Harry swears, having a mental illness is kind of like having a drug addiction. The highs are high, but the lows are low.
He's awarded with a sudden burst of energy in the morning, one that makes him want to go out for a run and make breakfast for the entire family. Though, as he isn't typically a fan of physical exertion, and hasn't cooked a day in his life, he settles for giving his old piano teacher a phone call.
When he thinks about it, he wants the reason to be because he misses it, misses the music he makes and the people he used to play for. If he's being honest, he desires to call Tamica Sawyers because the guilt nearly becomes crippling. It nips away at his skin at the most random of times, like yesterday when he'd sat down at the library to indulge in a book he'd been recommended by Niall, or when he lounges on the couch and ends up spending too many hours watching Addam's Family. In many ways, it's his subconscious, trying to make up for some of the mess he's accountable for creating in his life.
Whatever. Harry's already on the road to recovery if he's started to realize he can't blame all of his misfortunes on other people. Or at least that's what he's been telling himself.
It's a new feeling; the way his body craves productivity for the first time in forever. He paces like a man with claustrophobia, breathing, thinking. His room's probably too small, and his feet far too large, but none of that matters as he quickly side steps the box of VCR tapes at the foot of his bed, kicks the football to the far corner of the room, and nudges a towering pile of laundry to the side.
The phone rings for ages. His spirit dampens and he almost hangs up, but he holds on to the remnants of any hope he has and doesn't let go. He needs this.
Just as he thinks he's about to be sent to voicemail, Tamica's frail voice perks up, boisterous enough to be heard over the brouhaha of tuning instruments. "Thank you for calling Tamica's Piano Shop!" she chirps. "How may I help you?"
It's as if he's been right hooked. The wind is knocked straight out of him, and suddenly this is all one big, impulsive, stupid idea. His hands won't stop fidgeting at his sides, and with great fear, Harry remembers the look on Tamica's face when he'd mentioned taking a break from music. She had to have been absolutely gutted when he stopped returning her phone calls. When he'd stopped showing up all together.
"Tamica," he greets solemnly. "This is Harry. Harry Styles."
The line goes dead silent for a moment. There's no more plucking guitar strings, or whistling saxophones. The lighthearted energy from before is wiped like a clean slate. "Wow. It's been a long time since I've heard from you, boy."
"I had some things going on."
Tamica's quiet again, but Harry knows she's probably rolling her eyes at him. "I'm sure you did. Boy."
His stomach falls to his ass. "C'mon, Mrs. Sawyers. Don't be like that."
"Now I'm Mrs. Sawyers? You have a lot of explaining to do."
"I promise to explain everything to you in person if you allow me to come back to my lessons." He continues pacing, damn near tripping over the box of VCR's because goddamit, it must be in his blood; the unforgiving, irate desire to fuck up anything and everything of substance in his life.
"You know you'll always be welcomed here, Harry. But you also know that I only have so many slots for my pianists." The onslaught of music continues. "We just got a new student in about a month ago, all the way from The States. She's filled my last available slot for this year."
Harry knows he hasn't been strong these past couple of years. He knows he's only a few bad moves away from withering. But when he'd woken up this morning, taking up the entire space of his bed, basking in the fresh air from his slightly ajar window, he'd thought he'd be ready to handle the rejection. Thought he'd do himself well by grabbing a bull by its horns.
It's in moments like these where he remembers who he is and where he's at in life, where the clouds in his thoughts disperse and this concept called reality shines like the sun. "You've found a replacement for me already?" he tries to joke, but he almost feels like he's lost his last shot at rekindling himself, and Tamica doesn't laugh.
"God, no, Styles. You are irreplaceable, which is why I'm so upset you stopped showing up to practices. What happened with you?"
"I guess it doesn't matter now, does it?"
The silence stretches for miles, like a nighttime desert, crawling with eight legged critters. The exhaustion hits home, so he sits down at his favorite corner of his bed, picking at the loose threads on his sweatpants. Harry tries not to regret any of the decisions that he makes for himself, but this changes his perception entirely.
If he could go back in time, he'd change everything.
For now, the lows are cruel. The lows force him to sit there and mull over how careless he'd been. How he's too late.
"I'm so sorry, Harry. I know how much you love playing the piano. You'll be the first one on my roaster for next year."
Next year. Eight months away. Harry wants to punch himself in the face. "Of course. Thank you, Tamica. For everything."
"Until then, please don't give up on your music. You've been with me long enough to know that that's never the answer. You know what to do."
Harry thinks about his piano, the one his father had smashed to smithereens as his final grand gesture. "Right. I'll make sure I'm in tip top shape for next year. You don't have to worry about me." He physically says it. He can feel lips moving. But his brain is thoughtless. He's cruising on autopilot.
"That's what I like to hear," Tamica roots proudly.
After their goodbyes, Harry sinks into his bedsheets, boneless. In the heat of the moment, he lets out a scream the size of a small third world country.
He just barely makes it to class on time.
*
When he gets home from school, he shoots up to his bedroom first thing, completely disregarding the way Gemma honks her horn at him from the front porch. From his peripherals, he spots Louis riding shot gun, and that in and out of itself is enough for him to want to immediately vacate the premises.
He still doesn't know how he feels about the entire Nick Grimshaw debacle, and if he's being honest, he's kind of pissed. Hadn't Louis entered the picture, Niall could be here right now, munching on crisps as he demolishes Harry at copious rounds of Dungeons and Dragons. It's all utter bullshit.
With his free time, he decides to hop on Craigs List at a futile attempt to search for a reasonably priced piano. If he's going to keep his word about being in great shape for next year, he needs to start practicing as soon as possible.
He's only about five hundred pounds short. And that's if he settles for something with chipped paint and splintering wood.
Shaking him from his revere, Gemma rudely bursts through his bedroom door, branding a red solo cup in one hand and her putrid heart eye shaped sunglasses in the other. She cocks her hip out, squinting her eyes suspiciously before they begin to pan out across the bedroom. "Hey," she nearly shouts. "I was calling you downstairs."
Harry quickly exists out of the Craig Lists tab, only half listening. "Your point?"
"You're a dick," she says, plopping her sunglasses onto the top of her blond, prissy head.
Harry blinks at her slowly. He spins back around in his desk chair, facing his computer screen. "Great. If that's all, you can see yourself out now."
"Well next time you're about to sit down and indulge in some freaky, weird porn, you might want to consider locking your door."
"Gemma," Harry hisses. He's losing brain cells by the milli-second. "Can we cut to the chase here?"
Gemma laughs like a horse, knocking her glasses to the bridge of her nose. She playfully saunters into the bedroom, elegantly landing on the bed before crossing her legs like a woman in the middle of a business deal. "So here's the deal. Louis' parents are going out of town for their ten year anniversary this weekend. Naturally, we're throwing a party."
Harry blinks again. "Okay?"
"Which would you like to hear first?" she asks, waving her arms around like an animation. "The good news, or the bad news?"
Harry's had enough bad news to last him two lifetimes. "The good news."
"Great! So the good news is, he'd like for you to join us." She flips her hair over her shoulder. "He even said that you could bring Niall along if you'd like to."
"And the bad news?" Harry's quick to ask.
Gemma grins with all of her teeth. "He's got a bit of a babysitting gig for you."
*
Louis Tomlinson's home is the last house on the block, harboring a long, cobble stone pathway and just about a dozens of those creepy, lifelike gargoyles lingering on the front porch. Closer to the front door, there's a festering garden of dandelions, dancing along with the gentle hues of wind. It's a happy medium. Harry kind of wants to set up an easel and paint a pretty picture.
Harry stands tensely beside Gemma, rocking from his left foot to his right. Usually, he's fairly accustomed to being out of his element. Where people would like to see beach days and pop music, Harry'd rather have a quiet day in, mulling over a good book or his journal or his piano, enjoying and basking in his own company. He isn't very big on social gatherings or parties, and from what he's experienced throughout his last couple of months in secondary school, people aren't very big on Harry.
Tonight is different. Tonight, he's going to be in Louis' home. In Louis' space. Babysitting his two baby sisters. It's intimate and it's not, it's close yet so far, and Harry kind of wants to curl his hair around his fingers and rip his scalp free of the obscurities. He wants to be here and he doesn't; he wouldn't be here if it weren't for the fact that he quite literally needs the money. For his Craig's List piano, and all.
Louis swings the door open with a fierceness that makes Harry want to sprint the entire way home. He's got gel in his hair and makeup in his waterline and a glossy varnish on his fingernails. He's got the deep blues and mid grey's for eyes and cotton candy for lips and a Picasso painting as his aura. He's everything. From the straight legged jeans, to the basic white tee that stretches nicely across the expanse of his chest. From the scuff across his chin, to the mischievous glint in his eye as he looks Harry up and down like a lion honing after a baby gazelle.
From what Harry can see from the porch, Louis' got good music blasting through a couple of expensive looking overhead speakers, and Aaron getting drunk on a curvy, leather couch. There's a couple of decks of playing cards, too many solo cups, and stacks of disposable shot glasses. There's a sixty inch flat screen T.V, a hot pink, Barbie dream house, and a wine cooler. There's a rug made from a tiger's coat, two large, fake palm tree plants lining the entrance of the kitchen, and hard wood flooring. Louis' parents are probably loaded.
Gemma, comfortable, shoulders her way past Louis, joining Aaron on the sofa. Louis continues to stare at Harry—look down at Harry, and Harry doesn't know if he wants to punch him square in the face or ride him like a show pony.
"Styles," he finally cracks. "Glad you could make it."
"Sure you are." Harry takes a step closer. Though, it doesn't make Louis take a step back the way he thought it would. Now, they're just close, too close for comfort, and Harry swears if he isn't invited in soon, he's going to kick over and shatter the largest gargoyle of the pack. It's only what Louis deserves.
In time, Louis side steps, leaving a slither of space for Harry to squeeze through. "You gonna come in, or?"
"You gonna invite me in, or?"
The snort Louis lets out is small, mocking, almost, but it makes Harry's heart skip a few beats.
Not only that, but he makes a show of stepping into the house to hold the door open for Harry, and he spreads out his ink embedded arm like a butler. "Ladies first."
Though spiteful, Harry ignores Louis as he gingerly brushes past.
Apart from the slight mess made up of the toy bin, the house is quite beautiful. There's plenty of pretty artwork, landscapes and buildings and women and fruit baskets, and the curtains are something straight out of the Acropolis. There's side tables, lamps that resemble chandeliers and nice, wide furniture with too many throw pillows. It's all luxurious, but still manages to be homey.
"Shots," Aaron chants. He nearly knocks over a bottle of vodka as he flails his noodle legs in impatience. "Shots, shots, shots!"
Louis appears beside him. "We can do shots after I show Harry to the girls' room."
"Harry's gotta take a shot before he goes," Aaron insists. "Lord knows he's gonna need it, dealing with those two monsters."
Harry whips around, raising an eyebrow at Louis, who looks like a toddler who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"First of all, they're not monsters. They just don't like you. Second," Louis grabs Harry by the arm, albeit a tad too roughly for his liking, "we're not going to get the babysitter drunk, you lunatic."
"Shots." Aaron demands anyway. "I want shots."
In the midst of the chaos, the room goes silent. "What's a shots?"
Harry double takes at the two little girls now taking residence on either side of Louis. They're young, maybe around six or seven, and one of them's got her hair chopped to her shoulders, while the other's got hers braided into a fishtail down her spine. They've both got a gorgeous set of hooded, cobalt eyes that resemble Louis' so nicely, and that's all the clarification Harry needs for him to decide that he's definitely not cut out for this shit.
The taller of the two girls raises her hand, hopping on both feet. "I want shots too!"
Louis, exasperated, drops down to his knees. He lets out a long sigh. "I thought I told the both of you to stay in your room."
"We wanted to meet the new sitter!" She moves in closer to her brother, covering the wrong side of her mouth with the back of her hand. "He's not gonna be anything like Aaron was, is he?"
Harry can't tell if it's the way her voice tapers off to a whisper at the end of each sentence, or if it's her sister, quiet, shy, and reserved as she stares down at her pigeon toed feet. He can't tell if he's changed his mind about needing money again, or if his heart's melted a bit after witnessing how soft Louis gets around his sisters.
But it's like clockwork; the way he immediately takes a liking towards the girls, and finds himself wanting to make sure they take a liking towards him too.
He crouches down beside Louis, lowering his voice a couple of octaves. He can feel the different pairs of eyes on him, but for once in his life, he doesn't mind. "What's so bad about Aaron?"
He's met with two identical pouts. "He wouldn't let me braid his hair into fishtails, and then he fell asleep half way through Hocus Pocus."
"Wow. It can't get any worse than that, can it?" From behind the girls, Aaron
flips him the bird. "Let's make a deal. If you guys can show me to your bedroom, I'll let you braid my hair and paint my fingernails."
As much as he doesn't want to, he turns his head to look at Louis for his approval. To his surprise, Louis' already three steps ahead, painting his eyes across Harry's cherub, grinning face and sparkling, jade eyes. He harbors a small grin of his own, reserved for Harry and Harry only. "You don't have to do that," he clarifies. "I'm sure the girls will be just fine with a couple of snacks and some films."
Harry ignores every word, taking Fizzy and Lotie's smaller hands in his own.
*
Three hours in, and Harry's got two purple bows wrapped in his hair, glittery, pink eyeshadow that is fairly well done for a couple of seven year olds, and plump, dusty pink painted lips. There's old, half broken makeup palettes strewn across their frilly, pink bedroom rug, and far too many hair ribbons to count. Harry takes his first real look at his fingernails, grinning at the fact that after a rather nasty argument and a few backhanded remarks, they'd finally managed a compromise on one hand pink, and the other hand blue.
Harry tucks them in bed despite the rattling of the walls and the echoing of voices downstairs. The music's been pounding all night, but the girls still manage to get sleepy after he's turned on Hocus Pocus and read them their favorite bedtime story. Now, they rest under the duvet on the verge of consciousness, cuddled up and soundless for the first time in hours.
Harry carefully sits on the floor beside the bed, petting softly at Lotie's silky, blonde hair. In less than thirty seconds, she's fast asleep.
Just in time, Fizzy starts to churn. The T.V. casts an array of silhouettes across her rounded features, but Harry can tell she's only just barely awake, fighting to keep her eyes open. "Can I ask you something?" she asks in a tone so fragile, Harry feels obligated to hold his breath.
"Sure, love."
"Do you like Louis?" It's invasive and it's bold and it's so Louis of her, he doesn't even know what to say.
"Sometimes." He picks at his fingers, careful to not tarnish the polish. "He can be a bit of a brat, though."
"No," Fizzy rephrases. "I mean, do you fancy Louis? Like, do you have a crush on him?"
From the view out the window, the stars are bright tonight; perfect acquaintances for a new moon. Harry stares at it for ages, hopes that if he stares long enough, Fizzy will fall asleep and forget all about this conversation.
Admittedly, he's no where near ready to come to terms with his feelings for Louis, but he can't find it in himself to lie to her face. Not after the night they've had.
"Why do you ask?"
"He'd said that you were really pretty." Fizzy yawns, tucking her hair behind her ears. "He said that you were annoying first, but after that he called you pretty."
Harry laughs, disbelieving. "He didn't say that."
"Yes, he did," she sniffs. "I heard him. On the phone."
"On the phone with who?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe it was Nick?" Fizzy turns in bed again, this time with her back facing Harry. The credits of Hocus Pocus begin to roll. She shuffles her feet beneath the covers as if she hasn't just rocked Harry's world. "Thanks for staying up to finish the movie with me, Harry. You were a far better sitter than Aaron."
And while Harry is utterly buzzing with endorphins, he's—once again—left high and dry with so many unanswered questions.
It shouldn't matter. If what Fizzy had said was true, he wants to hear it come from Louis.
For a fleeting moment, it's dead silent. Just Harry and the sound of his lungs working.
When the door bursts open, he spins around faster than lightning, prepared to beat the living shit out of somebody, pink eyeshadow, painted nails and all.
Luckily, it's only Louis, visibly drunk as he staggers across the room, struggling to keep quiet. He drops to the ground a little harder than Harry would've preferred, but the girls remain still as boards, snoring the night away.
His breath is pungent, that of too many mixed drinks and an entire twelve pack of cigarettes. But his hair's still annoyingly perfect, his eyes are still the clearest of blues, and when he looks close enough, he can see the freckles on his cheeks, seeping over his nose, across his Cupid's bow, and down his chin, and that somehow just makes up for it.
Harry hates that he find him so attractive. It doesn't matter that he's eighteen compared to Harry's fifteen, or that he's best mates with Gemma. It doesn't matter that Louis probably doesn't want anything to do with him. Harry wants to devour him whole.
So when Louis sits across from him with his legs outstretched, accommodating the width of Harry's slight body, it makes him go rigid. They're still a safe distance away, but it feels closer, intimate. Harry doesn't even bother defending himself while Louis laughs at the bows, makeup and nail polish. Instead, he stares, trying to picture Louis' mouth forming over the word pretty.
He seriously considers getting up and walking out when his brain doesn't let him.
"Yeah, yeah," he gives in. "Laugh it up."
Louis smirks like a Cheshire Cat. "This is rich. Really, you should see yourself."
"I have seen myself." He flips his imaginary length of hair over his shoulder. "I think I pull it off quite well."
Louis just laughs at him harder. "They've made a right mess of your eyeshadow."
Harry swats at him. "Like you could do any better!"
Suddenly, Louis gets this look in his eye, kind of like he's sobered up enough to want to take on the challenge. He immediately straightens out his back, sweeping his gaze across the array of makeup on the floor. With two long, nimble fingers, he picks up a brush, and an eyeshadow palette. "I can, actually."
"You say that as if you've done it before." Harry looks Louis in his eyes, trying to focus on anything apart from the way Louis' skin feels pressed against his own as he moves in close. It's a little awkward; the closeness after spending so much time in distance, but it's cosy and it's homey and it's the most vulnerable he's ever seen Louis. He just can't say no.
"I have done it before." Harry keeps his legs crossed, afraid to move. Louis gets so close, he throws his legs over Harry's, caging them in like a couple of wild animals. "Plenty of times, actually."
"On yourself, or on other people?" The smell of Louis' cologne is there, vague, but clouding his senses the same way the smoke of his cigarettes do. His body is warm through his clothes, and his hands gentle as they caress Harry's face, grounding him in place.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Louis murmurs. Just then, he locks his eyes with Harry's. A small, nearly iridescent smirk licks at the corner of his mouth. "Close your eyes. Creep."
He feels many things in that moment. Firstly, the light trickling of a makeup brush on his eyelids, blending and fixing. Secondly, fingers on his jaw, and then his neck, and then his chest, playing with his breath as if it's the dial of a thermostat. Thirdly, Louis' legs, strong, hot and heavy. Driving him crazy as they constrict around his waist before carefully easing up. Keeping them close. Making the moment personal. It's all consuming and all encompassing and so, so different for them.
It confuses the absolute shit out of Harry.
So much so, that he says something stupid. "So. You and Nick Grimshaw."
Louis freezes, then continues to blend his eyeshadow. "What about me and Grimshaw?"
"You guys are like a thing, right?"
"Why?" Louis asks, tossing the eyeshadow brush to the side. Harry opens his eyes without permission. "Are you jealous?"
He scoffs. "What's there to be jealous of? It's only Grimshaw."
Louis' smirk returns. He reaches for the lipstick, applying it against Harry's volition. "I mean he is good looking, and he's got crazy goals and ambitions." He cleans up his messy application with the tip of his finger before continuing. "He's tall and athletic, and apart of the recreations crew. He's a straight A student." Harry's eyes turn to slits, and without even realizing it, he's clutched onto both of Louis' ankles with a vice grip. "I've always had a bit of a thing for nerds. I don't know. Don't you think we'd be kind of hot together?"
Harry refuses to respond. In retaliation, Louis gently pinches his cheek. When Harry doesn't respond to that either, Louis snakes his arm around his neck, gripping firmly at the nape.
"Louis," Harry chokes. "You're plastered."
"And you haven't answered my question."
"I wouldn't call Nick Grimshaw hot even if he were to light himself on fire."
"Fair," Louis muses. He didn't even know it was humanly possible, but Louis manages to scoot in even closer. "What about me, then?"
Harry purses his lips, smearing the lipstick a bit. He tries to stall, but his brain's fresh out of ideas. "You're alright, yeah."
"Just alright?" Louis purposefully rests the backs of his legs on top of Harry's, squeezing hard. He rests his head against Harry's shoulder, brushing his lips against the shell of his ear. "I think I'm more than just 'alright' if I have your dick this hard. I've only fixed your makeup, babe."
Harry immediately deflates, red in the face and panicked. He swears he hadn't meant to, but it's hard when Louis' crowding in his personal space, touchy-feely, soft and warm, and just so ethereal, Harry forgets how to breathe. He tries to speak, but the embarrassment is damn near crippling. All he can manage are a few useless, unintelligible murmurs.
Louis shakes his head, forking over a hand held mirror with a small wad of cash clipped between it.
Harry looks at himself, light eyes with an even layer of peachy shadow and nude lined lips. His cheeks were pink and his brows dark. Louis had managed to remove the ribbons in his hair while he wasn't paying attention, and even smudged away the remnants of chunky glitter in his tear ducts. He felt like a different person. Beautiful.
"I think you are a little jealous," Louis chirps, interrupting him from his obvious ogling. In two seconds flat, the lad is out of Harry's lap and back on both feet. "I'm not seeing Grimshaw, by the way. He's my stepbrother."
Louis doesn't wait for an explanation. He quietly clicks the door shut behind him.
*
A/N: Thank you guys for your patience with this one, I kept changing it up but I'm pretty happy about the way it came out. Ignore any typos, I'm still in the process of editing. Hope you all enjoyed. Stay tuned!