and press against him on the dancefloor.
But it never lasts for long.
Not when Louis’ insides squirm and Harry’s very presence is a constant, stabbing reminder of why he feels angry.
So it’s not very surprising when, at around quarter after eleven, Louis begins to dial a cab on his phone, ignoring Liam’s gestures to join him and Zayn on the dancefloor, and instead focuses on the way Niall is currently chanting an Irish folksong with several unidentifiable lads, their arms all slung around each other’s shoulders as they stomp on tabletops and slosh beer out of the pints that they raise into the sky.
The last thing he sees, as he’s silently winding his way through the crowd and out the door, is the sight of Harry, grinning and happy, wrapped up in several pairs of arms, being fed biscuits and punch, his bow tie being plucked undone by a boy with magenta hair.
It reignites the flames Louis had spent the night trying to stifle, and he exits out the door, never looking back.
**
He feels so fucking stupid.
Stupid because he dressed for that stupid fucking party—and proceeded to get ignored.
Stupid because he was the one that introduced Harry to the goddamn gingerbread and he’s the reason it’s Harry’s new thing—he practically fucking inspired the party—and received no credit whatsoever. Rather, Harry lied about it.
Stupid because he had thought, after two successful, drama free days with Harry, that maybe things were going to be okay. That this was how it was going to be from now on.
Stupid because he had made Harry laugh and he thought that changed the world.
Stupid because he was ready to beat the masses off with bats if they so much as displeased Harry tonight—and yet Harry chose them over Louis.
Stupid because all of this upset him so much that he couldn’t even enjoy himself, and instead ruined his fucking night and made him leave early because it all just felt so fucking shitty.
Stupid because here he is, standing in front of Harry’s door—which is probably locked—and ready to go inside to get his goddamn eggnog or whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called suit jacket, and he’s just always standing outside of Harry’s door, isn’t he?
He just feels so fucking stupid.
Still though, he turns the doorknob, his face set into a scowl that hurts, his body itching to crumble onto his bed as soon as this is done, and is only mildly disapproving when he finds it open—what does he care if somebody busts in Harry’s rooms and knicks his shit? Those creepy-ass cat figurines need to go anyway.
It’s dark inside, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on everything, and the stark bleakness and emptiness feels very representative of everything right now. Where earlier, just hours before, these same rooms were filled with the sounds of Harry’s laughter and the uneven sounds of Louis being taught piano, there is now nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Because it’s all gone. And Louis was wrong about everything.
Very representative.
Stone silent and defeated, Louis flicks on the light, immediately spotting his jacket lying carelessly on the surface of Harry’s desk. He doesn’t dilly-dally, just strides over and plucks it up, and is ready to slide it over his cold shoulders and flee back to his flat when he catches sight of a small, leather-bound book that had been lying hidden underneath.
Huh.
He didn’t know Harry kept a journal.
He’s not going to read it—he’s not an intrusive fuck, after all—but he does brush his fingers against the worn cover, his heart fleetingly pinging at the thought of the mad scribbles and bits of heartfelt poetry that he’s sure litters the insides. The jumbled compositions and music notations and little glances into Harry’s soul…
It’s lightly reassuring, really. In some odd way, it’s reassuring to know that Harry does have that
depth. He really is that person Louis had begun to see, even if he won’t ever let Louis near it, won’t ever let Louis see. Won’t ever trust Louis.
The thought lies acrid in his mouth.
Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Louis is just turning away to leave when his eye catches on a ripped piece of paper poking out from the journal, sticking out from the pages and tucked gently into the spine.
That wouldn’t faze Louis normally.
What fazes him is the familiar scrawl of it. A scrawl that is remarkably resemblant of…Louis’ own.
Eyes still itching with the remnants of exhaustion and frustration, he pauses, squinting at the paper.
No, it absolutely looks like Louis’ handwriting.
His heart picking up pace, he reaches down, unthinkingly opening the book to reveal the scribbled note.
It’s there that Louis reads the words that still echo in his fingertips, written haphazardly so long ago on the now carefully preserved bit of paper, smoothed out on the edges and tucked lovingly inside of Harry’s fucking journal:
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
And, on the back, scribbled neatly and so small, the two words:
“Louis Tomlinson”
