In From The Cold

Saturday 1/3

“Race you to the stall,” he says, and Zayn glances confusedly around him.

“Do you know where it is?”

“Not a clue. Might not even exist,” Niall admits nonchalantly. “Three, two, one, go!”

He’s off and running down the street within seconds, and Zayn takes a moment to make up his mind, apparently deliberating whether or not it’s worth shedding his composure.

It’s Liam who makes the choice for him, shouting “Onwards!” as he reaches for Zayn’s hand. Harry sees their fingers slip together as Liam pulls Zayn gently forwards, and then the two of them are thundering after Niall.

Louis doesn’t seem in any hurry to go racing though, his gaze crossing back and forth as he takes in the festival, the crowds of cheerful people and the faintest sound of carnivalesque music, the way the fairy lights zigzag across the street overhead.

“Alright,” Harry says, wanting to seize on their moment alone. “Have you figured out my secret past yet?”

“You robbed a bank,” is Louis’ casual, almost automatic reply, and Harry snorts.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the kind of dismissive reaction a bank robber would have,” Louis returns airily. His gaze is still on the stalls around them, but when he finally turns it on Harry he seems oddly serious.

“I’m not going to guess, Harry.”

Harry feels his eyebrows raise without his consent and hopes he doesn’t look too much like a startled gazelle. He notices the slightest tinge of disappointment stirring in his gut at Louis’ admission; as though he’d wanted Louis to see all the way through him, had been expecting it.

“You’re not?” he asks, as casually as he can manage, and Louis shrugs, looking away again.

“I get carried away with curiosity sometimes,” he says thoughtfully. “But it isn’t my place to force something out of you.”

He won’t look at Harry, and there’s the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks, though it could be the frosty winter air. Harry has the urge to reach out and slip his fingers under the back of Louis’ beanie, play with the hair at the base of his neck. He swats it away.

It’s unexpected, but beyond the initial surprise of it, Harry isn’t sure how to take Louis’ hesitance.

“So you don’t want to know?” Harry asks, and Louis shakes his head.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies quietly.

Harry isn’t sure, but he thinks Louis is giving him the choice. Resisting his journalist instincts, his natural curiosity that came out the last time the subject came up, to let Harry have the upper hand now. And Harry feels a little bit winded, because for days he’s watched Louis chase after every single little thing that’s caught his eye, snagged his interest. And he knows Louis wants this, wants in on Harry’s thoughts, had been so adamant that first day in the town together as they’d sat beneath the rowan tree.

But Louis isn’t taking, isn’t demanding. He’s offering, waiting, asking. It’s unprecedented.

“Look, an accordionist!” Louis says, laughing as he watches a small group of kids dancing to the music of an elderly woman as she plays. He catches Harry’s eye, joy splashed across his features, and Harry knows.

“Ok,” Harry says, and it takes Louis a few seconds to realise he’s not referring to the musician.

“Ok?” Louis asks cautiously, and Harry nods, gathering his thoughts, his words. He wants to share this with Louis, something real, something concrete. And Louis waits patiently, silently as they walk on.