That Geometric Suit

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that geometric suit
missandrogyny // Ao3

Summary:

"Harry," Louis pants. He opens his eyes and turns his head, gazing at Harry darkly. He smirks then moans loudly, as if for show. "Harry, watch me."

~

In Harry's humble opinion, the club should be renamed.

Not that there's anything currently wrong with the name, it's a great name, rhymey and everything, and he doesn't really know the history behind it--was it the owner's name? The owner's wife's name? The owner's children's name?--but it's actually rather misleading. He's been at this party for three hours now, and two things: one, there is literally nobody at this party with the name of Lou and two, his Lou isn't even here.

Hence, why there is absolutely no reason for this club to even be called Loulou's. It's false advertising, all of it.

"Just text him already," Cara tells him, not even looking up from where she's smiling at her phone. She's been smiling down intermittently at her phone for about two hours now, and Harry just knows that she's probably texting Annie.

He cocks his head. "Who am I texting?"

Cara rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb with me, Harry." She finally looks up from her phone, pinning Harry with a fierce gaze. Harry is suddenly reminded that she used to model. "You know who I'm talking about. Just text him."

The thing is, Harry doesn't know. He has an assumption, yes, but he doesn't really know. So he just blinks back at her.

"Harry," she says, a warning in her voice. "Just text Louis already. I don't want to hear anymore about the name of this bloody club."

"But what does the name of the bloody club have to do with Louis?" He asks. Because, really, all he wanted to do was talk about the fact that the club was called Loulou's, and there was literally nobody named Lou there. He wasn't even talking about Louis.

Cara makes a frustrated gesture with her hand, one that has Harry trying to stop himself from grinning. "You're horrible," she says, clearly at the end of her wit. She looks down at her phone again, beginning to text.

"Really though," Harry presses. "What does me talking about the name of the club have to do with Louis?"

"Everything," Cara answers, texting furiously at her phone. Harry wants to take a peek, but then that would be rude. And he is not a rude boy. He is a polite and very well-mannered boy. "This is exactly how you get when you're separated from him."

"I'm not doing anything," Harry says, raising both his eyebrows. "And you do know that Louis and I can exist away from each other, right?" Because, contrary to popular belief, they can. They are two mature adults in a similarly mature relationship, and therefore they can have their own friends, can attend their own parties, and aren't clingy and sad when they're separated for more than an hour.

Cara sighs, and even in the loudness of the club, he can tell that she's getting fed up with him. Which, why, would she be, though, in the first place? Harry's not doing anything wrong.

"Lily," she calls, looking up from her phone when Lily Allen passes by. "Please help me," she begs. "He's doing it again."

"What am I doing, exactly?" Harry asks, but he's ignored.

Lily studies him for a bit. "Is it as bad as the last time?"

"No, thank God," Cara says, sounding relieved. She pauses. "Well, not yet, anyway. He keeps talking about the name of the club. Loulou's."

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