And neither have Zayn and Liam, England's 21st century power couple.
Well.
Mostly.
There has been some....tension as of late, Louis has noticed. Namely in regards to Liam.
"A Brit? How splendid!" Liam says happily, filling Zayn's glass with wine.
It's lunch and they're in Zayn's rooms, the room smelling of smoke and paint and filled with vibrantly gold afternoon light that cuts through the crystal and paints the walls with flickering rainbows. Ella Fitzgerald plays softly from the stereo in the corner and the weather is just warm enough to warrant a cracked open window, wafting drifted chatter and the smell of cold leaves through the air.
Zayn frowns, lips wrapped around a thin cigarette, fedora tilted artfully above his immaculate quiff. (The boy's a stud. It's a bit ridiculous how much so.)
"I thought you knew that already?"
"Nah," Niall says, slathering jam onto a scone, barely avoiding flicking some onto his pressed white shirt. "Not for sure. Just speculation. I predicted as much." He takes a bite, his cheeks full and puffy as he beams cheekily. "Of course, I was right."
"We knew you would be!" Liam says excitedly, teeth sparkling. "It's going to be so fun! The after parties are going to be sick."
Louis' just about to voice his assent, when:
"Exams will be right around that time," Zayn replies instantly, voice careful and very barely edged as his eyes bore into Liam's delighted profile.
It makes one of Louis' eyebrows raise as he exchanges a glance with Harry, who sits beside him stirring his teacup with a tiny golden sword. (Louis doesn't even bother asking.) (Though he's 92% sure it's a letter opener.)
Liam's brows crease as he looks to Zayn, delight replaced swiftly by confusion.
"I know. What has that to do with anything?"
Zayn stares at him a moment longer, just a moment, a deep frown set in his face. And then he tears his eyes away and stubs out his cigarette, face evening out into casual indifference.
"Nothing, of course."
But Louis can still see a faint downward quirk of the lips.
It's been stuff like that that's been a bit...out of the ordinary. Though, overall, they've been relatively the same as they always have been—gazing into each other's eyes, never separating, hosting timeless luncheons and elaborate parties and muttering their own language in low tones, far beyond the realm of existence of those surrounding them.
They're still Zayn and Liam and, inexplicably, it settles a comforting blanket over Louis' heart.
Really, the only change in Louis' life, the only stark contrast that has brutally assaulted his peace and tranquility and self-confidence, is but one thing.
And it comes in the form of a Harry Styles.
Because Harry has been...
Happy.
That's probably the best word for it. Harry has been happy.
It's a word he didn't think he could ever accredit to Harry. Yet here he is, glowing eyes and flowing smiles, and here Louis is, falling apart each time.
And it's truly wonderful to see, if not a bit extremely fucking painful—because each smile, laugh, and low-octaved, syrupy word spoken has been a tiny dagger to Louis' tender heart. And considering how much Harry has been doing those things as of late, Louis' heart looks like a fucking pin cushion.
