It’s Sunday evening when Louis makes the decision that he is going to do everything in his power to befriend Harry Styles.
He and Niall had spent the day nursing hangovers (Niall also nursing a broken heart—he’d broken his Segway the night before after they’d returned from the clubs, trying to ride it off of ramps and failing abysmally) and Louis’ mind was a constant replay of Harry being dragged away by the sea of harpies while staring at Louis in a silent scream for help.
Or, well, what Louis took as a silent scream for help at least. But scream or no, Louis couldn’t forget.
And so it’s at dinner, in a quaint little pub on the edge of town, around seven P.M., that Louis firmly decides his course of action.
He had practically had to force Niall out of the house to come. “You never take me out anymore,” he whined, jabbing fingers in Niall’s cheeks, armpits, stomach, general face, while Niall was playing on some audio program on his laptop. He responded with one of his distracted grunts, which only ever makes Louis more agitated, so he began screeching his name until the boy gave him attention. “We go out all the time,” he finally responded. “Yeah, but never just the two of us. It’s like you don’t even care anymore.” “You missing me, Tommo?” “No, you shrew. I’m hungry.” “Tomorrow.” “No.” “Later.” “No.” Niall sighed. “Can I at least finish what I’m doing?” “Absolutely not.” Niall groaned, Louis smiled pleasantly, and, finally, after Louis ripped the blankets off of him and darted away with his laptop, Niall finally put on trousers and texted Nelson to pick them up.
But now, throwing back whiskey sours (well, Louis’ throwing back brightly colored cocktails while Niall is throwing back whiskey sours; and beer) they’re having a pleasant time as they pick at a large pile of chips before them, Niall wiping his greasy hands on his sweatpants and football jersey, while they rehash the events of the night before.
“That Liam is a fuckin’ madman,” Niall says with a shake of his head, sun-gold hair framing cornflower eyes. “Did you see him at the end there? When he opened that champagne bottle in the cunt’s face? He nearly took his goddamn eye out!”
And, no, Louis doesn’t remember because he was a bit too pissed to remember anything from the night before really. He swears he doesn’t remember drinking that much. Honestly.
Louis laughs good-naturedly though, shoving a particularly large chip in his mouth as he attempts to sort through the fog of memories. Unfortunately for him, the only thing he seems to be able to find is a set of green, faded eyes.
He swallows his food thickly at the thought, stomach churning.
“Harry left early, eh?” he says casually, glancing up at Niall who’s now finishing his pint in one swift gulp.
He sets down the glass and wipes his mouth with a truly impressive burp. “Yeah. Wonder where he got off to.”
“Dunno.” Louis pokes at the chips for a couple seconds, resting his chin on his hand. “He was sort of dragged away, wasn’t he? By all those hideous people.”
“Was he? Didn’t really notice.”
“Yeah. He was.”
Niall glances up at him. “And?”
“And nothing,” Louis says quickly, crossing his arms on the tabletop.
Pause.
“It’s just that—“ Louis stops himself, reassessing his words as a bemused smile overcomes Niall’s face, his eyebrow quirking expectantly. “I’ve decided I’m going to make an effort to be his friend, Niall. Like properly.” He averts his eyes to the chipped, wooden tabletop and begins delicately picking at a particularly large nick in the surface. “I think the kid needs one.”
“So. You wanna fuck him?” Niall asks bluntly with his bright eyes, causing Louis to roll his own.
“No, twat, it’s not like that. It’s nothing romantic. I just…feel bad for him.”
Niall nods as he listens, motioning to the server to bring another round of whiskeys and beers. “Fair enough.” His eyes settle back on Louis, a grin forming on his lips. “But how the fuck do you manage to go about it, eh? Cuz last I checked, you couldn’t even stomach the bastard’s fuckin’ umbrella.”
“No, but did you see that thing?” Louis bursts, leaning over the table to look Niall in the eye directly. “It was hideous! It was bad enough that he was toting it around like it were some prize. But he named it. He fucking named it.”
Niall shrugs, sitting back in his chair. “I like the name. Berkley. ‘S cute.”
Louis pauses, eying Niall. “It’s not a bad name,” he finally concedes. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
Niall laughs, loud and clear, before crossing his hands over his lap, elbows perched on the armrests of his chair. “You didn’t answer my question. How do you plan on becoming Harry’s best friend?”
Louis throws him a glare. “Funny. Well, I’ve been thinking a bit, and I think what Harry needs is some support in his life, ya know? Like, a helping hand. So, I’m just going to try to be as supportive and accommodating as possible. Starting tomorrow during our tutoring session.”
Niall’s eyebrows shoot upward immediately, and Louis grins, popping another chip in his mouth.
“You think that’ll work?” Niall asks, caught between incredulity and unimpressed judgment, eyebrows still raised.
“Well. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
And then their server comes with the next round of drinks, and they clink glasses, laughing for the rest of the evening, drinking away the remnants of their hangovers.
**
Louis has a missed call from his mum. Which is fucking splendid.
Especially because he’s cranky as fuck—having not been able to sleep because, perhaps, he’d been, maybe, outlining a plan of ‘attack’, so to speak, and it may have, potentially, been entitled: ‘How To Become Friends With Harry Styles’. That, on top of having to sit through excruciatingly boring lectures (and he forgot his homework for one of them, so fuck it all) and having to politely but firmly squash the incessant attempts at flirting from a group of Dolce & Gabbana girls, has made Louis a very, very grumpy duck.
And now, as he looks at the little notification on his screen, he’s gotten even grumpier.
Really, he should be thankful. Because after the mess from the other day, she hasn’t made any attempts to contact him--not a text or anything. And she didn’t even leave a voicemail now, has just rung and then hung up, so Louis really should feel relief, but instead he feels dread. Because she’s only rung less than ten minutes ago, and she’ll probably ring again.
Making a noise suspiciously like a growl, Louis shoves his phone in his bag and starts towards his flat, ready to sink into the couch before he embarks on his tutoring with Harry.
**
There aren’t any more missed call from his mum. Just the one. Just one. One.
And Louis doesn’t understand it at all, but he credits the unease in his stomach to his overwhelming relief and nothing else—it’s not like he wants her to make more of an effort to speak with him, or maybe see how his day’s been going—and so he doesn’t say a word when he collapses on the sofa next to Niall, who’s stoned as fuck and watching cartoons in his pants and nothing else, snapback haphazardly hanging off the side of his head.
“Rough day?” he asks, offering Louis his bowl.
He declines the offer, instead sighing out a “Fuck yes,” and burying his face in the velvet cushions.
“Rory’s out getting me food. Want anything?”
“Cake?” Louis squeaks hopefully, and Niall flashes him a thumbs up.
“You got it, mate.”
They stay like that for a good twenty minutes, Louis drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Niall watching the TV with drooping eyes, occasionally barking out a stream of cackles.
And then the cake comes, and they stuff their faces, and Louis is just thinking that this is probably the best moment of his life as he licks his fingers clean, when he glances at Niall’s Rolex.
“Oh fuck!” He bolts up, tossing the empty bakery box onto the coffee table, as Niall yawns and looks up at him curiously.
“You all right?”
“I’ve got to meet Harry in twenty minutes!”
Niall blinks. “And?”
“And I need to get ready! Fuck,” Louis breathes, trotting to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
“Why do you need to get ready?” Niall calls lazily from the couch, and Louis rolls his eyes as he towel dries his face.
“Because I have to be fucking prepared, now don’t I?”
“Prepared for what?”
Louis stalks out of the bathroom, hands on hips, voice shrill. “Tutoring! And today is the first day of ‘Operation: Best Mate’ and I don’t even hav—“
“Did you just say ‘Operation: Best Mate’?” Niall asks, peering from the back of the couch at Louis.
There’s a pause.
“It doesn’t matter what I said, Niall. Point is, I need to get going.”
Louis begins stuffing his outlines, books, and folders into his shoulder bag, his nerves beginning to prickle as he refrains from envisioning the potential outcomes of the day. For all he knows, Harry and him could be the best of mates by this evening, thus making his operation successful. There’s no telling, really…
“By the way, your mum says hi.”
Louis freezes then, mid stuffing-foot-in-shoe. “I’m sorry?”
“Your mum says hi,” Niall repeats, scratching at his genitals.
“What do you mean my mum says hi? Is she here?!”
“Nah. I rung her this morning.”
“You talk to my mum on the phone?”
“Yeah, so? I talk to all me mates’ parents.”
“Oh, of course you do.” Louis carefully slides his foot into his shoe, thoughts darting to and fro within his skull. He hesitates, just for a moment, before he continues. "What’d she have to say, then?”
“Not much. She’s tired, stressed, having a hard time. But she’ll be fine.”
Louis fiddles with his t-shirt. He doesn’t want to ask it. Not really. It’s not as if he cares, and it certainly isn’t as if he doesn’t already know the answer.
But he asks anyway.
“Did she ask about me?”
Niall’s face instantly morphs into an expression akin to a bear cub caught in a trap, and that’s all Louis needs.
“That’s what I thought,” he clips, gathering the last of his things.
“Well—she said hi,” Niall offers, rubbing the back of his neck and twisting his lips in what Louis assumes is an attempt at a fake smile. For as long as Louis has known Niall, not once has he seen him anywhere near uncomfortable; the boy’s a fearless dragon—nothing intimidates him and he would never apologize for who he is. He’s a 'take me or leave me' kind of guy, and such a confidant, carefree demeanor leaves little room for discomfort or artificiality.
But right now Niall is sure as hell faking a smile and fidgeting under the awkwardness of the situation, and that just makes Louis feel really, really shitty. Because even Niall—oblivious, tactless, asks-Liam-why-he-doesn’t-get-that-creepy-birthmark-removed-from-his-neck Niall Horan —pities Louis and the fact that even he can tell that his mum doesn’t find her only son all that special. She just wants a son, any son will do, and Louis probably wouldn’t be her first choice, with his relentless sass and lack of pity and wardrobe filled with too many shoes he’s only worn once and never again.
She probably wants Niall for a son. Because, really, who wouldn’t? And Louis really doesn’t fucking care because he’s used to this, understands this, and doesn’t need this.
“It’s fine, Niall,” Louis says, and he does his best to keep his voice light, but there’s an odd pressure in the back of his throat that throws his tone off, and Niall’s lips tug into the barest hint of a frown.
He claps a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Look. I don’t know the story between you and your mother. But I can tell you right now that you’re a solid bloke, a good fuckin’ guy, and I’ve got your back, mate.”
It’s a simple thing to say and a simple gesture, but Louis supposes it’s just the way that Niall says things, in his burly Irish lilt that makes the sentence embed in Louis’ bones and warm the cold places. That and his utter sincerity, which just comes so natural to him.
Louis feels himself smile, genuinely. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.” And he returns the clap onto Niall’s shoulder.
And they proceed to have a moment.
“Well,” Niall then barks, breaking the tender silence, “You best get going or you’ll be late for tutoring. You’ve got a friend to make.” And he throws him a wink before pocketing his phone and scratching his nose.
**
Louis’ standing outside of Harry’s door and already rehearsing some of the accommodating things he can say to him in order to make this afternoon a pleasant experience.
He could offer Harry a drink? Offer to go umbrella shopping with him? Offer to talk? Say yes to all his ridiculous ideas because he probably doesn’t get the support he needs at home?
Louis’ mind is whirring, spinning and spitting all at once, and he’s so caught up with his ‘Operation: Best Mate’ that he barely registers the door slowly creaking open in front of him.
And there stands Harry, bow tie-less, but wearing a crisp white button-up and onyx blazer with
matching trousers that are almost inappropriately snug. His hair is tousled and wild, almost like he stuck his head in a geyser, and his face is the very picture of ‘thoroughly fucked’ and ‘why are you here?’.
He looks at Louis expectantly, bored.
“Tutoring…?” Louis prompts, eyebrow quirking, and he’s about to slam down some judgment at the slew of voices that are now pouring from within, but, his promised plans at winning Harry’s favor in the forefront of his mind, he quickly assembles his face into a smile and adds a cheery, “Company today?” which makes his cheeks hurt.
Fuck, this is hard.
Harry’s own eyebrows shoot in the air. “Yeah, you could say that,” he rumbles, lips full and kissed, just watching Louis beneath lidded eyes as he drapes himself along the doorframe.
“How fun,” Louis grits.
They stand there.
“Are you going to let me in, then?” he asks politely, on the verge of displaying impatience. Gotta keep it cool, gotta reign it in. Operation Best Mate.
“Uh. I guess,” Harry says, somewhat suspiciously, taking a step back to allow Louis’ entrance. “Don’t you usually just do whatever you want? Didn’t know you needed my permission.”
Something pings inside of Louis at that, and he looks to Harry as he makes his way inside, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. “Well. That’s just bad manners though, isn’t it?”
Harry’s brow furrows as he stares.
At this point, the slew of voices connect with a slew of bodies as five or so girls and three boys emerge from Harry’s room, clothes rumbled and eyes bright and sunken as they laugh.
Louis gawks. Because that is a lot of fucking people. Pardon the pun.
“Bye Harold!”
“You were lovely, darling.”
“Give us a ring, yeah?”
“I love everything about you, beautiful, never change.”
And countless other meaningless farewells are thrown as each designer clad, perfumed body passes by Louis, one by one, before marching out the door in single file. Like an assembly line. And then the door closes and it’s just them, Louis maintaining his chipper demeanor while Harry stares at a random spot on the wall, motionless and unblinking.
“Well. That was…timed appropriately,” Louis offers through his teeth, and Harry’s eyes flick to him.
“What, you’ve got nothing to say?” he asks, cold. “No comments? No eye rolling? Just going to offhandedly remark on how appropriately timed it is?” His voice is almost challenging as he stares at Louis, full on, his hands now on his hips.
“That’s all I’m gonna say,” Louis promises, but it’s more a promise to himself than Harry, and
“That’s all I’m gonna say,” Louis promises, but it’s more a promise to himself than Harry, and Harry watches his face. “I have no right to judge you, do I?” he continues, fingers twitching with the effort, and Louis slathers on a smile.
Harry just stares back, gaze hardening.
Louis avoids his gaze, instead observing the room, but he feels every languid blink of Harry’s eyes, every second of his intent stare that is burningly fierce on the edges.
“What are you doing?” Harry asks suddenly, cutting the stiff silence, and his voice is strong but holds no humor.
Shit. So Louis is being too obvious.
He scrambles for an answer, suppressing his natural instincts and searching for something that is both accommodating and subtle.
“Waiting for you to tutor me,” he settles with, and he smiles once more.
Harry glares. “Right. Well. I don’t feel like it right now,” he says quietly, turning his back and beginning to pour himself a drink. His shoulders are heavy and his hands fumble, but his face remains impassive as Louis stares, gripping the strap of his shoulder bag.
He wants to ask why. He wants to ask about Des. He wants to ask a thousand previously unanswered questions in the hopes to get a little bit closer to getting an answer.
But, no, that isn’t what he’s agreed to do today. Today is about Louis catering to Harry. Treating him specially and carefully. Treading on thin ice.
So Louis says instead, “All right. We don’t have to, if you’d prefer.”
Harry pauses before turning to look at him. “What?”
“We don’t have to if you’re not in the mood.” Louis smiles as kindly as he can. “Whatever you want.”
Harry quirks another eyebrow. “Is that so.”
Louis nods, chewing the inside of his lip.
“All right, then. Sit down,” Harry instructs.
And Louis sits down.
“Stand up,” Harry says almost immediately, turning his body to face Louis fully, and a coldness is slowly overcoming his features.
Louis bites back a glare as he slowly stands up.
They stare each other down, disgust and anger dancing within the lines of Harry’s face, the shadows under his eyes darkening as he watches a silent Louis who has absolutely no fucking clue as to what’s going on.
This is backfiring.
This is totally, totally backfiring. Harry is going to probably tell Louis to scrub his toilet or something, and why the fuck did he think this was a good idea?
Louis waits, hands gripping so tightly to his shoulder bag that they’re actually cramping now, but he doesn’t release them for fear he’ll begin scratching Harry’s eyes out or throw a vase.
So he just waits.
Finally, Harry opens his mouth. “I want to study in the gardens today,” he says abruptly, chin lifted in defiance.
“Okay,” Louis agrees almost immediately.
Harry’s face falters infinitesimally, before stalking ahead. “Let’s go then,” he growls, throwing the door open, and marches onward, not even pretending to wait for Louis to catch up.
**
After a good seven minutes of sitting in the grass in the middle of the school gardens claiming he needs to have the right lighting before writing Louis’ outline, Harry decides to call some “mates” over to join them.
Louis smiles through his stress veins, says, “All right. Whatever you want,” and reassures himself that he must be mastering some sort of reverse psychology on Harry with these mind games--that even he can’t quite make sense of at the moment--as Harry texts on his phone.
Louis waits, legs crossed, gripping at grass blades for dear life, having absolutely no idea what to say in the flowery stillness. He resists the temptation of texting Niall to instruct Nelson to run Harry over with his car (isn’t he supposed to be attempting to befriend Harry? Isn’t that what this is all about?) as he watches two beautiful, lipstick-ed girls arrive, kissing Harry and cooing over him instantly.
He watches the tall blonde place Harry’s head in her lap as he lies in the soft fresh grass, watches as she pulls strawberries out of her purse and feeds them to him, one by one, as if he were some Greek God.
He watches Harry’s smirk as his eyes occasionally sweep over Louis, who just sits and can’t think of anything to do with his hands.
He watches as Harry instructs the magenta-haired girl to write whatever he says.
He watches as she pulls out pink, perfumed paper, and scribbles everything Harry dictates in regards to Louis’ outline.
All the while as Harry is fed strawberries, and the juice runs down his pearly chin.
Louis is seething. But he bites his lips.
“Does anybody know a violinist?” Harry suddenly drawls, craning his neck to look up questioningly at the nameless blonde girl. God forbid Harry introduce Louis. “I want music. Text all the violinists you know, darlings. My phone’s dead so I can’t.”
Like clockwork, both girls stop what they’re doing, take out their phones, and begin texting.
“I’m getting rewarded for this kindness, aren’t I?” the blonde asks with a luxurious smile, and Harry swipes his fingers over her lips.
“In the best way, darling, I promise you,” he breathes.
Louis almost throws up.
“Will you get my book, Louis Tomlinson?” Harry suddenly asks, and it’s so random and Louis is so used to being ignored, that he actually jumps in response. “I forgot it in my rooms and I’m currently occupied.” The slices of Harry’s eyes find Louis from his home in the girls’ lap as he waits expectantly for an answer.
“All right,” he agrees immediately, thankful to be rid of the scene, and shoots up off of the grass without a second glance back at that hot mess of people.
He marches across the campus, his mind screeching and shrilling and questioning this ‘brilliant’ fucking idea of catering to Harry, trying to decide what to do from here on out because, no, this is certainly not working.
And then he reaches Harry’s door.
And his temper escalates.
“It’s locked,” he tries not to snap, minutes later, as he approaches Harry and the girls upon his return. They're still in their same positions, now accompanied by two young boys and one girl, all playing violins a few paces back. And it’s pleasant, sure, but it only serves to stir the agitation building within Louis.
“Oh. My apologies,” Harry smiles winningly, handing over a small, ornate key tied to a strip of red velvet. “There you are. Now, off you go.”
And so Louis makes the trip back, opens the door, and searches Harry’s rooms.
There are no textbooks to be found. And he can’t fucking call him because: 1) He doesn’t have Harry’s number. 2) Even if he did, the bastard’s phone is dead.
He might be breathing fire.
“I couldn’t find them,” he says, upon returning again, through the fakest smile in existence, sweat now forming on his brow as he grips Harry’s key in his hand.
“Oh, drat, you know what? I actually don’t own any school books. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Harry says in the most exaggerated of tones, smirk blaringly evident, and his eyes glint with something that Louis can only describe as malice.
“Right. Easy mistake,” Louis huffs, handing back the key and trying not to send his foot flying into Harry’s crotch.
“Well, then. I think we’ll begin the proper tutoring once you’ve returned, now that Marge has completed your outline,” Harry hums, examining the key in his hand lazily as Blonde slides her fingers through his hair and smacks her gum, staring at Louis with bored eyes.
Louis’ stomach drops. “Returned?”
“From fetching me a cheese danish.”
“… A cheese danish,” Louis repeats flatly. Operation Best Mate. Operation Best Mate. Operation Best Mate.
“Correct. A cheese danish. I’m hungry, Louis Tomlinson. Can’t teach on an empty stomach,” he tuts, patting his stomach twice, and Louis almost bites clean through his lip.
“Right-o, pal," he practically screeches, determination and stubbornness flitting through his veins. "A cheese danish. Be back in just a moment!” He's borderline manic in his enthusiasm, taking off for the nearest bakery that him and Niall always go to when they’re drunk or stoned or have had a bad day or wake up before noon.
Louis has no clue what’s happening right now. No fucking clue. And he has less of a clue as to why he’s actively participating in this shit. But at this point it’s almost a matter of principle that Louis doesn’t back down, so he grinds his teeth and he gets Harry fucking Styles his cheese fucking danish as he swears upon every grave that matters to him to never, ever try to accommodate this spoiled wretch of a boy ever again.
When Louis finally returns, warm pastry in hand, Harry lolls his head over to look at him.
“Finally,” he drawls.
Louis can feel his eyes flash.
With one lazy gesture, Harry has Marge retrieve the prize from Louis without even bothering to look him in the eye, before the girl nestles herself at Harry’s side, pulling little bits off and gently lying them in Harry’s awaiting mouth.
Louis stares, feeling disgusted, furious, repulsed, fuming, frustrated, angry—
“You can go now,” Harry’s voice suddenly purrs through a mouthful. “We’re finished.”
“But you said that the proper tutoring—“
“Marge has your outline. Take it from her.”
Louis stares, truly at a loss for words.
“And take this,” Harry instructs, rolling up the pastry bag and chucking it at Louis, where it bounces off his head and onto the grass.
Speechless and dangerously close to committing homicide, Louis yanks the outline out of Marge’s procured hand, who is barely holding back her laughter, and Louis feels his cheeks flush at the raw rage he feels inside.
Fuck Operation Best Mate.
“Same time tomorrow,” Harry instructs in his drawl, a sneer taking up half his face, and as Louis walks away, he hears the girls erupt into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
**
“I FUCKING HATE HIM,” Louis screeches as he slams the door closed behind him.
Niall looks up from the piano stool—where he has also managed to drag the drum set—and raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Didn’t go so well?”
“I AM LITERALLY GOING TO PEEL HIS SKIN OFF AND MAKE HIM EAT IT,” Louis continues to bellow, kicking off his bag, then shoes--which go flying across the room as Niall tracks their trajectory with wide eyes--and then his clothes. “I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING, NIALL. I TAKE IT ALL BACK. HE’S AN EVIL, STINKING, SELFISH BASTARD THAT
HAS NO HEART, NO SENSE OF DECENCY, AND I COULDN’T GIVE LESS OF A FUCK ABOUT HIM.”
And then he slams his bedroom door shut, leaving a gaping mouthed Niall in his wake.
**
The next day, Louis can barely sit through his classes, his mind only on one thing: his tutoring session with Harry. Which already has his skin crawling.
It comes quickly enough, the day streaming by in tense anticipation.
But Louis is prepared this time.
Because, last night, when he was angrily doodling Harry being thrust into an active volcano, he also made a new outline for his plan of attack. This one entitled: ‘No More Mr. Nice Guy’. Because Louis is creative and original. And Louis takes his outlines very seriously.
If Harry is going to treat Louis like he’s a fool that’s worth less than nothing, just for the fun of it, then maybe Harry needs some tough love himself. Being accommodating is clearly not the way to befriend Harry Styles. So maybe a firm hand is.
When Harry opens the door for Louis, his glare is already present. He's donned in a full suit, bow tie and all, in rich eggplant. “Yay,” he drawls wryly.
Louis glares back, doesn’t respond, and shoves his way roughly inside.
“Well, then,” Harry says, shutting the door. “I suppose your attempt at good manners has passed?”
Louis ignores him again, instead making to stand in the middle of the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jean jacket. He stares ahead of himself, feeling the residual anger of yesterday at Harry’s voice, little spikes of malice and offense.
Harry seems oblivious though, instead opting to sit in a large, vermilion chair, a teacup perched between his fingers, legs crossed.
“And how are you today, Louis Tomlinson?” he asks casually, smirk disguised as a smile.
Louis’ head snaps toward him. “I’m not here to answer stupid fucking questions. Now, where’s my outline?” he barks, expelling his pent up rage and frustrations, and it feels surprisingly good.
Maybe tough love will be Louis’ new thing.
Harry’s face flickers in surprise, before his composure reassembles, and he’s taking a large sip from his teacup. “Well, obviously I haven’t started it yet since—“
“Then do it. I’m not here for small talk, so stop wasting my fucking time and let’s get this finished so the both of us don’t have to be here any longer than we have to,” Louis snaps, and he sends Harry his most withering glare, fists clenched at his sides.
Because, good, this is good. Louis is taking control, showing Harry he can’t just be a little spoiled bitch about everything, and in turn, Harry will snap back and they’ll fight, and it will result in mutual respect and understanding.
Louis waits, expecting the world to shatter at his words, or at least Harry’s teacup as he hurls it across the room, but what actually happens is…odd.
Really odd.
Harry’s face falls almost imperceptibly, and if Louis hadn’t become a connoisseur of Harry Styles facial expressions, he might not have picked up on it immediately. Because Harry’s face falls, and he stares at Louis. His shoulders slump in submission, and Louis watches him avert his eyes to the floor, downcast and small. Then, slowly—and dejectedly, much to Louis’ unease—Harry stands up, silently walking to his desk, head bent and eyes…wounded.
And fuck.
Fuck.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Louis watches him, feeling very much alarmed and out of sorts, and it’s like an actual kicked puppy is before him as Harry wordlessly sits and takes out a pen—not his quill—and paper, scribbling down an outline at incredible speed, his eyes never leaving the paper, the shadows seeming deeper, and he watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as the boy swallows thickly.
Just like that, the atmosphere of the room has turned to thick, painful sludge.
And Louis can’t tell if his new technique is working in some twisted way, this technique of a firm hand, or if it’s backfiring or what, but Harry’s at least listening now, and Louis takes that as a somewhatly positive sign?
So, swallowing the bile threatening to rise from his throat and the panging ache in his chest, Louis presses further.
“I hate your handwriting,” he criticizes, trying to keep his voice level and firm, standing over Harry’s shoulder and watching his work. “I can barely read it. Do you have to write it like that? Like you’re begging to be noticed?”
Harry’s hand immediately stills.
Fuck.
Louis grips the insides of his pockets to calm his own discomfort, feeling like an utter piece of shit. He walks away then, unable to look at Harry any longer because he cannot fucking keep doing this, can’t watch Harry’s reaction; because no matter how horrible he was yesterday, or how much this could, in the long run, potentially help, Louis can feel himself fracturing, unable to be this purposefully cruel.
And fuck, no, this tough love is definitely not Louis’ new thing. He doesn’t care if this is beneficial in some sick and twisted way; Louis fucking hates this. He’s not Harry. He can’t just dish out cruelty.
The minutes pass by, only interrupted by the scratch of a pen against paper, and the songs of the birds outside that drift through Harry’s cracked windows. The sun is warm and golden, lighting the burnt leaves of the autumn trees outside, and everything seems fiery and alight as Louis gazes out the window. The world on fire, burning. Much like his insides, which twist and coil and burn. With guilt. And panic. And anxiety.
And just what the fuck is he doing and why? And where are the other boys when he needs them??
At long last, the pen’s scratches stop, and Harry brandishes the finished product at Louis, eyes
never lifting from their downward trajectory.
Louis grabs the paper, feeling the brittle composure of his face, still unable to bring himself to look at Harry just yet and instead searching the document before him.
He stares. His heart constricts.
“You. You rewrote it,” he says, surprised, but his brow furrows and he looks to Harry for the conformation. “You rewrote the whole thing. Different.”
“You said you didn’t like my handwriting,” he says quietly, eyes still down, his lashes thick and clustered over his pale skin. And he almost looks on the verge of frustrated tears, his whole demeanor screaming rejection and insecurity, and it’s then that Louis sees just how wrong this tactic was. It’s not helping at all, not in any way, this fucking shambles of an experiment at behavior. Because Harry’s sensitive, moreso than Louis realized, and he sees it in the bow of his head and the slouch of his shoulders, and the way his body seems to almost fold in on itself as he sits and waits to be criticized further.
And, fuck, Louis swallows. It really just seems as though…Harry’s used to this. Harry’s accustomed to being judged and mistreated. That he’s so in the groove of being subservient to those who take advantage of their power over him, that he immediately folds up without a fight, waiting to be taken advantage of even further and fuck, Louis is going to be sick.
“I-“ he begins, but words don’t come out as he clutches his paper.
Harry looks up at it, flicks his eyes over the words, and says in a dead voice, still not meeting Louis’ line of sight,, “Is it not good enough?”
And Louis really, really might be sick now.
“It’s—“ Louis begins, but he literally cannot speak, staring at Harry as Harry stares at the paper.
Moments pass, ones where their sights remain the same, before Harry eventually stands, still without meeting Louis’ eyes, and turns his back to him, trudging slowly to his room, hands limp.
“You can see yourself out. We’re done for the day.” The words are quiet. And then he slips inside his room and shuts the door.
And no. Nope. Fuck no, Louis cannot leave like this.
So Louis stands, paper in hand, in the exact same spot for what could’ve been seconds, minutes, hours, or years.
Harry must’ve picked up on the fact that the sound of the door never came, because afore too long, his bedroom door creaks hesitantly and he’s peering out, eyebrows furrowed and eyes weary, lips set in a small, tentative frown that truly breaks Louis’ heart in ways he absolutely doesn't understand.
“Why are you still here?” he asks, and it’s almost fearful.
Louis stares at him. “I just. I’m…I’m looking at your curtains,” he bumbles, staring helplessly at the boy before him, his insides on the verge of leaking all over the floor.
“My…curtains?”
“Yes. Yeah. Yeah, your curtains. They’re a bit too long. And, see, I can touch ‘em up a bit if you
like. So they don’t collect dust mites or, ya know, lie on the floor.” Louis’ voice is thick from his emotions and a little faint, and not once has he even looked in the direction of said curtains, but he can’t think of any other excuse and can’t even begin to formulate his honest thoughts as he stares unblinkingly at Harry, feeling like a prize idiot.
“I like my curtains. I don’t want them altered in any way,” Harry then says stubbornly, voice stronger, presence less hesitant, and Louis feels his blood begin to pump again at the familiarity of this Harry.
Thank fuck.
Louis nods. “All right, then. That’s fine.”
Silence.
“Why aren’t you leaving?” Harry asks again, now opening the door fully and stepping out.
“Because—I—cuz—fuck, Harry!” Louis curses, feeling really, really overwhelmed and at a loss. “What’s wrong with you? I don’t know what to—can’t you just—“ he blurts helplessly, overwhelmingly frustrated yet intangibly so as his words collide and fall over each other, and Harry’s eyes widen.
“What are you talking about? Why are you acting so fucking strange?” Harry’s voice has an almost overwhelmed edge as well, his own bewilderment evident, and Louis tries to assess the situation and the best way to handle it.
But, instead, he panics.
Louis panics, turns on his heel, and bolts out of the door, mumbling a “Fuck, I can’t do this,” and runs as fast as he can back to his flat, not even bothering to shut Harry’s door on the way out.
**
“I’m evil!” Louis wails as he flings himself onto Niall’s lap.
Niall, sandwich midway to mouth as he’s sprawled on the couch watching music videos, stares down at Louis.
“Hello.”
“I’m the most evil fucking brute in the world and I want to die. I was so mean to him, Niall. I was so fucking mean. And he was so sad! Fuck, he was just so sad and I’m shit. I’m a shit person and I don’t deserve any happiness ever again. Oi, is that pepperoni?” he adds, sniffing at Niall’s sandwich.
“Hey. Get your own,” Niall scolds, shielding the sandwich, before settling a hand on the top of Louis’ head. “Don’t worry so much, Tommo. You make a big deal out of everything and it always turns out to be nothing.”
“This isn’t nothing!”
“Well, whatever it is, It’s going to be fine. It happened. Move on. So do you want to get dinner?” he asks easily, in his emotionally uncomplicated way, and Louis really envies him that, the fact that he can hear awful things, distressing things, and just move on with his life without a second’s hesitation.
“I’m too sick to eat,” Louis grumbles, unabashedly pouting and sticking his face in Niall’s stomach, hoping to sponge his warmth as he clutches at his t-shirt.
Niall grins as he shakes his head, patting Louis on the head and searching for his hand before grasping it in his own, comfortingly. “What about sushi?” he offers.
Louis sighs, sitting up in annoyance, but doesn’t let go of Niall’s hand. “I’m not hungry, Ireland, I’m upset. I don’t know what to do about Harry.”
For a moment, Niall studies Louis, the soft and strategically placed lighting of their posh flat warming his Campbell’s soup cheeks and midsummer eyes that flick over Louis’ features, before he finally grasps Louis around his shoulders, pulling him in for a proper cuddle.
“All right, well. Maybe if you knew more about Harry, you’d get a better sense of where he’s coming from?” Niall offers, half-watching the TV as he pulls Louis closer to his chest.
Louis allows himself to settle into Niall’s embrace, despite the shady hot sauce stain on his t-shirt. “You know, that’s a not a half bad idea,” he mumbles, blinking his thoughts out. He cranes his neck to look at him. “Is this your subtle way of asking me if I’d like to know more about Harry?”
Niall laughs, breath hot as it collides with Louis’ face, who squints away the assault. “Nah, mate. I don’t know shite about Harry other than what I’ve already told you. Fuck, I bet Zayn knows a thing or two, though. They’ve been mates since kids. Ask him.”
Louis pauses, letting the information soak into his bloodstream. “Ask Zayn,” he repeats, slowly. He blinks. “Niall. That is potentially the most helpful thing you’ve ever said,” he says in awe.
There’s a jolly laugh and a mussing of Louis’ hair, and then Niall’s arms release him. “Glad we have that settled. Now get your cunt arse up so we can eat some fucking dinner.”
And, grinning as he flicks Niall on the underside of his nose, Louis hops up and makes for his room, feeling a little less complicated.
