Niall’s pounding on the piano like it’s a drum. Even though he has those, too. He’s playing the most chaotic music on the planet, relentlessly, and he’s stoned and laughing at nothing in particular and, well. Louis might really kill him because he’s got another exam in a week and he needs to fucking study.
So he makes a decision that is based purely on logic and nothing else.
“I’m going to study at Harry’s,” Louis calls over the noise, and Niall’s glossed pink eyes smile.
“Cool,” he responds, and continues playing.
This boy. Wow.
Louis slings his bag over his shoulder, throwing one last glare in Niall’s direction. “I’ll be back later.”
“Tell your boyfriend I say—“
Louis slams the door shut.
Mind still on the events of yesterday—Louis telling Harry about his mum, Harry listening, Harry asking for his opinion, Harry calling him by his name in an unpretentious tone and actually saying ‘thank you’ which might have made the moon shine brighter—Louis takes off in the direction of Harry’s rooms.
And while he knows his tutoring session isn’t for about three or so more hours…he decides to just go for it. Because their time yesterday went well enough. So why wouldn’t today be the same?
Upon reaching Harry’s rooms, he quietly opens the door and prays there isn’t any rampant sex going on inside. He peers hesitantly into the living room and, nope, there’s not. It’s barren, save for the sheet music that still rests on the floors and the sheer, vast amount of everything that fills every nook and cranny.
He’s just about to head towards Harry’s bedroom, when there’s a knock at the door.
Did Harry lock himself out? Is it Niall? Did Louis forget something?
He opens the door cautiously, peering out and—oh. It’s some hipster.
Unimpressed, he opens the door fully, staring the boy up and down openly and judgmentally. He’s dressed immaculately disheveled and he’s beautiful and exotic, bred from all the money, and Louis tries not to snort when he notices an ‘anarchy’ tattoo painted on his wrist.
“Hey mate. I’m, uh, here to see Harold,” the boys says, a little unsure, almost as if he’s potentially unaware if he’s at the right door or not.
Lovely.
“He’s not here,” Louis says without ceremony, and shuts the door in the boy’s face before another word is said. And that felt good. With a proud smirk, he turns around, feeling accomplished.
And then the smirk falls straight off of his face because there’s Harry, standing right in front of him, watching the scene with a scowl.
Well, shit.
Did the boy see Harry there the whole time? Is he going to knock again because he knows Louis was lying?
“What was that about?” Harry demands, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s in the most casual clothes Louis has ever seen—inappropriately tight jeans and a black t-shirt that still manages to have buttons at the collar. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept—or at least hasn’t slept peacefully—and Louis regards him with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.
“Er—“
“You had no right to send my guest away,” he says sharply. He’s staring at Louis like a hawk would his prey. Which then sparks the memory of Cleopatrick and, huh, fuck. Louis forgot about that. Harry really is a hot mess, isn’t he?
