like flying

"What?" Louis said.

"I mean, I don't even notice the sixth finger?"

"Oh," Louis said. "No, it was my line."

"Your line?"

"My chat-up line. I'm, you know, trying it on with you."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "And you think I like extra appendages?"

Louis's eyes began to twinkle. "Well, I'm hoping you'll like a certain appendage, yes."

"I get the feeling you're no longer talking about a finger."

"No, we've definitely left the realm of hands now," Louis said with a smirk.

Harry bit back a smile and said, "Just out of curiosity, is this how you normally hit on guys?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, by talking about your...physical abnormalities," Harry finished, gesturing at Louis' hand, which was still sat jauntily on his hip.

"I'm offended," Louis huffed, glancing down. "I'll have you know that my penis lacks any malformation at all. In fact it's perfectly formed, beautiful, statuesque even. If I don't get any endorsements out of the games, I might become a penis model. I've already been approached by Durex."

"That seems like it might not be true," Harry said, stifling a laugh.

"Which means that you think it also seems like it could be true," Louis said sweetly. "Aren't you curious which it is?"

"What did you say your name was again?"

A minute later they were sat over tea, strictly herbal for Louis; caffeine this late in the afternoon was never a good idea to begin with and the entire atmosphere of the village had him so wired that the lump of sugar he'd plopped into his cup was already blinking "danger" back up at him from within the brew. Harry, who could and did drink proper tea--from the moment he woke up until minutes before he laid his head down--without regard to either caffeine or sugar, blew softly into his steaming cup of Earl Grey, mouth making a perfect circle, eyes trained on Louis, who sat up with a shimmy at this.

"So," Harry began. "Tell me six-fingers--"

"I feel the need to clarify, for the official record, that I don't actually have six fingers," Louis interrupted, wiggling his hands at Harry.

Harry grabbed a hand mid-wiggle and said, "Well, I still don't know your name yet, do I."

"Right; it's Louis Tomlinson. Official nickname: The Howler Monkey."

Harry bit his lip. "You have an official nickname?"

"You don't?" Louis said incredulously. "The press love it, gives them something to say so they don't run out of rubbish to blather on about while trying to comment on obscure sport that both they and the audience only care or hear about once every four years. You know, the human interest element. It's how you get an endorsement deal. That or have a truly magnificent penis, which I believe I already mentioned having."

Harry had still been holding Louis' wrist but he dropped it now and covered his face with both hands to suppress a giggle. He shook his head in disbelief a few times, trying to clear a growing dizzy buzzy feeling and decide where to even begin with this mess. He settled on, "You might have said already...but then you've said a lot of things."

"And you're not an auditory learner," Louis finished for him.

"Mmm. Much more visual," Harry agreed, nodding.

"I was actually hoping for kinesthetic," Louis said.

At this Harry actually let out a bark of a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth. He looked around wildly, mouth still lidded. When he looked back at Louis, Louis was bobbing his head, eyebrow arched. Harry bit his finger and said, "We'll see."