Where We Belong

Chapter 7

"Right," Harry says, looking up from his phone and nodding at an entrance a few feet away, "s'that one. Fifth floor. She'll buzz us up."

Louis' stomach gives a terrible sucking sensation, snapping him out of some daze, and his heart starts to race. "Fuck," he says, "fuck, maybe I should just stay down here and—"

Harry's eyes widen a bit, the rest of his face going softer. He lays a hand on Louis' arm, studying his expression. "The car's two streets down. I saw a pub right round the corner too, if you'd rather not come up. But, uhm- what do you want?" he steps in a little, his other hand suddenly up at the side of Louis' face, cupping it, "Really?"

Louis glances over at Marie's building and then back up at Harry. "No, fuck, I've gotta come with. I can't- I need to come with."

Harry nods, and Louis can't tell whether he's relieved or disappointed.

Before he has a chance to ask or jab at it, Harry dips in for a little kiss. It lands on the side of Louis' mouth, chaste and nothing, really, but it's- it's so much more than what they've had in too long. It's too much, right now.

Louis backs up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve to stop the teenagery tingles in his skin. "Okay," he says, "well, lets—"

"Yeah, I- let's, then."

Harry offers him gum twice, first in the lift and then again when they've rung Marie's doorbell and are waiting around outside, anxiously shifting weight from foot to foot.

"For fuck's sake, no," Louis hisses, "she won't care if I smoke, it doesn't fucking—"

The door gets pulled open. Well, pulled a little bit open. There's an awkward moment where she's fiddling with the door-chain, swearing under her breath when it won't budge, and Harry and Louis don't know whether to say hello yet or not.

They end up waiting until she finally manages to unleash her door and opens with a breathy, "hii."

And— she's beautiful.

Of course she is. She's just in a pair of black leather loafers and she's still only about half an inch short of Harry, many inches taller than Louis. She's rail-thin, skin that creamy colour you get when you pour too much milk in your coffee, eyes hazel and hair golden-brown and shoulder-length, waving sweetly around her little face. She's in a white tee and vertically striped high-wasted slacks that basically makes her, like, eighty percent legs.

She smiles, pearly-white, as she shakes Louis' hand and introduces herself, and all Louis can think is this can't be accidental and that's not someone you randomly pull home when the lights come on at the club and he's seen her at the other end of the bar, he's wanted her and then he's chatted her up, that's how it really happened, it's got to have been, just fucking look at her.

"Louis," he blurts, when he realises she's still waiting for him to respond to her, and it comes out awkwardly, a bit like a cough, "'m Louis."

"Marie," she says, for something like the fourth time. "Well, ehm- just, come in, and, eh- you can put your shoes there, coats go up there," she adds on, after a brief uncomfortable silence, stumbling backwards to let them in.

For a few minutes, the room is quiet again, save for the bustle off getting off trainers and unzipping windbreakers - and, well, Harry hanging his coat. They don't know this woman well enough for non-uncomfortable silence, but at the same time the purpose of this meet-up feels much too heavy for attempting polite small-talk.

Marie leads them into a cosy little livingroom; canary yellow walls, because why the fuck wouldn't she have picked the exact colour Harry wanted back at their flat?, brown low-set couches and scented candles burning on the rustic treasure-chest that functions as her coffee-table.