Louis doesn’t see Harry the next day.
He arrives for tutoring early, his anxieties numbing his fingertips. He’d been thinking about this moment all day, through every never ending course and half-assed conversation. Through every note scribbled down, every turn of the page in his textbooks, and every attempt at ignoring the whispered rumors that surrounded him involving the lads (at one point a girl smugly claimed to her friend that Zayn and Harry had broken out into a fisticuffs over her—Louis snorted so loudly the professor paused, mid-sentence, startled), he had only half paid attention, his thoughts and the beatings of his heart trapped somewhere within Harry’s rooms, stirring the unanswered questions that were dripping from his tongue. In fact, he’d been so eager for today’s session with Harry, he’d even rejected Niall’s invitation of steak and wine at his favorite restaurant. It was that serious.
But now he’s arrived and when Louis makes to open Harry’s door, it’s locked.
And when Louis knocks, it doesn’t open.
And when Louis texts ‘where r u?’ it goes unanswered.
And so Louis’ insides deflate.
And he walks back to his flat, disappointment and a new sense of dread settled into his bones and twisting the hairs at the back of his neck.
Excellent.
**
“If he’s missing again, so help me God!” Louis greets thunderously as soon as he enters the flat.
Niall looks up from his drum set, his large, pale sweater pushed up to the elbows, drumsticks poised above his head, ready to crash down. “Huh?” he asks, snapping into attention.
“Harry. He’s not in his rooms. He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s gone again, and we’re all just going to sit around looking pretty while he’s off in a ditch somewhere, probably dead, and nobody’s going to even—“
“What the fuck are you talking about, mate?” Niall asks, face utterly bewildered as he lowers the drumsticks, tossing them to the side, and giving his full attention to a very flustered Louis—who is now ripping off his jacket with more force than necessary.
Perhaps he’s wound a bit too tightly today. Anxiety and all that.
“I’ll text Zayn!” Louis suddenly says to nobody in particular, light bulb bursting into life above his head. He scuttles into the next room, kicking off his shoes as he does so and leaving them strewn across the floor.
“Text him what?” Niall calls after him.
“That Harry’s missing!”
‘Where’s Harry?’ he pelts out mercilessly on his phone, at an alarming speed.
“You should just leave it alone,” Niall calls, picking up one of the forgotten drumsticks and twirling it in his fingers.
“Too late!” Louis sings. He flits back into the room, now adorned in a full sweatsuit, and stares hungrily at his phone as it vibrates.
The reply:
‘Dunno mate.’
“Fuck’s sake,” Louis breathes, rolling his eyes with exasperation as he tosses his phone onto the nearest surface. “Of course he doesn’t know. Does anybody know anything around here?” he demands. Then he storms back into his room.
Niall stares. “Are you okay?’
“Me? I’m fine! I’m fucking splendid! But it’s not me who I’m worried about—it’s Harry! He’s gone again, Niall, gone! And after that phone call he got yesterday, I can only imagine what that means! He said he’d see me today but he’s not in his fucking rooms and—“
“Maybe he went out.”
“What? No. No! We had tutoring! He wouldn’t just forget about it like that! Why do you say stupid thing—“
Niall whistles low, cutting off Louis’ slew of pelted, agitated words. “We’re talking about Harry? Because I fuckin’ guarantee you he’d forget something like that. Why would that come as a surprise? You know what he’s like.”
Louis keeps from growling.
Yeah. He does know what Harry’s like. But apparently, Niall does not.
“He’s not like that, Niall. He’s not some selfish, evil bastard.”
“He’s not?” he asks, tossing the drumstick into the air before catching it, eyes focused on the movement.
Louis whips around to stare at the boy, hands on hips. “That’s not funny.”
“Jesus,” Niall mutters, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you really are in love with him.”
“I’M NOT IN LOVE WITH HIM,” he screeches in response, then storms to the bathroom and slams the door.
Niall blinks.
“Right. Well. On another note. I got an A on my last exam!” he calls, sliding off of the drum stool.
There’s a brief pause before Louis’ muffled voice emerges from behind the bathroom door. “You mean Rory got an A?”
Niall laughs. “No, I mean Google got an A.”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
Niall grins as Louis finally emerges from the bathroom, hair damp as he towels his face.
“Also, my father texted me. Recording’s back on for Des’ new track.”
Louis freezes. “Sorry?”
“The new track—the one I’m doing the drums for—it’s back on. He texted me this morning.”
“So Des is…” Louis swallows, gripping the damp towel in his hands, his mind immediately returning to Harry’s unanswered door. “Des is back? He’s recording and everything?”
A shrug. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Is Harry with him?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’ve only just heard—haven’t been there myself yet, have I?”
Louis ignores him, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting together in his head. Because of course. Des is back. Harry got the phone call, rushed away, looked almost happy, even…
Des is back.
A grin splits Louis’ face.
“Harry’s probably with him,” he smiles, looking over to Niall.
“Probably, yeah.”
“You going to the studio tonight, then?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll let me know if he’s there?”
Niall throws his head back in exasperation. “Fuck’s sake, Louis…”
“Niall,” Louis threatens, and picks up his stray shoe, threatening to pelt it at the boy’s head.
“Yeah, yeah, fine, sure. I’ll text you.”
“Thank you,” Louis grins, before tossing the shoe back down and joining Niall who is currently now making his way to the fridge. He ruffles his morning-sun hair and smacks his bum.
Which, naturally, Niall doesn’t even react to, remaining completely unfazed.
“You’re becoming obsessed,” is all he breathes in reply, under his breath.
“Am not. Now. Take me out to dinner? I want to complain about school and things.”
And, simple as that, they leave.
**
Harry isn’t there the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.
Nor is he ever at the studio, which Niall dutifully informs Louis of at nearly every waking moment, though Niall claims the recording is going splendidly, the track nearly finished. (“Des even came by today.” “Oh, he did? How did that go?” Niall shrugs. “Fine, I guess. He was a bit quiet. Kept to himself. He’s a damn good musician, though. The song he wrote is incredible.” “Oh really? How nice. Was, um, you know, Harr—“ “No, Louis, Harry wasn’t there.”)
So Louis texts him. More than he’d like to admit. He texts him before every tutoring session. ‘Omw. U better be there. Ass.’ Or some variation of that. He texts him when he hits mental brick walls while studying, his brain scattering to a thousand different places (most of those places landing on Harry’s doorstep which is just excellent) and leaving him little room to do anything else but tap out a, ‘Where r u?’ or the occasional, ‘R u ok?’ and sometimes the, ‘Im going to fail my term and itll be your fault. Think about that Curly.’ And, of course, there’s the, ‘Can u at least text me to assure me that ur not dead? That wld be nice.’
All to no avail.
And it’s sort of worrisome, yeah, it is. But Louis keeps telling himself, each time he arrives at Harry’s door and knocks fruitlessly, feeling a strange disappointment clunk in his stomach once he begins walking away silently, that he’s probably happy, probably safe, and probably with his father. Which…well. Louis actually doesn’t know how to feel about that.
But he really would like to think that Harry being with his father is a good, safe thing. So he leaves it at that.
He leaves it at that, and he doesn’t stare at his phone hopefully, he doesn’t walk by Harry’s rooms every day in hopes to see a light, he doesn’t stand in the gardens and wait for a movement, a flicker, anything, and he doesn’t reenact their last conversation in his head over and over and over. He absolutely does none of these things because the end of term is almost here, December is just around the corner—next week, in fact—and Harry Styles is just a boy who, really, may or may not be considered a mate.
And it’s that simple, really.
Yep.
That simple.
**
They’re in the library—even Niall—and it’s been four days since Louis last saw Harry.
“Don’t worry about him,” Zayn had assured him in a puff of smoke, and Louis smiled and nodded, sidling the conversation into one of lighter, funnier territory, while the mechanics of his mind clicked and puttered on, undeterred.
And while Louis wouldn’t label his feelings as ‘worry’, so to speak, he did still continue to think about Harry despite Zayn’s muttered assurances.
So it comes as no surprise that he’s thinking about him right now as the boys bask in the silence, Zayn highlighting passages in his novel, Liam clicking frantically on his Macbook, the blue-bright
screen highlighting the creases of anxiety etching his face, and Niall banging out a steady beat with his pen on the tabletop, pretending to read his notes. Because the fifth chair at their table—the chair that resides in the corner, edged by the bookshelves and thick, wooden walls marked with scratches from centuries past—is empty. Because that’s Harry’s self-appointed chair. The one that he demands to sit in because it’s “romantic and lonesome and just detached enough to remain poetic.” And while Louis had scoffed at the explanation at the time—threw an eraser at the boy’s head even, which earned him a scowl and a crumpled ball of paper to the face—he sort of understands it now, watching it lie in its shaded solitude, forgotten and forlorn in the corner. He’s almost tempted to sit in it just to dispel the pure loneliness it’s procuring. Almost.
It’s as Louis is lost in his thoughts, still staring at the empty chair, that a wizened, posh looking gentleman ambles along and stops abruptly as he sees Liam.
“Liam Payne!” he greets, as Liam’s stress soaked gaze looks up, startled. The man grins down, his ironed trousers and crisp jacket contrasting with the lads’ synchronized uniforms of heavy cotton and polyester. “William Payne’s boy, correct?”
Liam’s face immediately splits into a practiced grin, his mannerisms clipping into utter perfection. “Right you are, sir,” he smiles, standing up and shaking the man’s hand with gusto.
“Your father’s been telling us about how well you’ve done in your courses this term.”
Liam laughs tinklingly, shrugging his shoulders modestly. “Well, I certainly hope so. I do like to keep my marks up to the best of my abilities.”
The man smiles approvingly, assessing Liam with old, elitist eyes. Louis sort of wants to squirt his water bottle in his face.
“Your father says you’ve been excelling at the student newspaper. We’re proud of our university’s paper—it’s got a reputation to uphold. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Yes, sir.”
Louis rolls his eyes.
“He tells me that you might take over in his shoes sooner than we think.” This is probably meant as a compliment, but Liam looks more terrified than anything. “We’re all looking forward to your work this year, Liam. You never disappoint.”
Liam laughs again, slightly manical, while the man smiles on, completely oblivious. “And I hope I never do!” Liam laughs politely, eyes crinkling.
He nods one last time, before clapping Liam on the back. “I best be off. Send your father my regards.”
“Of course, sir. Have a good day, sir.”
As soon as the man is gone, Liam falls into his chair, eyes wide, dark, and panicked. “My father is talking about me??” he hisses. “What has he been saying?! How am I supposed to work under all of this pressure? Why the fuck would he do that to me?!”
Louis hadn’t seen Liam’s uncollected side up until recently. And, quite frankly, he finds it hilarious. He sniggers as Liam’s face pales with each frantic word that spills from his lips.
“It’s cuz he’s proud of you,” Zayn purrs seamlessly in response, looking up from his book.
Liam’s head collapses into his hands. “Yeah. Well I hate him.”
“No you don’t. You’re just stressed, is all,” Zayn soothes, and immediately stands behind him and begins to massage his shoulders.
Louis, feet kicked up, clad in sweatpants, and chewing on a pencil, glances up at the pair.
“If I hear just one sweet nothing whispered between the two of you, I will not hesitate to punch you both in the balls.”
Niall guffaws, Zayn chuckles, and Liam looks appalled.
“I’m just sayin’,” Louis mumbles quietly, unable to resist a smirk, and Niall laughs louder, the sound filling the quiet, endlessly vaulted ceilings, bouncing off of the dusty bookshelves and the worn carpet, the ancient books, the marble statues, and the empty chair that sits at their table, untouched.
Which Louis continues not to think about as Zayn kneads cool, calming hands into Liam’s back.
The silence is only broken once more, about an hour later.
“I’m sick of this shite. I want to go out,” Niall says, dropping his notebook onto the tabletop and sighing harshly, the noise grating against the air.
Three sets of eyes look up as one.
“It’s a weekday!” Liam says, offended at the very thought.
Niall shrugs. “So? We used to go out every night of the week.”
“Oh, those were the days,” Louis laments, frowning down at his stack of books and messy piles of paper. “I wish I could go…”
“You wish you could go?” Liam gapes, almost screeches. Louis’ eyebrows raise. “What is wrong with you two?? How could you possibly consider just moseying about around town when we have exams and papers and editorials and deadlines and outlines and blueprints and meetings and…” And with each listed chore, his voice raises an octave higher, until a bemused Zayn is forced to wrap his arms around Liam’s tense, tense shoulders, purring calming words into his ear and ushering him to the side for some unwinding time.
“It’s all right, Li. You’ll be fine. Just fine. Shh,” he breathes in a satin soft tone, gently rubbing his thumbs against Liam’s nearly quivering arms.
Louis sniggers while Niall raises his eyebrows at the spectacle.
“Right. So you coming then, Tommo?” he asks, turning to face Louis.
He sighs. “Nah, mate. In a perfect world, I would, but as it is...”
“All right,” he concludes, hopping out of the chair and popping his pen into his mouth, notebook gripped at his side. “Suit yourself. Have a good ones, lads. Bye, honey.” He adds, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek messily before bounding away.
Louis watches, fond and exasperated simultaneously. “I swear, Ireland. If you end up getting better grades than me this term, I will peel your skin off with a paperclip.”
Niall pauses, turning around, his eyebrows nearly hidden in his hairline. “Bit harsh, innit?”
Niall pauses, turning around, his eyebrows nearly hidden in his hairline. “Bit harsh, innit?”
Louis looks down at himself—the socks he’s had on for days, the wilted sweatpants with an unnerving orange stain from the spaghetti he’d had last night, and that’s not even beginning to mention his greasy, stubbly complexion or the matted cluster of grease that claims to be hair that is currently sitting atop his head. All because he’s spent more time studying than bathing or sleeping. And then he looks back to Niall. Sunny, golden, clean, and calm Niall.
“No.”
And Niall laughs, head tilted back, teeth white and immaculate, before heading out the door without a second’s thought.
“And you said Liam and I were bad,” Zayn teases with a smirk.
“Yeah. Cuz me and Niall don’t shag like you two fuckers,” he mutters, which only makes Zayn’s grin grow and Liam’s eyes widen.
And then he goes back to his book, firmly ignoring the way Liam and Zayn look at each other, and the empty chair in the corner.
**
Another day of classes have gone by—and another impressive exam score (is this real life?)—and Louis is on his way to Harry’s once again, already steeling himself for the silence he knows he will be met with as he trudges through the patter of icy rain, a beanie tucked over his head and just managing to cover the tips of his reddening ears. He whips out his phone, as is custom, and taps out a, ‘Probs gonna be greeted by a locked door again. U kno u shld rly text me back and save me the trouble u nuisance.’
Like absentminded clockwork he climbs the steps near the gardens, walks up to his door, turns the faded metal of the doorknob, pushes the heavy wooden door open and—and it’s open.
He nearly falls inside.
Before he has time to gather himself—his shoulder bag nearly bringing him down, and hard—he hears movement from just beyond his line of sight.
“Louis Tomlinson,” that voice greets, and instead of Louis’ stomach clunking in disappointment, it soars up to somewhere near his mouth.
Because he was not expecting Harry to actually be here. Nor was he expecting him to be… holding strawberries? And wearing a red suit and bow tie, smiling dashingly as he offers them to him in a gilt bowl.
If he’s being honest, he sort of assumed Harry would be in the depths of despair upon their next encounter, what with Des being back and all the unforeseen complications that seem to accompany the man. But this certainly isn’t an unwelcome contrast.
“Strawberry?” Harry offers as if on cue, posed perfectly. “They’re my new thing.”
Louis stares, finally having gathered himself and shut the door behind him, his beanie falling off, his sweatshirt hanging in disarray, and his bag piled beside him on the floor.
“Harry,” he says, shocked, his voice light with surprise as he stares at the utterly unexpected scene before him. “You’ve come back.”
Harry smiles in response, perfect and charming, but it’s not altogether disingenuous, so Louis smiles, too.
And immediately Louis feels happy beyond understanding, but also sort of bewildered and confused, so he mumbles, “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” as he stares, still absorbing the details of the situation.
Harry? Red suit? Strawberries? In autumn? Harry? Back? Happy?
“They’re delicious,” Harry replies to a question that wasn’t asked, and plucks a strawberry from the bowl and brings it to lips whose hue matches the fruit in question perfectly. With a smirky grin that paves the way for so many questions, he bites into the fruit, juices dancing on the soft padding of his lips, before he pops the thing entirely into his mouth, ripping the stem off delicately and flicking it to the side.
Louis watches the movement, before shuffling his feet.
He doesn’t want to break the vibe of the good mood. Honestly. He doesn’t.
But he’s prickling with curiosity and worry still, his mind still hung up on that mysterious phone call that pulled Harry away in the first place, so his smile quiets as he takes in Harry’s face which bears the relaxation and quiet happiness that Louis had glimpsed last he saw him. It’s the closest thing to ‘genuinely’ happy Harry’s been, and it’s wonderful. But it also quietly scares Louis, because inconsistency seems to be a theme in Harry’s life, and happiness is well and good, but how does it react when faced with troubled waters?
He may be happy now, but what if something happens? Will he crash? Hard? Come tumbling down to the ground in a fiery wreck?
Louis doesn’t know.
So he regards Harry before he dares out a, “Where’ve you been? What happened?” in the most casual tone he can manage. Which isn’t very casual at all, his words squeaking at the end the tiniest bit.
Harry swallows, his eyes beginning to reflect something more real at the words. He looks down at the bowl in his hands as his lips fade into an expressionless line. He doesn’t move.
Louis sighs, pulling his beanie over his head a bit more, before rubbing a hand over his eyes. He really needs to stop being so forward with Harry—the boy can’t take it.
“All right, look,” he says, walking up until he’s standing directly in front of Harry, hands illustrating his words, and he notices him take an almost imperceptible step backwards. “I know I don’t have any right to know. I know that it’s none of my business and I’ve no right to keep asking you all of these questions that you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry for it, I am. I’m nosy—too nosy for anybody’s sake—and I wish I could say that I won’t keep asking, but I will, and I’m sorry for all those times, too. But can you at least just, like, let me know that it’s all good? So I know that I don’t have to worry about you falling into a stupor or summat. Cuz I…” He drifts off, searching for words. Harry’s shoulders tense, his brow furrowing further as he waits. “…I need a tutor awfully bad. And, see, it’s such short notice to get another one. So, just because I need you as my tutor, can you just let me know if everything’s good?” Louis finishes, and he smiles as he ducks to catch Harry’s eye, immediately feeling the weight of the conversation lift fractionally.
Harry huffs out a breathy noise (a snort? a chortle? could it be?), shifting his weight as he lifts his
gaze to the wall. His face is light, maybe a little amused, but the words still aren’t coming, and he bears all the shifting weight of one who is still largely uncomfortable.
So Louis tries again.
“What if we speak in code, yeah?”
Harry finally looks at him. An eyebrow raises.
“If things aren’t, like, good, hand me one strawberry. But if things are good, hand me two strawberries.” He pauses. “With full stems.” He smiles. “I’ll even eat them and everything.”
And a single laugh escapes Harry, almost shattering the lightbulbs in the room, not to mention Louis’ vital organs as he mentally documents the date that he managed to procure a proper laugh from Harry Styles.
“They both need stems?” he clarifies, eyebrow still raised.
“Oh yes, absolutely,” Louis nods, feeling his cheeks twitch as Harry looks down at the strawberries thoughtfully.
He slowly begins rummaging in the bowl, his fingers delicately picking at the fruit, carefully inspecting each one before finally housing two in the protective bowl of his palm. His eyes averted downward, he offers them to Louis, hand outstretched and patient.
Louis breathes out a small stream of relief before he finally observes the offering, wrinkling his nose as he stares at them—one is fine, stem and all, but one…resembles a raisin. That’s been digested.
“Uhm,” he starts, poking at the purplish lump lying in Harry’s palm with his forefinger. “Care to explain why you chose this one? In the mood to give me a food-borne illness, are we?”
Harry’s smile (yes, he’s still smiling—having his father returned to him has done the boy wonders) twitches at the corner. “I like that one,” he drawls in protest. “I chose him specifically.”
Louis looks up. “Him?”
“Aloysius.”
“Aloysius,” Louis repeats in a deadpan. “You named a shriveled strawberry Aloysius.”
Harry shines proudly, looking up to meet Louis’ gaze. “Yeah,” he nods with bright eyes and a half-smile.
“Right then. Just checking,” Louis says, and offers his palm.
Without another word Harry dumps his treasures, before taking back his hand and dusting it off on his trousers, seeming pleased.
Louis smiles, mostly to himself, as he stares at the fruit in his hand. He’s never been happier to see strawberries in his life.
“I’m glad, you know,” he finally says.
Harry looks up.
So does Louis.
“That everything’s good,” he explains, motioning towards the strawberries.
Understanding blooms upon Harry’s features and he nods. “Me, too,” he says quietly, and the shadow of a smile still haunts his face which only presses Louis’ lips into a bigger grin.
There’s a moment where Louis’ still holding the two strawberries, staring at Harry and feeling strangely…uplifted? His feelings are rocketed upward, encompassing him in a way that is both alien and familiar, and all he can do is stare at the boy before him, resplendent in vermilion and resembling someone so very human and so very real, the facades broken down in so many ways, it almost makes Louis want to reach out and touch him, just to assure himself that this is reality and not the twisted makings of his own mind.
But before he can entertain such silly thoughts any further, Harry’s turning away, setting down the bowl gently, his head bowing with the motion and his back facing Louis.
“But why?” he suddenly asks, and his creased brow is back. Which. Doesn’t frustrate Louis as much as it makes his heart thump unsteadily, wearily.
“Why what?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Why does that make you glad?”
And there it is. That quiet, questioning voice of Harry’s that always manages to shatter Louis’ bones.
He gapes, at a loss for the abrupt and genuine curiosity of the question, before he slides his hands into his back pockets, rocking on his heels a bit, adopting the most nonchalance he can gather.
“Because. I really need a tutor.”
A short, small laugh escapes Harry again (Louis thinks the sun may have popped that time) before he presses it back inside, a smile present on the lips that he casts downward, tucking into his chest and shielding away from the world. Which really isn’t right. He shouldn’t be hiding his smiles. He should be lifting his chin into the air and lighting the world with them.
“And. You know.” Louis pauses, dares to say the next words. “You’re a mate.”
There. He said it.
And, just like that, the mood is altered.
Harry turns, looks fully at Louis, eyebrows pinched once more.
“Louis…I don’t have ‘mates.’”
At that, Louis releases a puff of air, rocking harder on his heels as he shakes his head with enough exaggeration to belittle his internal disappointment. “Well, I dunno, Curly. That’s going to be pretty awkward to tell the lads.” He chances a glance at Harry who is looking down at the bowl of strawberries, quiet and guarded, body half-turned away from Louis. He can feel it—can feel the line they’re balancing on. He knows that one overeager move will send Harry scattering in the opposite direction, shielding himself from Louis’ intrusions that are too much, too large, too forceful for a boy who can barely grasp the concept that someone might just care about his presence in the world. So Louis just smiles easily and finishes with a musical, “And, you know, that’s not even mentioning how rude it is that you would say that when I’m standing right in front of you, declaring myself as ‘mate.’”
Harry glances up at him.
Louis waits for an absolution.
“Aren’t you going to eat the strawberries?” Harry asks, and Louis blinks because, no, that was not what he was expecting, but...it works. Because Harry’s still in the room and he’s not slamming doors or lowering the cages behind his eyes.
“Of course I am,” Louis says immediately despite his surprise, and throws them into his mouth without a second’s hesitation, resolutely ignoring the garish wrinkles of Aloysius. He chews, purposeful at first, then thoughtful, the flavor filling his mouth. “You know, I must say,” he says, mouth full, “This is probably the best regurgitated strawberry I’ve ever eaten.”
Harry’s face immediately erases of the trepidation and discomfort it had previously housed, a small, almost silly smile delicately painting it instead. “It’s not regurgitated!” he insists, and it bears such a childlike undertone that Louis feels his own smile warm.
“Is it an owl pellet, then?” he continues, spurred on, and Harry’s short, quick snort cuts through the room and the air particles, leaving Louis’ skin abuzz, the very earth abuzz. “Is that what you were doing while you were away? Finding your Hedwig? And feeding me her remains?”
At that Harry rolls his eyes, but his lips are still quirked, and he begins striding towards his china cabinet. “Let’s go outside. We’ll hold our tutoring session another time. It’s a beautiful day,” he says without transition, opening the glass doors and inspecting his teacups.
Louis starts, glancing out the window at the murky gray sky and freezing rain. “Er.”
“It’s perfect weather for a picnic,” Harry continues, before selecting two teacups and shutting the doors gently. He turns around expectantly, eying Louis. “What say you?”
“I say that you’re bloody mad and that it’s fucking freezing outside. And wet. And we might die if we have a picnic,” Louis says, still feeling the remnants of the chill from his short walk here. Fuck no, he was not going to have a picnic at the end of November. Besides, wasn’t Harry supposed to be a dainty creature, anyway?
Harry sighs, rolling his eyes as he plucks the bowl of strawberries back up off the table. “Don’t be boring.”
“I am not boring!” Louis squawks, as Harry offers him a small, red teacup with a small sparrow painted on the side.
“Your favorite cup, correct?” he asks, the object sitting in his extended palm, and Louis nods, grumbling as he accepts the offering with muttered assent.
“I’m not having a picnic outside with you,” Louis says in a tone that’s very final, letting the teacup dangle unfeelingly from his fingertips.
“Yes you are. I love the rain.”
“Funny, because I don’t. I think I may even hate it. And besides, I’m not even sure that qualifies as rain—I think it’s closer to the ‘snow’ spectrum, to be honest. Given that it’s winter.”
But Harry doesn’t even hear, already marching out the door.
“Hey! Where are you going?!” Louis demands, trotting to catch up.
“Zayn’s,” Harry responds immediately, head held high.
“For what?”
“The picnic. I want full attendance.” What in the--?
“Are you high right now?”
“Of course not,” Harry replies simply, and the conversation dies as they round the corner to Zayn’s tower.
Louis follows behind Harry’s large strides as they take the stairs, Louis’ mind sputtering in confusion (because what??) until finally they reach Zayn’s door and press inside, finding Zayn, Liam, and Niall, all sprawled about in various positions of boredom and/or exhausted stress.
“My loves!” Harry greets grandiosely, spreading his arms in welcome. Louis rolls his eyes from behind him. “You are cordially invited to a picnic. Outside. Right now. Bring your own teacup.”
Louis snorts. “As if anybody’s actually going to agr—“
“You know, that’s not a half bad idea,” Zayn says from his spot at the table, surrounded by mountains of books and binders.
… What the actual fuck?
Zayn then looks over to Liam, questioning, gauging his reaction.
“Absolutely not,” Liam replies automatically, and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. “Do you know how much I have to do?? I haven’t even started my spreadsheet, Zayn. My spreadsheet,” he repeats with urgency.
“I’m with Payne. Have you been outside? It’s fucking freezing. No thanks. I’d rather stay here,” Niall says, sprawled on the couch, flicking through his phone.
Zayn rolls his eyes as Harry pouts and Louis performs a mental victory dance.
And then Zayn’s standing, tugging Liam’s arms until he’s in a standing position as well. “Come on, love. You could use the fresh air. It’ll be fun. Then for the rest of the night we can do your spreadsheet, yeah?”
Liam pouts, lip protruding ridiculously as he stares into Zayn’s soothing pools that some would call ‘eyes.’ Louis can see him relenting (which, just great), until finally his shoulders sag in defeat and he sighs, nodding tiredly.
“All right,” Liam says, looking over to Harry. “I’m in.”
Harry positively beams.
“Yeah, well I’m not,” Niall mumbles from the couch.
“I’ll buy you strippers, alcohol, and mention your impeccable drumming abilities to my father’s friends,” Harry bribes, bored and impatient.
And Niall shoots up. “Picnic it is, then.”
“Oh, fucking excellent,” Louis says, throwing his arms up as the boys begin to assemble into warmer clothes, stuffing on stylish jumpers and sliding their feet into thick, leather shoes. He looks
down at his own outfit—maroon skinny jeans, white Converse, and a gray zip-up hoodie that’s not exactly made of the thickest of materials—and not only feels under-dressed, but inadequately suited for the weather. “I’m going to die of hypothermia,” he deadpans, eyes narrowed at Harry.
“That’s why you have to drink tea,” Harry explains as if that’s an explanation at all, and Louis just gives him a look as the boy begins to fuss around Zayn’s rooms and…actually begins to make a pot of tea.
Louis massages his temples.
What even is his life?
**
They’re outside, it’s spitting freezing rain (or, as Niall likes to inexplicably call it—“Ice Giant wee”) and the only fucking reason Louis is participating in this shambles is because it makes Harry’s face light up like a Christmas tree which is something Louis’ never seen before, and it sort of helps to chase the chill away in a very small, silent, selfless way. Because fuck, if Harry’s finally back and his dad’s returned, and he’s seemingly happy and in good spirits and wants to have a goddamn picnic in the dead of winter, then…fuck. There really isn’t much else to say, is there.
At least Liam’s brought the football. Much to Harry’s horror.
“It’s supposed to be a picnic,” he insists with a whine, standing in his red suit, teacup in his hand, as the icy wind tumbles his curls and paints his features in soft pink glows.
But everybody ignores him, instead splitting into two teams—Zayn and Liam VS. Louis, Niall, and Harry—and begins kicking the ball expertly back and forth.
They play for the better part of an hour, running around in the cold, gray air that leaves their jumpers wet and their shoes muddy. It’s invigorating, urging frozen limbs into life, and Louis finds himself almost appreciating Harry having ushered them outside in the wintry chill. With pale skin and flushed, blotchy cheeks, their gasped, laughing breath creates soft plumes in the frigid air, filling the silence of the courtyard and making everything brighter as they slap hands and bums, offering praises and taunts with each play. It’s a good game: Liam is brilliant as always—“I’m on the team, you know.”—and Zayn is unsurprisingly skilled, as is Niall, and of course Louis is certainly no stranger to the sport. But Harry…well.
Harry attempts to kick the ball once, and the one time he does, he goes flying to the ground, his foot never coming close to the ball. Not even close.
“Shit,” he hisses from the icy grass, inspecting his palms and dirtied suit. Of course he insisted on keeping his suit on for the ‘picnic.’ Of course.
“Better luck next time, Styles!” Niall shouts jovially, jogging to the other side of the lawn, Zayn and Liam on either side.
Louis’ about to follow, but there’s something very endearingly pathetic about Harry’s crumpled figure on the ground, his pigeon toes quirked at odd angles, grass and mud stains streaking almost every inch of his once pristine suit. There’s a pout on his face, silent and upset, and Louis sighs as the boy struggles to gain his footing.
“Here, Curly. Before you hurt yourself” he says, offering his hand, unable to shield away his smile.
Harry pauses, peering up at him with grumpy, furrowed eyes, and Louis can’t tell if it’s the cold or the embarrassment that flushes his cheeks, but he finally accepts the offered hand and rises to his feet unsteadily.
“Football is stupid,” he mutters, his hand immediately finding his watch and rubbing the space there absently. He averts his gaze to his feet.
“Football is fun,” Louis corrects.
“I’m no good at it,” Harry scowls, looking off in the distance. “I never was.” He glances at Louis who is still catching his breath as he listens, his beanie clutching on for dear life, hands on his hips. Harry continues, low and hesitant. “I was never really a sporty sort of person. My father wanted me to be, I think, but… Like, even at school I just..” he stutters in his rumble, picking at the dying grass with the toe of his boot, hand still clutching his wrist. Finally, he looks up at Louis, eyes very nearly miserable and very helpless. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
And Louis bursts into laughter. Which makes Harry’s face crack the tiniest bit, his lips twitching upward.
“It’s not funny,” he argues, but his lips twitch further, and Louis can only cackle, head thrown back and arms wrapped around his stomach as Harry tries his hardest to maintain a scowl.
“OI! Lads! You coming or what?!” Liam shouts suddenly, splitting the air between them.
“Yeah, yeah! Just a minute!” Louis shouts, his laughter finally dying down.
Harry’s gaze returns back to the ground. He chews at his lip.
“I can teach you, you know,” Louis says simply with a smile.
Harry looks up, cross. “Maybe I don’t want to be taught.”
Louis just shrugs. “So then ignore me. But I’ll teach you, anyway.”
Harry stares.
Louis takes that as a green light.
“All right, so, first off—your stance is all wrong. Here, you’ve got to shift your weight, just like this—“ Louis places his hands on Harry’s, urging his limbs to shift into the proper pose.
Taken aback, Harry’s eyes find his face, unblinking and direct, as Louis looks down to their feet, instructing Harry’s to move accordingly. But as Louis continues to speak, his hands still clutching gently onto Harry’s own, Harry’s eyes, intent on Louis, flicker with something indefinable, the planes of his face twisting with unease and, suddenly, he disengages himself from Louis’ grasp without an ounce of warning. Instantly his features grow distant and startled, his stare having flicked away from Louis’ face, now darting around the courtyard.
“I want to play a different game,” he suddenly announces, stepping away from Louis, voice offkilter.
Louis blinks. Because…what just happened? He observes Harry—his fidgeting feet and hands that search for something to do.
“Uh, and what game would that be?” he asks, for lack of anything else to say, bringing his hands back to his sides and feeling a persistent stinging beneath his flesh at the sudden change. He’s
faintly aware that the others are still waiting on them, shuffling around impatiently somewhere behind them on the lawn.
But before he receives an answer, Harry is already halfway across the courtyard.
“Harry!” he calls, but he never turns back, his stride purposeful.
And, well, shit.
“Where’s he off to?” Liam asks as soon as Louis reconvenes with them.
“Is he fussed because he’s such shit at football?” Niall asks bluntly.
Louis sighs, pulling his beanie tighter over his ears. “I’m not sure. He just sort of…took off. Said he wanted to play a new game.”
“Hide and Seek.”
All eyes turn to Zayn.
“I’m sorry?” Louis asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“He’s playing Hide and Seek,” he clarifies smoothly, nodding in the direction Harry’d taken off in. “He wants us to find him. He does this all the time.”
Right. Of course.
“Fuck’s sake. Well let’s just find the cunt then so we can go back indoors. It’s fucking freezing out here,” Niall complains, tugging on the hood of his sweatshirt.
And they disperse.
**
It isn’t long before Harry’s been found. And, as is custom, he is now deemed “It” or whatever, so now they’ve all got to hide like a bunch of scattered mice (because who can say no to Harry when he’s laughing, his cheeks licked with the cold, his eyes shining with all the sunlight that’s been trapped by the clouds) and Louis is sort of incredibly sick of this game already as he sits uncomfortably in a tree, his ass throbbing and muddied, his hands scraping against the wet bark.
Because, yes, Louis has accomplished something new: he’s successfully climbed a tree today. And he’s pretty sure that would earn him a badge somewhere. But he can’t quite give two fucks about that right now because Harry’s ‘It,’ Harry’s nowhere to be seen, Louis is cold, and Louis wants to go back inside and devour a pot of hot soup, his adrenaline having officially departed from his bloodstream and leaving glaciers there instead.
Luckily it’s then that Harry’s curious little head pokes out from down below as he cautiously steps forward, searching around the yard with wide, penetrating eyes.
He watches the boy through the bare branches of his perch as he cluelessly pads around, inspecting the tree trunk, before moving along.
Which. No. Louis wants to be found, goddammit. It’s cold out here.
So he noisily clears his throat.
Harry whirls around. “I heard that!” he challenges, but his eyes spin aimlessly, searching for the
source blindly, never once thinking to look up.
Louis sighs, long and suffering. “You do realize that you’re terrible at this game, don’t you?” he says, one foot dangling from the tree branch.
Harry’s head snaps up, and immediately they lock eyes.
“What are you doing up there?” he asks, surprised.
“I have no idea,” Louis grunts, shifting uncomfortably. “Worse yet…I have no idea how to get down.” He glances downward—which really isn’t that far, to be fair—before slinging his other leg over the side of the branch, anticipating a hopped descent.
“I didn’t take you for the climbing type,” Harry says, watching Louis’ unsteady movements.
“That’s because I’m not the climbing type.” He slides nearer to the edge of the branch, feet dangling farther down treacherously. He’s probably going to die.
Harry quiets, watching Louis. “You’re the football type, though.”
“I’m not really that, either.” He braces himself with one hand against the trunk, ready to plummet. He awkwardly hops down, almost catching his foot on a sneaky limb, and stumbles to the ground in the messiest, clunkiest way imaginable, almost collapsing instantly.
He fucking hates trees.
It’s only after he’s firmly planted safely on the grass, balance restored, that he notices the two large hands that are steadying him on either side of his waste. They’re gentle, feather light, and…they belong to Harry. Harry Styles.
Louis looks from the hands to the face that possesses them—which is much closer now, Harry having apparently rushed to catch Louis during his tumble—and just stares at the delicate features and wide stormy eyes, swirling and impenetrable like the sky above, a range of emotions flitting through his own blood cells, his sides immediately warming to the soft touch that is so unexpected and so oddly jarring.
But then Harry removes his hands and takes a smooth step backwards, his face masked and calm. He remains silent, only the overcast stirrings of his eyes filling the space between them.
“Thanks, mate,” Louis says in a tone that sounds more strangled than he’d like, and he feels his face smiling, cheeks warming completely against his control. He wants to make a joke about manhandling or insist that he doesn’t need any help from nobody, but instead he just continues to smile and stare at Harry, whose red suit is smeared so pitifully with mud and grass streaks, damp from the icy rain and sticking to his skin. His skin is ghostly pale, almost blending seamlessly with the white, weeping atmosphere, the vein in his neck protruding ever so slightly, and he’s got a stray dead, crispy leaf tucked into his cinnamon curls behind his left ear.
He looks like autumn.
Louis unthinkingly reaches out and gently pulls the leaf out, careful not to pull any hairs with it, Harry’s eyes steadily watching his movements, guarded, but allowing the gesture all the same, expressionless and a little dark, maybe a little uneasy.
Louis shows him the leaf, once extracted. “Leaf,” he explains unnecessarily, voice sheepish. His skin feels itchy. So does his throat.
Harry’s gaze continues to cut him.
And then suddenly Harry’s plucking the leaf from Louis’ hand and flinging it into the air with a grand, swooping arm, a cheeky half smile formed on his face that bursts through the odd (odd) mood and gloom, settling the vibe into something more comfortable.
Both heads watch as the leaf tumbles through the air, falling lazily and swirlingly until it lands on the damp, graying ground, camouflaged amongst the mud and mole hills.
“Persephone has returned to Hades.”
And that’s the last think Louis is expecting, so he blinks as he turns to Harry, eyebrows shot in the air. “Pardon?”
Harry turns to him, moist, clustered lashes blinking calmly. “The last leaf has fallen,” he says simply, pointing to the ground. “Demeter’s weeping because her daughter’s returned to the underworld.”
Louis continues to stare.
But Harry doesn’t mind, continuing in his slow, languid drip of a voice, eyes faintly pinched with a dreamy amusement. “Demeter controls the crops and the yield and the seasons. The weather reflects her feelings.” Harry looks up at the spitting, gray sky, squinting against the muted light and precipitation. “That’s why everything’s gray and dead right now. She’s sad because she’s lonely. She misses her daughter.”
Louis watches him, watches his lips form the words from memory.
“And cold as well? Because she’s unhappy?” he asks, eyes flitting across Harry’s face.
Harry nods, still staring up at the sky.
In some, inexplicable way, that pangs Louis’ insides. And while it hasn’t anything to do with Harry, really—the boy seems the closest to happy that Louis has ever seen—it still unsettles him, sitting with him strangely in his stomach.
Louis purses his lips before walking over to the fallen leaf, plucking it up from the ground.
Harry’s head snaps to him. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping hold of it, then.”
“Why?” he asks, startled.
“In case she ever misses Persephone, I’ll show it to her,” he explains as if this is a logical conversation. But Harry doesn’t laugh or roll his eyes, so he doesn’t either.
“But won’t that make her sad?” Harry protests, childlike and curious.
Louis shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’ll just serve as a reminder that she’ll be coming back before too long.”
And then Harry grins, procuring enough light for the entire universe and momentarily causing Louis to forget that the sun isn’t even out at all. It's sort of wondrous.
But then:
“Lads! I’m freezing me nuts off!”
Niall is clomping towards them, soggy and panting, hair in complete disarray. “Are we still playing this fucking game or did one of you fucking idiots forget to mention that you’ve been found?”
Harry and Louis glance at each other.
“That’s what I thought. Now fuck’s sake, come on! The lads are waiting.”
And with one last glance exchanged, they march back towards Zayn’s rooms.
**
The rest of the day is good.
They study sporadically—or, rather, Liam studies sporadically—and lie about, having changed into warm, dry clothes that snuggle their limbs. Harry lights scented candles (“Strawberry scented, of course. Anything else would ruin me.”) and Zayn breathes cigarettes and doodles on everyone’s skin in black Sharpie. There’s copious amounts of food and game systems and jokes that are only funny because of the way each other laughs about them, and everything feels sort of wonderful.
And Louis feels happy.
Happy, as he currently stands by Zayn’s fireplace, attempting to make sense of his unkempt hair— having finally discarded his sad, sad beanie that now smells of grass sweat—when suddenly Harry ambles up to him, teacup in hand, now wearing an immaculate rouge jumper and brown-black trousers. Which really shouldn’t work as well as it does.
“Louis Tomlinson,” he greets, and takes a sip from his teacup, eying Louis’ movements in the mirror. “Keeping your hair a bit of company?”
“I think it may be the other way around, to be honest,” Louis mutters, attempting to sort the mess of strands. “And it’s keeping me too much company at that.”
Harry smirks, continuing to watch. His gaze is calm and observant, and Louis does his very best to continue his ministrations and not catch those eyes reflected back at him. Even if he sort of wants to. Even if he’s already feeling a random, pleased smile pushing against his mouth just due the mere fact that Harry’s willingly walked up to him. As if this is a thing they do.
As if they were mates.
“I’m hosting a party tomorrow,” he says suddenly, lips large and red, matching his jumper. “Due to it being the end of term, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You’re allowed to come.”
“Oh, am I? I’m allowed?” Louis says, eyebrows raised, turning to face Harry now, whose lips twitch. “Funny, the way you say that. As if that has any bearing upon whether I’ll be there or not.”
Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but his lips twitch even more.
“You know I’m not good at being told what to do,” Louis reminds him with a smirk, returning back to the mirror.
“Yes. I know.”
And it’s good.
**
Eventually, Niall, Louis, and Harry begin the trek back to their rooms.
Niall walks between Harry and Louis, their arms all linked together as Niall urges them along, skipping like a madman (did he drink when nobody was looking?) and Harry is smiling quietly to himself as he strolls, arm being tugged by Niall, while Louis sneaks glances at him and makes loud, catty jokes to distract from said glances.
Then Niall suddenly sprints ahead without explanation, clicking his heels and being the very portrait of a fucking leprechaun.
“You’re such a fucking stereotype!” Louis shouts to him and Harry actually giggles at that. Louis stops, turns to him and lowers his hands from where they’d been cupped over his mouth, megaphone style, and he stares at him, startled.
A giggle? Harry? What? Is he tripping on hallucinogenics?
He looks on as Harry watches Niall with something that could be labeled as sweet, simplistic amusement, or even delight. Which makes Louis smile broadly before also turning to face Niall— who is now running in circled patterns along the pathway.
“I should probably chase after the little bastard,” Louis muses, glancing at Harry again, still smiling.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“But, um, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Louis asks, clearing his throat with indifference and pulling on his fringe.
“Yeah,” Harry says, half-distractedly. “Yeah, meet at my rooms at five, promptly.”
“So six, then?” Louis teases.
Harry smirks, eyes trapped on Niall in the distance.
The mood is peaceful enough, the sky is starry enough, and Niall’s shouts and madman antics are just comical enough to keep everything on the less-than-serious side, so Louis clears his throat, scratches at the back of his neck, and continues.
“But, what are you, like, doing tomorrow during the day? Like, before that?” he asks. He bites at his lip, adjusts his beanie.
Harry looks confused now, brow furrowing, as he turns to look at him. “What do you mean? During the day? I’m not sure.” He surveys Louis. “Why.”
“Well, I dunno. Niall’s probably gonna be, ya know, Niall all day. Practicing the drums and whathaveyou. Smoking. Drinking. Shouting. Laughing. Masturbating.” Another laugh escapes Harry, short and abrupt, before he settles a lightly composed face back to Louis who grins in
response. He could easily see himself getting used to this. “And, well, I thought our little arrangement was working, so. Would it be terribly troublesome if you housed me for another day? Just for a couple hours while I complete some assignments and jot down a few notes? I’ll bring strawberry wine or something. If it’s still your thing, that is.”
“I think I’m over strawberries, actually,” is all Harry says, blinking.
“Oh, good. They’re more a summer fruit, aren’t they? You need something more wintery, something to go with the season.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “I do?”
“Yeah. Like…I dunno. Something cozy.”
Harry sighs, casting his eyes upward. “I don’t choose my interests, Louis, they choose me.”
And maybe it’s because the day was so good, or maybe it’s because of the way Harry says his name, but Louis decides that, maybe, Harry really is a bit charming when he’s not spewing rehearsed lines or words of fleeting pleasure. Maybe he is, naturally, a bit endearing. And maybe there’s a lot more genuine life in him than Louis thought. Life that just needs to be nurtured, cared for, paid attention to. And that maybe Harry isn’t so far away, maybe isn’t lost in the dark corners.
Or, maybe he was and just isn’t anymore.
“Well, perhaps I can persuade them to take a liking to you, then. I’m a very influential being,” Louis smiles.
Harry’s eyes return to Louis. “Perhaps. Till tomorrow then, Tomlinson.”
“Bright and early, Styles.”
Then they exchange one last parting nod—Louis smiling and Harry looking out in the night sky— and Louis begins walking away, following the direction of the now out-of-sight Niall.
But then he pauses, turning back to look at Harry whose hands are stuffed in the pockets of his long, black coat as he gazes up into the heavens.
“It’s good to see you smiling, Curly. It’s almost unnerving and alien, to be honest—like seeing a nice pair of legs on a chimp—“ Harry laughs again, loud and abrupt and short, “—but it’s good.”
And Harry doesn’t reply, just sends along a shake of the head and a bitten smile before turning and ambling away, long legs carrying him into the night.
