No One Does It Better

Chapter 17

The days leading up to the Halloween party are full of tan skin and flashes of blue and crooked smiles that absolutely demand Harry's presence. It's only on the day before the party - when they're out at a nicer restaurant and Louis' hair is quiffed and Harry's asking their waiter for the ticket, ignoring Louis' protests - that Harry realises what it all means.

He's seen that look on Louis' face, the way he fidgets with his shirt, pulling it away from himself until Harry tells him he looks good. He catches the small comments Louis throws subtly into conversation, things that would be overlooked by anyone else. He doesn't fail to notice the way Louis ducks his head under Harry's attention, the way his stare lingers longer when he thinks Harry can't tell. Louis has a crush on him.

And Harry - Harry doesn't know what to make of that.

---

The next day, Harry arrives when the party is already in full swing. He weaves through crowds of sweaty bodies and spots Niall above the crowd, surely standing on his coffee table, grinding on a slim blonde girl with a pixie haircut and a skin-tight green dress, fairy wings strapped around her shoulders. He assumes this is the girl he's been seeing lately but isn't sure enough to say anything.

Zayn has Liam drunk enough for PDA, pushed into the corner to the side of giant speakers blasting out some Top 40 monstrosity. Harry's not sure where one boy ends and the other begins, but he really, really doesn't want to know where the hand Zayn doesn't have on the wall above Liam's head is.

People are packed in from wall to wall. The air is heavy and smells like weed and sex. He stands halfway between the living room and kitchen awkwardly. He has half a mind to walk back out when he hears his name called over the thumping bass line that commands the movement of the bodies around him.

"Harry!" He turns around to see Louis stumble over to him, his hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Bacardi. "You made it!" He throws his arms around the taller lad's neck, leaning most of his body weight on him and making them stumble back before Harry rights them.

"Jesus, Louis," Harry feels the bottle press to the back of his neck and shivers. "How much have you had?"

"I'm just getting started, mate," and it's when Louis pulls away that Harry gets a good look at him - at his costume. His white shirt is torn, strips of tan skin asking to be touched. He's got gauze wrapped around his head, fake blood splattered across him, and Harry is going to throw up. He's going to pass the fuck out, because it's so eerily similar to the way he looked half-dead in a hospital bed. There are differences, major differences, but it's enough to make something curl sharply in his stomach. He visibly winces, but Louis is too drunk to make anything of it. "Where is your costume?" He sounds affronted, and Harry thinks the question is ironic in a way.

"Don't have one, I suppose."

"Oh, Harold. You don't know how to live."

Harry just smiles, doesn't know what to say to that. He coughs uncomfortably, shifting his weight before pointing at Louis' shirt, "What - uh. What are you supposed to be then?"

Louis looks down at himself, like he's almost forgotten what he's wearing, "Damien and I are supposed to be zombies, but I think we just look like axe murders." His tone is light, and Harry nods, looking away from him.

"Damien's here then?"

"Yeah. In the kitchen, last I saw," Louis says as he brings the clear bottle to his lips.

Harry follows the movement, watches his eyes close before deciding he'd rather not. "Right. Well, I suppose I'll go say hello. See you around, Louis."